The salty, damp, and biting sea breeze carried the chill from the depths of the North Sea, fiercely whipping the small boat docked at the Black Stone Pier.
Any Muggle would be shocked to see such a decrepit boat appear on this desolate island, unmarked even on maps, especially when surrounded by the vast, turbulent black ocean—it seemed as if it would capsize in less than twenty meters.
Yet, this boat wobbled unstably but remained whole here.
With each collision of the boat against the rocks, a hollow and despairing echo resounded—a moment later, a skeletal man was roughly dragged ashore, iron chains scraping against the slippery stone surface, emitting an irritating and piercing noise.
The Aurors escorting him looked grim, even somewhat pale, the light at the tip of their Magic Wands appeared weak and timid in the surrounding, inky gloom.
Evidently, the true controllers of everything here were the three "rags" silently floating by their side.
Underneath the tattered Cloaks surged an icy chill akin to Death; merely approaching them, the man felt the air in his lungs and any lingering warmth in his heart greedily sucked away, leaving only boundless fear and numb despair, as if the freezing seawater had in that moment filled his chest.
He struggled in vain, a dissonant whimper rising from his throat.
Stepping onto the steps of the Black Stone Pier, passing through the fortress entrance like a giant beast's throat, the cold, damp air rushed at him.
The air was tinged with the scent of rot, saltiness, and an indescribable stench of despair—the narrow stone stair spiraled downwards, seemingly leading to the darkest core of the island.
The stone walls felt rough and clammy to the touch, with condensed droplets like silent tears; the further they descended, the heavier the air became, the darker the light, and most importantly, the cold brought by the Dementors grew ever more biting and viscous, almost freezing human blood and thoughts.
In their ears was only the monotonous sound of dragging chains, the heavy breathing of the Aurors, and the soul-freezing, silent sucking of the Dementors.
Finally, the three people and three "creatures" stopped at the end of a corridor, where the light had completely vanished; only the faint halo from the tip of an Auror's Magic Wand barely lit up a rusted iron door ahead, and through the iron door, it was evident there lay an even deeper, purer darkness.
The cells flanking the corridor were silent as tombs, as if their souls had long been completely devoured.
"In you go."
The Auror's voice carried a tremor even he wasn't aware of, as two Aurors pointed their Magic Wands at the lock, the iron door creaked open, revealing a barely five-square-meter stone cell suffused with a nauseating stench of rot.
At the next moment, the Dementors silently pressed forward, the suffocating despair reaching its zenith, causing the last remnants of clear memories of sunlight, laughter, and even pain in the man's mind to collapse like a sandcastle, leaving only endless void and coldness.
But then, a more repulsive stench surged up the man's nostrils—
Then, he was violently thrust into the darkness, the iron door slammed shut behind him, and the click of the locking echoed exceptionally clearly in the deathly stillness, like the final proclamation of a coffin lid closing, the cold that the Dementors brought, which drained away all life, instantly became the only eternal master within this stone cell.
This was not a prison cell, but a living tomb.
The Dementors, those guards, left; the fresh "meal" needed time to adapt, and Dementors who fed on human emotions had their own rules, which was not to kill the humans all at once, even if they had to, they had to do it sustainably—unable to suck a person dry in one go.
The inertia from the shoving caused the man to stumble a few steps, the cold, slippery stone slab underfoot making him uncontrollably fall forward.
In the darkness, he touched a mass in the corner, exuding a strong smell of decay and saltiness—
Under the floating light from somewhere unknown, the man saw clearly, it was his "bed," a decayed, blackened thin grass mat.
At this moment, Karkaroff seemed to have all his bones removed, collapsing straight down.
"Ugh—huh—"
Next, the man's body began to convulse violently, appearing like the first zombie undergoing transformation in various zombie movies, where directors often give them lengthy shots, evidently, Karkaroff might just be that "zombie"—
He trembled and made strange noises for so long that the pale-faced prisoners in the surrounding cells noticed.
Those who survive long-term in Azkaban are not simple; most have summarized a set of methods to cope with Dementors, allowing them to maintain a semblance of normalcy and thinking—of course, it's just their belief, for if these people appeared outside en masse, the observers would only think—
The zombie crisis has erupted?
"...Hey? Are you dying or what?"
A gaunt man, skeletal as a skeleton spirit, poked his head through the gap in Karkaroff's cell iron door, his voice dry and low, carrying a schadenfreude of the pot calling the kettle black.
But, the only response he got was the dripping of water seeping through the cracks in the stone walls, falling more clearly in the darkness than the chains.
"Hey! Speak up! That new fool..."
"Shut up, Radolphus!"
At that moment, from a cell opposite Karkaroff, a hoarse yet vibrant female voice suddenly echoed—truth be told, hearing such a strong voice in this place was rather astonishing, unless the beauty in this person's heart was beyond even a Dementor's reach, there was only one other explanation—
This person's thoughts were so vile that even Dementors wouldn't touch her.
"I just saw him—his face, an old acquaintance of ours."
Bellatrix Lestrange's gaunt face emerged from the shadow behind the bars, her visage long tormented to a skeletal thinness, her hair matted as if never washed and piled atop her head—
The woman extended her words, her tone mocking, "Augustus?—he was your good friend, wasn't he? He was so 'happy' to send you in back then—"
"..."
Regrettably, no one responded to Bella, her monologue clearly lacking a foil, in a place like this, even though he heard the name of his betrayer Karkaroff, Augustus Rookwood made no move to rise; he simply leaned against the slippery stone wall, staring vacantly at the ground.
"Hey, Igor, old friend, say something—"
Even without any response, Bella did not stop—so long in Azkaban had surely driven her mad, self-talk was obviously just routine, not to mention this time she seemed to have a "newcomer" to converse with.
But Karkaroff ignored her, his body more than just twitching.
It was a profound, terrifying transformation, his bones crunching audibly underneath his skin, as if being bent and stretched by invisible hands, his gaunt cheekbones becoming even more protruding, his pallor shifting to an unnatural, dank, waxy hue.
The eyes, wide open in terror, rolled upwards, leaving only the whites visible, resembling a dead fish floundering at the bottom of a dried-up pond.
"What... what the hell?"
Radolphus Lestrange quickly retracted his head, in that fleeting moment, he seemed to see a demon emerging from the man's body—
"Shut up, Radolphus!"
"Didn't you just say that?"
Bella ignored Radolphus' retort, her sensitivity to Dark Arts was unlike that of ordinary people; otherwise, the former Dark Lord wouldn't have "favored" her so much—she instinctively crawled over the cold ground, her withered fingers clutching the rusty iron bars, her already bloodless knuckles stark white from exertion—
All her senses now focused on the cell where Karkaroff was.
She strained to sniff the nauseating air, her body beginning to tremble uncontrollably, not from cold—
The chill of Dementors had long been the norm for those steeped in their presence—that was a thrill that reached the bone and a long-lost reverence, "Mas... Master?" she murmured almost inaudibly, a twisted tone of longing in her voice.
"...After all these years, you are still so sharp, so... delightful, Bella."
After a brief silence, in Karkaroff's cell, a hoarse, silent voice sounded, seemingly beyond what a human could produce, carrying a touch of melancholy for things past.
At that moment, it seemed as if Karkaroff's body was lifted by an invisible string, straightening—his head drooping at an extremely unnatural angle, a grotesque lump growing from the side of his neck, three slits opening on its milky surface, the top two shrinking into a pair of scarlet vertical pupils slowly opening—
A light faintly gleamed in the darkness.
"Mas! Master!!"
The overwhelming joy made it almost impossible for Bella to breathe, she pounced against the bars, shouting loudly.
…
Not far away.
In the utterly silent darkness, a tattered black robe quietly floated mid-air, an invisible gaze watching the "class reunion" unfolding in the high-security area of Azkaban.
A cold breeze swept past, lifting the torn, dark hood—
On a face like gray mist, a pair of deep blue eyes appeared.