Sirius Black couldn't possibly have escaped by digging a tunnel like Andy Dufresne from The Shawshank Redemption, could he?
Sagres was amused by the thought. This was the sea—if there were a tunnel, it would have to run beneath the ocean.
Even so, he thoroughly searched the cell with magic.
There was no tunnel, but he found sothing else instead: a torn corner of a newspaper.
Sagres picked up the small, yellowed scrap, frowned, and examined it carefully for a mont before slipping it into his pocket.
This was clearly sothing that had co from the outside world.
At the sa ti, a crucial question surfaced in his mind.
Azkaban's anti-Apparition wards were indeed formidable, but they could not block the magic of phoenixes or house-elves.
So… could a servant of the House of Black have aided his escape?
"The House of Black… let think," Sagres murmured, tapping his temple lightly. "Where was their ancestral ho again?"
His mind raced through everything he knew about pure-blood families—from genealogies to ancestral manors. After a full two minutes, he spoke with slight uncertainty.
"Grimmauld Place?"
Pop!
The muted rush of Apparition echoed through the cell, and in the next instant, his figure vanished without a trace.
London — Grimmauld Place
Sagres appeared in an inconspicuous corner of the square, his gaze sweeping over a row of seemingly ordinary terraced houses.
The ancestral ho of the House of Black was nowhere to be seen—which was only natural, as Muggles could not perceive it under the protection of powerful Fidelius Charms.
"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."
With a casual flick of his wand, the terraced houses before him slid apart like curtains, revealing a dilapidated, oppressive-looking townhouse.
Sagres did not knock. Instead, he tapped the lock lightly with his wand.
With a faint click and a brief trace of magical resistance, the thick, scarred Black family door slid open in complete silence.
A heavy stench of mold spilled outward.
The entrance hall was dim. A chandelier shrouded in cobwebs hung from the high ceiling, while peeling wallpaper covered the walls. The vague outlines of portraits could be seen everywhere, yet the canvases were empty, as though the figures had retreated into hiding.
The air was thick with stillness and oppression.
As Sagres stepped inside, a small, ancient figure abruptly erged from the shadows.
Kreacher—draped in a filthy tea towel, his oversized, bat-like ears twitching—stared up at him, cloudy eyes blazing with undisguised loathing and malice.
"Who's there?"
Those large eyes, like filthy will-o'-the-wisps, swept back and forth over Sagres.
"My na is Sagres Greengrass, and I'm here to—"
"Get out! Get out! Kreacher commands you to get out! Uninvited guest!" The ancient house-elf shrieked in a sharp, piercing voice.
"This is the property of the noble House of Black. Without the permission of the Mistress or young Master Regulus, even in death you lowly creature are not fit to set foot here!"
Kreacher grew more agitated with every word, spitting venomous insults and curses.
Sagres remained utterly expressionless, not even lifting a brow. He simply watched the hysterical old elf calmly, as though observing a rabid stray dog.
Just as Kreacher finished one tirade and drew breath to begin another, Sagres moved.
He gave a light tap with his wand.
"ѕιℓєи¢ισ."
This was no ordinary Silencing Charm, but one layered with powerful magical suppression.
Kreacher's mouth snapped shut as if gripped by an invisible hand, every shrill curse cut off mid-syllable.
At the sa ti, a trendous force slamd him against the cold floor, pinning him there, unable to move—left only to glare uselessly with bloodshot eyes.
Sagres ignored the violently trembling Kreacher on the floor and began a thorough search of the dust-choked ancestral ho.
He passed through the gloomy entrance hall, entered the living room where every piece of furniture lay shrouded in white sheets, then checked the dining room and kitchen thick with cobwebs.
He extended his magic into every corner, searching for any trace of Sirius Black—magical residue, lingering scent, even the faintest emotional imprint.
There was nothing.
Only stillness and decay.
It seed the right-hand man of the Dark Lord was not foolish enough to return to this old lair, which was likely under observation, after making his escape.
Sagres stood in the middle of the empty living room and slowly surveyed his surroundings.
Kreacher was still struggling uselessly on the floor, resentnt burning in his eyes.
"It seems the 'noble' fugitive isn't here," Sagres said lightly, whether to himself or to Kreacher, it was unclear.
He snapped his fingers, lifting the spell. Yet the lingering oppressive presence made Kreacher scramble into the nearest shadow, daring only to peer out with eyes filled with fear and hatred.
Sagres looked down at him, his voice frighteningly calm. "Now you answer when I ask. Any attempt at concealnt or resistance—" the tip of his wand glimred faintly, "—and I'll simply extract the answers from your mind myself. Do you understand?"
"You filthy half-breed," Kreacher spat hoarsely. "Kreacher will never submit to you."
"Oh, a tough one?" Sagres's lips curled into a humorless smile. "I like tough ones."
The tip of his wand flashed red.
"Carnis Exutio."
"Arrrgh—!"
A shrill, distorted scream was forced from Kreacher's throat. He curled up on the floor as though countless invisible blades were cutting into his skin, the agony making his body convulse uncontrollably.
Sagres waited calmly until the screams faded into broken whimpers before speaking again. "Doesn't seem so tough after all."
He halted the spell for the mont and looked down at him. "Have you seen any sign of Sirius Black recently?"
"No… haven't seen him for many years…" Kreacher's voice was fractured by pain and terror.
"How much do you know about his escape?"
"N-nothing… I know nothing…"
A cold sweep of Legilincy passed through him, quickly confirming that he was telling the truth.
The trail ended there.
Sagres didn't spare the cowering house-elf another glance. He turned and left the decaying ancestral ho of the House of Black.
Standing on the sowhat desolate street of Grimmauld Place, Sagres's gaze drifted into the distance.
Azkaban had offered few clues, and the old Black residence was empty.
This so-called "right-hand man of Lord Voldemort" had truly vanished as if into thin air.
Still, that was to be expected. If tracking an escaped Azkaban prisoner were so easy, the Auror Office would not be in such chaos, and Dumbledore would not have needed to entrust the matter to him privately.
His figure twisted and blurred in the cool air, and with a soft pop, he vanished without a trace.
A mont later, sowhere else in London—
Sagres's form solidified at the mouth of a secluded alley.
He opened his palm, revealing several copies of The Daily Prophet from different dates.
Without even drawing his wand, he levitated the paper fragnt recovered from Azkaban and slowly hovered it over the open newspapers, comparing them.
Before long, he identified the exact issue it had co from.
Sagres's gaze locked onto the massive headline dominating the front page:
—RLIN'S FAVOR! The Weasley Family Wins The Daily Prophet's Annual Galleon Grand Prize!—
Beneath it was an eye-catching photograph: the nine mbers of the Weasley family, dressed in brightly colored new travel outfits, standing before the majestic pyramids of Egypt and smiling broadly at the cara.
Arthur Weasley was holding Molly close, while the children crowded in front of them, their red hair especially dazzling under the desert sun.
Sagres's brows knit tightly.
Why would a report celebrating the Weasley family's "good fortune" and "happy holiday" appear inside heavily guarded Azkaban—in a prisoner's cell?
He had also checked the publication date and confird that Sirius Black had escaped on the very day the newspaper was issued.
That was no coincidence.
Did Sirius Black harbor so deep-seated hatred toward the Weasley family—so strong that seeing news of their trip to Egypt drove him to make his escape?
Sagres sank into thought.
This newspaper clearly contained sothing of great importance to Black.
His gaze returned to the photograph of the smiling Weasley family.
His sharp eyes seed to pierce through the paper itself, searching for the clue hidden behind the brilliant smiles and towering pyramids.
A powerful intuition told him that this photograph—or rather, one particular person within it—might be the key to unraveling the mystery of Sirius Black's escape.
________
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