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Surely Sirius Black hadn't escaped the same way Andy Dufresne did in The Shawshank Redemption, by digging a tunnel out?
Sargeras was amused by his own thought. He was in the middle of the sea, and if anyone tried to dig here, they would have to build an undersea tunnel.
Still, he didn't let the idea pass without checking. With a sweep of his wand, he searched every inch of the cell, overturning it with magic until not a corner remained untouched.
As it turned out, there was no tunnel. But he did stumble upon something else entirely, a torn scrap from the corner of a newspaper.
Sargeras pinched the little piece of yellowed paper between his fingers, studying it with a deep frown for several moments before tucking it carefully into his coat pocket.
This was clearly something from the outside world.
At the same time, a troubling thought surfaced in his mind...
Azkaban's anti-Apparition charm was indeed powerful. But it could not stop phoenixes or house-elves from using their own forms of magic.
So then, could it be that a House of Black servant had helped Sirius escape?
"The Black family… let me think." Sargeras tapped his temple lightly, murmuring under his breath, "Where was their ancestral home again?"
He searched his memory frantically, recalling every pure-blood family he had studied, their genealogies, their estates, their alliances. After nearly two minutes of digging through his thoughts, he said uncertainly, "Grimmauld Place?"
"Pop!"
The silent whoosh of Apparition swept through the cell. In the next instant, his figure vanished without a trace.
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London, Grimmauld Place
Sargeras appeared in an unremarkable corner of the square, his eyes sweeping over the row of seemingly ordinary terraced townhouses ahead.
No old Black family residence was visible, of course. That was expected. Under the effects of a powerful Fidelius Charm, no Muggle could see it, and even most wizards would not notice it unless they were told.
"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."
He flicked his wand with an easy motion. At once, the neighboring houses slid apart like curtains, revealing a dark, decrepit mansion lurking in the narrow gap between them.
Sargeras did not bother knocking. He simply touched the door lock with the tip of his wand.
A faint click broke the silence, followed by a brief resistance of old magic. Then, the heavy black door, covered in scratches and age, glided inward soundlessly.
A wave of musty air rolled out to greet him.
The entrance hall beyond was dimly lit. From the high ceiling hung a chandelier thick with cobwebs. Faded wallpaper peeled from the walls, revealing hints of portrait frames beneath, though the canvases were all empty, their painted figures seemingly hiding away from view.
The air was filled with a sense of stillness and decay, as if even sound dared not linger.
Sargeras had barely taken a step inside when a small, withered figure suddenly emerged from the shadows.
Kreacher stood there, dressed in a filthy, tattered tea towel. His bat-like ears twitched, and his cloudy eyes burned with raw disgust and naked malice.
"Who's there?"
Those large, murky eyes gleamed like two grimy ghost-lights as they swept over Sargeras.
"My name is Sargeras Greengrass. I came here to—"
"Get out! Out! Kreacher commands you to get out! Unwelcome filth!" the ancient house-elf shrieked, his voice shrill and grating.
"This house belongs to the noble House of Black! Without the Mistress's leave or young Master Regulus's permission, you lowly scum have no right to step foot in here, not even in death!"
The more Kreacher shouted, the more unhinged he became. Spittle flew from his mouth as foul, venomous words poured out like poison.
Sargeras's face remained expressionless. Not a flicker crossed his brow. He simply stood there, watching the hysterical creature as one might watch a stray, barking dog on the roadside.
When Kreacher paused for breath, ready to unleash another torrent of curses, Sargeras moved.
He lifted his wand slightly.
"Silencio!"
It was no ordinary Silencing Charm, but a spell layered with immense suppressive power.
Kreacher's gaping mouth froze mid-scream, smothered as though an invisible hand had clamped it shut. The vile shrieks stopped at once.
Moments later, a force far greater than his frail body could withstand slammed him against the cold stone floor, leaving him motionless. His limbs locked, his bloodshot eyes bulged with helpless fury.
Sargeras no longer spared him a glance. Ignoring the trembling figure on the ground, he began to search through the dust-laden ancestral home with quiet, meticulous intent.
He walked through the gloomy entrance hall, then stepped into the drawing room where every piece of furniture was draped in white sheets. After that, he moved through the cobwebbed dining room and the abandoned kitchen, his wand faintly glowing as he went.
With his magic, he scanned every corner, searching for any trace that might belong to Sirius Black; whether magical residue, a lingering scent, or even the faintest echo of emotion left behind.
But there was nothing.
Only silence, and the slow, relentless rot of a house long forgotten.
It seemed Sirius hadn't been foolish enough to return to this old nest that was likely still under surveillance after his escape.
Sargeras stopped in the middle of the empty drawing room, his eyes slowly sweeping across the surroundings.
Kreacher was still struggling weakly on the floor, his small body trembling, his eyes burning with hatred.
"Looks like the 'noble' fugitive isn't here," Sargeras said quietly, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to himself or to the elf.
He snapped his fingers, lifting the Silencing charm. But the chilling pressure in the room still remained, and Kreacher shrank back immediately, retreating into the nearest shadow. From there, he watched Sargeras with eyes full of fear and loathing, not daring to speak.
Sargeras looked down at him from above, his tone calm enough to make the air itself feel cold. "Now I ask, and you answer. The slightest hesitation or lie…" The tip of his wand glowed with a faint, ghostly light. "And I'll dig the truth straight out of your mind. Understood?"
"You filthy half-blood scum, Kreacher will never bow to you!"
"Oh? A tough nut?" Sargeras's lips twisted into a humorless smile. "I like tough nuts."
The tip of his wand flashed crimson.
"Flaying."
"Ah—!"
A scream tore through the silence, so shrill it broke into a rasp midway. Kreacher writhed on the ground, curling in on himself as though invisible blades were slicing across his skin. His body convulsed violently under the pain.
Sargeras waited patiently until the screaming broke into muffled sobs before speaking again. "Doesn't seem that tough after all."
He paused the spell, lowering his wand slightly, and spoke in an even tone. "Have you seen any sign of Sirius Black recently?"
"No… not for many years…" Kreacher's voice trembled, cracked by pain and terror.
"What do you know about his escape from Azkaban?"
"N-nothing… I know nothing about it…"
The cold touch of Legilimency brushed briefly through the air, confirming he was telling the truth.
The lead was dead.
Without another glance at the trembling elf on the floor, Sargeras turned and left the decaying Black family manor, its air still heavy with dust and the scent of rot.
Out on the somewhat bleak street of Grimmauld Place, he stopped and looked into the distance.
The Azkaban lead had yielded almost nothing, and the visit to the old Black residence was a dead end.
The man once known as Voldemort's right hand had vanished as though he had truly dissolved into thin air.
But that, he thought, was to be expected. If tracking down a fugitive who had escaped from Azkaban were really so simple, the Auror Office would not be in such chaos, nor would Dumbledore have sought his help in private.
The air around him shimmered faintly. His figure blurred in the cold breeze, then disappeared with a sharp, echoing crack.
Moments later, somewhere else in London, his outline solidified again at the mouth of a quiet alleyway.
He raised his hand, and several copies of The Daily Prophet, each from a different date, rested neatly on his palm.
Without using his wand, he lifted the torn newspaper fragment he had found in Azkaban into the air. It floated slowly above the spread-out papers, shifting across them as he compared the tears and folds with meticulous precision.
Before long, he found the matching issue.
Sargeras's eyes focused on the front page, where a bold headline dominated nearly half the paper:
"Merlin's Blessing! The Weasley Family Wins The Daily Prophet's Annual Galleon Grand Prize!"
Beneath the headline was a large, vivid photograph: The entire Weasley family—nine of them—stood before the majestic pyramids of Egypt, dressed in bright new travel clothes, beaming at the camera with radiant smiles.
Arthur Weasley had his arm around Molly, and their children crowded happily in front. Their fiery red hair gleamed under the desert sun, burning like sparks against the golden sand.
Sargeras's brow furrowed deeply.
Why would a newspaper celebrating the "luck" and "joyous holiday" of the Weasley family appear inside the fortified prison cells of Azkaban?
He compared the publication date carefully. The issue had been released on the exact same day Sirius Black escaped.
That could not be a coincidence.
Could it be that Sirius Black bore some personal hatred toward the Weasley family? Something so deep that, upon seeing this article about their trip to Egypt, he decided to break out of Azkaban immediately?
Sargeras fell silent, lost in thought.
There had to be something hidden within this paper... something crucial.
His eyes returned to the photograph, sharp and unwavering, as if they could pierce through the glossy surface to the truth beneath. He studied every smile, every shadow of the pyramids in the background.
A powerful intuition told him that this photograph, or rather, someone in it, was the key... the key that could unlock the mystery behind Sirius Black's escape.
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[Chapter End's]
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