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"Order"
The golem spoke rigidly, its voice echoing in the dim corridor.
A deep, mechanical churning followed, emanating from within its belly.
A small compartment creaked open in its torso, revealing a worn parchment and an old, black quill.
"Visitor registration," the golem intoned stiffly.
The process seemed cumbersome, but Moody remained unfazed.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward, retrieving the thick, tattered parchment bound in a black cover.
He took the quill, its feathers worn and brittle, and flipped through the pages until he found a blank space.
With deliberate strokes, he scrawled: "Alastor Moody."
Turning to the group behind him, he gestured toward the parchment.
"Each of you must write your name."
No one questioned him.
One by one, they complied, signing their names without protest.
When it was Ethan's turn, he hesitated only briefly before stepping forward.
Carefully, he wrote: "Ethan of Toussaint."
The moment his quill touched the parchment, a strange sensation coursed through him—like something was being drawn from his body.
His grip on the quill tightened.
Sensing his unease, Dumbledore's calm voice broke the tension.
"Don't worry, Ethan. It won't harm you. It simply verifies your true identity."
Ethan exhaled slowly, reassured by Dumbledore's words.
Once the last name was recorded, the golem moved again.
The parchment and quill vanished into its belly, and it stepped backward, pressing against the massive wooden door.
Then, its rigid form began to crack, splintering apart in a way that defied logic until the golem itself transformed into the doorway.
Ethan's breath hitched. What he had assumed was merely a guardian of the door had been the door all along.
Around him, the others looked equally startled.
Leaning closer to Sirius, Ethan whispered, "So... what's behind that door?"
Sirius turned to him with an amused, almost mischievous smirk.
"Trust me, you don't want to know."
His grin sent a shiver down Ethan's spine, but he had no choice but to follow Moody deeper into the passageway.
The corridor ahead was utterly dark, swallowing any trace of light.
Ethan reached out, fingers skimming along the rough walls as he walked.
The path was narrow, but it wasn't long before they emerged into a vast, cavernous canyon.
It stretched endlessly into darkness, the air thick and silent.
The only illumination came from a few glowing orbs floating eerily overhead, casting an otherworldly light on the scene before them—a rickety wooden rope bridge spanning the abyss.
The planks looked aged and brittle as if a single misstep would send them into the void.
Moody held up a handful of plain badges, each bearing the insignia of the Ministry of Magic.
"Please just put these on. Without them, the moment you step onto the bridge, the planks will vanish beneath you... and you'll plummet to your death."
His tone was almost casual as if discussing the weather.
Ethan pinned the badge to his cloak, swallowing hard as he followed Moody onto the bridge.
To his surprise, the frail-looking structure was far sturdier than it appeared.
Yet, as they crossed, the darkness below remained vast and unknowable—leaving Ethan to wonder what horrors lurked beneath.
Despite the number of people crossing, the rope bridge remained unnervingly stable. It didn't sway or creak under their weight as if reinforced by unseen magic.
One by one, they made their way across.
Once safely on the other side, Moody led them toward what appeared to be a cavern.
As soon as Ethan stepped inside, he felt a surge of magic thick in the air.
His gaze quickly found the source—an invisible, shimmering barrier blocking their path.
Without hesitation, Moody strode through it. He barely glanced back as he explained, "Don't worry. This is an anti-thief barrier. Anyone who has used Transfiguration, a disguise spell, or Polyjuice Potion will be exposed immediately."
Reassured, Ethan stepped through the barrier, feeling a momentary tingle as he passed.
Beyond the barrier, they finally arrived at the prison complex.
To reach their destination—the maximum-security ward where Bellatrix Lestrange was held—they had to pass through both the low-security and high-security prison areas.
The low-security section was crude but not oppressive.
Large iron-barred cells housed multiple prisoners crammed together in tight spaces.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies.
As soon as the inmates noticed the newcomers, they rushed to the bars, jeering and calling out crude remarks.
But then, they saw who led the group—Alastor Moody in front and Dumbledore in the middle.
Instantly, the jeering died down. The prisoners knew better.
They did not doubt what would happen if they dared insult Mad-Eye Moody or Albus Dumbledore.
Even so, the atmosphere was charged with desperation.
Then, a sudden cry broke the silence.
"Mr. Dumbledore! Help me! I was wrongfully imprisoned!"
The plea was like a match to dry tinder. Immediately, the entire cellblock erupted into frantic shouts:
"I'm innocent!"
"Someone framed me!"
"Please, Mr. Dumbledore! You have to believe me!"
"I swear, I didn't do it!"
The prisoners screamed over each other, voices cracking with desperation, fists banging against the iron bars.
"Enough! QUIET!" Moody's voice cut through the chaos like a whip.
His magical eye whirred, scanning the cells.
"I personally investigated every single one of your cases! You're all exactly where you belong! Don't waste my time with your nonsense!"
His words silenced the cellblock instantly.
But their outburst had already drawn attention.
A group of enforcers—guards in dark uniforms armed with batons—stormed into the room.
What followed was a brutal crackdown.
The guards didn't hesitate. They swung their wooden clubs without mercy, shoving inmates back from the bars.
The prisoners who had been so loud just moments ago were now cowering, their cries turning to pained grunts.
Sirius Black, watching with crossed arms, let out a low whistle.
"They're certainly lively now."
His gaze swept over the struggling prisoners, and his expression darkened slightly.
"Back when Dementors ran this place, it was different. These prisoners used to lie on the ground all day, barely moving. They looked like corpses. They didn't even have the strength to speak."
He exhaled sharply, his voice quieter but laced with bitterness.
"Dementors don't just guard a prison. They drain you. They strip you of every last happy thought until there's nothing left but misery. Most people go mad within weeks."
His jaw tightened. "Even those sentenced to just a few months are often left here broken beyond repair."
Hearing this, Moody's face darkened.
Though he was a hard man—unyielding when it came to criminals—even he had found Dementor-run prisons disturbingly inhumane.
But that was in the past. Because of Ethan's influence, the Ministry had finally reformed its policies, barring Dementors from overseeing Azkaban.
Now, even though the conditions were still harsh, the prisoners at least had a chance at survival.
No one in the group wanted to linger any longer. They quickly moved past the chaotic low-security wing, heading deeper into the prison.
The high-security section was different—eerily silent.
Here, each inmate was locked away alone in a pitch-black cell. The iron doors were reinforced, shutting out even the smallest sliver of light.
It was impossible to see the prisoners, but the group could feel their presence—shadows lurking behind the steel barriers.
The only sound was the occasional shuffling of chains behind the doors.
The group continued forward, their footsteps echoing ominously as they passed through the dark corridor.
And then, finally, they reached their destination.
The maximum-security ward.
Where Bellatrix Lestrange awaited.