"Tom didn't perform well in his magic exams, but still…"
William sat by the only window in the cell where sunlight streamed through, earnestly telling a story to the surrounding inmates. However, just as he began, the prisoners below interrupted him with jeers.
"Magic exams? What exams? O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s?"
"Shut up. Am I telling the story, or are you?" William shot a glare at the loudest inmate, who chuckled and shrank back.
"Ahem," William cleared his throat, refocusing the group's attention. He continued, "Tom didn't perform well in his magic exams, but he still managed to get into Hogwarts."
Just then, the inmate from before chimed in, "Hogwarts doesn't require exams! New students receive their acceptance letters from owls!"
William fell silent, locking eyes with the argumentative inmate.
"Beat him up!"
It was just a story. Using a familiar setting for immersion wasn't meant for nitpicking.
Besides, the inconsistencies weren't his fault. He'd only seen one Harry Potter movie. Remembering the name "Hogwarts" was already impressive. Waking up in Azkaban was bad enough. Must they demand such precise details?
If not for the need to boost his status in prison, he wouldn't even bother talking. The magical knowledge in his mind felt like a treasure trove, akin to a gourmet finding a hidden gem of a restaurant, a picky reader discovering a million-word novel that fit their taste.
A new, unknown world filled with wonder had just opened its doors to him. It felt like scratching off a lottery ticket and revealing the word "congratulations." He was itching to ditch these prisoners and delve into magic studies. But that was impossible.
This was Azkaban, a wizarding prison. Being antisocial didn't just lead to isolation—it earned you a beating.
***
The eight-person cell housed minor offenders. Eight iron beds were magically secured to the floor, taking up most of the space. A sink stood against the wall, and a toilet was tucked next to the darkest bed. A battered iron table, also fixed in place, completed their meager furnishings.
The inmates were divided into three tiers. The top two, who could smuggle in scarce supplies, naturally ruled. William and two others, skilled in smooth-talking, formed the second tier. The remaining three, unlucky and tasked with chores, made up the lowest tier.
The one getting beaten now belonged to the bottom tier. He had been in Azkaban longer than William. His crime wasn't severe—he mouthed off while riding the Muggle subway, got punched by a short-tempered Muggle, and lost the fight. Later, he sneakily used magic to turn the Muggle into a pig, gave him a good beating, then turned himself in. The minimal impact earned him a 3-year sentence.
"Will, don't mind me. I just can't keep my mouth shut. The guys are still waiting for the story."
Despite crouching with his head covered and getting kicked, the man wasn't angry. Clearly, his assailants were just putting on a show without using much force.
In Azkaban, aside from inmates, everything else was scarce. Listening to new stories was the ultimate pleasure. He might have a loose mouth, but if William stopped telling stories, he'd punish himself.
"Watch your 'movie' first. I'll revise the outline and continue tomorrow."
Lying in the sunlight, William waved them off, deciding to ditch the story for now. The plot was too rough, with too many holes. It needed revising.
The disappointed crowd collectively sighed, then began rummaging through gaps in the beds and walls.
Carefully folded pieces of paper were taken out, and scenes that had played countless times unfolded before them again. These fragments, smuggled in along with food, were considered valuable in Azkaban's inmate trade.
Their only drawback was their scarcity, fragmented plots, and high repetition.
More importantly, the guards actively confiscated items with magical traces, making these scattered pages easy targets for confiscation.
As the group passed around the well-worn scraps, a prisoner on the far edge of the cell, known as "Nine-Fingers," suddenly let out a wail. The hand holding his paper drooped, his body trembling uncontrollably as he desperately tried to stuff the paper back into the wall crack with shaking hands.
The prisoners' faces changed in unison. After hurriedly hiding their scraps of paper, those near the beds quickly lay down. Those who didn't have time either leaned against the walls or simply sprawled on the floor. Then, a suffocating chill descended upon the entire cell. Everyone began trembling involuntarily, wrapping their arms tightly around their chests and curling into themselves, trying desperately to make their bodies as small as possible.
The heavy cell door creaked open, the rusted hinges groaning. A tattered black cloak slipped through the gap. Moments later, a Dementor, one of Azkaban's guards, floated into the room.
Its face, completely hidden beneath the black cloak, slowly turned to scan each inmate. After a moment, it nodded, as if satisfied with its meal. The door groaned once more, slamming shut behind it.
It was a long time before cursing broke the silence in the cell.
"Damn it. These damn cloaked things never stick to a schedule. If I hadn't been quick, I would've lost my stuff again."
The voice sounded drained. After spending enough time around Dementors, all prisoners reacted worse than normal people. The minor offenders here fared slightly better, but the more serious criminals; except for a select few, were constantly weakened to the point of exhaustion.
"Not bad, Nine-Fingers. You managed to stash your stuff even with those cloaks around. When the next newbie comes in, have him take your spot at the lookout."
The cell boss, clearly in a good mood from avoiding losses, promised Nine-Fingers, who slept on the bed near the toilet and closest to the passageway, a break from his post.
As he spoke, the boss rummaged through his own bed, generously pulling out eight chocolate balls and tossing one to each inmate.
In Azkaban, where Dementors roamed unpredictably, chocolate; capable of providing warmth and comfort, was the most prized commodity. Even gleaming Galleons didn't have the same value. The food shipments arriving weekly were always limited, and there was never enough to go around.
William caught the chocolate, weakly muttering his thanks. His hands trembled as he unwrapped it, savoring the warmth that spread through his body as the chocolate melted in his mouth.
He still had a year left on his sentence. One more year of enduring daily visits from Dementors.
Thankfully, the magical knowledge in his mind; unseen and unexplored, could last him even ten years, let alone one. And there was still hope, after all.
One year wasn't too long.