Harry Potter and the HQL - Chapter - 9

Far from the warmth of Hogwarts and the excitement blooming in Highgarden, across the gray, foaming waves of the North Sea, stood a jagged black island—an unnatural formation of rock, mist, and misery. Upon its craggy face loomed Azkaban, the dreaded wizarding prison. No birds flew near its cliffs. No fish swam the waters. Even the wind whispered only in groans.

A single black boat moved slowly toward it, cutting through the waves like a blade. The lantern hanging at its prow swayed in rhythm with the rocking tide, casting eerie reflections on the water.

Inside the boat sat three figures. Two were Aurors, wands drawn, their knuckles white around the hilts. Their eyes, alert and grim, glanced often at the shadows beyond the boat. They looked as though they’d rather be anywhere in the world but here—but duty chained them to this journey.

Between them sat a woman cloaked in velvet-black, her hood drawn low over her face, hiding the lines of aristocracy and grief. Her hands, gloved and elegant, rested upon a satchel that never left her side.

None of them spoke.

When the boat finally scraped against the creaking wooden dock that jutted out like a skeletal finger from Azkaban's base, both Aurors immediately raised their wands and muttered the spell:

“Expecto Patronum.”

From their wands leapt silvery light—two brilliant Patronuses, a tiger and a crow, who circled them protectively, bathing them in a sense of clarity and calm. The oppressive despair lifted just slightly.

The hooded woman let out a soft sigh, as if releasing a breath she had held for far too long.

And without a word, the three of them stepped off the boat and entered the gates of Azkaban.

The interior of Azkaban was cold, dark, and deathly silent. Walls of damp stone pressed in from all sides, and unseen things slithered in the corners—things that had never been given names.

The two Aurors led the woman through twisting corridors until they reached a small, windowless chamber with a rusted door and a pair of heavy iron chairs bolted to the ground.

“This is the visitor’s room,” one Auror said. “You may sit here. She will be brought to you shortly. You have fifteen minutes.”

The woman nodded once and sat silently, her posture impeccable, her face still hidden by her hood. The Aurors stepped out, sealing the door behind them.

For several minutes, Narcissa Malfoy sat alone, accompanied only by the faint dripping of water from somewhere above. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t tremble.

She waited.

The door creaked open again.

This time, the Aurors returned with another figure between them—skinny to the point of skeletal, draped in the gray-striped prison robes of Azkaban. Her hair hung in greasy tangles around her face. Her lips were cracked, her hands raw. She smelled faintly of stone and madness.

But her eyes—her eyes gleamed like twin black coals.

And as she saw the hooded woman, she grinned.

“Well, well,” she rasped. “Cissy. Is it my birthday? Come early this year?”

Narcissa stood and stepped forward. “Bella.”

The sisters embraced—one regal and composed, the other trembling with malice and laughter.

“How are you doing?” Narcissa asked quietly, her voice warm but strained.

Bellatrix Lestrange, madwoman, Death Eater, and the most feared woman in the wizarding world, gave a small, uneven shrug.

“Can’t complain.” She smirked. “The Dementors are as chatty as ever. One of them hummed to me yesterday. Sounded like my wedding march.”

Narcissa ignored the comment. Instead, she reached into the satchel she had carried all this way and pulled out a small package wrapped in green silk. She laid it on the table between them.

Bellatrix’s face lit up.

“Is that…? Oh, Cissy, tell me it’s cake.”

Narcissa smiled. “Of course.”

Without waiting for plates or permission, Bellatrix tore the package open and grabbed the slice of chocolate cake with her bare hands. She began eating it ravenously, bits of icing smearing her fingers.

“You know,” she said through a mouthful, “they keep trying to feed me cabbage stew and powdered bone. But nothing—nothing—beats your chocolate cake.”

Narcissa sat across from her, watching carefully.

Halfway through the cake, Bellatrix paused, licking her fingers and tilting her head curiously. “They’ve gone, haven’t they? The Aurors?”

Narcissa gave a slight nod. “We have twelve minutes.”

Bella grinned. “Then tell me, little sister. Why have you come this year? You hate this place.”

Narcissa leaned forward slightly, her voice low and tight. “Because the world is changing. And there are things you must know.”

“Well?” she drawled. “You’ve fed me. Now tell me—what’s so dire that the oh-so-dignified Narcissa Malfoy has braved this pit?”

Narcissa Malfoy’s expression shifted slightly. Composed, but tense. Beneath her elegant robes, she gripped her gloves tightly, the only sign of the storm that brewed beneath her calm façade.

She looked her sister in the eyes.
“The Dark Lord is alive, Bella.”

The air seemed to change.

Even in Azkaban’s constant gloom, the temperature dropped. Bellatrix’s smile froze—faint tremors racing across her thin lips, her eyes narrowing.

Her voice came out in a near-whisper.

“Alive?” she repeated. “How do you know? You’d better not be toying with me, Cissy.”

“I wouldn’t,” Narcissa said, voice level. “You know I wouldn’t come here if it wasn’t real.”

Bellatrix leaned forward, hunger gleaming behind her eyes.

“Tell me everything.”

“It was three weeks ago,” Narcissa began, glancing briefly at the heavy door. “Lucius and I were in Knockturn Alley. We needed some ingredients for a potion—a very rare potion that required fresh dragon liver. We went to Borgin & Burkes.”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “Of course you did. That slimy little coward Borgin is still slithering around?”

Narcissa nodded. “And still whispering secrets he shouldn’t. I stayed near the front while Lucius went into the back with Borgin to negotiate. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But the curtain between the front and back was open just enough. And I heard everything.”

Bellatrix sat up straighter, her fingers twitching slightly on the table.

“Borgin told Lucius something… something he shouldn’t know.”

“What?” Bellatrix snapped. “Tell me!”

Narcissa lowered her voice.
“He said the Dark Lord is not gone. He said he’s heard things—from students. From… the Weasley twins.”

Bellatrix blinked. “Weasleys? Blood traitors. Why would they know anything?”

“Because they saw it,” Narcissa said coldly. “Two years ago. In Draco's first year, I believe. A teacher at Hogwarts—Quirrell, the stuttering fool—was possessed by the Dark Lord. They saw him. They spoke of him.”

Bellatrix sat in silence, processing. Her mouth moved, repeating the name Quirrell soundlessly.

“Borgin overheard them discussing it in leaky cauldron,” Narcissa continued. “They didn’t notice him. But he was certain. He described what they said in vivid detail. About a treasure the Dark Lord was after. About the fight they had.”

Bellatrix’s pupils dilated. “So he was… he was there.”

Narcissa nodded. “But weak. Almost nothing. Not enough to survive. But he was there. He possessed a man, used him to get into Hogwarts. He tried to rise again… and failed.”

Bellatrix’s breathing quickened.

“And where is he now?”

“Borgin doesn’t know. No one does. But he’s certain—the Dark Lord survived. He is hiding. Regaining strength. Biding his time.”

Bellatrix grinned. The madness returned in full force, but this time it glinted with joy.

“He's waiting. Oh… he’s waiting. That’s so like him. So clever. So patient.”

Narcissa hesitated. Then added, “Lucius… he was terrified. He told Borgin to keep silent, to never speak of it again. He fears what will happen when the Dark Lord returns.”

“Because he betrayed him,” Bellatrix snarled. “He claimed loyalty, but he fled the moment the Dark Lord fell.”

“He did what he had to,” Narcissa said tightly.

Bellatrix leaned forward, her face inches from her sister’s. “We all did what we had to, Cissy. But not all of us stayed loyal.”

Narcissa stood slowly, drawing her cloak tight once more. “I came here to tell you this because I knew you’d want to know. Because you deserve to know before… before anything changes.”

Bellatrix’s eyes glittered.

“Oh, Cissy… when he returns, I’ll be ready. I’ve waited years in this rotten cage. I’ll wait longer, if I must. But when he calls me—I will answer.”

Narcissa paused at the door.

“I don’t doubt it,” she said quietly.

The door creaked open as the Aurors returned. Bellatrix sat back in her chair, licking the last smear of chocolate from her thumb.

The lead Auror, a broad-shouldered man with thinning hair and tired eyes, cleared his throat. “Time’s up, Madam Malfoy.”

Narcissa Malfoy stood, composed as ever, brushing a single strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She looked every bit the serene pure-blood matriarch. As she turned toward the door, she paused, her gaze catching that of the Auror on the left.

“Mr. Jerkins, is it?” she asked, her voice smooth and elegant.

The man blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

Narcissa gave him a gentle smile, tilting her head with just the right amount of grace. “Today is my sister’s birthday. It’s the only day she sees sunlight, or another face. I wanted her to have just a little something that reminded her of our world.”

Mr. Jerkins hesitated, glancing at the remaining slice of chocolate cake sitting innocently on the table. “Regulations are—”

“Surely,” Narcissa interrupted softly, “a single piece of cake wouldn’t cause trouble, would it? The Dementors will keep her in line. She can't go anywhere, after all… and she won’t be let out.”

The other Auror glanced between them, unsure. But Jerkins looked into Narcissa’s pale, unblinking eyes and… something wilted inside him. He gave a slow nod.

“She can have it,” he said. “But only this once.”

The guards escorted Bellatrix from the chamber, her steps light, her chains clinking softly with each movement. She held the plate with the cake like it was a crown jewel, cradled in her thin, pale hands.

As they passed through the dark corridor, Jerkins said quietly, “Don’t get clever, Lestrange. If you even think about going beyond your cell, the Dementors will smell it. They’re always patrolling. They’ll—”

“—Kiss me,” Bellatrix finished with a grin, showing yellowing teeth. “I know, Mr. Jerkins. I’m terrified.”

Jerkins grimaced.

They reached her cell, and after the usual protective enchantments, she was pushed back inside. The door clanked shut behind her.

As the steps of the guards faded away, the silence crept back in.

Bellatrix sat on the edge of her narrow cot, staring at the rest of cake now resting on her lap. Her hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but anticipation.

She tilted her head.

The icing had been perfectly shaped. The sponge—deceptively soft. The filling—dense and rich.

And hidden just beneath the last layer of the dense chocolate was something hard.

Her grin widened.

With fingers more precise than anyone might expect from a prisoner, she tore away the last of the sponge, revealing the slender tip of something black and polished.

A wand.

Her breath hitched. She let out a strangled gasp—half joy, half madness.

“Oh, Cissy…” she whispered, pressing the wand to her lips. “You clever, wicked girl…”

She closed her eyes, feeling its warmth, its pulse, as if recognizing its new mistress.

And then, her eyes flew open—wide and wild.

“Master!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “Please wait! I am coming to you!”

Her cackle began low, a broken hum that grew and spiraled until it filled the narrow cell.

She held the wand aloft and let loose a shower of red sparks into the ceiling.

“Nothing will stop me. Nothing.”

And deep below Azkaban, in the silent dark, something stirred. Something ancient, and furious, and waiting for his most faithful servant.