Chapter 23

Azkaban

The metal doors of one of the Ministry lifts closed with a heavy creak behind Alastor Moody as he limped down the carpeted corridor leading to the Department of Magical Defence, with his gait uneven but purposeful.

His staff struck the floor in a steady rhythm, and his cloak left a faint trail of damp from the rain pouring down over London.

His magical eye rotated restlessly in its socket, taking in everyone around him before most of them even realised he was there.

He had heard rumours.
And he had a suspicion.
A hunch, perhaps, but one that usually led him in the right direction.

He walked straight into the Auror Office without greeting anyone.
When he reached Dawlish’s door, he did not bother to knock: he pushed it open sharply with his staff and entered like a storm.

The Auror inside, immaculate as ever, barely raised an eyebrow.

Who else could it be? he thought, with dry sarcasm.

—Alastor —he said, attempting to fake surprise—. What an honour.

Moody did not reply.
He stopped in front of the desk, folded his arms, and fixed him with both eyes.

—What can you tell me about the latest movements of the Death Eater imitators?

Dawlish frowned, almost imperceptibly.

—Everything you know —Moody pressed.

Though he disliked his theatrics, Dawlish could not deny that the old Auror was imposing. In his own way, he was still a point of reference.

He took a few seconds before answering, as though mentally arranging the information. Then he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and began.

—Since the Quidditch World Cup, there’s been a noticeable increase in activity. But although the ones who caused the chaos at the Cup were Death Eaters, the ones I’m talking about are not.

He paused briefly, letting his words settle.

—They’re kids. Copycats. Groups of witches and wizards playing dress-up, casting badly executed Unforgivable Curses, trashing gardens. The usual vandalism, just dressed up with Death Eater masks and cloaks.

Moody said nothing.
His magical eye made a full rotation, a gesture that always unsettled Dawlish. More than unsettled him, it really repulsed him. He looked away before continuing.

—Still… things have changed lately. It’s no longer four idiots spraying symbols on walls. They’re starting to look organised. Faster. More connected. They’re no longer satisfied with frightening people. They threaten, they steal… and then they sell what they take on the black market. Wands, hard-to-obtain ingredients, prohibited artefacts. More and more of it. They’re turning fear into profit.

Moody narrowed his natural eye.

—And?

—We received a report in a residential area to the north. Anonymous threats, symbols on walls, an elderly woman who swore her cat was speaking with a human voice. We kept watch for several nights. Eventually, during a raid, we managed to catch three youngsters.

He paused for a moment.

—Two of them had minor records. Breaking and entering, petty theft, the usual. We questioned them a couple of days ago.

—And what did they give you?

—Nothing solid. They claim they weren’t acting alone, but they contradicted themselves constantly. A few loose names, fragmented phrases. It seems they follow some sort of hierarchy, but no one admitted to anything specific. We released them under magical surveillance.

Moody watched him in silence, expectant. Dawlish clicked his tongue.

—The third one is different. He calls himself “Kaleg”, though his real name is Trevor Fenwick. He has a record for extortion and aggravated magical assault. He was involved in a blackmail case targeting a pure-blood family in 1992, and was linked to a radical group in Knockturn. We could never prove anything, but he’s been on our radar for a while.

Moody grunted, barely audible.

—We sent him straight to Azkaban. As a preventive measure only —Dawlish added quickly, anticipating the objection—. I want to see whether the cold and the Dementors loosen his tongue. I’m convinced he knows more than he’s letting on.

Moody drew a slow, measured breath.

—Do you have any idea what’s behind all this?

Dawlish gave a short, humourless laugh and leaned his elbows on the desk.

—Yes —he replied, with a restrained smile—. Panic.

He stood up, bringing himself level with Moody.

—People are so desperate about the recent criminal activity that they’re seeing Death Eaters in every shadow. But as I said, they’re not.

Moody said nothing, but his magical eye fixed on him as though it could strip his soul bare.

Dawlish noticed, but did not back down. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, returning a glare just as sharp.

—Look, Alastor —he added, his voice controlled—. I know you believe the Dark Lord has returned. You, Dumbledore, Potter… that whole line of thinking. That what happened to Diggory’s boy wasn’t an accident. But the facts say otherwise. No one has seen him. There are no bodies, no Dark Marks. Just a traumatised boy after a brutal tournament, a Ministry eager to calm the waters, a group of petty criminals taking advantage of the moment, and the press, as always, hungry for blood.

Moody remained still, with his jaw tight.

—There is no Lord Voldemort —Dawlish went on—. Just paranoia and opportunism. This all started with the scare at the World Cup. Since then, the imitators have multiplied. But that doesn’t make them Death Eaters. Just criminals.

—And yet… something about these smells wrong for me —Moody said quietly, as though speaking more to himself than to Dawlish.

—Everything smells wrong to you —Dawlish replied, leaning back against his chair, weary of the same argument as always.

Moody turned towards the door without bothering to say goodbye.
He took one step, then another, steadying himself with his staff. When he reached the threshold, he spoke without looking back:

—I’ll interrogate him.

Dawlish did not answer. He gave a brief, tense nod.

Whatever you say, Alastor, he thought irritably. Do whatever you like. As always.

And the door slammed shut behind him.

Moody left the office with the same force he had entered it.
He crossed the Auror Office without slowing down, weaving past desks, stacks of reports, and distracted Aurors.

When he reached the break area, the atmosphere shifted.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee and vanilla biscuits hung in the air, and for a moment the scene could have belonged to any ordinary café. Tonks and Kingsley were sitting at a small round table, engaged in an easy conversation.

Moody stopped in front of them, just as he had done with Dawlish. Like a storm.

—Girl —he growled—. We need to talk.

Tonks looked up and blinked, feeling the calm of the break room dissolve at once.
She searched for Kingsley’s eyes; he met her gaze with a serious expression, very different from the one he had worn seconds earlier.

—What is it? —Tonks asked, getting to her feet at once, the movement automatic—. Have I tracked mud all over the office again?

She tried to sound light, but the tension in her voice gave her away.

Moody did not bother to humour her.

—Something worse —he said simply—. Get ready.

He paused.

—We’re going to Azkaban.

The silence that followed was as heavy as a windowless cell.

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Tonks felt a shiver run through her the moment her boots touched the damp, slippery rock.
A curtain of fine, cutting rain lashed against their faces like a mute warning of what awaited them.

She lifted her gaze.
And there it was.
Azkaban.

It rose in the distance, crowning a desolate sea stack, a colossus of blackened stone, solid walls split by cracks and recesses that seemed not meant to contain freedom, but to harbour eternal shadows.

A thick, lifeless mist clung to it, like a spectral aura, a breath that did not belong to this world.
And it was not merely the fog of the North Sea. There was nothing natural about it. It was a filthy, clinging veil, seeping from the rocks, the ground, and the very bowels of the prison itself.

And within that mist, she saw them.
The Dementors.

They drifted through the darkness, their black cloaks whipped by the fierce wind, draining every trace of warmth, hope, or happiness from the air.
Silent. Immortal. And always waiting

The only way—at least, the only safe way—to reach Azkaban was by Apparition.
A specific area had been designated for it.

A small concrete structure stood by the sea, low and crude, vaguely reminiscent of a harbour. Though no ships ever docked there.
There was also a hut: ugly, squat, little more than four walls and a roof. Tonks suspected it existed merely to offer shelter for a few minutes if the rain grew too heavy, a place to wait before leaving again, before Disapparating. Destination: anywhere else at all.

It was the only point where witches and wizards could materialise without risking being caught in the ethereal curse that surrounded the fortress. Because that mist was not merely a natural—or unnatural—phenomenon, nor even a barrier.

It was a death trap.
Formless. Merciless.
And with no escape.

Beside it stretched a narrow beach of dark rocks, battered by the relentless waves and slick with viscous seaweed, reaching the point where the cliffs of the sea stack began to rise, and where the twisted path leading to the bastion’s entrance started its ascent.

—Welcome to paradise —Moody growled, adjusting his cloak before setting off.

She did not answer. She couldn’t. And, even if she had been able to, she wouldn’t have known what to say.
The feeling of the place was worse than she remembered.

As a trainee, she had been there a couple of times with other cadets, but back then the experience had been different. There was always someone who broke down in tears. Someone else who fainted without warning. And it was hardly surprising.

Now, however, she could not afford to fail.
Nor to look away.

Now she was there on official business.

She followed close behind Moody, who moved forward with a limp, leaning on his faithful staff as it struck the wet stone path with the same dry, steady rhythm.
Ahead of them, the prison opened its entrance, nothing more than a fissure in the mountainside.

They crossed the threshold.
And the night swallowed them.

There was no moon. There were no stars.
The air reeked of damp and mould, of ancient stone and stale despair.

The cold was not a sensation. It was an almost tangible presence, biting into her skin like blades and seeping down to the bone.
With every step, the darkness grew thicker.

Tonks lifted her gaze and saw no ceiling. She could not tell whether it was the height or the blackness—devouring everything—that prevented her from seeing beyond her own hands.

It felt as though they were walking through the entrails of a creature, a vast, silent beast that allowed them to pass only because it had not yet decided to devour them.

When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was able to see them.
From within the cells, some ragged figures watched them with hollow stares. Almost as though they no longer had eyes at all. Only sunken, empty sockets, their pupils fixed on nothing.

Others murmured unintelligible phrases, trapped in a loop of broken words, prisoners of delusions no one listened to.

And the worst were the ones who did not move.
They lay on the floor, curled in on themselves, trembling.
Or utterly still.
As though their bodies no longer knew they were alive.

Tonks swallowed.

She felt the cold biting at her face and a persistent tremor in her legs that she tried to conceal, or rather, to ignore, afraid that if she stopped, she might not be able to keep walking at all.
The emptiness seeped through the cracks of her mind, dulling her senses, extinguishing them one by one.

She tightened her grip on her wand far more than necessary, drew a deep breath, and whispered:

—Expecto Patronum…

Nothing.

She tried again, more tense now, more desperate to escape the darkness closing in around her.

—Expecto Patronum!

A greyish flicker burst from the tip of her wand, unstable and weak, and faded at once, as though absorbed by the suffocating atmosphere.
As though Azkaban itself had swallowed even her magic.

Tonks stood frozen. Her legs threatened to give way.
The feeling of helplessness struck her like a blow to the stomach. There she was—fully qualified Auror, in uniform, wand in hand—unable to protect herself.

She felt no warmth. No fear. No anger.
Only a dense, inert void filling her completely.

As though all the light that had ever lived within her had been trapped on the other side of those walls.
And she could do nothing but descend.

Fall into the abyss.
Deeper and deeper, towards a place she did not know whether she would emerge from whole… or whether she would emerge at all.

And then, just as her eyelids began to droop, a sound reverberated through the walls.
A metallic roar.

From the penumbra ahead of her, a dazzling figure advanced.
A colossal silver boar, with its hide gleaming like armour beneath the light of a storm.

Its broad, muscular back rose like a mountain, lending it a fierce aspect. Its tusks, curved like sabres, shone with a supernatural intensity, and from its steady eyes poured a white, resolute light—relentless, unbreakable.
It advanced, pounding the ground with its powerful hooves, as though nothing could stop it.

Moody’s Patronus.

The creature reached her without haste and circled her twice, slow and deliberate, as though marking the boundaries of her safe space.
The air around her grew lighter, warmer.

Each step sent a dull, almost seismic vibration through the floor, and its mere presence was enough to make the Dementors—who had been drifting closer in silence from all directions—retreat, folding back into the shadows.

She looked at the Patronus, uncertain whether to thank it or burst into tears.
The great boar snorted loudly, as though granting half-approval to her effort, in a gesture that reminded her unmistakably of Alastor Moody himself.

Then it turned with firm purpose and took its place in front of her, clearing the way.
Tonks hurried after it.

Just a few metres ahead, Moody did not stop.
He moved forward without hesitation, as though he knew every curve of that frozen hell by heart.

Finally, he stopped in front of a cell.

—Kaleg —the Auror growled, striking the floor with his staff—. We have things to discuss.

Tonks remained to one side, close to the wall, her arms crossed to conceal the tremor that had not yet left her body.

The exchange between Moody and the prisoner reached her as a muffled murmur, fragmented, difficult to follow. At one point, she thought she heard her name.

Or perhaps she had imagined it.

Then came a laugh, dry, harsh.

Kaleg’s voice was thick and grating, carrying the arrogant edge of someone who feels invincible simply because he is still breathing.

Moody’s, by contrast, was firm. Grave. Precise.

The words began to fade. Tonks could no longer hold her concentration.
The walls seemed to shift, closing in around her. She could feel the putrid dampness surrounding her. Her fingers were stiff around her wand, which hung uselessly in her hand.

A drop fell from somewhere above and slid down the back of her neck. A shudder ran along her spine.

She felt the invisible pressure of the Dementors hovering over her once more.

Her breathing turned erratic, and the tremor took full hold of her body. The stench, the cold, the sensation of eyes watching her from the gloom… everything came rushing back at once, turning against her.

She brought a hand to her forehead, feeling short of breath, the world blurring around her.
Oppressive. Suffocating. And a vast emptiness.

And then, warmth.

The silver boar was back beside her, solid as rock, watching her with those bright, piercing eyes, as though guiding her back to the path through all that darkness.

She lifted her gaze a little higher and found another stare fixed on her: Moody’s. One ordinary eye, one magical. Both just as steady and penetrating as those of his Patronus.

—We’re leaving —her mentor announced.

Without another word, he turned and set off down the corridor.

Tonks let out a trembling breath and followed him without looking back. The Patronus escorted her in silence, closer this time, keeping a circle of light around her.

As they moved along the passageway, Moody’s voice broke the silence. It sounded lower than usual, but no less steady.

—Well done, girl —he said with a slight inclination of his head— I didn’t think you’d last that long.

Tonks felt a flicker of pride stir in her chest. She tried to smile, but failed.

She walked on with tense shoulders and a churning stomach, too focused on not fainting to think of anything else.

When they finally emerged, the downpour — still beating mercilessly against the sea stack — hit them full force.

To Tonks, the open air felt just like a blessing. She could not feel colder anyway.

The sea crashed against the rocks with a steady, grey fury, indifferent to the evil coiled within the prison.

They retraced their steps back to the Apparition point.

There, amid the gale and the rain, Moody turned towards her.

For a moment, his expression softened.

—Come on —he simply said.

He offered her his arm, without ceremony.
Tonks looked at him, and for the first time all day, let her shoulders drop.

Grateful, she clung to him. She did not feel capable of Disapparating on her own.
He held her carefully.

And together they took the last steps to the jetty.

Then, a blink.
A sudden twist of wind.
And they vanished, wrapped in a sharp crack, back to the Ministry.

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Tonks crossed the threshold of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with unsteady steps still clinging to her, as though the cold, the damp, and the desolation of Azkaban had settled inside her.
She rubbed her arms, trying to shake off the tremor lingering in her hands. Her hair had faded to a dull shade of grey, the result of a long and punishing day on duty.

As she climbed the stairs, an unexpected sound brought her to a halt.

Soft, measured chords spilled into the corridor, wrapping it in an unexpected warmth.
The piano.

Her first thought was Sirius, but the melody did not feel like his.
It was calmer.
More restrained.

When she drew closer to the sitting room and looked through the half-open door of the small music room, the sight she found left her motionless.

Lupin.

He was seated at the piano, his trunk slightly inclined towards the keys, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the aged ivory. The light of the setting sun streamed through the window, catching in his greying hair and tinting it with golden hues, as though the day’s last flames had come to rest upon him. His expression was calm, distant from everything else, carrying a softness Tonks did not recall ever having seen in him before.

He was a man who always seemed tired, shaped and worn by life. But in that moment, in the golden half-light of the room, he looked at peace, as if the music offered him a refuge where he could forget the scars, the fears, his curse, and his demons.

Tonks remained still in the doorway, unable to interrupt him.
She leaned against the doorframe, closing her eyes. The melody wrapped around her, rocking her like a warm breeze, slowly melting the ice she had been carrying with her all day.

The final chord lingered softly in the wood, and silence settled over the room.
Tonks barely noticed.

—How long have you been standing there?

Lupin’s voice pulled her out of her daydream.

The Auror straightened at once, feeling as if she had been caught spying, but he merely watched her with a faint smile playing on his lips.

—Oh… not long —she stammered—. I didn’t know you played.

Lupin shrugged, modest.

—I used to… a long time ago.

He said nothing more.
Tonks took a step into the room.

The moment she crossed the threshold, Lupin noticed how pale her face looked, and how much darker her hair had become.
His calm expression shifted into quiet concern. Without thinking, he rose from the stool and moved towards her.

—Are you all right? —he asked, lowering his voice.

Tonks let out a breath and tried to smile.

—I’ve been to Azkaban with Moody —she said, her voice tense, unusually so—. It wasn’t a… very good experience.

Lupin nodded slowly, as though he needed no further explanation.

He simply took her hand and guided her towards a sofa by the window, afraid she might collapse at any moment.

—He says I’ll get used to it —she added, sinking into the cushions—. But I don’t know how anyone can get used to… that.

Silence settled between them for a moment.
Tonks fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve, avoiding his gaze.

Lupin settled beside her, resting an elbow on the back of the sofa, watching her closely.

—What happened? —he asked calmly.

She hesitated.

She looked away, pressing her lips together, unwilling to say it out loud; her professional pride would not let her admit it.

But when she met Lupin’s calm eyes, she allowed her guard to drop.

—When we entered the prison, I tried to conjure my Patronus —she confessed—. And… I couldn’t. It didn’t come. Not even a spark. Nothing.

Lupin listened without interrupting her.
He waited, giving her space.

—I felt useless —she added, embarrassed—. Completely helpless. As though all the training I’ve done amounted to nothing.

He took a moment, giving her time to breathe and gathering his thoughts before replying. Finally, he sighed and said:

—Tonks… conjuring a Patronus in Azkaban is not like doing it anywhere else. Not in a battle, not even when facing a single Dementor or ten. That place is their lair. There are hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. The air is so saturated with despair that even magic does not respond in the same way.

She nodded, processing his words, though her brow remained furrowed.

—Next time —he went on—, don’t wait until you need it. Try to summon it the moment you set foot there. Don’t let the cold reach you first. Carry it with you from the beginning. Like a barrier. Like a shield.

Tonks searched his face. Then she smiled.

—All right, Professor —she said, some of her spark returning— I’ll take your advice.

Lupin did not reply. He watched her for a few seconds; she was still pale.

Without a word, he stood and left the room.

Tonks sighed, closing her eyes for a moment and resting her head against the back of the sofa.

The sun filtering through the windowpane, the smell of wood and old books, the muted echo of the music still lingering in the air… at last, she felt her body stop trembling.

When Lupin returned, he was holding something in his hand.
A bar of chocolate.

Tonks raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

—Seriously?

Lupin offered her a knowing smile. Then carefully snapped off a square and held it out to her.

—Trust me, it helps —he said, in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what he was talking about.

She took it with a measure of scepticism and a knotted stomach, but the moment the chocolate melted on her tongue, an unexpected warmth began to spread through her body, slow and comforting.

Strangely, she found herself wanting more.

It wasn’t just the taste: it was the contrast with the cold that still clung to her bones.

Lupin sat back down on the piano bench and broke off another piece for himself.

—Did you get anything useful? —he asked gently.

Tonks grew thoughtful for a few seconds, as though it took her some effort to recall what had happened clearly.

—Moody told me afterwards —she said at last—. When we were back to the Ministry. I think he explained it somewhere between the second and third cup of hot tea.

Lupin smiled faintly, waiting for her to go on.

—Kaleg didn’t give anything away —she explained—. Moody tried to put pressure on him. He even allowed the Dementors to come closer than they should have, just to see if it would have any effect… but nothing. That man can endure a lot.

Tonks broke off.

A remark brushed the tip of her tongue, a sharp one, the sort she would have made easily under different circumstances. More than I can, she thought. But she said nothing. It didn’t sound funny, not even in her own head.

She sighed instead, and Lupin shifted slightly on the bench.
He did not speak, but watched her with the quiet attentiveness of someone who understands without needing to ask.

—We’ll be going back in a few days —Tonks added, lifting her gaze again—. Moody thinks the pressure of Azkaban will break him in the end. That sooner or later, he’ll talk.

Her words faded into the air.
A shiver ran down her spine as the thought of that place returned.

Sleeping there, living within those walls… even imagining it was enough to leave her with a hollow feeling in her chest.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

A tense silence seemed to seep into everything, thick as Azkaban’s fog. It was the prison’s shadow—its mist, its darkness—closing in around them, relentless.

And then, as though trying to change the very colour of the air, Lupin spoke again, casually:

—You know, I haven’t played in a long time —he explained, gesturing towards the old piano—. I learned as a child. My mother played fairly well. A neighbour had an old piano—out of tune, really. When she went to visit him, she used to take me along and taught me a little. In time, that man let us come by almost every afternoon.

As he spoke, his eyes drifted away, as though the memory belonged to a different life, far removed from the present one.

Tonks let out a small smile.

—Well, it seems you learned —she said, leaning slightly towards him, as though the simple gesture might pull her a little farther from Azkaban’s grasp.

Lupin replied with a faint curve of his lips.

—It’s something I do to clear my head. I don’t practise much, but today… today I felt like it.

Tonks watched him, curious.

—What was the melody you were playing called?

Lupin took a moment, as though savouring the name before speaking.

—It’s an arrangement of an old piece called Path Beneath the Moon. It’s meant to convey the feeling of a refuge.

Tonks smiled to one side.

—Well, it does —she murmured, almost to herself.

Lupin looked at her with interest, but said nothing. Instead, he broke off another square of chocolate and offered it to her in silence. Tonks accepted it, grateful.

—You know —she said, turning the piece between her fingers—, I realise you’re talking to me on purpose. To distract me.

Lupin tilted his head, all innocence.

—Am I? I had no idea.

Tonks gave a brief, incredulous laugh and shook her head.

—You’re good at this.

—At what?

—At making people feel better.

He watched her for a moment, as though weighing the true meaning of her words. At last, his smile softened, becoming more sincere.

—I’m glad to hear it.

Tonks lowered her gaze to the piece of chocolate between her fingers, then lifted it again, her expression gentler.

—Thank you, Remus.

He did not answer at once, but when he did, his voice was warm, almost a whisper.

—Any time, Tonks.

She felt again the light and warm spreading through her chest. For the first time since setting foot in Azkaban, the cold vanished completely. She could even breathe more easily. As always.

In the welcoming half-light of the music room, she was surprised to find herself feeling… happy.

Without realising it, a shy blush of pink crept into the tips of her hair.

Lupin said nothing, but the look of quiet satisfaction on his face suggested he had noticed.

Tonks settled deeper into the armchair, with the chocolate still between her fingers, and met his gaze with a soft smile.

—Would you play a little more?

Lupin raised an eyebrow, surprised by the request. But he did not ask anything. He simply nodded gently and returned to the piano.

The first chords were softer, almost a whisper.
Tonks closed her eyes, letting the music envelop her.

The rough fabric of the old sofa suddenly felt gentler, the evening light more golden, and the weight of the day faded into a distant murmur.

As she finished the last square of chocolate, she realised she was not thinking at all.

Not about Kaleg. Not about Azkaban. Not even about the next day.

She was simply aware of what lay before her:
A quiet room.
A golden dusk.
A melody drifting through the air.
And a warmth that came from no spell or chocolate at all, but from the simple fact of not feeling alone.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

It took me long time, I know.

And not only because writing this chapter was a lot of work in itself —which it was— but because I’ve been genuinely wringing my brain dry to make sure that all the arcs I’m building will flow properly and make sense later on. Those of you who write will know exactly what I mean.

This turned out to be a harder chapter than I expected. I wanted it to be deeply sensory, almost physical, but not just atmosphere for atmosphere’s sake. That’s why the conversation between Moody and Dawlish, and the interrogation of Kaleg, felt necessary: to give the story some structure, suspense, and a thread to follow.

And then comes Azkaban. Beyond the dementors and the sheer evil of the place, I don’t know if you’ve ever stopped to think about what it might physically be like. I’ve always imagined it as something akin to Dragonstone in Game of Thrones: a sea-battered rock, all cliffs and jagged stone, with the fortress looming at the very top.

And, in contrast to that frozen hell, I needed a refuge. A small haven of soft music, dust suspended in the air, golden light and chocolate. Very Lupin, really.

I don’t know if Potterhead or any corner of canon assigns an official Patronus to Moody, but I honestly don’t care — I’ve given him a boar. Strong, robust, fierce, fearless. To me, it’s the perfect animal embodiment of Alastor Moody.

Anyway.

Leave me comments. Tell me what you think of my version of Azkaban, what you think about Moody’s Patronus… or about life in general. Whatever you feel like. Truly. Feedback means everything, because writing without responses feels a bit like talking to a wall.

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All my links are here:
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