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Chapter 365: The Coastal City and Professor Hans
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 15:50:46 +0000 UTCFar from the British mainland, out across the vast, sapphire-blue sea, lay a craggy little island—one seemingly forgotten by time itself.
The island wasn't large, but its skies were eternally cloaked in thick, menacing clouds, a place where sunlight dared not tread.
The leaden sky hung low, smothered by dense layers of stormy gray. Every ray of light was smothered beneath the oppressive gloom, casting the already desolate island into complete darkness and chill.
This was Azkaban—the prison that could turn even the bravest wizard's spine to ice with just its name. A towering fortress of despair, it rose like a tombstone from the rocky isle.
In the wing reserved for lesser offenders, Gilderoy Lockhart sat curled in a corner of his cell, staring numbly at the murky sky above.
He had been here for one year and 175 days.
At first, he'd dreamed that fans might stage a dramatic rescue. Then came the slow, bitter realization that no such thing would happen. Now, numb acceptance. He had cycled through every stage of delusion and despair.
The icy sea breeze howled through the cracks, and the waves crashed endlessly against the rocks. It was the same every day.
Loneliness—that was Azkaban's only companion.
Lockhart leaned back against the frigid wall, and—for the first time—he felt a flicker of regret. Fame, glory, the flash of a camera lens… the things he once cherished above all now felt distant, meaningless.
Instead, what came back to him in vivid detail were his school days at Ravenclaw Tower—the quiet moments, the classes, even the petty arguments with Rita Skeeter… all clearer than ever.
After silently gauging that the Dementors wouldn't be making their rounds anytime soon, Lockhart let himself sink into memory again.
And once more, he was back at Hogwarts, rewatching an old lesson like a ghost observing the past.
This time, it was a Charms class from his second year.
He saw Professor Flitwick at the front of the classroom, demonstrating the Freezing Charm, his tiny form almost bouncing with enthusiasm as he waved his wand. And there Lockhart was, sitting among the students, awkwardly mimicking the spell like a determined little duckling.
He'd relived this memory too many times to count. But in Azkaban, revisiting old lectures was the only way to stay sane. It was a strange comfort, the warmth of old routines he once ignored.
"Glacius!"
The already-freezing cell turned even colder. Frost crept along the wall where Lockhart's finger pointed.
Wandless magic.
Back in the day, he would've found a way to brag about it to half the wizarding world. Now? He just wanted to finish his sentence, get a quiet job, and finally enjoy the simple life he once scorned.
And maybe—just maybe—apologize to Rita. A proper apology, even if very, very overdue.
Tap. Tap-tap.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed down the corridor, breaking the stillness of Azkaban.
They were coming this way.
Lockhart slowly raised his head. His once-glorious blond hair was now matted and tangled, but his eyes—his eyes were unexpectedly bright.
"Gilderoy Lockhart! Good news for once," a voice called out from a distance. It was one of the Aurors on guard duty.
Flanked by two Aurors, Lockhart glanced back at Azkaban as they led him away. For a moment, he felt like he was dreaming.
"Don't space out! Finish the job properly and the Minister might even shave some time off your sentence," one Auror said encouragingly. He'd seen this look before—every inmate leaving Azkaban for the first time wore the same dazed expression.
"So... all I need to do is make two Muggles forget about their daughter?" Lockhart asked again, just to be sure.
"Not just forget. Temporarily forget—without any damage. Their memories have to be fully restorable later," the Auror reminded him sternly, emphasizing each word.
This mission was delicate. No room for mistakes.
"I understand," Lockhart replied quietly.
After a year and a half in Azkaban, the Obliviate spell had been etched into his very soul.
Time slipped by like a dream.
Two days passed in the blink of an eye.
Under the watchful, slightly worried gaze of Madam Pince, Ino borrowed several ancient books on the topic of Blood Pacts.
He had spent most of those two days holed up in the hospital wing, living like a hermit.
His luggage was packed, and he had summoned both Fide and Brighid back to his side.
In the ten-square-meter hospital room, now cleaned and quiet, Ino slung the suitcase over his shoulder. One red phoenix and one blue perched obediently on either side of him.
"I'm heading out," he said calmly. "Lockhart's already handled things with your parents. Don't worry—no damage done."
"I'm not coming with you?" Hermione's voice floated down from above.
"That was the plan, but... reality disagrees," Ino replied with a small shake of his head. Though Hermione now existed in ghostly form, he wasn't sure if the Sanctuary would accept her presence. After all, Voldemort's Horcruxes were a grim reminder of what happened when unqualified spirits snuck into magical strongholds.
Of course, if Crabbe had also become a ghost, it might've been worth a little trial run—but alas, the castle didn't seem keen on welcoming murderers.
And experimenting on random innocent ghosts? Even he had moral limits.
"Trust me—it won't be long," he promised her.
"Okay. I believe you," Hermione said seriously, nodding once.
With their brief farewell exchanged, Ino pulled out a jagged, irregular die and crushed it in his hand.
Beneath the morning sun, on the coast—
Fishermen bustled about the docks, dressed in simple linen tunics and conical straw hats. Some patched up their nets, others tended to their boats, calling out to one another with cheerful laughter.
Though plainly dressed, their faces were warm and content.
Beyond the docks, stretching as far as the eye could see, loomed a long, weathered city wall.
Made of ancient stone and worn by years of salt and wind, the wall was stained with moss and time. Yet it still stood tall and proud—like an old warrior that refused to fall.
This was a coastal city.
Ino stood silently in place, quietly taking in his surroundings.
Both phoenixes and Hermione's casket were now safely stowed in his suitcase.
After a moment to adjust, his gaze turned toward a nearby kulan tree, under which sat a barefoot, blond-haired middle-aged man.
The man wore a loose, pale robe and held a wing-shaped lyre about two feet in length.
He sat leaning against the trunk, strumming gently as he stared out at the vast, rolling sea.
His features were unremarkable—almost forgettable—but his eyes were clear as spring water, and there was a subtle melancholy to his presence that made it impossible to look away.
Perhaps sensing something, the man slowly turned his head toward Ino.
"You've grown taller. How have you been all these years?" the man asked, his voice soft and airy like a breeze brushing through leaves.
A calm washed over Ino. It had been so long since he felt this kind of peace.
"Not great, to be honest," Ino admitted, smiling faintly. "But seeing you again… that makes me happy, Professor Hans."
