Chapter 162: Dementor Wardens
When the jolting from the bumpy road reached the outer coat pocket, the vibration wasn’t intense. Scabbers Peter tucked in his tail, the rat limb missing one toe wriggling inside, clinging to the silk fabric of the young professor’s pocket, but not daring to grip too hard, afraid of leaving claw marks.
Azkaban wasn’t as smooth as a glass jar after all, but he was already used to staying in someone else’s pocket, curling up to minimize his presence, listening to the conversation between the female Auror and the young professor, while also finding time to survey the surroundings.
Within sight, there were no living creatures, no green plants either, just barren land. The sky and the rocks were almost the same color. The empty island echoed only with the sound of wind and waves, deep blue waves crashing against the rocky cliffs, shattering into white foam.
This constantly repeating monotonous noise and unchanging scenery made it hard to concentrate, the mind unconsciously blanking out, letting thoughts wander.
……
In the white porcelain cup painted with violets was steaming pumpkin juice, the air filled with vapor, the scent sweet and appetizing.
Across a wide desk, Scabbers Peter sat facing the young professor opposite, daring only to stare at the cup in front of him, not daring to look up.
Early in the morning, woken by the young professor for breakfast, the food from the Hogwarts Kitchen was especially tempting. But just ten minutes ago, Peter had been in rat form, squeezed in a narrow glass bottle, with only his eyes darting around.
“In fact, this task isn’t difficult.” Melvin had a faint smile on his face. “I’ve prepared Veritaserum for you, the Potions Master Severus Snape’s work. The effect is excellent.”
Peter trembled as he held the porcelain cup, about to take a sip of pumpkin juice to calm his nerves, but froze upon hearing this, neither drinking nor setting it down.
A delicate glass bottle was placed nearby, only half a finger joint in size, with thin transparent walls. Even as a rat, it could easily be worn on the body. Inside was a colorless transparent liquid, just one or two drops.
“Infiltrate Azkaban, wait for Bellatrix to be alone, then find a chance to drip the Veritaserum into her mouth and extract the information I need.”
Melvin pushed the Veritaserum toward Peter, with a thin string attached for the rat to carry: “She’s just a prisoner tormented by Dementors for twelve years, without a wand, physically weak. There won’t be any danger, and you won’t need to expose your identity at all.”
“Will you let me go then?”
“Of course, we have no eternal enmity. If everything goes smoothly, you can go back to being the rat Scabbers or the warrior Peter.” Melvin said, “If you feel Britain is unsafe and want to go abroad, I can give you some Galleons.”
“Do you really trust me?” Peter asked timidly.
“Of course!” Melvin looked up. “But… appropriate confidentiality measures are necessary.”
……
The rat Scabbers lifted his left forelimb; on the inner side of what was originally his arm, there was a patch of mottled, discolored fur, faintly showing the pattern of a serpent swallowing its tail.
He had seen something similar before; the pattern not only had a snake but also a skull…
People called it the Dark Mark.
“In Azkaban, criminals with different sentences are kept separately. Those inside the fortress are life-imprisonment ones, mostly Death Eaters…” The young female Auror’s voice was light and cheerful.
Peter tucked in his limbs, curling into a ball, his rat eyes somewhat dazed.
Azkaban, the place holding Death Eaters…
That person should be here, right?
Unbidden, three faces appeared in Peter’s mind. Washed by the passage of time, the memories had blurred, but he could still recognize them.
Remus’s features weren’t handsome, with a long thin face. His pale skin made him look somewhat frail, often wearing a faint, slightly weary smile. Those eyes flowed with deep and complex emotions, as if hiding many heavy secrets.
So many years without news of Remus, he must be living a hard life hiding somewhere, just like himself.
James was very handsome, with jet-black hair and a rather square face. He always laughed unrestrainedly, very infectious. His light brown eyes were bright and full of vitality; years of exercise made his steps very agile.
He could never catch the Golden Snitch again; he died twelve years ago, on the last day of October.
As for the remaining one with slightly high cheekbones and gray eyes, that was Sirius. In his memory, those eyes were always free-spirited and unrestrained, daring to confront professors, daring to rebel against the Black Family, daring to take on the Secret-Keeper duty in dangerous times, yet secretly switching the real Secret-Keeper to himself.
The image in his mind suddenly shifted; those gray eyes burst with flame-like anger, as if he wanted to chew the bones to pieces and swallow the flesh and blood.
The balding rat felt a pang of fear, curling his body tighter, but a flash of resolve appeared in his eyes.
“…”
By now they had walked some distance; the low roar of waves grew from far to near, then distant again. The rugged ground wound around, turning several bends, arriving before a low stone hut.
A thick iron chain hung on the oak door, but it wasn’t locked. The female Auror pushed it open.
Entering, they saw a long corridor built of thick limestone, rough-surfaced, with separated cells on both sides.
Most of the prisoners inside leaned indifferently against the walls. Hearing their footsteps, only a few showed any flicker in their eyes. Regardless of gender or height, all were skin and bones, filthy, in tattered clothes, as if unaware of the outside world.
The walls occasionally had graffiti recording dates and marks, scrawled and blurred.
“They are minor offenders, with sentences of only a few months, less than a year at most.” Tonks introduced. “If they pay the full fine, they can be bailed out, but they have no money…”
No money, so they can only be kept here to feed the Dementors.
Melvin had visited Knockturn Alley upon first arriving in Britain and knew about those wizards living in the gutters, but seeing these numb-faced criminals gave him a deeper understanding of the British Wizarding World.
This atmosphere made one unconsciously fall silent. Melvin wasn’t in a hurry to deliver the rat Scabbers to the Death Eaters and slowed his steps slightly.
After circling inside and coming out, Tonks skillfully closed the door and hung the chain, without locking it, then proceeded to the next prison.
“The security measures here seem very lax?” Melvin said casually.
“I thought so at first too…”
Tonks hesitated, then explained in a low voice: “Azkaban doesn’t need high walls or chains to hold them. Criminals locked in cells, after being tormented by Dementors, rarely muster the will to escape… On occasionally good weather days, Aurors even let them out for fresh air.”
“Were the prisoners in that room just tormented by Dementors?”
“Yes, they were drained by Dementors three days ago and are now in recovery. These are minor offenders; they only get punished once a week, and won’t be tormented again for the next few days.”
Tonks paused slightly: “Ordinary Wizards drained frequently by Dementors may suffer soul damage, drastic personality changes, and struggle to recover after release.”
What sustainable feeding…
Melvin felt a sense of absurdity. Compared to a prison for jailing Dark Wizards, this place was more like a farm for raising Dementors.
“This is already after Minister Eldritch Digory’s improvements. Under Ministers Damocles Rowle and Perseus Parkinson, it was even more brutal, directly letting Dementors torment criminals to death, though there were more criminals then.”
Tonks led the way ahead while explaining: “It’s said that on stormy nights, tears seep from the fortress walls, and those who see it can smell the scent of despair…”
The two continued along the rugged rocks, following the rocky path, turning several bends, until another low building appeared ahead.
Crudely piled rocks, rough outer walls. As they approached, the cold ominous feeling grew stronger.
“Dementors feed in batches, Professor. You’re lucky to arrive just as they’re feeding.” Tonks stopped at the door and said softly.
With those words, she pushed the door open.
Before he could observe the prisoner, the hovering black shadows outside the skylight drew all eyes.
They were monsters in black tattered cloaks, two or three meters tall, heads completely hidden under hoods, extending thin scabbed pale hands like corpses soaked in liquid after death, without flesh, just skin hanging on bones.
A chill enveloped the entire prison, the air nearly freezing and stagnating, filled with a damp cold smell—salty sea water mixed with the musty rot of humus soil. The lights seemed dimmer, with only something under the cloaks emitting a faint glow.
Melvin sensed Tonks’s body tense instantly beside him.
The prisoners here had longer sentences, more gaunt faces, more numb eyes, but still couldn’t stay calm facing Dementors. The moment they felt the cold, they all shrank into corners, trembling, clutching their sleeves tightly.
The black shadows were like ghosts, between illusion and entity, unhindered by the cell railings, yet able to breathe and touch the prisoners.
A Dementor approached a middle-aged male wizard in the corner, its hood slowly lowering, emitting a hair-raising inhalation sound.
The middle-aged male wizard’s body jerked violently, convulsing like electrocuted, expression frozen, muscles twitching uncontrollably, fingers spasming open from his sleeve, collapsing to the floor with a dull thud.
Something intangible was ruthlessly extracted, turning into wisps of silvery white mist, overflowing from his eyes and mouth, slowly sucked into the Dementor’s mouth.
It was emotions, memories, a kind of anomalous magic power.
Melvin had encountered something similar; standing at a distance, he watched wide-eyed in a daze.
“Ha… ha…”
Broken gasps echoed in the cell, hoarse, impossible to tell if from the prisoner or the Dementors.
The Dementor’s chest rose and fell like deep breaths, each inhalation accompanied by a low guttural roar from its throat. The wizard’s body and arms shook violently, fingertips twitching like cramps, clawing wildly at the air, the walls, and the rocks.
All the sounds were very faint, rustling, yet carried terror straight to the soul.
A few minutes later, the air grew heavier, even carrying the aura of death.
The Dementor pulled away from the prisoner, drifting left and right in the room, while the prisoner’s body oozed cold sweat, sliding down his shriveled frame, dripping onto the floor in dark spots. His lips were frozen purple, gleaming sickly, as if some magic was eroding his life.
Their eyes remained open, staring vacantly at the ceiling, limbs twitching, finally going limp on the ground like empty shells.
Perhaps these prisoners had been tormented too long, their souls and bodies equally ruined; the Dementors’ harvest was meager. Their desires aroused but stomachs unsatisfied, they grew hungrier.
One Dementor drifted restlessly, suddenly noticing two more in the cell, one not in Auror uniform, emanating an intoxicating scent, and hovered in midair.
By their agreement with wizards, everyone on this island except Ministry of Magic staff was their food.
Unclear how Dementors communicated, but the others also noticed this fresh tasty ingredient, slowly turning toward the young professor.
“Professor, I think… they’ve got their eyes on you.” Tonks’s face suddenly paled.
She was just a newly trained ordinary Auror; though she knew the Patronus Charm, she had no confidence in rescuing the professor from a group of Dementors.
“I think… they’ve picked the wrong target.”
Melvin flipped his hand upward, gripping a wand that appeared from thin air, pointing ahead.
The numerous Dementors paused for a moment, like wolves encircling prey that suddenly revealed itself as a lion, hesitating in place, unsure to attack.
But hunger overrode fear; the nearest Dementor moved, raising its two shriveled pale hands toward the young professor, emitting a low rasping inhalation.
“Expecto…”
Melvin softly chanted the spell, drawing out the tone, his voice very soft, lighter than the wind.
All magical creatures could sense a powerful magic power brewing.
Tonks suddenly noticed something unbelievable: the entire prison space seemed to stagnate—the twitching prisoners on the ground, the lunging Dementors, milky white light points emerging in the air, one by one, like mist.
“Patronum!”
The young professor’s second half of the spell burst out sharply.
Silver radiance gathered, nearly solidifying, like the full moon in the sky or a round egg. A sharp horn protruded from the light mass, and at the moment of breaking shell, light bloomed, followed by a silver-glow-formed body shooting out.
The silver-formed animal streaked through the air like an arrow shot from a fully drawn bow, charging at the floating Dementors.
Dementors are indestructible, hard to eliminate, relying on bodies coalesced from unique magic power. But before this equally strange magic power, that trait was useless. Already unable to face the Patronus Charm’s glow, they were now even more fragile.
In this violent impact, their already tattered cloaks tore into more scraps of cloth, the exposed hands growing more shriveled, the damp rotten smell gradually dissipating.
The black shadows faded under the silver light, turning a dull gray-black.
The group of Dementors screeched as they fled.
