From Azkaban to Hogwarts

Chapter 1 Daily Life in Azkaban "Tom didn't do well in his magic exam, but..." William sat by the cell's only sunny window, solemnly telling a story to the prisoners around him, but this time the story had barely begun when it was interrupted by the heckling prisoners below. "Magic exam, what exam? O.W.L. or N.E.W.T?" "Shut up. Shall I tell or shall you?" Willem shot a sulky look at the loudest prisoner, who grinned and shrank. "Ahem," said William, clearing his throat and gathering the crowd's attention once more, "Tom didn't do well in his magic exam, but got him into Hogwarts." "Hogwarts isn't for exams! New students who are admitted will receive letters directly from the owl!" William fell silent, staring at the man who had been making the argument. 'Hit him! Just telling a story, using the background to give you a sense of immersion, is this something to poke holes in? Besides, it wasn't his fault that there were a few flaws, the Harry Potter story was as good as he'd ever seen a movie, it was good enough he could remember Hogwarts, it was bad enough that he'd come back from time travel and wake up in Azkaban prison, it was good enough that he could get up and tell the story, but why bother with all the details? Had it not been for the promotion of his position in the prison, he would not have spoken -- the magical knowledge in his mind was a treasure trove to him, like a greedy eater meeting a fly restaurant, a picky reader meeting a million words to his taste, an LSP meeting a mountain in the fall... A whole new world of curiosity, unknown, opened before him like congratulations on a lottery ticket, and he longed to leave the prisoners behind and study the magic alone, but that was obviously impossible. This is Azkaban, the wizard prison -- people who don't fit in aren't just ostracized, they're beaten. ... It was an eight-person cell for petty criminals. Eight iron beds, firmly fixed to the ground by magic, took up most of the room. There was a sink against the wall, a toilet beside the bed in the dark, and an old iron table, which was also fixed, were all the possessions of the cell. The eight prisoners were divided into three classes. The two who could get the supplies that Azkaban needed were of course the first class, the three who could talk and work, including Willem, the second class, and the three who were unlucky enough to be the third. The one who was being beaten up at the moment was the third tier, long before William had arrived, and had done nothing serious -- had said something mean while riding the subway in Muggle world, had been punched by a grumpy Muggle, had never hit anyone since the fight, had been sneaking around, had magically turned each other into pigs in an empty space, had turned himself in, and had been sentenced to three years because it didn't matter much. "Don't mind me saying I don't have a door, little William, but the boys are waiting." Crouching with his head and squatting to be kicked buttocks this cargo is not angry, obviously kick him those few also walk scene, no effort. Daily life in Azkaban was short of everything but convicts, and it was a great pleasure to hear some fresh stories -- he had only been a little short on words, and had had to reward himself for not telling them when Willem really wanted to be annoyed. "You guys watch the 'movie' for a while, and I'll change the outline until tomorrow." Lying in the sun, Willem waved his hand, ready to go straight to the pigeon -- the story had been badly polished, there were too many holes, and it had to be fixed. There was a collective sigh of disappointment and the group began to grope through the cracks in the bed or walls. The paper blocks, folded in various shapes, are carefully unwrapped, and images that have been shown over and over again are revealed -- the scraps smuggled in with food, high-value items in the Azkaban prisoners' trade, with the only downside being that they are scarce, broken and repetitive. What's more, the dementors who guard the cells consciously confiscate objects that carry magic waves, making these scraps of paper extremely easy to confiscate. When they were passing the paper they had seen many times to each other, Nine Fingers, who was at the very edge of the cell, suddenly made a cry of grief. His hand, which had been holding the paper, dropped down and his body began to shake uncontrollable. Then he tried his best to insert the paper into the wall with his trembling hand. The faces of everyone in the cell changed, and after hastily hiding the paper, they quickly lay down close to the bed. Those who did not have time to lean against the wall or simply lie down on the ground. Then, a suffocating chill descended on the whole cell, and all of them shivered at the same time. Fingers flapped open the heavy prison door, its rusty shaft creaked, tattered black cloaks slipped through the cracks, and the dementors floated in as guards. The face, tightly wrapped in a black cloak, turned slowly around the group and nodded, as if satisfied with the food. Then the creak came again, and the door slammed shut. It was a long time before the curses came out of the cell. "f**k me, these n*****s never come at a regular time. If I hadn't been quick with my hands, I'd have lost something again." There was a slight faintness in the voice - after spending time with the dementors, all the prisoners reacted more severely than normal to the dementors, and the minor offenders were better off, as were the serious ones, who, with the exception of a few exceptional individuals, were extremely weak in their daily lives. "Nine fingers, you boy is OK, black skin can hold up to hide things, the next new person comes, the watch corner let him take your place." The fact that he had not suffered a loss apparently made him so happy that he hoped to sleep in the bed nearest the passage by the toilet. As he spoke, he groped from his bunk, graciously pulled out eight chocolate balls and threw one to each of them. In dementor-haunted Azkaban, chocolate, a warm presence, was the highest level of hard currency, and even golden Galleons did not work as well as chocolate -- the weekly resupply ships carried only so much to spare. William took the chocolate, thanked him feebly, opened the package trembling, and greedily felt the warmth as the chocolate melted in his mouth. One more year, one more year of dementors coming to dinner once a day. Fortunately, I can survive a decade with all the magical stuff I've never seen in my head, let alone hope -- a year isn't long.