By: HogwartsHierarchies
The walls of Azkaban were colder than Harry had imagined—an unnatural cold that seemed to seep into his bones as soon as he crossed the threshold. Inside, the air felt thick, heavy with the weight of forgotten souls. Every step he took seemed to echo louder than it should have, the sound bouncing off the narrow, stone-lined corridors and fading into the dark, distant corners. The dim torchlight did little to push back the shadows that clung stubbornly to the walls, making the prison feel like a place trapped in perpetual twilight.
Snape moved ahead of him, his black robes swishing softly against the stone floor, his posture rigid, shoulders tight with years of tension that Harry could almost feel just from walking behind him. The man was a silhouette of harsh angles, sharp lines etched into his form as though the very darkness of Azkaban had sculpted him to match the prison's bleakness.
Harry couldn't help but glance around as they walked deeper into the heart of the prison, his eyes drawn to the jagged stone walls, where moisture clung like sweat to the pores of the rock. The smell of salt and dampness was thick in the air, but beneath it, Harry caught another scent—something metallic, sharp, almost like blood. The deeper they went, the more suffocating the atmosphere became, pressing in on his lungs like a weight he couldn't shake.
"This place is worse than I thought," Harry muttered, his voice sounding small against the oppressive silence.
Snape didn't look back. "It hasn't changed."
Harry frowned but said nothing, his gaze flicking to the narrow slits of barred windows that occasionally appeared along the hallway. Through them, he could see the gray sea beyond, churning and relentless, as though it too was trapped in a cycle of endless misery. The water slapped against the rocks below, the sound a dull roar that mingled with the quiet murmurs of the prison.
There was no comfort in Azkaban. No sense of hope. Just stone and silence, broken only by the faintest echoes of life—distant cries, the shuffle of feet on stone, and the occasional clang of a barred door being slammed shut. The walls seemed to hum with centuries of suffering, as though the very stones were soaked in the despair of every prisoner who had passed through these corridors.
And yet, Harry felt something else here too, something darker lurking beneath the surface. It was subtle, but there—like a low thrum of magic in the air, barely noticeable but impossible to ignore once you felt it. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was unmistakable, prickling at the edges of his awareness. It wasn't just the usual rot of Azkaban, as Snape had suggested. Something was different.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Snape's voice, low and knowing, pulled Harry from his thoughts.
Harry blinked, his steps faltering for a moment. "What do you mean?"
Snape slowed, his dark gaze cutting over his shoulder, pinning Harry with a sharp look. "The magic in the air. It's subtle, but it's there. Something is stirring in these walls, something that wasn't here before."
Harry's pulse quickened. He wasn't imagining it, then. That strange, lurking sensation wasn't just his mind playing tricks on him. "How long has this been happening?"
Snape turned back, continuing down the corridor. "Not long. At first, it was small things. A prisoner found dead in their cell—unexplained, no signs of struggle. Then another. And another. The guards started whispering about curses, old magic coming back to haunt the prison." His voice dropped lower, colder. "I don't put stock in their gossip. But I know dark magic when I feel it."
They passed through another set of gates, the iron creaking as Snape flicked his wand with a quick, impatient motion. The corridor ahead opened into a larger room, one Harry recognized immediately—the central hub of the prison. A massive, circular space, with corridors branching off in every direction like the spokes of a wheel. High above, the ceiling rose into a dome of shadow, barely illuminated by the dim light that flickered from a single chandelier, its candles sputtering like dying stars.
Harry's gaze swept the room, taking in the rows of barred cells that lined the walls in every direction. The prisoners inside were silent, most of them curled up in the corners of their cells, their faces hidden in shadow. It was hard to tell if they were asleep or simply lost in the numbness that this place forced on them. Either way, they barely reacted to Snape and Harry's presence. It was as if they were ghosts themselves, trapped in a limbo they couldn't escape.
"This is where it started," Snape said, his voice echoing faintly in the vast space. "The first death."
Harry stepped closer, his boots scuffing against the cold stone floor. "Which cell?"
Snape didn't point. He didn't need to. Harry's eyes were drawn to a single cell along the far wall, where the bars seemed darker than the rest, the shadows clinging to it more tightly. There was something off about it, something that made Harry's skin prickle. The air near it felt colder, heavier, like the very magic in the room had been warped around that single point.
Harry approached the cell, his heart pounding in his chest. His hand reached out, brushing against the bars, and a jolt of cold shot through his fingers, making him pull back with a sharp hiss.
"It's... wrong," Harry murmured, more to himself than to Snape. He could feel it now, more acutely than before—the dark magic pulsing through the air like a faint heartbeat, centered on this cell.
"The prisoner was dead when we found him," Snape said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "No marks on his body. No sign of a struggle. But the magic in the air... it's thick here. Old. Ancient, even."
Harry's eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what could be causing this. "Do you think it's coming from the cell itself? Or something inside?"
Snape's gaze was hard, unreadable. "We've searched the cell. There's nothing in there. Whatever this is, it's beyond the usual scope of dark magic."
Harry nodded, feeling a strange mix of dread and determination settling in his chest. There was something happening here, something dangerous. And he was determined to find out what it was—even if it meant facing the darkness head-on.
Harry's breath caught in his throat, eyes narrowing as he looked between Snape and the cell, the cold energy almost beckoning him forward. He could feel the weight of it pressing against his skin, a constant hum of dark magic vibrating through the air. Despite Snape's words, something pulled at him—a gut instinct he couldn't ignore.
"I need to see for myself," Harry said, voice firm, already stepping toward the cell door.
Snape's gaze darkened, a flicker of warning flashing across his face. "I told you, Potter, there's nothing in there. The guards and I have been through it thoroughly."
Harry barely heard him. His focus was on the cell now, on the strange, almost magnetic pull it exerted. The cold in the air seemed to intensify as he reached for the iron bars, but this time he didn't hesitate. He pushed the door open with a slow creak, the metal groaning as it swung inward.
The moment he stepped inside, it was as if the world shifted.
The air grew colder, impossibly so, and the walls of the cell seemed to close in around him. The darkness that had clung to the cell like a living thing now pressed against his chest, thick and suffocating. A chill shot through his spine, and for a moment, Harry felt as if he had walked into another realm altogether—something ancient, something far older than the prison itself.
The magic hit him like a wave, raw and unfiltered. It wasn't the kind of magic he had felt before—the dark magic of curses or hexes. This was deeper, more primal, as if it came from the earth itself, from the very stone that made up the prison.
Harry stumbled, his hands flying out to brace himself against the wall, but the moment his skin made contact with the stone, the magic surged up through his arms, winding through his body like vines. His heart pounded violently in his chest, his vision blurring at the edges as the magic coiled tighter and tighter, wrapping around his core, feeding off him.
He gasped, a strangled sound escaping his throat as his body jerked forward involuntarily. Every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire, and yet he was freezing—cold, biting cold, that made his muscles lock up and his skin tighten.
"Potter!" Snape's voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding, but it felt distant, muted, like he was hearing it through layers of thick fog.
Harry tried to focus, tried to pull back, but the magic had him now, digging its claws deeper into his mind. It twisted inside him, warping his senses, turning the air around him into a thick, suffocating pressure. His vision swam, dark tendrils of power slipping into his thoughts, coiling tighter and tighter until all he could feel was the need to lash out, to release the energy that was building inside him.
He staggered backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Something—something's wrong—" The words felt foreign on his lips, his voice shaky as if it didn't belong to him anymore.
Suddenly, his body moved, not of his own accord. His fingers flexed, and his wand slipped into his hand without him summoning it. His eyes locked on Snape—he wasn't thinking, not consciously, but the magic inside him had found a target.
"Harry, stop—" Snape's voice barely registered.
In an instant, Harry's wand jerked upward, a burst of raw magic exploding from the tip before he could stop it. It shot toward Snape like lightning, and Snape's eyes widened in surprise just before he swatted the spell away with a sharp flick of his own wand.
But the magic wasn't done.
Before Harry could regain control, another wave of power surged through him, stronger this time. His body moved on instinct, lunging toward Snape, his movements wild, frantic. His wand raised again, and another blast of magic shot out, unfocused but dangerous, crashing against the stone walls in a shower of sparks.
Snape was quicker this time. With a growl of frustration, he disarmed Harry with a sharp flick of his wand, sending Harry's wand clattering to the ground. But Harry's body kept moving, driven by the primal force inside him. He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his body slamming into Snape's with brutal force.
Snape grunted as Harry shoved him backward, their bodies colliding hard enough to knock the breath out of both of them. They stumbled, their feet tangling together as they crashed against the stone wall of the corridor. Snape's back hit the wall with a dull thud, but he didn't push Harry away. His hands gripped Harry's arms instead, holding him in place, his dark eyes boring into Harry's as they stood chest to chest, breath mingling in the cold air.
"Get a hold of yourself, Potter," Snape growled, his voice low and dangerous, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—concern, maybe. Or anger. It was hard to tell.
Harry struggled, his body still thrumming with the wild magic that pulsed through him, but Snape's grip was iron, unyielding. Their bodies were pressed so close now, Harry could feel the heat of Snape's breath against his face, could smell the faint scent of the damp stones that clung to his robes. His heart raced, pounding hard in his chest as the magic inside him writhed, pushing against the confines of his body, desperate for release.
"Snape—" Harry choked out, his voice raw, but the words were cut off as another wave of dark magic surged through him, making his muscles tense. His vision blurred again, and for a moment, all he could see was Snape, all he could feel was the overwhelming presence of the man in front of him, the heat of his body, the cold press of stone at his back.
Snape's grip tightened on his arms, his face mere inches from Harry's now, their breaths shallow and rapid. "You need to fight it, Potter," Snape hissed, his voice almost a whisper. "This magic... it will tear you apart if you don't."
Harry's head swam, his pulse thundering in his ears. He could feel the magic still roiling inside him, desperate to escape, but Snape's presence grounded him, held him in place. Their bodies were too close now, the tension between them palpable, as if the magic itself had pulled them together in some twisted, violent dance.
Harry's chest heaved, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the magic starting to lose its grip on him, but the intensity of the moment lingered—Snape's dark eyes locked with his, their bodies still pressed together in the narrow space, the cold air thick with the weight of what had just happened.
"Don't move," Snape warned, his voice low and controlled, though Harry could see the strain in his face, the way his muscles tensed beneath his robes. "We're not alone."
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"Do you see it?" Harry whispered, his eyes darting around the dim space, scanning for movement.
Snape didn't answer immediately, his jaw tightening as his gaze swept the room. His grip on Harry's arm tightened slightly, not out of fear, but something else—something calculated, as though he was silently assessing their chances. The air was stifling, cold and sharp, and Harry could feel it crawling along his skin, like something ancient was dragging its claws through the very atmosphere around them.
"There," Snape finally muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing toward the far corner of the cell. Harry followed his gaze, squinting through the dim light, but at first, he saw nothing.
Then, something moved.