The Hebridean Islands.
Lucius stood upon a jagged black reef, his expression grim as his gaze fell upon the cloaked figure ahead—the man standing at the forefront of the gathered crowd. The man wrapped in black robes. The Dark Lord. Voldemort.
No—perhaps now, it would be more accurate to call him Charles Gold.
Who could have imagined that the once-invincible Dark Lord had twice been defeated by a child? The first time, he fell for reasons still unknown, struck down by the infant Harry Potter. The second time was even more humiliating—after finally regaining a physical form, he had been turned into a puppet by Charles Gold himself. Even the resurrection plan Voldemort had so carefully orchestrated had taken place right under Charles's watchful eye.
The mighty Dark Lord—the most feared sorcerer to have ever plunged the world into darkness—had fallen so far. One might almost doubt if his power had ever truly matched his legend.
But Lucius knew better. He had witnessed the Dark Lord's terror firsthand. Even now, he dared not recall too clearly those years at Voldemort's side.
Voldemort's downfall wasn't because he was weak—it was because his enemy was too strong.
And yet, standing beside Charles now, Lucius no longer felt the same bone-deep dread. If anything, he found his new master too merciful. All this effort merely for the International Confederation of Wizards? If it had been Voldemort, he would have led the Death Eaters into open war already.
In truth, Charles was simply… playing too deep into his own game.
"Master, Azkaban lies just ahead," Lucius said softly, stepping forward.
Behind him, nearly a hundred Death Eaters stood trembling. None dared make a sound as Lucius addressed the man who wore their master's face. Since Voldemort's "resurrection," he had become even more unapproachable—cold, distrustful, and ruthless. To punish betrayal, he had slaughtered over a dozen of his followers without hesitation.
Now, only Lucius Malfoy seemed to enjoy the Dark Lord's favor, a stroke of fortune that earned him both jealousy and hatred from the rest.
In truth, the Malfoy family's loyalty had always been questionable—but many believed Lucius's lucky days would soon end.
Because the ones Voldemort truly trusted were still imprisoned in Azkaban.
Once they were freed, Lucius's position would vanish in an instant.
"I can see it…" hissed Charles through Voldemort's mouth, his voice shrill and inhuman.
The distant sea lay shrouded in darkness. The clouds hung low and heavy, blending with the churning black waters. Perpetual thunderclouds hovered over the region, ensuring that Azkaban never saw the light of day.
Here, there was no morning—only endless night. Only cold, and unrelenting storms.
Even the seawater itself seemed black.
It was all because of Azkaban's dreadful wardens—the Dementors. These creatures devoured not only happiness but also light, leaving behind an aura of frost and despair. Their chilling presence bent weather and emotion alike to their hunger.
In truth, they even resembled Voldemort—tattered black robes, decaying flesh, hollowed features.
More accurately, they lacked features altogether. No eyes, no nose, no ears—only a single gaping hole where a mouth should be. That was all they needed to feed.
"Come," Charles said, his tone eerie and amused. "Let's greet some old friends."
His black robes stirred as if alive. In the next moment, they lifted him into the air like a sentient shadow, carrying him skyward—like a dark cloud, or a monstrous bird.
The Death Eaters mounted their brooms and followed close behind.
In the distance, the Dementors—those drifting shades circling the crumbling towers of Azkaban—sensed the intruders immediately.
They could feel emotion. And the prisoners within Azkaban had long been drained dry; their despair was too stale to satisfy. Now, like sharks scenting fresh blood, the Dementors swarmed toward Charles's approaching force.
The air temperature plummeted instantly. It was only early July—the height of summer—yet the world turned to midwinter in a heartbeat.
The sea roared, then froze solid as the sheer number of Dementors sucked the warmth from the world, sealing the surface in a sheet of black ice.
Charles—inhabiting Voldemort's corpse—felt no fear. He merely drifted through the oncoming swarm, indifferent, as if passing through a field of dead leaves hanging from a withered tree.
The Death Eaters, however, were not so fortunate. Few among them could cast a Patronus Charm.
Those steeped in dark magic found it nearly impossible—the spell demanded a heart untouched by corruption. Even if someone among them could conjure a Patronus, none would dare attempt it before the Dark Lord. That would only earn mockery—or worse.
Charles glided straight through the oncoming Dementors, utterly ignored by them. To those creatures, he was no more than an empty shell—without joy, without life, without taste.
But the Death Eaters behind him—they were a feast.
The moment the Dementors drew near, panic set in. Emotions shattered. Souls quivered. Several Death Eaters swayed as if their spirits had been torn from their bodies, tumbling off their brooms and crashing onto the frozen sea below.
Lucius ducked and wove through the chaos. He knew the Patronus Charm—memories of watching his son grow up were his one genuine source of happiness—but he couldn't reveal that in front of the others.
"Ah—!" One Death Eater screamed as a Dementor latched onto him. His soul was sucked away, leaving behind only an empty husk—a "living" corpse. Moments later, he fell from the sky and struck the ice with a sickening thud.
Lucius soon found himself surrounded. Several Dementors swooped down upon him, and in that instant it felt like he had plunged into the heart of a blizzard—every trace of warmth and joy ripped from his being.
He could barely resist. His mind dulled; his limbs grew heavy. A fleeting thought passed through him—that perhaps it would be easier to simply… let go.
Then—suddenly—a brilliant light burst from his wrist.
The light cut through the blizzard like a blade, forming a massive sphere of silver radiance that enclosed Lucius completely. The Dementors struck against it in vain, their advance halted by an invisible wall.
Lucius gasped, feeling life flood back into his body. He looked down in astonishment at the bracelet on his wrist.
It was the one Charles had given him before the mission began.
(End of Chapter)