Chapter 3: Azkaban

One Year Later.
July 30, 1991.
Azkaban.

Maurice crouched idly, watching a spider in the corner slowly weave its web. The spider’s tiny body stood out vividly in the dim light.

“Do you find it interesting, watching that spider spin webs every day?”

A hoarse voice broke the silence.

“In a place like this, seeing any sign of life is already a luxury,” Maurice replied without looking up.

Behind Maurice stood a tall yet unusually gaunt man. His face was haggard, cheeks sunken; his hair was long and disheveled, giving him a wildly unkempt appearance. Such a look was hardly uncommon in London’s underground tunnels or Azkaban.

“I’m glad you’ve come to terms with being a prisoner,” the gaunt man said sarcastically, though the remark failed to ruffle Maurice, not even eliciting a reaction.

In Zuan, this level of sarcasm was almost praise.

That’s right—Maurice came from Zuan… Earth.

As a traveler from another world, he had been in this realm for twenty-eight years.

During those years, he had experienced much: unraveling the mystery of his own birth, receiving an acceptance letter to Hogwarts and realizing he had entered Harry Potter’s world, facing upheavals… including being expelled from Hogwarts.

These tales were too long for Maurice to want to recount.

They were also too short for Dementors to savor.

At this moment, the spider methodically spun its web before his eyes, every thread and knot capturing Maurice’s full attention.

“I’ve heard,” Maurice said softly, his tone unusually calm, “that this spider has been weaving here for years. No one knows how it has survived.”

The gaunt man paused, silent for a moment, then sighed deeply without saying more.

After a while, Maurice slowly stood, brushed dust off his clothes, and faced the man behind him. “Black, I’m leaving today.”

Sirius lifted his head, surprise evident in his eyes, but more so a trace of melancholy.

He watched Maurice for a long moment before softly asking, “Do you still have hope for the outside world?”

Maurice smiled faintly. “Hope? No, Black. It’s not hope. I’m simply ready to face it again.”

No sooner had he spoken than the iron gate in the distance emitted a dull “click” and slowly swung open.

In the dim light, a faint, chilly sea breeze seemed to drift in, bringing a glimmer of vitality.

---

Maurice glanced toward the gate, then back at Sirius, speaking gently: “Black, I spent half a year helping you regain your sanity. It wasn’t in vain. I never waste effort. I believe there is a power growing between us—a power that has carried people like us this far.”

He paused, eyes burning as he looked at Sirius. “I believe you will come out too. When you do, be sure to find me.”

With that, Maurice turned and walked through the gate.

Sirius watched his retreating figure, his lips moving slightly but voicing no sound.

Going out?

He repeated silently, then shook his head gently.

For him, the iron walls of Azkaban were far more than a physical prison—they were shackles of the mind.

Sirius lowered his head, the spider still quietly weaving its web in the corner.

---

Outside, the iron door slowly shut behind Maurice with a deep “rumble.” He squinted, adjusting to the long-missed sunlight.

He took a deep breath, as if to fill his chest completely with the fresh air.

“Have you made up your mind?” a gentle voice sounded beside him.

Maurice looked up to see a tall, slender old man with a long, silver beard flowing to his chest, wearing half-moon spectacles.

“I’m afraid so,” Maurice replied earnestly.

The old man smiled with relief and nodded. “Then congratulations. On behalf of Hogwarts, I officially welcome you—Maurice, or rather, Professor Maurice.”

“Professor?” Maurice raised an eyebrow, teasing for once. “Sounds quite official.”

“Indeed,” the old man squinted slightly, his smile deepening. “You’ll find that compared to the spider webs in Azkaban, the ‘webs’ woven by Hogwarts students are far more intricate and fascinating.”

Maurice chuckled softly.

It was no surprise to him that Dumbledore knew about the conversation just now.

After all, he was Dumbledore.

That name alone could explain most things.

“Thank you once again, Professor Dumbledore,” Maurice said slowly. “If not for you, I doubt anyone would have dared to bail me out of Azkaban—much less offer me a job and invite me to teach Wizarding Sociology at Hogwarts.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Dumbledore’s eyes. He tilted his head slightly, seeming to listen intently to Maurice’s gratitude, yet also lost in thought.

“You know, I’ve never liked wasting talent. And you, Maurice, no matter what you’ve been through, your wisdom, insight, and unique perspective on the wizarding world… that’s exactly what we need.”

Maurice smiled softly. “I’m not considered ‘talent’ by most. If it were someone else, they’d have labeled me a troublemaker long ago, thrown me in Azkaban, and tossed away the key.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said calmly, “but I believe some so-called ‘troubles’ are catalysts for change, just as they were before.”

He sighed and studied Maurice.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not reconcile this haggard, weary middle-aged man—eyes full of scars and exhaustion—with the exceptionally clever boy from years ago who had chased him around asking, “What does the Loch Ness Monster eat?” or “Are Dementors afraid of sunlight?”—eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Was Maurice right? In other words, was the ideal he pursued the right one?

To be honest, he didn’t know.

Forgive him; he was just an ordinary old man.

Old men are often muddled.

He was revered not because of wisdom, but because he had lived longer, experienced more, and made more mistakes than most.

He had erred once, twice even—there would be no third time.

For that reason, he had just told a rare lie.

With this thought, Dumbledore came back to himself, silent for a moment before slowly asking, “Professor Maurice, can you tell me why you left Ravenclaw in your fifth year?”

He had pondered this question for many years.

There were guesses, but no confirmations.

Maurice was silent for a long time, his downcast eyes searching his memories.

Finally, he sighed deeply, a trace of self-mockery in his voice. “Hogwarts’ library is the largest magical library in the world, with thousands of profound magical books. Yet… none of them can cure illness.”

Dumbledore was mildly shaken by this, but asked no further questions. Instead, he looked at Maurice with a complex expression.

Maurice straightened and looked up at Dumbledore, smiling gently. “So, Professor Dumbledore, where should I begin?”

Dumbledore hesitated, then gazed past Maurice’s shoulder, pointing to the distance. “Start at Hogwarts, Professor Maurice. Start by imparting knowledge, by listening to the students’ stories, and most importantly, by finding your own answers through them.”

Following his gesture, Maurice looked toward the distant sky, where the silhouette of Hogwarts appeared faintly.

The familiar towers, lake, and courtyards shimmered hazily in the sunlight, like a distant dream.

Unnoticed, the two had arrived at Hogwarts.

For Maurice, this was where his dreams had begun, where he had lost everything—and now, he had returned.

This place would be the starting point of his new beginning.

And thus, our story begins.

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