Azkaban had once imprisoned many wizards, most of them Death Eaters from the time of the Dark Lord. The incident of the "Pregnant Witches,"
Azkaban had once imprisoned many wizards, most of them Death Eaters from the time of the Dark Lord.
The incident of the "Pregnant Witches," orchestrated by Regulus Black, drastically reduced their numbers.
The female prisoners, once pregnant, were all sent home to give birth. Each adorable daughter born to them became a continuation of their bloodline, cherished and protected by their families.
The male prisoners were not so fortunate. They remained locked away in Azkaban, but through correspondence with their families, they could choose witches to bear their children. The choices were limited, yet since quantity mattered more than quality, each man ended up with at least three children.
As for the witches who acted as surrogates, finding pure-bloods was out of the question. Half-blood witches became the most sought after, and eventually even Muggle-born witches were chosen.
For the pure-blood aristocracy, this was almost unthinkable. Yet for the sake of ensuring enough descendants, they lowered their standards and accepted witches they would have scorned before.
Both these witches and their children had one man to thank: Regulus Black.
In addition to collecting a hefty fee for every child born, Regulus became the godfather of these children. He insisted that they live with their mothers, and since no wizarding family wanted to lose its heirs, they were forced to take in these women as legitimate members of their households.
Still, there were holdouts—stubborn men who refused to accept this "cursed pregnancy" service. The Ministry of Magic, seeing the great success of the program, promoted it widely in Azkaban. In the end, only the most obstinate prisoners remained behind bars.
And now, someone had come to Azkaban to break those very prisoners out.
With a sweep of a wand, bolts of lightning-like magic slashed across the prison, raking the black fortress from top to bottom.
Every Auror guard stationed there was struck and injured. The cells of the obstinate prisoners were identified and targeted; the walls shattered, leaving the cells completely open to the elements.
"Hahahaha! Hahahaha! Hahahaha!"
It was the triumphant laughter of the newly freed. Twelve Death Eaters staggered weakly out of their cells.
The Dementors nearby panicked. They dared not attack the dark figure floating in the sky, nor could they bring themselves to strike the escaping prisoners.
They wailed in terror, calling desperately for the Aurors who had once stood with them.
"Silence!"
The figure in the sky spoke coldly, sealing the Dementors' cries at once.
"Follow me, and I will spare you. I offer you a chance to atone."
The Dementors froze in dread. They could not explain why, but even though they had faced many wizards stronger than themselves, never had they felt such fear. Terrifying as they were to most, in front of this figure they trembled.
Slowly, one after another, the Dementors clustered together and submitted to him.
It was Harry Potter, cloaked in black robes, dark mist swirling around him like tattered clouds. As Voldemort's former Horcrux, he knew exactly how to command Dementors. By channeling his own power, he could make them feel the fear they once instilled in others. Subjugating them came effortlessly.
Each Dementor had a sliver of its magic extracted, and these fragments gathered within Harry, steadily increasing his strength. Though the Dementors grew weak, they had no choice but to accept it. Compared to annihilation, mere weakness was nothing.
With strength in numbers, Harry's stolen fragments of power restored him to nearly the same level Voldemort had at his peak.
Truthfully, if he could help it, Harry would not have chosen such a method of recovery.
It felt impure—like the blood purity theory itself, draining magic from Dementors was tainted.
But he needed his power and influence restored quickly. Principles could wait.
"Who are you?"
One Death Eater, unable to place the young man before him, spoke up. Though his rescuer had freed him, he hesitated to follow. But seeing the countless Dementors already kneeling, he dared not push too far.
"As my followers from long ago, I have seen your loyalty. But I will not tolerate doubt."
At Harry's thought, the Dark Mark on the man's arm seared with burning pain.
"Master! I am your most loyal servant. I will give you everything! Please punish me for my insolence!"
The Death Eater collapsed to his knees on the broken stone, just a step away from the jagged rocks beneath Azkaban's high tower.
"I forgive you… and the rest of you as well. Now come. You need new wands."
With a wave of Harry's hand, the swirling black mist engulfed them all, even the Dementors, whisking them away.
At the Leaky Cauldron, a storm of black mist burst through the entrance. The tavern froze solid as though struck by a blizzard.
The chilling effect came from the Dementors themselves; no magic could replicate their aura of despair.
But for the unlucky patrons inside, it was a nightmare. They collapsed helplessly, as though drained by soul-sucking witches.
The mist crashed through the back wall of the Leaky Cauldron and surged straight toward Ollivander's wand shop.
With a resounding crash, the shop window shattered as Harry released the twelve Death Eaters inside.
"Choose your wands. We have much to do."
Behind the mask of mist, Harry closed his eyes, probing the building. He could sense Garrick Ollivander hiding in a back room.
"Hiding is pointless when I want to find you."
He spoke to himself as the Death Eaters hurriedly searched the shop, wands sparking and reacting chaotically as they tried them out. Strange and dazzling magical effects rippled through the room.
"Bring me the shopkeeper. I have questions for him."
Now that he had subordinates, Harry need not dirty his own hands with such tasks.
Two Death Eaters soon dragged out Ollivander, the frail old man having dug a tiny hiding space inside a cupboard.
"W-what do you want from me?"
Ollivander stammered, staring at the wreckage of his shop. The raiders had snapped wands they rejected, wasting his painstaking work. Each wand took at least a week to craft, and watching them destroyed so casually crushed him inside.
But sorrow meant little compared to survival. His life was in their hands, and he quickly submitted.
"I know you keep a special wand in this shop. The Elder Wand, one of Death's Hallows. Crafted from elder wood, with a core of Thestral tail hair. Give it to me!"
The shadowy figure extended his hand.
The consequence of refusal was obvious. But the truth was, Ollivander no longer possessed the Elder Wand. It had been stolen decades ago.
"I… I don't remember where I put it!"
Garrick Ollivander replied nervously.
"Almost every Hogwarts student has bought their wand from you. You remember every wand you've sold and to whom. And now you claim you don't remember where this one is?"
The dark figure waved a wand before his face.
"This wand… it's Harry Potter's. How did you—?"
Ollivander froze. He thought Harry's wand had been stolen. But then the mist dispersed, revealing the young man's true face.
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