The instant Erwin stepped into the main cellblock, the inmates erupted into chaotic frenzy.
It was a synchronized, terrifying wave of desperate movement. Prisoners threw themselves violently against their iron bars, skeletal arms thrusting through the narrow gaps, fingers clawing desperately at empty air. Their eyes—sunken deep in gaunt faces and burning with feverish intensity—locked onto Erwin with singular, maddened hunger.
He didn't need to speculate about their desires. In this place of absolute despair, he represented something precious: life, hope, sustenance. A fragment of light in a realm constructed entirely from decaying souls and abandoned futures.
Erwin swept a coldly disdainful gaze across the wretched figures. They were uniformly filthy—caked in accumulated grime and physical manifestations of despair, their minds systematically shattered by years of relentless isolation beneath the Dementors' oppressive influence. In Azkaban, mere survival was a luxury reserved exclusively for those who could sustain an unwavering Patronus indefinitely. The Dementors offered only one form of mercy: the Kiss that would leave you an empty, soulless shell continuing to breathe without consciousness.
The prisoners snarled incoherently, baring yellowed, broken teeth, but their frenzied aggression was abruptly cut short by a sudden, severe drop in ambient temperature.
A profoundly chilling aura descended from the darkness overhead. Instantly, the prisoners recoiled violently, scrambling back into the deepest shadows of their cells. They curled into trembling, fetal positions, desperately attempting to become invisible and beneath notice.
Erwin, however, remained perfectly motionless and unaffected.
The massive silver panda beneath him emitted steady, comforting radiance. The oppressive supernatural cold dissipated completely before it could touch Erwin, repelled effortlessly by the powerful protective magic.
High in the shadowed ceiling spaces, the Dementors hovered uncertainly, their tattered cowled forms shifting with what might have been confusion or wariness. They sensed the impenetrable barrier surrounding this wizard and instinctively recognized they should not approach.
Echoing footsteps approached along the stone corridor. A squad of prison Aurors emerged from the gloom, their official cloaks noticeably tattered and their faces bearing expressions of profound grimness. These were the rejects, the outcasts—wizards assigned to permanent guard duty within these cursed walls following their effective exile from mainstream Ministry positions. They were survivors of the systematic purge that had followed the Cavendish family's comprehensive consolidation of political power.
They recognized Erwin immediately.
Varied expressions flickered across their weathered faces as they stopped before him: unconcealed fear, bitter resentment, and desperate, almost pathetic hope. They perceived him not merely as an unusual visitor, but potentially as their only realistic means of escape from this frozen hell.
One man stepped forward deliberately—clearly the senior officer present. He was a former loyalist of the previous Auror Office director, a man whose promising career had been abruptly terminated when Erwin's expanding influence fundamentally reshaped Ministry power structures. His hatred was palpable, a tangible thing—bitter resentment for the comfortable life he'd permanently lost.
Still, he clearly wasn't actively suicidal.
"Mr. Cavendish," the guard stated formally, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "This is Azkaban prison. Your presence here requires explicit official authorization. I must ask you to depart immediately unless you can provide proper documentation."
Erwin didn't bother with verbal response. He simply tossed a sealed envelope in the guard's direction.
The man caught it reflexively. He examined the prominent Ministry seal suspiciously, then broke the wax and extracted the enclosed parchment. Inside was an official decree granting Erwin Cavendish absolute discretionary authority within the prison grounds—permission to go anywhere and do essentially anything without interference. It was administratively irregular, possibly even technically illegal under traditional protocols, but in the current political reality of the wizarding world, Erwin's documented will was effectively indistinguishable from law itself.
The guard crumpled the parchment violently in his fist, knuckles whitening. "Very well, Mr. Cavendish. We will not interfere with your activities. Proceed as you see fit."
He turned sharply to leave, gesturing curtly for his subordinates to follow.
"Sir," one of the younger Aurors whispered nervously, glancing at the hovering Dementors with obvious anxiety. "Shouldn't we... perhaps transfer the Dementors to a different section? For his safety?"
The senior guard froze mid-step. He spun around with frightening speed, his eyes like chips of glacial ice.
"Watch your tongue carefully," he hissed with quiet venom. "He hasn't requested assistance, so why are you volunteering our services? You are an Auror of the Ministry, not a Cavendish family servant. If you wish to grovel at their feet, make certain they actually want you first. Effective immediately, you are permanently reassigned to Dementor Liaison duty."
The younger Auror's face went deathly pale. "No, sir, please—I can't... those creatures..."
"Silence!" The senior guard's murderous glare shut him up instantly. With a contemptuous scoff, the leader strode deeper into the shadowed corridor, vanishing into the oppressive gloom.
The remaining Aurors exchanged grim, knowing looks. Several patted the terrified rookie on the shoulder with genuine sympathy—it was a genuinely brutal assignment. Even experienced, hardened Aurors struggled against prolonged Dementor exposure. The creatures' presence progressively eroded one's magical reserves and emotional stability, making the Patronus Charm increasingly difficult to maintain successfully over extended periods.
Erwin ignored the entire exchange completely. His attention remained fixed on the shadows overhead where the Dementors congregated.
He had brought an experimental meal for his companion Ebony, certainly. But the Dementors themselves represented the true strategic prize here.
The underlying logic was elegantly simple: if a Dementor could successfully feed on the positive emotional energy comprising a Patronus, perhaps it could equally absorb energy from the opposite end of the magical spectrum. If this experimental hypothesis proved correct, these creatures might possess the capacity to siphon even divine-level power.
If successful, Erwin wouldn't need to rely on elaborate schemes or mentally exhausting calculations for certain future objectives. He could simply deploy these creatures to perform the metaphysical devouring on his behalf.
He looked up at the hovering, cloaked shapes, a cold, calculating glint in his eyes.
Now—how exactly should he capture one for controlled testing?