January arrived, bringing the students back to Hogwarts after Christmas. Whatever peace the break had offered was shattered on their first morning back.
Breaking news hit the breakfast tables, sending shockwaves through the Great Hall and the wider wizarding world: ten high-profile criminals had escaped from Azkaban.
Hermione unrolled her copy of the Daily Prophet, and shoved it across the table so Harry, Ron, and Victor could see.
The headline screamed above the haggard, sneering faces of Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and eight other Death Eaters.
"This shouldn't be possible," Ron muttered, staring at the moving photographs. "Azkaban's supposed to be unbreakable. These are the high-security cells — the top floor. Escaping from there is impossible."
That was the question hanging over the country: how did they escape?
For the first time all year, the Prophet wasn't printing Ministry propaganda. It was panicking.
"The paper's tearing Fudge apart," Hermione said, tracing a finger down the columns.
"They're asking the Ministry outright how this happened — how ten people just walked out of a prison guarded day and night by Dementors."
Harry looked at the headline, a sick feeling twisting in his stomach.
Victor didn't look shocked. Just cold and calculating. "It's a stupid question," he said flatly. "They didn't sneak past the guards."
"What do you mean?" Ron asked.
"Dementors are dark creatures," Victor said, voice low. "They don't care about the Ministry — they only care about feeding. The Dark Lord offered them a better deal than a freezing rock in the ocean. They didn't fail to guard the prison. They opened the doors."
At the High Table, Umbridge stared at her own copy of the Prophet, stubby fingers trembling, toad-like face pale. Fudge's illusion of safety had shattered, and Voldemort had his army back.
***
Miles away, deep underground in the Ministry, Fudge was losing his grip.
His office was littered with crumpled Prophets and the smoking ashes of Howlers that had been exploding on his desk all morning.
He paced the rug, yanking at his collar, bowler hat abandoned on a chair.
The press was tearing him apart. Reporters cornered him in the Atrium every time he stepped out of the elevator.
He'd sent urgent missives to the Azkaban warden demanding to know why the Dementors were ignoring Ministry orders, but the owls came back unanswered — the creatures simply weren't obeying anymore.
Fudge needed a scapegoat, and there wasn't one to find.
The public was doing the math. The ten who'd walked out weren't random thugs — they were Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Travers, Rookwood, Voldemort's most fanatical followers, the people who'd tortured and murdered their way through the First War.
Doubt was creeping into his own department heads' eyes. Whispers were spreading through the Ministry corridors and the streets of Diagon Alley.
If all of Voldemort's most loyal followers were breaking out of an unbreakable prison in a coordinated escape, there was only one explanation for who was pulling the strings.
For months Fudge had used the weight of the government to drag Harry Potter's name through the mud, branding him a delusional attention-seeker.
Now, staring at ten Death Eaters sneering from the front page, people were starting to realize he hadn't been lying. Voldemort had returned.
***
That afternoon, Defense Against the Dark Arts was suffocatingly quiet.
Umbridge paced slowly at the front in her pink cardigan, reading aloud from chapter four, pretending the country wasn't in a state of panic.
Victor let her go about ten minutes before he'd had enough.
"So, Professor. I have a question."
Umbridge stopped mid-step. The class froze. She lowered her textbook, her sickly-sweet smile faltering. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"
Victor leaned back, arms crossed, looking entirely relaxed.
"If the high-security wing of Azkaban is supposed to be impenetrable," he said, voice carrying across the silent room, "how did ten people manage to casually walk out? And why isn't the Ministry giving the public a satisfactory answer?"
Harry and Ron traded a wide-eyed look. Beside Victor, Draco looked like he wanted to slide under his desk and vanish.
Umbridge's face flushed a mottled pink. She pressed her hands flat on the desk, knuckles white. She wanted to drag him to her office and force a blood quill into his hand.
"The Ministry is currently investigating, Mr. Malfoy," she said, voice strained.
"It is a highly complex situation. The Minister suspects this was an orchestrated stunt by certain... subversives."
"Radicals who wish to destabilize the government, spread panic, and lend credibility to vicious, attention-seeking lies."
She shot a venomous look at Harry, making clear who she meant — Dumbledore and his supporters, staging a breakout just to prove themselves right.
"Subversives," Victor repeated flatly, not bothering to hide the mockery.
"You're telling us a handful of political dissidents bypassed hundreds of Dementors, broke the highest security wards in the country, and smuggled out ten Death Eaters without a single alarm?"
Someone in the back — Seamus, it sounded like — let out a stifled snort.
"The Ministry has the situation entirely under control!" Umbridge snapped, her polite veneer cracking into a shrill bark.
"And it is not the place of a student to question the Minister for Magic or the integrity of Azkaban! Return to chapter four, Mr. Malfoy. We will not discuss this again."
A cold, knowing smile slid onto his face. "Of course, Professor," he said smoothly, picking up his quill. "My mistake."
*****
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