"Thanks. Where's my wand?"
"It'll be returned to you tomorrow, before you leave Azkaban," said Ludmis. "Try not to stir up any trouble once you're out. I hope... I really do hope you can live a better life."
Cassian Drayke gave a casual wave of his hand. "Don't worry. I'm not a fan of losing my freedom. I won't come back unless someone really insists on it."
He spoke lightly, but Ludmis didn't miss the undertone of warning.
Cassian had long since accepted that he wouldn't be able to finish his research on Dementor control here. He'd nearly succeeded in mastering his Familiar Domination Spell—his own unique creation—but without the means to safely experiment further, it was time to move on. Ludmis had offered him an out, and he wasn't about to argue.
Though... leaving without a single Dementor under his control still stung.
After parting ways, Ludmis returned to his office with a sigh of deep relief.
"That boy..." he muttered. "He's terrifying."
Cassian, meanwhile, dug his hand into the pouch Ludmis had reluctantly given him. Inside was a neat stack of Galleons—nearly four hundred by his count. Not bad at all. Being the warden of Azkaban clearly had its perks. Cassian smirked. Ludmis's personal stash was more generous than most dark wizards he'd robbed.
---
The next morning, Cassian was escorted out of his cell and led to the rocky shore outside Azkaban. The other prisoners watched in stunned silence—envy and fear battling in their expressions—as he passed.
A small, rickety boat waited at the dock. At its helm stood a gaunt, white-haired man whose wrinkled face looked as weathered as the ship he manned. The vessel itself looked ready to collapse with the weight of a strong breeze. But Cassian wasn't concerned. If Ludmis had truly wanted to kill him, he wouldn't have done it like this.
Besides, Cassian could Apparate now. If the boat went under, he'd be gone long before it touched the sea floor.
Ludmis handed him an envelope and a folded sheet of parchment.
"This is your Hogwarts letter. The list includes all necessary supplies. You'll need robes, a wand, a cauldron—standard things. I assume you don't need someone to guide you through Diagon Alley?"
Cassian took the papers and stepped into the boat. "No need. I know where it is."
"Then, hopefully, we won't meet again."
Cassian gave a dry chuckle. "I'll try to stay out of Azkaban's hospitality."
With that, the boat pushed off. The prison loomed behind them, grey and jagged on the horizon. Slowly, it faded into the mist, and Cassian opened the envelope bearing the Hogwarts seal.
---
To Mr. Cassian Drayke,
Cell 74, Azkaban Prison
First-year students are required to have:
Three sets of plain work robes (black)
One wand
One cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide)
A complete set of standard textbooks (list enclosed)
Students may also bring one owl, cat, or toad
Students are to report to Platform 9¾ to board the Hogwarts Express.
Cassian scanned the list, memorized the details, then folded the letter neatly and slid it into his pocket.
---
By dawn the next day, the boat reached the coast near London. After parting with the silent ferryman, Cassian snapped his fingers, and with a soft crack, he vanished into thin air.
He reappeared in a narrow, shadowed alley drenched in gloom. A rusted sign creaked above him: Knockturn Alley.
Here, the shadows seemed deeper, the buildings older, their windows cluttered with ominous objects. Giant spiders skittered inside glass tanks, skulls glared from high shelves, and the air reeked of dust and damp.
Cassian's appearance—a black-haired child with piercing silver eyes—immediately drew attention from the loitering witches and wizards. At first. Then recognition dawned.
They parted for him like a school of fish fleeing a shark.
He could hear their whispers, though no one dared speak them aloud.
The Reaper. The silver-eyed freak. He killed his own master.
Long before the Ministry had caught wind of him, Cassian had already built a reputation here. After slaying his former Death Eater master and several other dark wizards who'd tried to take advantage of him, his legend had spread: The Grim Reaper with Black Hair and Silver Eyes.
He'd never formally studied magic the way Hogwarts taught it. Instead, Cassian had approached spellcasting as a scholar, tearing apart incantations, deciphering their mechanisms, and then twisting them to suit his own needs. Defensive counter-spells had become second nature to him—so effective that even curses from seasoned dark wizards often failed to touch him.
It didn't take long for the denizens of Knockturn Alley to realize that no spell cast at Cassian Drayke ever landed. And those who tried tended not to be seen again.
---
Cassian didn't come to Knockturn Alley for nostalgia. It just happened to be within Apparition range from Azkaban. He had never been to Diagon Alley before, though he'd heard enough about it from the errands he used to run for his master.
The problem with Apparition was that it worked best with familiarity. Longer distances and unknown locations increased the risk. His first attempt had split his arm open—he still remembered the blinding pain, the scent of his own blood.
He'd patched it with a healing spell of his own design—one that rewound time slightly to revert injuries. It worked... that time. If it had been his head instead of his arm, he wouldn't have lived to improve it.
But pain wasn't new to Cassian. Under his master's brutal training, he'd learned to tolerate agony like second nature. His early spellcraft had been born of desperation: a drive to survive and a spiteful desire to drag his tormentor to hell with him. Since then, magical experimentation had evolved from necessity into obsession.
The manipulation of spell principles had become his craft. His art.
---
He spotted a bald wizard walking quickly in the opposite direction and raised a hand to stop him.
"Hey. Which way to Diagon Alley?"
The man froze, turning slowly as his eyes locked with Cassian's silver gaze. A tremor ran through him.
"T-Turn left at the next alley, then head straight through the arch," the man stammered. "It's—right next door."
Cassian gave a nod.
The wizard didn't wait for a thank-you. He bowed his head and hurried off, practically sprinting away.
Not everyone in Knockturn Alley had blood on their hands. And even among those who did, few had ever killed another wizard. Cassian had ended lives before his tenth birthday. In their world, it didn't matter how old you were—only what you'd done.
The stories they whispered weren't exaggerated. And Cassian didn't care to correct them.
---