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HRA# CHAPTER 131
🕑 Added 2025-05-18 01:02:28 +0000 UTC“Exactly. After all, Britain only fields a handful of teams,” Tegan Ryan shrugged, saying, “The Irish Quidditch National Team, the Scottish Quidditch Team, the Welsh Quidditch Team, the English Quidditch Team—you get the idea.”
Why Ireland competed as a separate national team while there were three other teams outside of Ireland… Harry understood all too well.
Even in the wizarding world, the British Empire had its own peculiarities.
Mingling with a group of adult wizards and hearing some grown-up jokes as part of celebrating today’s big victory, there was still a party planned within the club later. Naturally, Harry, the star of the day, couldn’t be absent—but that was for later. After stepping out of the locker room, Harry spotted a few unexpected faces.
“Professor McGonagall?” Harry hurried over. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
It wasn’t McGonagall’s presence that surprised him. Three days before the match, Harry had tasked Jaina with distributing tickets to people he knew, from school friends to professors, including Dumbledore. He’d sent out quite a few—especially for Hermione and her family, enough for all of them to attend.
What caught Harry off guard was the Malfoy family. Likely through some golden connections, Lucius Malfoy had managed to bring his wife and son to this restricted area to wait for him.
“Congratulations, Harry. You’ve proven yourself,” McGonagall said, her lips pressed tight but unable to hide the smile on her face, brimming with excitement.
At this moment, McGonagall shed her usual stern demeanor from the castle. As a devoted Quidditch fan, nothing thrilled her more than today’s fierce match.
“I’m delighted you’ve inherited your father’s talent—no, even James didn’t have your gift. He was exceptional among students, but you’ve already surpassed most adults,” McGonagall said with a look of pride.
“I couldn’t have done it without your help, Professor,” Harry replied with a smile. “You’ve done so much for me and connected me with such a great club.”
“Oh, Harry, I only put in a few words,” McGonagall shook her head. “Your strength is what matters—hear that cheering?”
She nodded toward the stadium. Even though the match had ended a while ago, the crowd’s enthusiastic shouts still echoed.
“That’s what you deserve, Harry,” McGonagall said, her gaze softening. “Train hard, compete seriously, and don’t waste your talent… I look forward to the day you lift the European Cup.”
“I will, Professor,” Harry said earnestly.
McGonagall didn’t linger. She’d come simply to congratulate him. After all, this student she’d recommended had exceeded her expectations with such achievements.
After McGonagall left, Harry approached the Malfoys, who had been standing aside, not interrupting.
Lucius Malfoy was, of course, there to offer congratulations. Was it any surprise that someone who survived Voldemort’s downfall without repercussions could navigate this so smoothly?
Lucius knew his place. Even though Harry hadn’t suggested it, he positioned himself as a servant, maintaining deference even in front of his son—well, to be honest, Draco was far more eager, calling Harry “mentor” with fervor.
Shaking his head slightly, Harry wouldn’t let Lucius’s attitude cloud his judgment or grant the Malfoys undue favors. If Lucius thought he could leverage Harry’s influence for the family’s gain, as he had with Voldemort years ago… Harry could only say he was mistaken.
That night, Harry drank quite a bit. After downing a glass without flinching, his teammates seized the chance to pour more, and seeing Harry hold his own after several rounds only fired up the party’s atmosphere.
Everyone showed off their talents.
Aidan Lynch grabbed a beer keg, jumped onto a table, and belted out You’ve Hooked My Heart with Magic in a gruff voice. The song had so many high notes that even Lynch’s full-throated, cracking roars couldn’t hit the mark.
When Lynch reached the song’s final, prolonged high note, everyone, including Harry, instinctively covered their ears, wincing. Whether their hearts were hooked was unclear, but their lives felt nearly snatched away.
Quigley Kelly showed off eating spaghetti through his nose, and even the team captain, Callum O’Hare, wouldn’t be outdone. He performed what he claimed was an O’Hare family heirloom trick—spinning rapidly on his head while upside down.
It looked like he was trying to churn his brain into mush. When Callum finally stopped, he smoothly grabbed a nearby empty bucket and vomited.
When the drinking hit its peak, even Harry jumped onto the table for a performance. He sang a song by the wildly popular Azeroth band, Elite Tauren Chieftain, a classic, explosive track: Power of the Horde.
Yes, it was rock music. Harry was a die-hard fan of Elite Tauren Chieftain. Whenever they held concerts along Darkmoon Isle’s coast, he’d attend without fail unless something urgent came up.
No guitarist? No problem—Transfiguration!
No bassist? No problem—Transfiguration!
No drummer? No problem—still bloody Transfiguration!
Already buzzed, Harry waved a hand, and beer mugs, knives, and plates leaped up, transforming in a blink into passable instruments. Never mind how they produced electric sounds without power—magic, that’s how.
Harry took the role of lead singer, even strumming a guitar he’d conjured, while the transfigured instruments floated around him, playing the rhythm and sounds from his memory.
Honestly, when Harry crawled out of the hall the next morning, he could barely recall how the party ended. Only vague fragments lingered in his mind.
He vaguely remembered Kate McCarthy and the others initially griping that the instruments were too “Muggle” and noisy, but by the end, they were slamming tables, shouting for an encore.
After a quick shower to shake off the alcohol’s haze, Harry tried to clear the stench of beer, wine, and spirits. But even when Lucius arrived at the agreed time to pick him up, Harry still felt foggy—mixing all those drinks was a bit too much.
“Would you like to stop by the manor for something to eat, my lord?” Lucius asked respectfully.
Though Harry had made it clear he didn’t need to be called “lord,” Lucius, ever the survivor, didn’t take such words at face value. After all, Voldemort had once claimed to be a friend to all Death Eaters, hadn’t he?
And those foolish enough to believe it were all struck down by the Killing Curse.
Having witnessed too many such examples, Lucius played the part of Harry’s magical uncle in front of Draco or others, maintaining a familial tone. But in private…
…“my lord,” “sir,” the honorifics never stopped.
Harry couldn’t help but marvel that the Malfoy family had endured for generations with such tactics. There was a reason for it.
“No need,” Harry shook his head. “Let’s head over early.”
“As you wish,” Lucius bowed slightly. He waited for Harry to extend his hand before grasping it respectfully, looking every bit like a blond Muggle butler.
The next moment, both vanished from the street via Apparition.
…
*Azkaban.*
This infamous prison, a daunting specter for British wizards, wasn’t built on British soil but on a small island in the middle of the North Sea. Well, technically, it wasn’t even built by British wizards—it had its own original master.
In the 15th century, a dark wizard named Ekrizdis lived here. He constructed a castle and conducted vile dark magic experiments, occasionally luring, torturing, and killing Muggle sailors who passed by for sport.
His atrocities went unpunished, and even after Ekrizdis died of old age, his spells lingered. Only then did the Ministry of Magic discover this island and the horrors Ekrizdis left behind.
Evidence of extensive dark magic research, torture devices… and Dementors.
The scandal rocked the wizarding world, deemed one of the darkest stains in magical history. The Ministry sealed the island, isolated overseas, ensuring the Dementors couldn’t escape to feed on souls.
Nearly a century later, in 1718, with the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy and related demands, Azkaban was repurposed as a British wizard prison. The confined Dementors were “hired” as guards.
From what Harry had read about Dementors, calling them guards felt generous. It was more like a trade—the Ministry offered prisoners as sacrifices to keep the Dementors contained, preventing them from causing havoc or being noticed by Muggles.
And so it remained.
A wooden boat bobbed on the sea, carrying two Ministry Aurors, Harry, and Lucius.
After leaving the Kenmare Kestrels’ club, Lucius had Apparated Harry to the northern coast near Sunderland. They didn’t wait long before Ministry Hit Wizards arrived by boat to fetch them, a lantern with vibrant blue flames hanging at the prow.
This was the only way to reach Azkaban from mainland Britain. To prevent escapes or break-ins, Azkaban was hidden, unplottable, accessible only through specific magical means.
“…Is something the matter?” Harry asked helplessly after the thirty-first glance from the Aurors.
“Er, sorry, did we bother you?” The slimmer man gave an awkward smile. “I’m Mitch, Mitch Diaz. This is Raoul Baldwin. We’re Ministry staff assigned to Azkaban.”
“Hey, cut the nonsense,” Baldwin slapped his partner’s shoulder, grinning excitedly. “So, you’re that Harry Potter?! The one who defeated You-Know-Who—the—the—Potter!!”
His face flushed with excitement, Baldwin could only repeat the name.
“Yes, that’s me, Harry Potter,” Harry sighed, then asked, “Have you two been stuck here a while?”
He noticed their excitement stemmed from his name, not yesterday’s match.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Diaz rubbed his face, looking pained. “We rotate every three months. No coming or going otherwise.”
“No one wants to come to this godforsaken place,” Baldwin snorted. “Only us nobodies get sent here…”
He trailed off, grumbling.
“Forget us, Harry,” Diaz changed the subject. “Seriously, why’s a kid like you coming to Azkaban? There’s nothing here—worse than hell.”
“The Ministry didn’t tell you?” Harry asked, curious.
“Nope. Just orders to pick you up and accommodate reasonable requests,” Baldwin replied gruffly.
“I see,” Harry nodded. “I’m here… to visit my godfather.”
“Godfather?” Baldwin looked confused. “You have—”
His words cut off as Diaz smacked his back, shooting him a look.
The Potter family’s history wasn’t exactly a secret, including how Sirius Black, the supposed traitor, was the Boy Who Lived’s godfather.
“Er, right, sorry—I mean, my apologies,” Baldwin stammered, avoiding Lucius Malfoy’s piercing gaze.
That was another oddity for the Aurors—why was the Potter boy with a Malfoy?
“Sirius still holds the key to the Potter family vault. As Harry’s magical guardian, it’s my duty to help him reclaim his inheritance and hope that traitor shows some mercy,” Lucius said impatiently.
“Now, can you shut up and row quietly?”
This was the excuse Lucius used to secure Harry’s visit to Sirius through Ministry connections—leading many to assume the Malfoys were eyeing the Potter fortune, or at least a chunk of it, as payment for escorting Harry to Azkaban.
No one questioned it, and it didn’t raise Fudge’s suspicions, though it further tarnished the Malfoy name.
Most disliked the Malfoys, but few dared ignore the family head’s words… at least not these overlooked Hit Wizards guarding Azkaban.
The boat fell silent again. Lucius gave Harry a fawning smile, pleased with himself for shooing away the pests.
Harry didn’t mind the Aurors, but avoiding questions was nice. He scanned the surroundings, feeling the wind and water, trying to gauge their position.
No rowing was needed—the boat moved by magic. As the mainland faded, a mist enveloped them, thickening rapidly until visibility dropped to a meter.
A chilling cold deepened, not just physical but… cognitive.
A sudden awareness of cold.
“…Really don’t wanna go back to this shithole…” Baldwin muttered from the bow.
“Who does?” Diaz sighed deeply, adjusting the blue-flamed lantern, its glow intensifying.
It wasn’t imagination—the cold eased noticeably.
“Thanks to this thing, we guards can even survive here… feels like we’re prisoners too,” Diaz said, turning with a grin. He stood, unhooking the lantern.
“We’re here.”
The thick fog had silently parted, at least ahead of the boat.
Harry saw jagged black rocks rising chaotically, waves crashing against them, roaring endlessly.
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
Comments
Himi Tsu
Thank you so much
Vick
Small typo: Sirius still:value: holds the key to the Potter The " :value: " part.
