Chapter 212: Fairy Tales Are All Lies
Dusk in Azkaban.
The sky was shrouded in perennial leaden clouds, cold mist formed by the gathering Dementors. Even in the summer month of June, the temperature in Azkaban showed no improvement.
The black iron handcuffs and leg irons weighed heavily on his joints, causing pain and chills throughout his body. Sirius Black was driven by the guards out of his cell, along with the other prisoners of the island fortress, dragging their cold bodies toward the abandoned recreation room.
The damp, cold air sucked into his lungs left his entire chest devoid of warmth. His hollow heart still beat, pumping out viscous fluid that felt devoid of temperature.
Three days ago, the Dementors had just drained their emotions, leaving every prisoner’s eyes dull and vacant, their minds and souls empty, unable to generate any thoughts, like puppets without thought, taking the sounds received in their ears as their own ideas.
Whatever the guards said, they did.
Occasionally, a sluggish prisoner lagged behind, and the Aurors would wave their wands, producing a loud crack out of thin air, adding a red, swollen whip mark to the prisoner’s body.
The prisoner’s body instinctively flinched and trembled, but his gaze remained dull and lifeless, quietly quickening his pace.
There were also prisoners who had lost their sanity, babbling nonsense and emitting eerie, shrill laughter like the wail of a Banshee, but since it did not affect their path, the Aurors did not punish them, seemingly accustomed to it.
The chains were as heavy as bricks, and Black’s eyes similarly lacked vitality. Since entering Azkaban, he had endured constant torment from the Dementors. Only when it became truly unbearable did he occasionally transform into a black dog to gain some respite, which kept his sanity from collapsing and prevented any signs of madness.
“What are we doing this time?” an on-duty Auror complained. “The sun is about to set, and they’re driving these prisoners out just as the tide rises and fog sets in. Aren’t they afraid of freezing them to death?”
Several Aurors nodded in agreement, causing some unrest in the group. They truly disliked these suddenly assigned tasks.
“It’s all because of that professor’s thesis,” said the fortress prison’s head. “In his thesis, he said Azkaban is a pasture for raising Dementors, and the prisoners inside are food prepared for the Dementors. Imprisoning prisoners is not for atonement, but for feeding.”
“What’s the problem with that?” an Auror who had just come on shift scratched his head, thinking it was perfectly reasonable.
“We see no problem, but the high officials sitting in their offices do,” the head said indignantly. “Too many prisoner families have written letters complaining that prisoners have no human rights. The higher-ups want to improve prisoner treatment, especially that Senior Deputy Minister, who says they should atone with dignity and human rights.”
“The pink toad plans to dispel the Dementors?” The Aurors were all surprised.
The head shook his head: “Umbridge suggested enriching the prison’s entertainment and leisure options, giving prisoners a place to relax and generate more pleasant emotions, so they suffer less when the Dementors drain them.”
“…”
The Aurors fell silent, unsure if this was well-intentioned.
“The Minister’s Office approved a budget for some expired newspapers and moving our office’s projection mirror to the recreation room,” the head said with a helpless expression. “Every evening before lights out, drive these people to the recreation room to relax for an hour, ideally having a pleasant dream.”
“Tch…”
The Aurors scorned the Ministry’s stinginess.
An on-duty wizard waved his hand: “How much can old newspapers be worth? Better to buy some Draught of Living Death.”
“The Ministry’s budget is strictly accounted for. Approving more for Azkaban means less for other departments, so generosity is impossible.”
The group grumbled as they led the prisoners to the recreation room, a spacious circular hall without candles, only a few torches on the walls and a faint fire in the fireplace, gradually warming Black’s body and bringing some life back to his eyes.
In front of the fireplace stood a strange silver mirror with swirling mist inside. A wizard held the instructions, fiddling with it and occasionally tapping the fireplace behind, tinkering with something.
Black’s gaze shifted back; in front were several rows of wooden frames piled with small mountains of expired newspapers.
Some prisoners with light sentences were flipping through them, seemingly finding the expired newspapers interesting, muttering words like「 Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets」「 Basilisk’s eyes」「 Drama Club’s warrior」.
In a daze, Black seemed to hear someone mention「 Harry Potter」, which perked him up a bit, but he didn’t think too much of it. After all, for the boy who lived, it was normal for his name to come up occasionally.
“Buzz… buzz…”
The strange silver mirror emitted some noise, and the wizard adjusting it looked pleasantly surprised, even the nearby Aurors perking up a bit.
“Finally got it working. We can watch the projection mirror on the island now!”
“I heard this thing was procured from Bai Mo Shui Tavern, marked with the Ministry of Magic and Azkaban logos. It’s expensive as hell!”
“Why buy something so pricey for a prison?”
“You wouldn’t understand. The more expensive the procurement, the more the handlers earn.”
“Heh heh…”
The chattering voices gave Black a headache. He pressed his temple hard and looked up curiously to see what the silver mirror was.
The silver mist in the mirror stilled, outlining colors and shapes, beginning to play pictures and sounds, vivid as if right before their eyes, drawing curious gazes from prisoners and Aurors alike, who whispered in discussion.
“Isn’t this just a Muggle television?”
Black, however, found nothing novel about it; he had grown tired of these common Muggle creations in his youth.
Back then, he despised his parents and family. Whatever they forbade, he did the opposite. Rebellion was his pursuit of personality and freedom. The Black Family revered Pure-bloods, so he deliberately approached Muggles, driving Ford cars, riding Triumph motorcycles, and even modifying a flying motorcycle.
Memories surfaced in his mind, but Black felt no nostalgia—only guilt and self-reproach, as James and Lily’s faces also appeared in his mind.
“Hogwarts Drama Club reorganization. This is the students’ first performance at the Easter banquet. On the first day of summer vacation, we received a letter from student parents and are reshowing this performance at their invitation.”
The female host announced passionately, capturing all the prisoners’ attention. Hogwarts was a very distant word for them.
Even Black, with his heart like dead ashes, felt a faint ripple inside and silently looked up at the performance. The young, vibrant children bounced on stage; their lines and acting were not masterful, but Black did not care.
With some eager anticipation, his attention focused below the stage, at those four house long tables.
“Which house will Harry be in? Definitely Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff isn’t bad either. If he inherited Lily’s brains, maybe Rowena Ravenclaw… Slytherin is out.”
The dining table scene occupied only a corner of the mirror surface, narrow and blurry, but Black refused to look away, staring intently until a scene switch finally captured the figure he longed for.
“Godric Gryffindor it is!”
Black’s face lit up with ecstatic joy.
Wearing glasses, not as handsome as James back then, but with Lily’s green eyes, handsome enough.
Too skinny; he must have had a tough time these years.
“If I were still out there, I’d raise him taller and stronger than James was…” Black’s eyes held both smile and sadness as he raised his hand to touch his forehead, because Harry had a lightning-shaped scar there.
Next to Harry, laughing and chatting, was a red-haired boy—definitely one of the Weasley children. By age, probably their sixth boy. If James and Lily were alive, they might have had this many too.
Black’s nostalgic expression suddenly froze, his eyes surging with flame-like crimson anger and hatred—
A rat emerged from that red-haired boy’s pocket.
A balding, toe-missing rat!
…
The restaurant quieted. The glass floor-to-ceiling windows were open, Melvin sat at the terrace dining table, watching the park light up with beautiful lights illuminating the white walls and red tiles of the paradise. A refreshing evening breeze blew gently.
He had just walked from the office building, passing the retro American-style miniature train, wild west adventure mine cart, tropical pirate ship, sci-fi spaceship… The nearest was the fairy tale themed park area, called the magic kingdom, though not designed and built by real wizards.
“Vice President and Creative Director work is exhausting, not fun at all.” Claire complained, head down, deftly slicing her medium-rare steak, bright red blood trickling from the cut.
Those who didn’t know might think she was cutting some unscrupulous boss’s flesh, the kind who「 dispatches an assistant to a strange out-of-town place, then goes long-term out of contact, no news, only occasional letters. The helpless assistant stumbles abroad in confusion, taking up an industry she never did before」.
“Better than being a special effects assistant in the theater, right? No being bossed around, no fetching coffee from across the street. One month’s pay equals years before.” Melvin’s voice carried a smile.
“Heh…”
A cold laugh was followed by the sound of knives and forks cutting meat.
This was the park’s internal restaurant, not open to ordinary customers or staff, with the best view and lighting. At the moment, only the two sat at the terrace dining table.
Claire wore a professional woman’s small suit, fabric smooth, every crease seemingly designed, as if folded from banknotes. A white silk scarf lay beside her, candlelight brushing warm tones on her blonde hair.
Melvin wore no formal attire, just a brown trench coat, no accessories. Apart from a slightly handsome face, he looked like a roadside tourist, no wonder he was stopped downstairs.
“After leaving Gershwin Theatre, I couldn’t reach you for a long time. I thought some secret organization had grabbed you,” Claire said, sipping red wine. “With the stage effects you designed, whether snatched by national intelligence for interrogation or locked in a university for study, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Melvin smiled helplessly: “I really went to teach in Britain.”
The assistant miss handled connections with many theater departments—props preparation, actor positioning, scene arrangement, nothing escaped her.
Though without direct contact, Claire could vaguely tell which effects used props and which appeared from thin air.
Those strange lights and flames, floating ships and carriages… Before, they could be dismissed as technological creations, but after Claire entered Disney and met top stage effects masters, she realized how outrageous Melvin’s stage designs were.
The evening breeze carried faint music. Claire recounted her experiences over the past two years.
A stint in Hollywood, then following Melvin’s arrangement into Disney, followed by scrutiny from the American Ministry of Magic. A Graves guy, claiming to be Melvin’s old acquaintance, provided much help.
A turn around Woolworth Building, then dispatched to Paris, somehow ending up in her current position.
In contrast, Melvin’s account was vague: teaching at a school in remote Britain, inconvenient transport, information blockage, only letters for communication.
“So now you’re fired?” Claire swallowed bloody beef, looking at him expectantly. “Boss, found new work? Want to work for me?”
“What are you thinking? It’s summer vacation now; students are off.”
Melvin chuckled exasperatedly, feeling the strong career woman’s image collapse. The assistant miss was still the old assistant miss.
“Oh…” Claire sighed in disappointment. “My boss travels thousands of miles to see a forgotten assistant. Any instructions?”
“I plan to build a real magic park and want you as park director.”
“Those really weren’t special effects, just as I knew!” Claire looked up abruptly, eyes shining with joy. “Boss, are you finally taking me into the wizarding world!?”
Melvin was stunned, then smiled:
“Calm down, Claire. For now, it’s just a concept.”
The vice president in custom suit was still the lively assistant miss of old. Hearing her eccentric boss’s wild idea, without asking details, she was willing to ditch fame and fortune to help Melvin with his mad magic park.
The subsequent chat simplified.
Melvin told her of the wizarding world hidden in the shadows, introduced Ministries of Magic worldwide, magic schools everywhere, and the root of the current situation: the International Confederation of Wizards, and《 Secrecy Law convention》.
He inevitably answered silly-cute questions, like whether Snow White’s stepmother was a witch, Cinderella’s godmother a witch, if Sleeping Beauty really slept for over a decade, if mermaids lived under the sea…
Learning wizard magic was innate, unlearnable later, saddened Claire for seconds, but learning fairy tales were fabricated saddened her all the way.
Leaving the restaurant, head down, trudging to the Seine River bank without recovering.
“Mermaids do exist, but not beautiful ones.”
Melvin walked beside her along the river. “They inhabit waters worldwide, differentiated by temperature into species. Those in warm waters are beautiful, while cold-water ones are generally ugly—ink-green hair, iron-gray skin, yellow eyes, half-human half-beast.”
“Andersen was a Danish writer; winters there drop below zero by over ten degrees, hardly warm waters.”
Claire’s fantasies shattered; she let out a long sigh. “So all the stories in fairy tales are lies!”
