Bryan politely nodded, stepped over the threshold, and unsteadily climbed the steel ladder to the deck.
In the midst of the raging waves, this sizable ferry rocked like a small boat, rising and falling with the surging tides. Bryan could constantly hear the ominous groan of straining steel, as if the ferry might disintegrate in the terrifying waves at any second.
The ferry seemed to sail through the netherworld itself. The night sky was pitch black, the sea a deep inkwell shade, and some otherworldly force appeared to swallow lights emitted by the ferry.
This is the might of nature!
The thought suddenly occurred to Bryan as he gazed at a wave cresting higher than the ship's bow.
It's not that he has never been to sea before, but it had always been for missions requiring secrecy. He basically would not use the transportation methods of wizards or Muggles, but chose the more flexible flying broom instead. This was Bryan's first time using Muggle maritime travel, and from a Muggle's perspective, the power of nature was truly terrifying.
Not just Muggles—even wizards couldn't withstand the forces of nature.
The waves crashed onto the deck, sweeping away a few buckets that were not fixed.
Sirius had used a bit of magic to secure himself on the deck but hadn't cast a water-repelling charm, so his figure was submerged in inky waves.
Hum.
A hidden magical barrier clung to his body as Bryan floated over to Sirius's side.
"Looking for a thrill?"
"Just reminiscing," Sirius wiped the seawater from his face, a tinge of sorrow in his smile. "After escaping from Azkaban, I drifted alone at sea for several weeks. It seems it was around this season too. Heh, less than a year has passed, but it feels like many years ago."
Bryan pursed his lips, giving a slight smile but did not speak.
"I was so desperate back then." Sirius closed his eyes, letting the cold seawater slap his face.
"I carefully avoided sirens and merpeople. When the winds were calm, I'd find some fish from the sea to eat. Sometimes, there was no rain so I went several days without a drop of fresh water and had to make do with drinking the blood of larger fish. When strong winds picked up, I couldn't control my movements at all and was tossed dozens of feet into the air by the waves or slammed into the depths of the sea. Countless times, I thought I was doomed."
Reliving those moments made the memories more real and vivid, causing Sirius to shudder violently a few times.
Bryan knew that Sirius needed someone to talk to, so he remained silent. Fortunately, Sirius quickly regained his composure, took a deep breath, and buried his emotions.
"No one knows Azkaban's exact location. The rumor is that it's located above the North Sea, so we could only take it one step at a time."
Bryan asked curiously, "Why didn't we go straight into the North Sea from Aberdeen but went to the Shetland Islands instead?"
"Because that's where I came ashore," Sirius explained. "The currents carried me to a location not far from the mainland. By then, the waves had calmed a bit. I did fairly well in Astronomy at Hogwarts, so I used what I'd learned from Aurora about planetary orbits and trajectories to determine my position and adjust my direction. But it was still very difficult. By the time I could see the shoreline, I was completely exhausted."
A smile tugged at the corners of Sirius's mouth. "I couldn't maintain my Animagus form and transformed back into a human. Then an old fisherman named John pulled me out of the sea. He fed me and took care of me when I was exhausted. Thanks to him, I was able to quickly regain my strength and continue sneaking along as my Animagus form. I promised John I'd come back to visit him when I could."
"So where does this fisherman live?" Bryan asked gently.
At that moment, the raging winds tore through the layered storm clouds, allowing a shaft of moonlight as pure as holy light to bathe a distant island.
In the distance, a small light flickered amidst the crashing waves.
"Ah—" Sirius exclaimed in joy. "He's right there!"
...
*Scenebreak*
...
Archaeological evidence suggests that human activity on the Shetland Islands dates back to around 3000 BC. Over the centuries, these islands have experienced various shifts in control and influence.
For centuries after the Roman Empire, the Shetland Islands saw significant Norse influence. During the 8th and 9th centuries, Viking settlers from Scandinavia began to arrive, and by the early Middle Ages, the islands were effectively under Norse control. The Vikings ruled the Shetlands until the 15th century.
In 1469, King Christian I of Norway and Denmark pawned the Shetland Islands to James III of Scotland as part of a dowry payment for his daughter Margaret's marriage to the Scottish king. This transaction ultimately led to the Shetland Islands becoming part of Scottish territory, where they remain today.
These northernmost British islands have always been sparsely populated. Even today, only 15 of the scattered islands in this archipelago are inhabited, with a total population of less than 30,000 people.
If it weren't for the influx of wealthy tourists seeking remote destinations in recent years, which has brought some economic benefits, the remaining inhabitants would likely have migrated to larger cities long ago.
Old John was not a native of the Shetland Islands, nor even from Aberdeen.
He hailed from Newcastle in eastern England. During World War II, he was conscripted into the military and ended up battling invading enemies in these waters. That brutal battle left one of his legs weakened; in damp, cold weather, the injured leg would ache and stiffen terribly, making it difficult for him to sleep.
Nevertheless, Old John never complained.
After all, in order to resist the invasion, his unit at the time fought an obscure battle in these waters that resulted in complete annihilation—he was the sole survivor.
After the war ended, John returned to Newcastle. He had expected to live a happy, peaceful life, but when he arrived at his long-awaited home, he found not only his wife in the bedroom but also another man with a very white butt.
Old John only remembered the man's white butt, not his face, because the moment he saw that scene, he pulled out his gun and blew the man's brains out. After taking one sad look at his screaming wife, Old John fled his home.
It was all fate.
Old John came back to the place where he had once fought. Using his military pension, he bought a house in the town nearest to the coast. However, over the years, he hardly lived in that house, preferring instead to hole up in the lighthouse standing at the edge of the cliffs.
Lighthouse keeper—this was the job the townspeople arranged for him after learning he was a veteran soldier who had fought the enemy.
In previous years, this job served a purpose; he could light the way home for fishermen lost at sea. But these days, the townspeople seldom went out to sea anymore, preferring instead to serve the tourists visiting the area. This work was safer and more lucrative.
Knock, knock, knock!
The frigid, roaring sea of the previous night seemed like a dream. After the sun rose, the boundless ocean regained its gem-like azure hue. Golden sunlight spilled onto the beach, and seagulls soared freely along the coastline.
The rust-mottled iron door rattled with knocking, waking Old John, who had suffered a night of leg pain and hardly slept a wink.
"You little brats, if you don't settle down, I'll shove my gun barrel up your asses right in front of your parents!" the bearded, disheveled Old John roared as he crawled out of bed.
In the past, returning fishermen would come here and offer gifts from the sea as a gesture of gratitude. But since this tradition, stretching back thousands of years on these lands, fell out of favor, Old John rarely received visitors anymore, save for the occasional mischievous boys from town who would come to pester him for fun.
These little shits would steal the dried fish he had laid out on the rocks to sun, using them to feed the seagulls, or they would pelt the old gas lamps atop the lighthouse with stones, shattering them.
Knock, knock, knock!
The knocking sounded again, but this time it raised a flicker of wariness in Old John's eyes.
If those brats really were causing trouble again, they should have been scared off by his earlier shouting and would not dare knock on his door again so brazenly!
Old John grabbed the hunting rifle hanging on the wall, bent over, and limped down the spiral staircase, finally positioning himself behind the iron door.
Click!
The bullet was loaded, and Old John swiftly pulled open the iron door. Before uttering a word, he raised the rifle barrel menacingly, aiming it squarely at the knocker's head!
"You lot better—oh!"
A cry of surprise joined the ethereal cries of the seagulls soaring into the distant, blue sky.
Perhaps due to the dim lighting, the ground floor where Old John's living room was located appeared quite messy, scattered with all sorts of odds and ends. The dried fish hanging overhead also filled the room with an unpleasant fishy odor.
"This place is pretty much like Hagrid's hut—"
With no chairs in the room, Bryan lifted the edge of his coat and casually sat on the blackened stairs, looking at the surroundings with interest.
"Hagrid?"
The water on the stove had already boiled, gurgling nonstop. Old John limped over, lifted the kettle, and prepared tea for Sirius and Bryan. Hearing Bryan's comment, he gruffly asked, "Is he a lighthouse keeper too?"
"Oh, no—" Sirius smiled as he answered the question. "Something similar, though—he's the gamekeeper at Hogwarts."
"Hogwarts? It doesn't sound like a decent place!"
"Indeed—" Bryan couldn't help but laugh as he observed this rather gruff, scruffy old man, both in appearance and personality. "It's really not very decent—it's a school for Troubled Teens. Quite a few of the little rascals ended up in prison after graduating due to criminal behavior."
Sirius rolled his eyes at Bryan. All this time, Bryan's power had unconsciously caused everyone to overlook his age. Sirius had always regarded him as a peer. But in this moment, Bryan's demeanor while interacting with this kind Muggle old man made Sirius suddenly realize that he was just a young man in his early twenties.
Although quite elderly, Old John's mind remained sharp. He could tell the young man with gray hair was just joking, and he let out a few rough laughs. As he poured Sirius's tea, he squinted, studying Sirius carefully. After the cup was full, he nodded with satisfaction.
"Looks like you've found your way in life, young man—"
"Yes, though I've had some setbacks, the end result turned out alright, I suppose—" Sirius took a deep breath and said, smiling at this robust eighty-year-old man as he caressed the cup's rim. "How about you? Does your leg still give you trouble?"
"This old ailment will probably follow me to the grave!"
After pouring tea for the gray-haired young man as well, Old John tossed the kettle onto the table. Looking around and finding nowhere to sit, he plopped his backside directly onto the table's edge.
"So, what brings you back here this time, young man?"
"Just call me Sirius—I promised you, John, that I'd come back to see you if I got the chance. After all, you saved my life—"
"Still full of lies, just like before!" Old John muttered, his blunt remark causing Sirius's cheeks to redden slightly with embarrassment.
"You seem more honest, kid. You don't look like one of those slick-tongued fellows!" Old John turned his gaze toward Bryan.
Kid...it had been a long time since anyone called him that—
Bryan let out an unintentional laugh. But considering this man was a World War II veteran, being addressed that way based on age difference didn't really bother him. Bryan scratched his cheek.
"Well, you see, Mr. John, we're planning to set sail from here—"
"Set sail?" Old John interrupted, smacking his lips. His weathered, aged face furrowed deeply with concern. "This isn't a good season for sailing. Storms could arrive at any moment. Unless you're here to commit suicide, I wouldn't advise it!"
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