bacchusnovels Chapter 266: The Beginning of a Novel
Chapter 266: The Beginning of a Novel
Chapter 266 The Beginning of a Novel
At sea, a hazy gray fog, like a long curtain, shrouded an isolated island.
The sound of the waves echoed in my ears like a mournful cry, and the closer I got to the island, the colder and more biting the air became.
The buildings on the island stood like a giant shadow over the barren land.
As you get closer, the details of the building gradually become clearer.
The towering towers pierced the sky like sharp blades, with iron chains twisting like snakes wrapped around the walls. The iron doors were rusty, yet remained incredibly sturdy.
An indescribable sense of oppression permeated the air; with each step, the cold seeped deeper into one's bones, as if the whole world had lost its warmth.
That is a being from Dementors.
They scurried silently in the shadows, emitting low, panting sounds.
This is Azkaban, a forbidden land like hell, shrouded in an everlasting darkness.
Meanwhile, inside Azkaban, a man was squatting, idly watching a spider slowly weaving its web in the corner.
The spider's tiny body stood out starkly in the dim light.
"Is it interesting that you watch this spider weaving its web every day?"
A hoarse voice broke the silence.
"In a place like this, to see even a trace of life is a luxury," the man replied without looking up.
Standing behind the man was a tall but unusually thin man.
His face was haggard, his cheeks sunken, his skin a sickly sallow yellow, his teeth were also yellow, and his hair was long and messy.
It looked extremely messy and disorganized.
He wore tattered clothes, and his face was filled with weariness and indifference.
However, such faces were not uncommon in Azkaban; almost everyone wore the same expression. The only thing that might make one remember him was his gray eyes. Even so, those gray eyes had long since lost their former luster.
It makes one wonder what they used to look like.
"I'm glad you've already shown such awareness so soon after you joined," the thin man said coldly, his tone clearly sarcastic.
As soon as he finished speaking, his dull eyes narrowed slightly, and a mocking smile appeared on his lips.
The man squatting down to look at the spider ignored his sarcasm; he continued to stare at the spider, his gaze somewhat lost in thought.
The spider was slowly and meticulously weaving its web in his line of sight, each silk thread and each knot drawing his full attention.
"I heard from others," the man who had been watching the spider finally spoke after a long silence, his voice unusually calm, "that this spider has been weaving its web here for years, and nobody knows how it has survived."
The thin man was taken aback. He thought for a moment, then sighed deeply. "Perhaps it understands how to survive in adversity better than people like us."
The crouching man finally moved away from the spider, slowly stood up, and turned to face the man behind him.
"Perhaps we should learn from him," he said slowly. "In a place like this, we can't expect miracles; we can only rely on ourselves to weave our own little thread of survival."
The thin man frowned slightly, seemingly surprised by what he said.
He paused for a moment, then asked in a low voice, "Do you really believe there's any chance of survival here? Azkaban never lets anyone who tries to escape its control go."
The man who had been crouching looked up at the gray ceiling, a distant thought in his eyes. "Escape may be impossible, but living always has meaning. Like this spider, it does the same thing every day, seemingly meaningless."
But it persisted. As long as there was a glimmer of hope, it never stopped.
The thin man fell silent. A complex emotion flickered in his gray eyes, as if he were pondering something, or perhaps reminiscing about a past moment.
He couldn't help but lower his head and look at the still busy spider, as if he saw in it some kind of power that he had long lost.
"What's your name?" the thin man suddenly asked, his tone softening slightly.
"Huck," he answered simply, his tone still calm. "And you?"
“Blake,” the thin man replied, “I’ve been here for so many years that I’ve almost forgotten who I am.”
Sean nodded, his gaze returning to the spider.
"Maybe you've forgotten, but that doesn't mean you'll never find it again," he said. "Some things, even in the dark, will always exist, as long as you're willing to search for them."
Sirius looked at Sean quietly, a slight wavering rising in his heart.
He couldn't help but recall his interactions with Sean over the past three days.
This new offender is completely different from the others.
Although the darkness and despair of Azkaban coiled around every soul like venomous snakes, the other side seemed to maintain an elusive inner peace.
Unlike the other prisoners who broke down in the face of the Dementors, he displayed an inexplicable...:::. ease.
The feeling was that he wasn't here to be punished for some heinous crime, but rather to conduct an inspection.
Yes, it's an inspection.
The word came to Sirius's mind, and the more he thought about it, the more fitting it seemed.
Sirius had been secretly observing the strange man's movements for the past three days since the man was locked up.
He always intentionally or unintentionally avoided communicating with other prisoners, preferring instead to quietly observe his surroundings alone.
Sometimes, he would tap the wall lightly with his fingertips, or stare at the Dementors outside the cell, his eyes showing no fear, but rather a subtle interest.
What puzzled Sirius even more was that he saw the man squatting alone on the ground several times, writing and drawing on the cold ground with a stone.
At first, Sirius thought he was drawing some kind of magic runes or recording some kind of potion recipe.
However, when he passed by one day, he couldn't help but glance at the words on the ground and was surprised to find that it was actually the beginning of a novel.
The story of a man who mistakenly ends up in a women's prison.
However... the novel ended abruptly at the most crucial moment, which left Little Sirius feeling somewhat disappointed.
This strange man completely ignited Sirius's curiosity—he had already given up all hope for the rest of his life in Azkaban and had even silently begun a countdown to his death.
But now, Sirius seems to have found something else to do.
This morning, Sirius mustered his spirits and prepared to communicate with this strange man.
But the other party showed no intention of paying him any attention.
He remained crouched there, staring at the spider, which puzzled him greatly.
So, he finally couldn't help but ask his question.
The other party's response was even more interesting.
In this cold and oppressive Azkaban, he hadn't met such an interesting person in a long time.
The other person's words reminded him of his former will and beliefs, as well as those things that had long been swallowed up by time and darkness.
But does all of this really still have any meaning?
Sirius couldn't help but wonder.
He had considered the possibility of escaping Azkaban countless times, and Animagus's abilities gave him a glimmer of hope in this desperate place.
But whenever he thought that even if he escaped this cold prison, he would still face endless pursuit and hatred, his resolve would waver again.
What's gone will never come back.
He silently repeated the sentence to himself, as if reminding himself of the past that had been lost and could never be recovered.
But why?
Why hasn't he given up yet, and why is he still silently enduring everything here?
Is it possible that deep down, he still harbors a longing for some kind of meaning, or still hopes for the possibility of some kind of change?
Sirius didn't know, and he didn't want to know.
"Maybe you're right," Sirius murmured to himself, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. "Maybe I should have thought that sooner."
Then, he turned and slowly left, his steps no longer hurried, but rather somewhat heavy.
The cell behind him fell silent again, with only the spider continuing to weave its web in the dark corner.
Left in the dim corner along with the spider was the person who had been sitting there watching it.
After a long while, a smile appeared on Sean's face.
During his three days in Azkaban, Sean thought a lot.
This includes, but is not limited to, the origin of human civilization, the extinction of dinosaurs, and the distance between Litang and paradise.
However, no matter how he tried to let his thoughts wander, he would always eventually return to that lingering memory—the mission he had taken years ago to Azkaban to rescue Bella Lestrange.
This memory was like an invisible rope, firmly pulling at his mind.
Memory is often unreliable under scrutiny; people are often influenced by their own subjectivity, adding things to their memories that never actually existed.
Several years ago, before receiving a formal interview invitation from Hogwarts, he sneaked into Azkaban on that stormy night.
Using the remaining energy of his cheat ability, he exchanged for an Animagus trial card. Animagus's power allowed him to transform into a black raven and, under the cover of night, silently slip into Azkaban, fly over the prison, and quietly land in a corner where no one would notice.
After transforming into human form, he quickly put on an invisibility cloak, walked through the narrow corridor, and avoided the Dementors' patrol.
Finally, he found Bella unconscious in a cell.
Everything was progressing too smoothly.
But was it really going smoothly?
Sean, who had stayed there for three days, thought it was completely impossible.
Putting aside the question of why the Dementors didn't patrol at the agreed-upon time.
The very fact that Bella was in a coma was enough to raise many questions.
Besides, why would Bella be living in that conspicuous solitary confinement cell that he remembered?
She clearly and...
"That filthy mudblood!" a shrill female voice rang in Sean's ears.
Hearing that familiar voice, Sean felt a pang of nostalgia.
He hadn't heard Bella speak to him in such a tone for a long time.
Sean slowly raised his head, his gaze piercing through the iron bars, looking in the direction from which the sound came. Sure enough, he saw that familiar figure—Bellatrix Lestrange.
Yes, Bella was locked in the cell next to his.
Bella still sports her signature messy black hair, her eyes filled with fanaticism and hatred.
"What are you doing here, you mudblood?" she asked in a contemptuous voice, her eyes filled with disdain. "What did my good-for-nothing cousin just say to you?"
"How do you know I'm a Mudblood?" Sean suddenly looked up and asked calmly.
Bellatrix scoffed, as if she found Sean's question utterly ridiculous.
She looked him up and down with disdain, a mocking smile playing on her lips.
"How do you know?" she repeated, the question itself an insult to Bella. "I can smell that filthy stench on you. You dirty mud-blood always have that disgusting odor about you."
Sean nodded thoughtfully, as if processing her words. "What if I were a pure-blood wizard? How dare you assume my identity?"
Bellatrix's sneer stopped abruptly, a hint of confusion flashing in her eyes, but it was quickly masked by her arrogant expression.
She gently raised her chin.
"A pure-blood wizard?" she repeated sarcastically, her tone laced with disdain. "You're really delusional, Mudblood. Do you think you can hide your identity in a cold, desolate place like Azkaban? Even if you are a pure-blood wizard—but I've never seen a pure-blood wizard as weak and incompetent as you."
Her eyes were fixed on Sean, as if searching for a flaw in his face.
Sean remained calm, meeting her gaze without the slightest wavering. "So, what is your definition of a pure-blood wizard?"
Bella narrowed her eyes slightly.
She was surprised by Sean's question, but maintained her usual haughty demeanor. "Why should I answer you?"
"Don't you know?" Sean asked seriously.
With just one sentence, Bella, who was already on edge, instantly lost control.
"Me? Bellatrix? Don't you know the definition of pureblood?" An incredulous expression flashed across her face, her lips pressed into a tight line, her tone filled with anger and disbelief.
Bella slammed closer to the iron bars, almost gritting her teeth as she said, "Ridiculous! Pure-blood wizards are those who have inherited their skills for generations..."
"A family of pure, unblemished blood. They possess strength, wisdom, and an innate sense of superiority—things you, a lowly mud-blood, will never understand."
Sean remained calm. He spoke slowly, his tone inquiring: "So, in your view, bloodline is everything, the source of power?"
He paused slightly, a hint of provocation in his voice: "What I said...is it right?"