Chapter 2
Minister Shacklebolt’s intentions for reforms aimed to heal the wizarding world left fractured by war, including tackling Azkaban’s long-standing vulnerabilities. Multiple breakouts under Voldemort’s reign could be traced to former guards who defected back to their master at the height of his power. It was only natural, then, for Kingsley to dismiss the dementors and reinforce the prison with alternative safeguards.
In addition to mandating that all staff and visitors undergo security checks before setting foot on the island, he eliminated magical transportation. Without dementors to incapacitate prisoners, the risk of escape shot up considerably—through Portkeys, broomsticks, or Apparition. To counter these possibilities, wards now blanketed the island, requiring anyone coming or going to rely on Muggle-style ferry transport.
But the prison wasn’t entirely devoid of magical creatures following the dementors’ removal. The Beast Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures struck an agreement with a herd of wild kelpies to patrol the perimeter. Chosen for their territorial and aggressive instincts, these horse-like sea creatures, with manes resembling tangled seaweed, were perfectly suited to prevent escapes. Any inmate foolish enough to attempt swimming from the island would meet a swift end, and if an outsider tried staging a breakout, the kelpies were instructed to do “whatever was necessary” to secure the prison. No one was eager to test them. Where the ferry dock met the jagged rocks, two of the kelpies stood watch, their wild, sinewy manes whipping in the stormy wind, scrutinizing every newcomer.
“How does is it feel like there’s no joy left in the world, even without a dementor in sight?” Harry mumbled to Hermione and Ron, a shiver coursing through him. He wasn’t wrong—the moment Hermione stepped off the floating dock, it felt as if all color had drained from existence, leaving only a bleak, washed-out landscape behind.
The small crowd that had disembarked from the ferry trudged toward a narrow crack in the stone at the end of the rocky path, their shoulders hunched as if bracing for attack. With each step closer to the imposing structure, more of the sky disappeared, until the fortress’s looming bulk was all Hermione could see. The knot in her chest drew tighter with every inch of shadow. She felt a flicker of relief as Ron’s hand came to rest on her lower back, gently guiding her toward the entrance.
The crowd from the ferry vanished the moment they stepped into Azkaban’s cavernous lobby, leaving Hermione, Harry, and Ron the only ones who hadn’t come for work. A wizard stationed behind an imposing desk assured them the warden would collect them shortly, then gestured toward a cluster of overly ornate chairs perched atop an intricate tile pattern. They sat, exchanging silent glances as they surveyed their surroundings. Eighteen minutes later, a man in his mid-seventies finally rounded the corner.
Despite holding the highest office at the most infamous prison in Europe, Warden Ascroft entered with a casual ease that nearly bordered on indifference. She was surprised to see his appearance after looking at the large portrait hanging directly across from her which depicted him as a younger man with ebony locks. This Ascroft was balding and rounder in the face, however the artist captured arrogant smirk perfectly. Hands spread wide, the warden sauntered over as if greeting old friends, while Hermione fought back the frustration thrumming in her veins.
“The Golden Trio!” he bellowed.
They were already on their feet, primed to move. “Warden Ascroft. Healer Granger,” Hermione introduced herself with a polite, tight smile, then turned to indicate her companions. “Aurors Potter and Weasley.” She reminded herself that while this wasn’t a photo op, she still needed the warden on her side if she hoped to complete her assignment without impediments.
“Ah yes, a pleasure.” The warden gave Harry’s hand an enthusiastic shake, then offered Ron a much more lukewarm version. Hermione exchanged a quick, questioning glance with Ron as they ascended the grand staircase behind Ascroft, headed for his office.
“While I’m sure this isn’t how you’d prefer to spend your Monday, we’re delighted to have you,” the warden declared once they’d arrived. “Auror Smithwick was here a few weeks ago finishing his final walkthrough for the renovations—I’m excited to show you the progress.” As if to underscore his pride, he swept his arms out to showcase the hallway leading to his office. With another dramatic flourish, he offered Harry and Hermione the two chairs opposite his desk, while Ron was left with either the sofa behind them—like a child banished to the back seat—or standing beside his friends. He chose the latter, presumably to leverage his height and regain a bit of the respect Ascroft seemed to have withheld.
After an exchange of pleasantries—and far too long discussing his stint at the DMLE with Harry—Hermione tried repeatedly to steer the conversation toward their actual task, but Warden Ascroft proved a slippery grindylow. Forty minutes passed in a haze of forced smiles and nods, while she resisted every urge to hex him. Harry was too polite to interrupt, and Ron’s pointed sighs went ignored. Hermione kept her simmering temper buried, unwilling to be labeled “difficult” or “whingey.”
“Well, let’s get to why you’re really here,” Ascroft said at last, leaning back in his dragon-leather chair with an air of exaggerated leisure. “I assure you, we’ve got our best men investigating who filed this false report. By day’s end, you’ll be all set to return to the Ministry. In the meantime, I’ve arranged a tour of the facility so you can see our renovations. Do let Kingsley know what a fine job we’re doing here at Azkaban.” He finished with a pointed wink at Hermione, causing both Harry and Ron to bristle.
Hermione squared her shoulders, forcing herself to respond in her carefully measured “press voice.” “A tour will indeed be helpful to identify any potential environmental factors contributing to the illnesses.”
“Well, sweetheart, don’t worry your clever little head too much about the details,” Ascroft interjected, leaning further back in his chair with a lazy wave of his hand. “We’ve been running this place just fine without all the extra fuss. Sometimes it’s best to leave things to those who actually know what they’re doing, hmm?”
The condescension hit Hermione like a slap. Sweetheart. The word hung in the air like an oily residue, clinging to her skin. She tightened her jaw, the faintest flicker of irritation flashing across her face before she buried it. Her quill moved furiously over her notepad—though not about the tour. The words utter prat were underlined three times before she finally spoke.
“Of course,” she said with syrupy politeness, her voice sharp enough to cut. “But I do hope you don’t mind if I verify that everything’s being run… just fine. According to Unspeakable Singh, I’ll need at least a week here, given there are nearly thirty patients to examine. Aurors Potter and Weasley will need at least three days themselves to assess any security risks. They’ll both act as collaborators, given their extensive experience with Dark magic.”
Her overly sweet tone wasn’t lost on Harry or Ron, who both fought back grins, but the warden seemed oblivious. His smug grin widened as he took her response as submission rather than defiance.
Hermione abruptly rose to her feet, her chair scraping the floor and narrowly missing Ron’s thigh in her haste. “Will you be giving us the tour?” she asked, her tone now laced with feigned enthusiasm. Please say no, she silently begged.
Ascroft chuckled, waving her off. “Oh no, sweetheart. I’m far too busy with important meetings this morning,” he said with a dismissive smirk. “I’ll have one of our corrections officers show you around.”
Hermione kept her expression neutral, but inwardly, she added Prick Warden to the very top of her ever-growing List of Grievances.
Ascroft then escorted them out of his office and down the hall, pausing at the lobby to speak briefly with the wizard at the front desk. Hermione spotted him sending a small, black something darting into the air—likely a memo or magical message. Ron leaned in between Harry and Hermione, speaking under his breath so only they could hear.
“I used to think Sirius really pulled a fast one on the guards when he escaped this place. I bet he pranced right by as Padfoot, right under their noses.”
Harry snorted. “It’s as if he has no shame that Voldemort’s bloodthirsty gang broke in and freed numerous Death Eaters on his watch just a year ago.”
They had only a moment to share the thought, snapping their professional masks back into place as the warden returned, beckoning them toward the next step of their “tour.”
As the warden motioned to the young woman standing near the desk, Hermione noted the barely concealed contempt in his gaze. “Corrections Officer Everhart,” he announced, forcing a genial tone. “One of our newest hires—very proper, from what I hear. If you need help with procedures or the island’s storied background, she’s read it all.” He punctuated the remark with a chuckle that set Hermione’s nerves on edge, reminding her too much of the teasing she endured at Hogwarts for being “too bookish.” She did her best to maintain a polite smile, but it faltered at the obvious barb. Everhart simply stood at attention, her stoic expression betraying nothing.
CO Everhart stepped forward. Though slight of frame, she carried herself like someone who could hold her own in a fight. Her dark hair was slicked back into a low bun, and her sharp features made her quite striking without a stitch of makeup. Hermione’s heart went out to her, imagining the hard time the male staff and the prisoners must give a newcomer—especially a female officer.
If Everhart felt any discomfort, she didn’t let it show. She led the trio deeper into the prison, narrating every corridor and level in detail—daily schedules, key staff, and the prison’s storied history. For all the warden’s dismissiveness, Hermione was glad Everhart had been chosen to guide them this morning.
Within minutes, Azkaban’s grim truth started to reveal itself. Climbing the stairs to reach the general population floors, Hermione noticed how any supposed renovations seemed to stop at the lobby and executive offices. The stairwells and adjoining passages remained dank and drafty, intensifying that earlier sense of color draining from the world. Despite housing around three hundred inmates, a heavy quiet hung in the air, broken only by Everhart’s commentary and the whistle of wind through the prison’s cracked walls.
Two landings shy of the fourth floor, a pungent odor of unwashed bodies and mildew assaulted Hermione’s senses. A glance at Ron’s scrunched expression confirmed he noticed it, too. At the 4th-floor landing, they stopped before two massive doors. Everhart stepped up, performing a silent spell that set off a series of internal locks.
She glanced back at the group, explaining as the vault-like door clicked open, “All staff with clearance have their own version of this spell. It’s cast nonverbally and tied to a tongue-binding charm, so if a prisoner somehow got ahold of a wand, staff couldn’t be forced to help them escape.”
Pushing the door open required visible effort, though Everhart’s only giveaway was the tension in her arms. The prison’s triangular shape allowed them to see only one row of cells at a time, leaving Hermione uneasy about what might be lurking behind them. Ron and Harry seemed to share the feeling, positioning themselves in a loose triangle so no one’s back was fully exposed—Hermione and Everhart leading, Ron and Harry hovering behind and occasionally walking backward, muttering ward checks under their breath.
“This floor houses twenty-two prisoners, mostly here for lower-level offenses and serving shorter sentences,” CO Everhart continued, hardly pausing for breath as she led them along the corridor. It was clear she had more information than time to share.
The sight of cramped cells and the vacant stares of their occupants only underscored Azkaban’s oppressive atmosphere. Hermione wondered how anyone could hope to rehabilitate inmates in such dehumanizing conditions. Although most prisoners were awake, the majority lay in their bunks, gazing blankly at the ceiling with little interest in the new faces passing by. A few shuffled back and forth, confined within the narrow limits of their cells.
Rounding the corner into the next hallway, Harry and Ron caught each other’s eye, apparently satisfied with the ward checks so far, and fell in step beside Hermione. CO Everhart continued rattling off information about the floor, keeping her distance from the cells.
Harry paused a few steps away from an empty cell door, tuning out the officer’s monologue. “These cells remind me of my old cupboard, Hermione—what a miserable existence, even for people who broke the law,” he murmured when she moved close.
“I know,” she replied, her voice low. “And it’s not just that. The quilts look filthy. With all these drafts, I’ll be surprised if we don’t catch colds ourselves.”
“And this is after the so-called improvements,” Harry added with a sardonic eye roll.
“That’s right,” CO Everhart interjected, rejoining them. “We’ve added plumbing in each cell, wards in communal spaces—especially the courtyards—and reinforced protections on every cell. The bars and windows are bewitched to shock any inmate who touches them. The kitchens also include extra magical suppressant potions in the daily meals and a higher dose of sleeping draught, to keep the inmates docile.”
Hermione spun around, her eyes narrowing on Everhart. “Is anyone actually monitoring the effects of these potions? And who authorized them? This is the first I’ve heard of suppressant use on this scale.” She turned to Harry and Ron. “You two?”
Both men shook their heads, their frowns mirroring her growing concern. How had something like this gone unnoticed? Was the Ministry so focused on outward reforms that they’d overlooked the ethical implications of internal practices?
Suppressing prisoners with potions felt like a half-step away from what the dementors used to do—stripping them of agency, humanity. The idea of treating anyone while they were unknowingly being dosed like this made her stomach churn. The reforms were supposed to fix the cracks in their system, not fill them with something worse.
“Well,” Everhart replied, her tone matter-of-fact, “without the dementors, it’s necessary to manage the inmates. For more details, you’ll need to speak with the warden.”
Before they left the floor, Hermione asked for a few minutes to speak with one of the inmates who wasn’t exhibiting the mysterious symptoms reported among her soon-to-be patients. She spotted a man standing at the door of his cell near the middle of the hallway, three shadows at her back—Ron, Harry, and Everhart—ready to support. Hermione stepped closer, intending to ask him a few questions.
The prisoner’s hunched posture and greasy red hair made him almost unrecognizable. But when he lifted his head, the bloodshot brown eyes and crooked smirk gave him away.
“Blimey, look at you three all grown,” Mundungus Fletcher rasped, his voice dry and cracked.
“Mundungus?” Ron blurted, half in disbelief. “What’re you in for this time?”
“Oh, y’know,” he shrugged lazily, “sellin’ some potions ingredients I ‘happened upon in Diagon Alley. Got slapped with a few months. Can yer believe that? Just tryin’ ter make a livin’.”
Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. “You don’t say. How are the conditions here, Mundungus? Are they feeding you properly? Providing medical care?”
Mundungus scratched at his neck, glancing around as if expecting eavesdroppers. “Food’s three times a day—tasteless, but it’s food. Healer comes through now an’ then if someone’s bad off, but I’ve been keepin’ my head down. Guards’re nasty if yer not careful.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Some o’ the others ain’t been doin’ so well, though—shakes, fevers. Don’t know what that’s about.”
“Thanks, Mundungus. Stay out of trouble,” Hermione said briskly, already stepping away.
“Wait! Yer just gonna leave me ‘ere ter rot?” he called after them.
“Yup!” Harry shot back without breaking stride, popping the “p” with a smirk. Looks like someone is still holding a grudge.
“If you’ll follow me back down to the third floor, I can show you where you’ll be working, Healer Granger. We’ll discuss your security protocols in more detail once you’re settled there. Please stay close.” CO Everhart said, gesturing to the stairwell as the group concluded their tour of the general population floor.
“Are we not going to the floor with all of the Death Eaters?” Ron asked, his brow furrowing.
“Oh, no, Auror Weasley,” Everhart replied evenly. “There’s no entry to the thirteenth floor without the DED Head Guard present, and he’s not in today. You’re, of course, welcome to examine the remaining general population floors, but as I mentioned earlier, they’re all identical to this one.” Hermione felt a flicker of relief as the knot in her chest loosened slightly—facing her patients could wait, if only for one more day.
“Dead guard?” Ron repeated, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not very secure if the head guard is a ghost, is it?”
Everhart stopped mid-step and turned to look at him, unimpressed. “No, Auror Weasley. D.E.D.—an acronym for the Death Eaters’ Division.”