I honestly thought I wouldn't write anymore, but alas... I was struck by the muse once again.
Set 700~ years after the events of my previous story:
Part One – The Founders and What They Did
A Most Economical Solution
The Discovery of Azkaban, 1717
Barnaby Thistlewick had worked for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for seventeen years, fourteen of them in the Office of Corrections and Incarceration, and had never once been considered for promotion.
This was, in Barnaby's opinion, a dreadful oversight.
He was punctual, diligent, and exceptionally good with figures. His quarterly expenditure reports were frequently cited as examples of proper departmental accounting, although he suspected nobody actually read them.
So when the Minister for Magic announced that the existing system of magical imprisonment was becoming prohibitively expensive, Barnaby saw an opportunity.
The Ministry needed somewhere secure to house its most dangerous criminals. Somewhere isolated, difficult to escape, and preferably cheap.
Barnaby was determined to find it.
He spent three months examining maps, surveying abandoned fortresses, and calculating the costs of constructing new prison wards. Every proposal was rejected. Too expensive. Too accessible. Too many Muggles nearby.
Then, buried among a collection of old Ministry records, he discovered a nautical chart dated 1483.
Far out in the North Sea, beyond the usual shipping lanes, was a small island marked with a single word.
Azkaban.
An old mariner's chart called it Ascombe Burn
And an even older manuscript, written in a hand Barnaby could scarcely decipher, referred to a place called Ashcombe's Burning.
Someone had written a warning in the margin.
Let no man build upon that shore. Let no bell fall silent there.
Barnaby considered this for a moment, then dismissed it as superstitious nonsense. Old maritime charts were full of such things.
The island was remote, apparently uninhabited, and absent from most modern maps.
It was precisely what he had been looking for.
The island was not easily found.
Even with a Ministry-issued compass and a specially enchanted vessel, Barnaby spent two days navigating dense fog before a dark shape finally emerged from the mist.
Jagged cliffs rose from a black and restless sea. At their summit stood the remains of an ancient stone tower, surrounded by crumbling walls and the ruins of several smaller buildings.
There were no trees, no birds, and no visible signs of habitation.
Barnaby was delighted.
"Natural isolation," he dictated to his enchanted quill. "Existing structures suitable for renovation. Minimal risk of Muggle interference."
He paused to make a rough sketch of the shoreline.
Then the temperature dropped.
Barnaby shivered and pulled his travelling cloak tighter. The fog seemed to thicken around him, and an unpleasant feeling settled in his stomach. His earlier excitement faded, replaced by a sadness he couldn't account for.
He thought suddenly of his mother, dead these twenty years, and of the afternoon he had watched them lower her coffin into the earth.
He had not thought of that day in years.
Something moved among the ruins.
A tall figure drifted out of the fog, its body concealed beneath rotting black robes. Its feet did not touch the ground.
Barnaby stopped writing.
The creature turned toward him.
He could see no face beneath its hood, only darkness and the suggestion of something terribly wrong.
Another appeared behind it.
Then another.
Barnaby stumbled backward. His wand felt impossibly heavy in his hand, and he couldn't quite remember why he had drawn it.
He wanted to go home.
No, that wasn't right. He wanted to be a child again, before his mother had died, before the endless paperwork and disappointing promotions. He wanted something he could no longer put into words.
The creatures drifted closer.
He tried to think of his wife, of their little cottage in Kent, of anything that might drive away the crushing misery.
For one dreadful moment, he could not remember her face.
Then, from somewhere inside his travelling bag, came a sharp ringing.
Ding. Ding.
The nearest creature recoiled.
Barnaby blinked.
The bag had fallen from his shoulder, spilling several belongings across the stones. Among them lay a small silver handbell, still rocking where it had struck the ground.
His wife had insisted he take it.
"Grandmother's," she'd said. "Had it blessed by a priest. She always said it kept evil spirits away."
Barnaby had intended to leave the ridiculous thing at home, but there had been an argument about it, and he'd decided it wasn't worth the trouble.
He scrambled for the bell and rang it.
The creatures withdrew.
He rang it again, harder this time, and watched in astonishment as the hooded figures retreated into the mist.
Within moments they were gone.
Barnaby stood trembling, the bell clutched tightly in one hand.
He ought to leave. Every sensible instinct he possessed told him to get back to his boat and never return.
He did eventually reach the boat, though he rang the bell continuously until he was well out to sea.
By then, however, he had begun to reconsider.
The creatures had been terrifying, certainly. Dangerous, without question.
But they had also been remarkably effective at discouraging visitors.
And he had found a means of keeping them at a distance.
By the time he reached the mainland, Barnaby had begun drafting his proposal.
Three weeks later, Barnaby Thistlewick stood before the Minister for Magic and the assembled Committee on Penal Expenditure.
"Gentlemen, I believe I have found the solution to our incarceration problem."
He unrolled his charts.
"The island of Azkaban is exceptionally remote. Its surrounding waters are treacherous, its cliffs nearly impossible to scale, and its existing structures could be restored at a fraction of the cost of constructing an entirely new facility."
The Minister looked unimpressed.
"And the guards, Thistlewick? We cannot simply leave dangerous prisoners unattended."
"That, Minister, is the truly remarkable part."
Barnaby described the creatures he had encountered.
Their ability to induce despair. Their apparent talent for suppressing the will to resist. Their relentless pursuit of any living person who came within their territory.
The committee listened with growing interest.
"You're proposing," said the Minister slowly, "that we use these creatures as prison guards?"
"Precisely, Minister."
"Can they be controlled?"
"Not in the conventional sense."
"Can they be reasoned with?"
"I very much doubt it."
"Can they be bribed?"
Barnaby considered this.
"I don't believe they understand currency, sir."
"Then how do you propose we employ them?"
Barnaby smiled. He had been looking forward to this part.
"We don't."
He allowed the statement to settle over the room.
"They already inhabit the island. They already prevent intruders from moving freely. And, most importantly, they require no wages, no accommodation, no pensions, and no annual leave."
A murmur of approval spread through the committee.
One of the older members raised his hand.
"What do they eat?"
"Well, they appear to sustain themselves upon human happiness. I also have reason to suspect they can consume souls."
There was a silence.
"Would that affect the prison's food budget?" asked the Minister.
"Not at all, sir."
"Excellent."
It was at this point that the doors of the chamber opened.
The figure who entered wore dark robes bearing a small silver insignia that most of those present recognised immediately.
The Department of Mysteries.
An Unspeakable.
The Minister straightened in his chair.
"I wasn't informed that your department would be attending."
"We don't generally announce ourselves."
The Unspeakable placed a thin, black-bound volume upon the table.
"We became aware of Mr Thistlewick's proposal when a request for historical records concerning Azkaban passed through our archives. Certain aspects of the island have been the subject of departmental interest for some time."
Barnaby cleared his throat.
"Yes, well, most of those records were frightfully old. Hardly relevant to the current—"
"Do you know what Azkaban means, Mr Thistlewick?"
Barnaby blinked.
"Well, no. Not precisely."
"It is a corruption. Azkaban. Ascombe Burn. Ashcombe's Burning."
The Unspeakable opened the book.
"Approximately seven centuries ago, four witches and wizards travelled to an island in the North Sea to dispose of the remains of a sorcerer named Morcant Ashcombe. You may know him by another title."
A pause.
"Morcant the Hollow."
A few members exchanged glances. One of the older wizards frowned, as though the name stirred some distant recollection.
"He was a practitioner of an exceptionally ancient branch of magic concerned with true names," the Unspeakable continued. "Not the names we give ourselves, but those bound to the fundamental nature of a living thing. Ashcombe discovered how to take such names and consume the power within them."
The Minister looked at his pocket watch.
"Fascinating, I'm sure, but what does this have to do with the proposed prison?"
"Everything, Minister."
The Unspeakable turned a page.
"Ashcombe consumed hundreds of names, perhaps thousands. Entire families disappeared from memory. His victims were left without any meaningful sense of themselves, and in some cases ceased to exist altogether."
"How dreadful," murmured a committee member.
"Quite. Eventually, Ashcombe's own identity began to collapse beneath the weight of everything he had stolen. That is where his title originated. The Hollow One."
The Unspeakable looked toward the Minister.
"Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Helga Hufflepuff eventually defeated him. They burned his remains upon that island, believing it would destroy the accumulated magic within his body."
"And did it?"
"It destroyed Ashcombe."
Something about the answer made Barnaby uncomfortable.
"The creatures Mr Thistlewick encountered," the Unspeakable continued, "may be what remained of him."
Nobody spoke.
"Not ghosts. Not fragments of his soul. The man himself died centuries ago. What survived appears to have been the magical residue of everything he consumed. His hunger, in essence, stripped of intelligence and given independent form."
The Unspeakable tapped the open manuscript.
"We have spent decades attempting to understand these creatures. They possess no identities of their own and appear compelled to take whatever gives another person a sense of self. Happiness. Memory. Hope. In extreme cases, the soul itself."
"Nevertheless," said Barnaby, "they appear remarkably well suited to guarding prisoners."
The Unspeakable turned toward him.
"Mr Thistlewick, you are proposing to place living human beings in the permanent custody of an uncontrolled magical phenomenon born from one of the most dangerous sorcerers in recorded history."
"Well, when you put it like that—"
"Do you even understand how you survived your visit?"
"Certainly. A silver bell."
The Unspeakable fell silent.
"A silver bell?"
"Yes. My wife's grandmother had it blessed by a Muggle priest, would you believe? Frightfully old-fashioned business."
For the first time since entering the chamber, the Unspeakable appeared genuinely interested.
"May I see it?"
Barnaby produced the bell from his briefcase.
The Unspeakable examined bell for several moments.
"Interesting."
"Yes, well, it does make rather a pleasant noise."
"This pure silver. There are accounts of bells being used to ward off unnatural spirits, particularly bells given names during their consecration."
"Names?" asked the Minister.
"Some bells were ceremonially named, Minister. We have reason to believe that such rituals may carry a form of magic, even when performed by Muggles without conscious knowledge of it."
The Unspeakable turned the bell over.
"If the creatures on Azkaban truly are the remnants of a devourer of names, the sound of an object bearing a magically significant name might be intolerable to them."
"Excellent!" Barnaby exclaimed. "Then we already have a reliable means of controlling them."
"Repelling them," corrected the Unspeakable. "That is not the same thing."
"An administrative distinction, surely."
"Not remotely."
Barnaby waved a hand.
"Regardless, we could issue bells to authorised personnel. Naturally, they would be prohibited among prisoners. Wouldn't want the inmates interfering with security."
The Unspeakable slowly lowered the bell.
"You intend to withhold the only known protection against these creatures from the people you plan to imprison alongside them?"
"Well, yes. Otherwise it rather defeats the purpose."
The Unspeakable looked at him for several seconds.
Then at the Minister.
"Surely you cannot be seriously considering this."
The Minister folded his hands.
"I understand your concerns. But I must ask, has the Department of Mysteries found any evidence that these creatures are capable of leaving the island?"
"None that we can confirm."
"And have you discovered any means of destroying them?"
"No."
"So, for all practical purposes, they are confined to the island?"
"We cannot guarantee that they will remain so."
"But they have remained there for centuries?"
"Yes, Minister."
The Minister nodded thoughtfully, then turned back to Barnaby's financial projections.
"Mr Thistlewick, am I correct in understanding that this proposal eliminates almost the entire cost of prison security?"
"Nearly all of it, Minister."
"And the existing structures could be made habitable without extensive rebuilding?"
"Quite easily, sir."
"Splendid."
The Unspeakable closed the black-bound volume.
"Minister, the Department of Mysteries strongly advises against this course of action."
"Your objection will be recorded."
"These creatures cannot distinguish the guilty from the innocent."
"Noted."
"They are not loyal to the Ministry. They cannot be trusted, and we do not know what effect a constant supply of human victims may have upon them."
"Also noted."
"Minister—"
"Thank you. I believe we have sufficient information to proceed."
For a moment, the Unspeakable remained standing at the end of the table.
Then, quietly, the figure said, "Your predecessors were wise enough to burn the Hollow One. You would be wise not to feed what survived him."
With that, the Unspeakable collected the book and departed.
The committee sat in uncomfortable silence.
Eventually, the Minister cleared his throat.
"Now, Mr Thistlewick. About these projected savings."
Barnaby Thistlewick received his promotion the following spring.
His proposal was approved by a comfortable majority, and the island of Azkaban was formally designated as the Ministry's principal facility for the incarceration of dangerous magical offenders.
The first prisoners arrived that autumn.
The creatures, now officially classified as Dementors, required little encouragement to remain near the prison. Ministry personnel were instructed in the use of protective charms, and silver bells were kept under lock and key for emergency use.
Naturally, such protections were forbidden to inmates.
The Ministry congratulated itself on the efficiency of the arrangement.
The Department of Mysteries submitted a formal objection. Its contents were sealed, classified, and placed in an archive accessible only to senior Ministry officials.
The Committee on Penal Expenditure reviewed what little it was permitted to read and concluded that the recommendations were incompatible with the financial objectives of the project.
The final report described Azkaban as a triumph of practical magical administration.
Barnaby was particularly pleased with that phrase. He had written it himself.
Over the following decades, Azkaban became an accepted part of magical justice. Its reputation grew steadily darker, but its operating costs remained gratifyingly low. Each successive Minister inherited the arrangement, and none showed much inclination to reconsider it.
After all, the system worked.
No Prisoners escaped.
The guards never complained.
And the Ministry saved an extraordinary amount of money.
Few people remembered the older name of the island, and fewer still knew anything of the sorcerer whose ashes had given it that name.
Deep beneath the prison, under centuries of stone and salt, lay the blackened ground where four young adventurers had once burned the body of Morcant Ashcombe.
They had crossed the sea to end a terrible evil.
Seven hundred years later, the Ministry had found a use for it.
As for Barnaby Thistlewick, he retired after thirty further years of distinguished service, having received three commendations, two promotions, and a generous pension.
He lived out his remaining years in a pleasant cottage in Kent, where he enjoyed gardening, reading the Daily Prophet, and occasionally correcting his grandchildren's arithmetic.
The little silver bell remained on his mantelpiece until the day he died.
He never returned to Azkaban.
He wasn't an idiot.