The Forecast for Azkaban

The island of Rockall lies in the Atlantic Ocean, three hundred miles off the west of Scotland. It is bleak, black, battered by storms, an inhospitable rock, and mentioned on national radio four times daily. The British government has opposed territorial claims from Ireland, Iceland and Denmark, though few Muggles guess why. A clue may perhaps be found in the words of Lord Kennet, Other Ministries Liaison Secretary in 1971, who said, "There can be no place more desolate, despairing and awful." It is above all, a very useful place.

It was Hallowe'en at Hogwarts. It was Hallowe'en everywhere. It was Hallowe'en on every British Isle. It was Hallowe'en in Azkaban. In the Headmaster's chambers at Hogwarts castle, Albus Dumbledore had almost finished dressing. Seated on the low stool in his dressing room, he pulled on a pair of pumpkin-spotted socks and buried his face in his hands. Soon he would go down to breakfast, to the Great Hall bedecked with jack o'lanterns and cobwebs, the enchanted bats fluttering overhead. First, however, he had his duty. Heavily, feeling every one of his one hundred and fifty years, Dumbledore made his way over to his old battery-operated wireless radio where it rested in its magic-resistant cabinet and clicked the on button. It was time to listen to the shipping forecast.

Dumbledore had little time for the radio. The newspapers were better, delivered by owl every morning to his study, where he skimmed rapidly through the pages for any hint that Voldemort or his supporters were stirring again. There were some things, though, for which only the radio would do, and the shipping forecast was one. He listened several times a year, when he could bear it. He listened every Hallowe'en, and then one or two other occasions, sometimes Harry's birthday, sometimes James's death. Sometimes the day that Dorcas Meadowes had been murdered, or that the Longbottoms had been tortured, or that Crouch had lost his son. There was such a choice of days, and now he had two more; the day that the Chamber of Secrets had been re-opened, the day that Sirius Black had escaped. Oh yes, he had such a rich choice of days on which he had failed.

How had Sirius escaped? The boy had been brilliant, but that brilliant? Brilliant enough to escape from Azkaban, where even his cousin Bellatrix had failed? No, it was he who had failed, failed all three of them, Sirius, Tom, and Bellatrix, Bellatrix most of all. Tom he had seen. He could not have anticipated what would come of it, but he had known, and if he had failed, he had at least tried, or tried to try. Sirius he had never imagined. The boy had been happy at Hogwarts, not like poor little Peter, who was sometimes a worry. Sirius had been clever and privileged and loved and Sirius had chosen open-eyed and willingly. Yes, Sirius had chosen, Tom had - Tom had been, but Bellatrix had become - evil - and he could have stopped it. She hadn't been like Tom, hadn't even been like her cousin. Bellatrix had fallen, but she should have been caught. No, not caught. She should never have fallen. There was a precipice in the back garden, they had sent her out to play on the precipice and wondered why she slipped.

She had contributed, of course, the precipice was within, it was her talent, her facility, her aptitude for the Dark Arts that she had shown so young and that lay within her untapped, unchannelled, uncontrolled. It should have been controlled! They should have given her ropes, crampons, knowledge, but they had turned away. They had looked down from the high table and seen a reserved little girl with thick black hair and classic Black features and crossed their fingers hoping that nothing untoward would happen in their class. They saw what she did without helping it, and hoped that the day never came when she did help, and chose to pretend that ignorance which is called bliss. And so Bella struggled on until the day came that somebody else saw and noticed, and cared. Whether Bellatrix had ever before tried to channel her powers he did not know, but he thought now that she must have done, that she was perhaps afraid of them and had tried and failed to repress or control what she could do. He had seen how she looked at golden Narcissa, half afraid, half puzzled by what she had done. He had never cared. Tom had. Tom had taken her and helped her and taught her and shown what she could do with powers and, oh yes, ecstasies that the rest would never know. She had stood at her trial, straight-backed and strong between the Dementors, she had cried out to the gathered court and Dumbledore had been - proud. What a witch she was! What a witch she might have been. She could have been an Auror, there was plenty of opportunity there for the exercise of unusual skills. Dumbledore considered Alastor sitting next to him, obsessively pursing the Dark Wizards who enjoyed what Alastor himself had been so suited for and had denied.

He had been proud of the beautiful witch, the arrogant, wicked, wonderful Bellatrix Lestrange who showed what a witch might be, but she would never care. His acknowledgement came too late. He should have cared then, reached out for her hand; instead he had pushed her into Tom's arms. He had given her over to the Dark Arts, to Lord Voldemort. Had she gone willingly; perhaps, but only as one willingly moves forward in the dark, because it is at least forward. He had done it, Albus Dumbledore, he had abandoned her to the embrace of the dark, and the cold, and the cruel, and the snake, and the shrill high laugh. He had destroyed her, as he had destroyed Lily and Dorcas and Fabian and Severus. As he would no doubt ruin others because he could not before the end know everything. The radio droned behind him, it was time. The general synopsis at 0600. The woman's voice was measured, even, clear. Could she know how many witches and wizards listened daily at dawn, at noon, at midnight for the only news that could link them to the loved in Azkaban? There are warnings of gales, Biscay, Trafalgar Did she dream of Narcissa Malfoy in her Wiltshire home bent over the crackling wireless that linked her, however intangibly, to her sister? Or old Mrs Longbottom, smiling bitterly at news of gales? Surely not. On she went, calm, controlled, Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire...Southwest backing North...variable...becoming moderate...And here it came, Azkaban, an island out in the cold, dark sea, three hundred miles from land, bleak, bitter, secure if not safe, and recalled on Muggle radio every day, Rockall, Northwest 5 to 7 decreasing 4. Wintry showers. Becoming good. Albus had never liked irony. It was too real, frequent and too painful to ever make him laugh.

Bellatrix liked the snow. Sometimes flakes would drift through her cell's deeply recessed windows and she would catch them on her robes and gaze at the perfect white crystals. They were beautiful. They made her happy. They did not last very long, but that did not matter. Nothing happy could last for long in Azkaban, but they lasted a little while and that was enough. A few brief flakes of happiness were enough to help her wait for him for however long it took. After all, she owed him everything, and he would reward her.