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At the entrance to the high-security prisoner wing, an imposing iron gate loomed, reinforced by a thick fence.
Two tall Hit Wizards stood guard.
At the sight of Ethan and his group approaching, they immediately straightened and saluted Moody.
Moody acknowledged them with a curt nod before handing one of them an official document—a clearance for Bellatrix Lestrange.
The guard scrutinized the parchment, casting two verification spells to confirm its authenticity.
Only when the spells revealed no signs of forgery did he return the document with a solemn nod.
"Apologies, Mr. Moody, but we must verify your identities as well," one of the guards said gravely.
From his belt, he produced several small vials filled with a clear, shimmering liquid and distributed them among the group.
"This is an antidote for Polyjuice Potion," Moody explained.
"If anyone's using it, their disguise will fail the moment they drink."
His grizzled face broke into a rare smirk, as if pleased by Azkaban's strict security measures.
Without hesitation, he tilted back the vial and swallowed its contents.
The others followed suit—Dumbledore included—draining the potion without protest.
The guards studied their faces intently, searching for any sign of transformation.
When none appeared, they exchanged a brief glance, then each retrieved half of a large iron key from their pockets.
With practiced efficiency, they combined the pieces, inserted the reassembled key into the massive lock, and turned it.
The gate groaned in protest as they heaved it open, the sheer weight requiring both of them to push together.
"All clear. You may proceed," one of the guards announced.
"Apologies for the delay."
"No need to apologize," Moody replied gruffly, clapping one of them on the shoulder.
"Thoroughness is what keeps this place from falling apart."
With that, he stepped into the dimly lit corridor of the high-security wing.
Azkaban's most notorious block was even more oppressive than Ethan had imagined.
There were no windows—not even ventilation shafts. The air hung thick with the stale stench of decay, and the gloom pressed in from all sides.
Sirius's face was pale as he took in their surroundings.
"It wasn't always like this," he murmured.
"There used to be small windows—tiny slits, but enough to let in a sliver of sunlight."
His gaze locked onto an empty cell, and Ethan could tell—this was where Sirius had once been imprisoned.
Moody scoffed. "Yeah, well, things changed after someone managed to escape from here."
Sirius stiffened, realization dawning.
They had redesigned the prison because of him.
Ethan, meanwhile, examined the cells with curiosity. Most were empty, though a few held nothing but skeletal remains.
Thick iron bars, cut with meticulous precision, secured each cell.
A powerful magical aura clung to the metal—layers upon layers of protective enchantments woven into the iron.
On impulse, Ethan gripped the bars, testing their strength. Even with all his might, they refused to budge.
Without tools, without magic, escape was virtually impossible.
Moody's voice snapped through the silence.
"Ethan! Quit messing with the bars and keep up!"
Ethan let go immediately, falling into step behind the others as they delved deeper into the prison's suffocating darkness.
Hearing Moody's bark, Ethan sighed and curled his lips in frustration but had no choice except to keep pace with the group.
The only source of light in the prison came from floating magical orbs suspended in the corridor.
Their cold, dim glow barely pushed back the suffocating darkness, casting eerie shadows against the stone walls.
The deeper they ventured, the more oppressive the atmosphere became.
As they walked, prisoners gradually came into view, hunched in the cells lining both sides of the corridor.
Most of them barely reacted to the approaching footsteps.
Their sunken eyes remained unfocused, their bodies skeletal and frail from years of confinement.
Some lay sprawled on the filthy ground, panting as if even the effort of breathing was too much.
Then, a sudden, sharp voice cut through the silence.
"Sirius Black!"
A figure lunged forward from within a darkened cell, slamming against the iron bars with a loud clang.
The man was tall, his once-powerful frame reduced to a gaunt, almost skeletal form. His long, unkempt hair framed a pale, twisted face, his dark eyes burning with malice.
Sirius stiffened. "Antonin Dolohov," he muttered, momentarily taken aback.
Dolohov sneered. "Captured again, Black? What a shame you didn't die outside."
His voice dripped with venom.
Antonin Dolohov had been one of Voldemort's earliest followers—a brutal enforcer in the Wizarding War, notorious for torturing Muggles, witches and wizards who defied the Dark Lord.
It was Dolohov who had slain Gideon and Fabian Prewett, the older brothers of Molly Weasley.
He looked ready to spit another insult, but then his gaze drifted past Sirius—landing on Dumbledore.
For a moment, he simply stared, frozen. Then his face twisted in disbelief.
"Dumbledore…?" he whispered, as if his mind refused to accept what his eyes were seeing.
Then, realization struck, and he let out a bloodcurdling scream.
"DUMBLEDORE! DUMBLEDORE IS HERE!"
His shriek was like a match to dry tinder.
All at once, the prison block erupted with movement.
Death Eaters who had been lying motionless just moments before suddenly sprang up, throwing themselves at the iron bars.
The metal groaned under their weight as pale, bony hands clawed through the gaps, reaching for the old wizard.
Their voices rose into a frenzied cacophony of hatred.
"TRAITOR!"
"YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS, DUMBLEDORE!"
"WHEN THE DARK LORD RETURNS, YOU'LL BE THE FIRST TO DIE!"
Spit flew as they screamed, their faces contorted in rage.
Some cursed his name, others ranted incoherently, their minds broken from years of imprisonment.
Even those who had long abandoned their loyalty to Voldemort joined in—not for their former master, but out of sheer hatred for the man they blamed for their suffering.
Moody, unimpressed, let out a low growl. His magical eye whirled, scanning the inmates with disgust.
"You lot better shut your filthy mouths," he barked.
The Death Eaters only shouted louder, some even turning their insults on Moody himself.
That was the last straw.
"Oh, I'll shut you up, alright!" Moody snarled, marching toward a lever mounted on the wall.
Without hesitation, he yanked it down.
Instantly, a surge of electricity crackled through the iron bars of every cell.
The furious shouts dissolved into agonized screams.
Blue-white sparks leaped across the metal, illuminating the convulsing figures of the prisoners as the magical current tore through them.
The prison echoed with the crackle of energy and the shrieks of men who, just seconds ago, had been brimming with defiance.
Ethan watched in silence. Azkaban had its own brutal way of keeping order.