The morning fog clung to the horizon like a thick veil as Harry stood on the rocky shoreline, his boots sinking into the damp earth. The sea stretched out before him, vast and endless, the dull roar of waves crashing against the rocks filling the air. In the distance, barely visible through the haze, the looming silhouette of Azkaban Prison rose from the water like a monolith, its jagged spires piercing the sky. It looked more like a wound in the ocean than a fortress, black stone mottled with the decay of centuries, its walls slick with salt and sea spray.
Harry shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around him as the wind bit through his clothes. He hadn't been here since the war, since that brief, harrowing trip to free the Death Eaters from their cells as they'd attempted to rally to Voldemort's side. Back then, he hadn't really paid attention to the prison itself—his focus had been on the mission. But now, with no immediate threat to distract him, Azkaban felt much more oppressive. He could almost feel the weight of the souls trapped within it, their despair pressing against the air like a fog thicker than the one around him.
The Portkey in his hand hummed, a small enchanted rock that vibrated softly against his palm. He stared down at it, watching the faint blue glow pulse like a heartbeat. The world felt heavy with anticipation, the weight of what was coming next sinking deep into his bones.
Azkaban. Snape. The two names were intertwined in his mind now, inseparable. He still didn't know exactly what he was walking into, but there was no turning back.
The Portkey jerked suddenly, pulling Harry forward as if an invisible hand had grabbed him by the chest. His stomach lurched, and for a moment, the world blurred around him, the shoreline, the sea, the cold wind—all spinning away into nothing. There was a brief sensation of weightlessness, and then, with a rough jolt, he landed hard on the slick stones of Azkaban's entrance courtyard.
He stumbled, regaining his footing just in time to avoid falling into a puddle that had collected near the edge of the black stone walkway. The air here was colder, sharper, the smell of salt and damp stone filling his lungs as he took in his surroundings.
The gates of the prison loomed ahead, tall and forbidding, wrought iron twisted into sharp points that looked more like teeth than metal. Beyond them, the prison itself stretched upward, its spires disappearing into the misty sky. From this close, Harry could see the centuries of wear on the stone—cracks and fissures that ran like scars along the walls, covered in slick patches of moss and seaweed that clung stubbornly to the rock.
A low, distant wail echoed from somewhere deep within the prison, carried on the wind. Harry's gut tightened. Azkaban had always been a place of nightmares, but seeing it now, after everything he'd been through, it was somehow worse. The Dementors were gone, replaced by human guards, but that didn't change the fact that this place had been designed to break people, to trap them in their own misery and leave them with nothing but the echo of their worst memories.
And somewhere in there, Severus Snape was waiting.
The thought sent a shiver through him, though he wasn't sure if it was from the cold or something deeper. He took a step forward, feeling the uneven ground shift beneath his boots as he approached the gates. Two guards stood at attention near the entrance, their faces obscured by heavy hoods and cloaks. They didn't speak as Harry approached, only nodded in recognition before one of them stepped forward and raised a wand.
"Potter," the guard said, his voice muffled by the thick fabric of his cloak. "We've been expecting you."
Harry nodded, his jaw tight. "Thanks."
The guard waved his wand, and with a groan of iron, the gates swung open, revealing the narrow pathway that led into the heart of the prison. Harry took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The walls of the entrance hall were narrow and dark, the air thick with moisture and the faint smell of decay. Faint torchlight flickered along the stone corridors, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The sounds of the prison echoed around him—distant footsteps, the clank of iron doors, the occasional mutter of a voice carried from somewhere deep within. It was a place that seemed to hum with the energy of suffering, like the very stones were soaked in despair.
As Harry moved further in, the walls seemed to close in around him, the corridor narrowing with each step. His heart pounded against his ribs, his senses heightened by the oppressive atmosphere. There was no escaping the weight of the place—it pressed down on him from all sides, filling his lungs with the thick, damp air.
He reached the end of the corridor, where another set of gates stood between him and the central part of the prison. One of the guards raised his wand again, muttering an incantation under his breath. The gates creaked open with the same groaning sound as before, and Harry stepped through.
And there, waiting at the far end of the courtyard, stood Severus Snape.
Snape hadn't changed much in the years since Harry had last seen him. His black robes clung to his tall, thin frame, the fabric slick with moisture from the ever-present mist. His hair, still greasy and unkempt, hung in dark strands around his pale face. But there was something different about him now, something more hollow. His eyes—those same dark, impenetrable eyes—were sharper, colder, as though the years in Azkaban had carved away whatever humanity had once been there.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The distance between them felt insurmountable, even though it was only a few dozen feet. Harry's throat tightened as he searched for something to say, something to break the silence that hung like a thick fog between them.
But it was Snape who spoke first, his voice as cold and cutting as ever. "Potter."
Harry swallowed, his pulse quickening. "Snape."
Snape's eyes narrowed, the barest flicker of irritation crossing his face. "I assume you're not here for a social visit."
Harry shook his head. "No. There's been... something happening. Kingsley sent me to investigate."
"Of course he did," Snape muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The Ministry's hero. Sent to save the day once again."
The bitterness in Snape's tone wasn't unexpected, but it still hit Harry like a punch to the gut. He had known this wouldn't be easy, but standing here, face-to-face with the man he had once betrayed—whether intentionally or not—it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.
"I didn't ask for this," Harry said, his voice low but steady. "I just want to help."
"Help," Snape repeated, his lip curling into something that might have been a sneer. "You've done quite enough of that already."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. The weight of Azkaban pressed down on him, and suddenly, he wasn't sure what he could possibly say to make any of this right.
Snape's eyes drilled into Harry, a flicker of something—anger, resentment, maybe even hatred—crossing his sharp features. The man hadn't changed much in appearance, but there was something harder about him now, like the years had worn away whatever softness might have once been hidden beneath the surface. He was the same Severus Snape Harry remembered: unyielding, bitter, and absolutely uninterested in pleasantries.
The mist clung to Snape's robes like a second skin, and his face, pale and drawn, almost seemed to blend into the gray, oppressive atmosphere of Azkaban. The entire place felt like an extension of him—cold, dark, and merciless.
"Snape," Harry began again, trying to keep his voice steady despite the knot forming in his throat, "this isn't about the past."
Snape's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smirk. "No? Everything is about the past with you, Potter. That's all you seem to care about. Dredging it up. Making sure the world knows every sordid detail."
Harry flinched at that, his gaze dropping for a brief moment to the slick, wet stones beneath his feet. Snape's words hit harder than he wanted them to. He had exposed the man's life—his deepest, most personal memories—to the entire wizarding world. And Snape had paid for it in silence, choosing exile over fame. In some ways, Harry couldn't blame him for his bitterness.
But this wasn't about that. Not now.
"You're right," Harry said, swallowing hard. "I made a mess of things. I'm not here to dig up old wounds. Something's going on in the prison. Kingsley thought—"
"Kingsley thought you could play the hero one last time," Snape interrupted, his tone dripping with disdain. "I don't need your help. And Azkaban certainly doesn't."
Harry's jaw clenched, his frustration bubbling up despite his best efforts to keep it in check. He hadn't come here to argue with Snape, but the man seemed determined to push every button Harry had. It was just like old times. But Harry wasn't a teenager anymore, and Snape wasn't his teacher.
"Maybe you don't need my help," Harry shot back, his voice sharp, "but people are dying here, Snape. Something dark is happening inside these walls, and we need to figure out what it is before it gets worse."
Snape's gaze flickered, just for a moment, as if the mention of death had stirred something in him. His expression remained unreadable, but Harry had spent enough time around the man to recognize when something caught his attention. For a brief second, Harry thought he might have broken through that icy exterior.
But then Snape's lips curled into that familiar sneer, and the moment was gone.
"Dark magic is nothing new to Azkaban," Snape said, his voice cool and detached. "It was built on the bones of it. Whatever is happening here is simply the natural order of this place."
Harry shook his head, stepping closer. The damp air between them seemed to vibrate with tension. "No. This is different. I've seen dark magic, and this isn't just the usual rot of Azkaban. Something's controlling it—escalating it."
Snape raised a skeptical brow, folding his arms across his chest as he regarded Harry with that same withering look that had haunted his school days. "And you think you, of all people, are equipped to deal with it? The great Harry Potter, barging into my prison, assuming he can fix everything."
Harry's hands clenched into fists at his sides, not out of anger, but from the overwhelming frustration that always seemed to accompany any interaction with Snape. "Look, I'm not here for a bloody reunion, alright? I didn't want to come. But this is happening whether you like it or not, and you can either help me, or get out of the way."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of everything that hung between them—years of animosity, resentment, unspoken truths. Harry's heart pounded against his ribs, the damp chill of the courtyard clinging to his skin as he waited for Snape to respond.
For a long moment, Snape simply stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, his arms unfolded, and he let out a long, almost weary breath. His gaze drifted away from Harry, settling somewhere in the distance, where the thick fog swallowed the edges of the prison walls.
"You still don't understand, do you?" Snape said quietly, his voice softer now, though no less biting. "This place is beyond saving. It always has been."
Harry's chest tightened. He could hear the exhaustion in Snape's voice now, the weariness that came not from physical strain but from years of carrying too much. It was the same weight that Harry had felt in himself over the years, the burden of being a symbol—of being someone people looked to when things went wrong. But where Harry had found solace in friends, in family, Snape had only ever had isolation.
"I'm not here to save the prison," Harry said, his voice steady, but softer. "I'm here to save the people in it."
Snape's eyes flicked back to him, and for the first time since Harry had arrived, there was something close to recognition in his expression. Not approval, not agreement—but maybe an understanding. A silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, Harry wasn't here to play hero. He was here because it was the right thing to do.
Snape let out a low, bitter laugh. "Always the Gryffindor."
Harry offered a small, almost resigned smile. "Someone has to be."
Snape's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, and then, with a curt nod, he turned toward the interior of the prison. His black robes billowed slightly as he moved, the mist swirling around his figure like a living thing, drawn to the darkness that seemed to emanate from him.
"Follow me," Snape said, his voice low and gruff. "If you're determined to meddle in my prison, then you might as well see what you're up against."
Added several new explicit FREE one-shots & chapters on our blog https://fictioneers.thinkific.com/pages/new-updates.