The bumpy, rugged path sent faint tremors through the coat pocket, but they weren't too jarring. Peter Pettigrew, in his rat form as Scabbers, tucked his tail in and curled his missing-toed limbs tighter, clinging to the silk lining of the young professor's pocket. He was careful not to grip too hard, wary of leaving claw marks.
Azkaban wasn't as smooth as a glass jar, but Peter was used to hiding in pockets, shrinking himself to minimize his presence. As he listened to the conversation between the female Auror and the professor, he stole glances at the surroundings.
His limited view revealed no living creatures or greenery—just barren rock. The sky and stones shared a dull, monotonous hue. The desolate island echoed only with the sound of waves crashing against rocky cliffs, splintering into white foam.
The repetitive noise and unchanging scenery made it hard to focus. Peter's mind drifted, thoughts wandering unchecked.
…
A delicate porcelain cup painted with violets held steaming pumpkin juice, its sweet aroma mingling with the misty air.
Across a wide desk, Peter sat opposite the young professor, eyes fixed on the cup, too nervous to look up.
It was early morning, and the professor had roused him for breakfast. Hogwarts' kitchen produced tantalizing food, but just ten minutes ago, Peter had been a rat, squeezed into a narrow glass bottle, his eyes darting nervously.
"This task isn't difficult," Melvin said with a faint smile. "I've prepared Veritaserum for you—crafted by Potions Master Snape. It's highly effective."
Peter's trembling hands froze mid-sip, the pumpkin juice untouched. He didn't know whether to drink or set the cup down.
A small, delicate glass vial sat nearby, no larger than half a knuckle, its thin walls transparent. Even as a rat, Peter could easily carry it. Inside was a colorless liquid, just a drop or two.
"Your job is to infiltrate Azkaban, wait for Bellatrix Lestrange to be alone, and slip the Veritaserum into her mouth to get the information I need," Melvin explained, sliding the vial toward Peter, a fine string attached for easy carrying. "She's just a prisoner, tormented by Dementors for twelve years, wandless and frail. There's no danger, and you won't need to reveal yourself."
"And you'll let me go if I do this?" Peter asked.
"Of course. We don't have some blood feud," Melvin said. "If all goes well, you can return to being Scabbers the rat or Peter the hero. If Britain feels unsafe, I can give you some Galleons to start over abroad."
"You really trust me?" Peter asked timidly.
"Of course!" Melvin looked up, then added, "But… a little precaution is necessary."
…
Scabbers raised his left forelimb. Beneath the patchy, matted fur on his inner arm, the faint outline of an ouroboros tattoo was visible.
He'd seen something similar before—a mark with a snake and a skull.
They called it the Dark Mark.
"In Azkaban, prisoners with different sentences are held separately. The ones in the fortress are serving life—mostly Death Eaters…" The young female Auror's voice was light.
Peter curled tighter, his rat eyes glazing over.
Azkaban, the prison for Death Eaters…
That person was probably here, wasn't he?
Three faces surfaced unbidden in Peter's mind, blurred by the passage of time but still recognizable.
Remus wasn't handsome—his long, thin face and pale skin gave him a frail look. His faint, weary smile and deep, complex eyes hinted at heavy secrets.
Peter hadn't heard of Remus in years. He was probably hiding somewhere, scraping by, just like himself.
James was strikingly handsome, with jet-black hair and a square jaw, always laughing freely with infectious energy. His light brown eyes sparkled with vitality, and his athletic build made him agile.
He'd never catch a Snitch again. He died twelve years ago, on the last day of October.
Then there was Sirius, with high cheekbones and gray eyes that exuded reckless defiance. He'd challenged professors, rebelled against the Black family, and bravely taken on the role of Secret-Keeper—only to secretly pass it to Peter.
The memory shifted. Those gray eyes blazed with fury, as if they could chew through bone and devour flesh.
The balding rat shuddered, curling tighter, but a glint of resolve flashed in his eyes.
"…"
By now, they'd walked some distance. The low roar of the waves grew closer, then faded again. The rocky path twisted through several bends, leading to a low stone building.
A heavy iron chain hung on the oak door, unlocked. The Auror pushed it open with ease.
Inside was a long, narrow corridor of rough limestone, flanked by cells.
Most prisoners leaned against the walls, indifferent. Only a few showed a flicker of response to their footsteps. Men and women alike were gaunt, filthy, their clothes tattered, as if oblivious to the world.
Scratched, faded graffiti and dates marked the walls.
"These are minor offenders, sentenced to a few months, a year at most," Tonks explained. "They could be bailed out with enough fines, but they don't have the money…"
No money, so they were left here to feed the Dementors.
Melvin, who'd visited Knockturn Alley upon arriving in Britain, knew of wizards living in the gutters. But seeing these numb prisoners gave him a deeper understanding of the British wizarding world.
The atmosphere silenced them. Melvin slowed his pace, in no hurry to send Scabbers to the Death Eaters' side.
After a loop through the building, they exited. Tonks deftly closed the door, rehung the chain without locking it, and led them toward the next prison.
"The security here seems awfully lax," Melvin remarked casually.
"I thought so too at first…" Tonks hesitated, then explained quietly, "Azkaban doesn't need high walls or locks to trap them. Once the Dementors torment the prisoners, few can muster the will to escape… On good weather days, the Aurors even let them out to stretch their legs."
"Those prisoners we just saw—were they recently drained by Dementors?"
"That was three days ago. They're in recovery now," Tonks said. "Minor offenders only face Dementors once a week, so they're spared for the next few days."
She paused. "If a regular wizard is fed on too often, it can damage their soul, drastically alter their personality, and make recovery nearly impossible after release."
Sustainable feeding…
Melvin felt a surreal absurdity. This wasn't just a prison for dark wizards—it was a farm for breeding Dementors.
"This is already an improvement under Minister Eldritch Diggory," Tonks continued as she led the way. "Under Damocles Rowle and Perseus Parkinson, it was worse. They let Dementors torment prisoners to death, though there were more criminals back then."
She added, "They say on stormy nights, the fortress walls weep, and those who see it smell despair…"
They continued along the rocky path, turning corners until another low building appeared.
Roughly hewn stone walls loomed, and as they approached, an ominous chill grew stronger.
"Dementors feed in batches. You're lucky, Professor—you're catching them in action," Tonks said softly, stopping at the door.
She pushed it open.
Before they could observe the prisoners, shadows gliding outside the skylight seized their attention.
They were cloaked in tattered black robes, eight to ten feet tall, their heads hidden under hoods. Skeletal, scabbed, pale hands protruded, like corpses soaked in liquid, fleshless skin draped over bone.
A chill enveloped the prison, the air nearly frozen, thick with a damp, cold stench—a mix of briny seawater and moldy earth. The light dimmed, and only the figures under the cloaks glinted faintly.
Melvin sensed Tonks tense beside him.
These prisoners, serving longer sentences, were even more emaciated, their eyes emptier. Yet they couldn't face the Dementors calmly. At the first hint of cold, they shrank into corners, trembling, clutching their sleeves.
The Dementors, like ghosts, hovered between ethereal and solid, unhindered by bars yet able to breathe and touch the prisoners.
One approached a middle-aged wizard in a corner, its hood lowering with a bone-chilling sucking sound.
The wizard convulsed as if shocked, his face frozen, muscles twitching uncontrollably. His fingers spasmed, releasing his sleeve, and he collapsed with a dull thud.
Something intangible was ripped away—silvery wisps of mist flowed from his eyes and mouth, slowly drawn into the Dementor's maw.
Emotions, memories, an unusual form of magic.
Melvin, familiar with such phenomena, watched wide-eyed from a distance.
"Ha… ha…"
Broken gasps echoed in the cell, hoarse and indistinguishable—prisoner or Dementor?
The Dementor's chest heaved with deep breaths, each inhale accompanied by a guttural growl. The wizard's body and arms shook violently, fingers twitching as if seizing, clawing at the air, the walls, the stone.
The faint sounds—rustling, scratching—carried a soul-deep terror.
Minutes later, the air grew heavier, tinged with the scent of death.
The Dementor pulled back, drifting across the room. The prisoner's body glistened with cold sweat, dripping onto the floor in dark stains. His lips were purple, gleaming with a sickly sheen, as if some magic was eroding his life.
Their eyes remained open, staring vacantly at the ceiling, limbs twitching before going limp, like empty husks.
Perhaps these prisoners, worn down by years of torment, had little left to offer. The Dementors' hunger was stoked but unsatisfied, leaving them ravenous.
One Dementor, drifting restlessly, noticed the two newcomers. One wasn't in an Auror uniform and exuded an intoxicating aura. It froze mid-air.
Per their agreement with the wizards, anyone on the island not with the Ministry was fair game.
How Dementors communicated was unclear, but the others noticed the "fresh" prey and turned toward the young professor.
"Professor, I think… they're targeting you," Tonks said, her face paling.
She was a newly trained Auror. Though she knew the Patronus Charm, she had little confidence in saving the professor from a Dementor swarm.
"I think… they picked the wrong target," Melvin said, raising his hand. A wand appeared, aimed forward.
The Dementor horde paused, like wolves circling prey only to realize it was a lion. They hesitated, frozen in place.
But hunger overcame fear. The nearest Dementor moved, raising its shriveled hands toward the professor, emitting a low, rasping inhale.
"Expecto…" Melvin intoned softly, drawing out the word, lighter than a breeze.
Every magical creature in the room felt a powerful surge of magic brewing.
Tonks noticed something unbelievable: the prison seemed to freeze. The convulsing prisoners, the lunging Dementors, the air itself—speckled with milky-white motes, like mist.
"Patronum!"
The second half of Melvin's incantation erupted.
Silver light converged, almost solidifying, like a full moon or a glowing egg. A sharp horn pierced through, and as it broke, light exploded. A silvery creature shot forth.
The Patronus streaked through the air like an arrow from a taut bow, charging the floating Dementors.
Dementors were nearly indestructible, sustained by their unique magical essence. But against an equally unique magic, their resilience meant nothing. Already vulnerable to the Patronus Charm's light, they were now defenseless.
Under the ferocious impact, their tattered cloaks tore further, their exposed hands shriveled more, and the damp, rotten stench began to fade.
The black shadows paled to a sickly gray under the silver glow.
The Dementor swarm wailed and fled.