As soon as the barrier fell, the entire space filled with witches and wizards of all kinds. The first few minutes were utter chaos, with everyone rushing inside, trying to piece together what had happened, how it had occurred, and why. It took hours for the Auror Office and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes (DMAC) to impose some semblance of order and begin doing anything remotely productive.
Healers from St. Mungo's quickly began setting up a field hospital, while the Unspeakables worked to shield the area from Muggles—and, to a lesser extent, from other wizards, though the latter were few and far between.
A large number of volunteers stepped forward to assist in sorting through bodies, clearing rubble, and handling countless smaller tasks. Everyone understood that the country was on the verge of a crisis. Events of this magnitude were exceedingly rare—so rare, in fact, that it had been decades since a massacre of this scale had occurred, claiming the lives of so many experienced and promising wizards. The atmosphere was grim, a heavy pall hanging over everyone.
"Stay here," I said firmly to Fleur and Hermione.
We had returned home; I didn't want them staying at the site of the carnage longer than necessary. The Veela dancers, unexpectedly, ended up in my house as well. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of turning my home into a hotel, but Fleur's cousin somehow convinced me. Of course, she didn't use her Veela charm—at least, not directly.
Each witch was given a strong dose of Dreamless Sleep, and I sent them to bed. They needed rest. Meanwhile, I prepared to head back to the site; my skills would undoubtedly be in high demand.
The death of the Minister of Magic, along with many other witches and wizards, had left the Ministry nearly paralyzed, teetering on the brink of chaos. I was summoned to a tent that had been set up as the command center.
Inside, Headmaster Dumbledore was already seated, alongside the heads of DMAC and the Auror Office, the leader of the Unspeakables, and several members of Cornelius Fudge's administrative staff. One figure stood out—a short woman in a pink blazer with a peculiar little hat. A quick glance into her thoughts revealed her true nature: calculating, power-hungry, and deeply unpleasant. Her primary concern seemed to be figuring out how to seize more power for herself. Her opinions of the other wizards in the room were less than favorable, and as for me—well, she held me in even lower regard than Dumbledore. To this day, I have no idea what I did to earn such an "honor."
"And so," began the Headmaster of Hogwarts, turning his gaze toward me, "we all know the situation we're facing is… delicate."
The deliberate pause hung in the air, heavy with meaning. I understood his intent clearly.
"We've already begun working to address the problems that have arisen, but I think everyone here would like to hear directly from the person who destroyed the demons and brought down the barrier."
All eyes turned to me.
I cleared my throat. "Ahem. Allow me to explain…"
The explanation took no more than twenty minutes, but every wizard in the room listened intently, some even scribbling notes as I spoke.
"So, the French have already found a way to destroy these demons," remarked the new Agent Zero.
"You've encountered these demons before?" asked the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.
"Yes," Agent Zero replied. "Our first encounter was about four months ago. Everything we've learned aligns perfectly with what the honorable Timothy Jodie just said—resurrection, rudimentary intelligence, and immense physical or magical power."
"And you had no way of destroying even the demons' souls?" Dumbledore asked, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"Correct," Agent Zero confirmed. "No matter what methods we tried, the resurrection always occurred."
"An interesting phenomenon," Dumbledore murmured thoughtfully. "Alright, now that we have a clear picture of events, we must address several pressing issues. First and foremost, we need to decide who will become the next Minister. Under the current circumstances, there's no time for elections. I believe we can settle this matter here and now."
A brief silence fell over the room. The idea of becoming Minister of Magic held no appeal for me—it would mean far too much responsibility, and I didn't need that kind of burden, especially in such turbulent times.
"Let me make this clear—I have no intention of nominating myself," Dumbledore said, his tone firm. "And I will not accept the position."
No one seemed particularly surprised. This wasn't the first time Dumbledore had declined such a role, and his reasoning was always the same. If he refused, it meant he considered the position a hindrance, plain and simple.
"I don't have much interest in it either," I added, following his lead. "I won't have the time for it."
"In that case, why not give the post of Minister to someone already familiar with all the bureaucracy?" suggested the woman in pink.
"Dolores," Amelia Bones addressed her sharply, "I would agree in almost any other situation... but right now, we need the firm hand of someone with experience in law enforcement or the judicial system."
"And what about maintaining balance?" Dolores countered immediately. "Intellect?"
"I agree with Amelia," said Scrimgeour. "A crisis like this requires emergency measures."
"Right, of course," Dolores replied with a sly smile, "and who better than me to ensure balance, so things don't swing too far in one direction or the other?"
The Head of the Department of Mysteries remained silent, though his expression betrayed a wealth of unspoken ideas and ambitions.
"Miss Umbridge," Amelia addressed the witch, her smile taut and strained. "I'm certain you needn't worry about balance, which, I might remind you, was destroyed several hours ago."
"It is precisely in such situations that we must think about balance, Mrs. Bones," Dolores Umbridge replied smoothly.
And so, I witnessed firsthand how intrigue unfolds within the Ministry. I was certain this was only the tip of the iceberg compared to what usually went on there. Frankly, I had no patience for these petty power plays. I'd much prefer if they focused on doing something useful instead of indulging in word games.
"I have a suggestion," I said. "Why don't you create something akin to a Triumvirate—or even a Quattuorvirate—"
"Mr. Jodie," Dolores interrupted sharply, turning her gaze to me. "And why don't you go back to being the French lapdog you are?"
Dumbledore, who had been maintaining his usual calm composure, suddenly widened his eyes in visible surprise. He rubbed his temple, as if trying to send some sort of signal into the ether. Both Scrimgeour and Bones looked equally taken aback.
That... felt a bit insulting.
"Dolores, may I address you like that?" I asked, fixing her with a level stare. She clearly wanted to answer, but I didn't give her the opportunity.
"That was an insulting remark, Dolores. I suggest you apologize and refrain from making such mistakes in the future."
"Timothy," she began in a patronizing tone, "I—"
"It's Mr. Jodie," I corrected her firmly, waving my hand to cut her off mid-sentence. I held her silent for a few seconds before allowing her the ability to speak again.
Dolores puffed up, clearly reluctant to apologize to me. However, my abilities had instilled just enough fear in her to ensure she couldn't avoid doing what I wanted. Still, her dislike of me grew ever so slightly.
"Mr. Jodie, I apologize for my words if you found them offensive," she said. Her tone was devoid of remorse, and her emotions betrayed not a shred of sincerity. Fine. Let it be. I decided not to press her too hard this time—there were more pressing issues to address.
"Alright," I nodded. That didn't mean I had forgiven or forgotten her insult—far from it. It simply meant I wouldn't escalate the conflict further for now. "So, what do you think of my idea?"
"Well… not bad!" Scrimgeour was the first to respond. "I like it."
"I also think it's a very good idea," Amelia Bones said with a firm nod.
"I don't care," the Head of the Unspeakables finally spoke, his tone dismissive.
Dolores remained silent, though her disapproval was evident. It was clear she strongly disagreed, but her opinion carried little weight in this matter, so she chose not to voice it.
"So be it," the Headmaster of Hogwarts said, giving his agreement with a nod.
With that, the meeting concluded, and everyone dispersed to address other urgent matters. A follow-up meeting was scheduled to discuss detailed action plans—one I suspected would take place without me or Dumbledore present.
As the others left, Dumbledore and I stepped aside. The old man wanted to discuss something privately.
"This attack changes things," Albus said, his tone heavy with concern. "I already suspect that many of the school's students are among the dead. Most likely, we won't be able to hold the Triwizard Tournament, as much as I might wish otherwise."
"Yes, this massacre will have a major impact on Hogwarts," I said, nodding in agreement. "I ran into Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and Professor Flitwick. If it weren't for my intervention, things could have turned out far worse for the school."
The Headmaster fell silent, his expression heavy. He clearly understood that the real challenges for him were just beginning. Convening the Wizards' Confederation over the incident and stabilizing the numerous disrupted processes left in the wake of the deaths would fall squarely on his shoulders.
"By the way, did you come across the Weasley family?" Dumbledore asked suddenly.
"Yes," I replied calmly. "They had some sort of conflict with Malfoy. When I was about to escort them to safety, they decided to separate from the group."
Dumbledore pressed his lips into a thin line. It was obvious he wasn't pleased with how the situation had unfolded, though he refrained from commenting. There was no fault on my part; they had chosen to separate from the group of their own accord. I wasn't especially interested in what happened to them after that.
"So, is the Tournament being postponed?" I asked, steering the conversation in a different direction.
"It's hard to say," Dumbledore replied, his voice tinged with regret. "I would like it to take place, of course, but… we'll see. I'll inform you when the school term begins."
Just then, a Patronus in the form of a jay soared into view, its silvery light shimmering as it spoke in a familiar voice.
"Headmaster, I've found Harry Potter. He doesn't look very well."
"I'm coming with you," I told Dumbledore immediately.
He simply nodded, his expression grave.
One of the medical camps, established in a cleared area, functioned as a checkpoint for survivors. Those without injuries were allowed to leave almost immediately after receiving a vial of calming potion. However, those with injuries were sorted into groups based on severity.
The first group included those with minor injuries—cuts, sprains, and fractures. Unless these posed a threat to the patient's life, they didn't receive much attention. These individuals were handed a few potions, a splint, or magical bandages before being sent home to manage their wounds themselves or simply wait for them to heal naturally.
The second group comprised wizards whose injuries were serious enough that they could die within a few days without treatment. These individuals received emergency care and were sent home with instructions to seek out a free healer for follow-up assistance.
The third group was the most critical: wizards on the brink of death. These patients received the most intensive care, with the best healers working to resolve life-threatening issues. Once stabilized, they were moved to the field hospital to rest and recover. From there, they were either transferred to larger, permanent hospitals for continued treatment or sent home.
Harry Potter was with Madam Pomfrey—it had been her voice in the Patronus. The matron looked far from pleased, as she had been assigned to tend to a boy with no visible injuries.
"Oh, finally," she said as we approached. "Here's Mr. Potter. No serious injuries, just a few minor bruises. We've already given him a change of clothes."
Potter didn't look well.
The sun was slowly setting, casting long shadows across the ground as it dipped below the horizon. The evening breeze carried the heavy stench of burning, mingled with the acrid odors of death, fear, and despair.
Harry Potter's eyes were dull. Though still their signature green, they lacked focus, as if he were staring far off into a place no one else could see. His gaze betrayed the horrors he had witnessed in the past few hours.
"Harry," Dumbledore called gently, drawing the boy's attention.
Harry flinched, as if snapping out of a trance, and began shaking his head frantically. Then he looked at us and flinched again. To better understand his state of mind, I carefully dove into his thoughts, just enough to catch a glimpse… but what I saw there deeply unsettled me.
In his mind, I saw a haunting scene: Harry lowering a large stone onto the face of his friend, Ron Weasley. The memory was strange—everything around him was blurry and muted, except for the stone, Ron's shattered face, the blood, and the sounds. These details were disturbingly vivid, hyper-realistic, as though his mind had magnified them. The next image was worse—Harry flipping Ron's body over, his movements frantic and desperate as he tried to hide the evidence of what he had done.
When I exited his thoughts, I glanced at Dumbledore. He, too, seemed to have ventured into Harry's memories and seen it all. His shoulders had slumped, his face was deathly pale, and the usual warm, grandfatherly kindness in his eyes had vanished. In its place was a sharp, steely glare—the same expression I had seen on him before the battle with the lead demon on the ruined streets of Paris.
To be honest, after witnessing what I had, I couldn't help but feel that Harry should be sent for treatment at a mental institution—for the safety of others, if nothing else. Such a cold-blooded murder of his best friend… it was unnatural, unthinkable.
"Harry, how are you feeling?" the Headmaster asked, his voice calm but carefully concealing bitterness and disappointment.
"Better now, Professor," Harry replied, his tone uncertain and shaky.
"And where are Mr. Weasley and his family?" Dumbledore continued, his probing tone gentle but unmistakably pointed.
"I don't know," Harry said nervously, avoiding eye contact. It was obvious he was lying—he knew exactly what had happened to Arthur, the twins, Percy, and Ron.
"I see," the Headmaster said slowly, his piercing gaze never leaving Harry. "Perhaps you remember what happened to young Ron Weasley?"
Harry tensed at the question, his body stiffening slightly. He paused, his silence speaking volumes before continuing to lie.
"We were running together, and then he just ran off in a different direction," Harry said, his voice steady. "After that, I don't know what happened to him… Maybe you know, Professor?"
He lied without even a hint of guilt or hesitation. I wondered what decision Dumbledore would make in response to such blatant deceit.
"I don't know, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore replied calmly.
It was clear, however, that the Headmaster himself was uncertain about how to proceed. This was an uncharted situation, something even he couldn't have anticipated. The idea of Harry committing such an act seemed unthinkable, and yet here they were. Then again, knowing Harry as I did, I was almost surprised it hadn't happened sooner—or perhaps it had, and no one had thought to look deeper before now.
"What happens next, Professor?" Harry asked, his tone carrying a hint of nervous curiosity.
"I think you need to rest, Harry," the Headmaster said evenly. Then, turning to me, he asked, "Mr. Jodie, would you be willing to take him under your care?"
The question caught me off guard. Honestly, I had no desire to look after the boy.
"I don't think I'll have the time," I replied, shaking my head. "Professor Dumbledore, why not do it yourself?"
"I can't say I'll have much time either," he admitted with a slow nod. "Molly Weasley will be in deep mourning over the deaths of her children and husband. Someone needs to deliver that news to her, and I'll take on that task myself… but leaving Mr. Potter with her is not an option."
"Then why not place him under Mr. Snape's care?" I suggested, almost without thinking.
"Hmm," the Headmaster hummed thoughtfully, considering the suggestion.
"Maybe you could send me to…" Harry began but trailed off into silence.
"Yes, Mr. Potter?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. "Who would you like to go to?"
"Uh…" he muttered, his eyes darting around evasively.
It was clear he had someone in mind—someone he wouldn't mind staying with. I wondered who it could be. For a fleeting moment, curiosity got the better of me, and I dove into his thoughts. To my surprise, I saw the face of none other than Sirius Black, the infamous English criminal. So, it turns out Black is Harry Potter's godfather… What else don't I know about this boy? At this rate, I half-expected to learn his parents were alive, had a second child, and abandoned Harry for some convoluted reason.
"Alright," I said, waving dismissively. "Decide among yourselves. You, Headmaster, surely know what suits him best. You could even send him to Azkaban for all I care."
For a brief moment, I thought Dumbledore actually considered the idea, but he quickly dismissed it. Honestly, I'd have been stunned if he'd gone through with it. Harry would lose what little sanity he had left in a place like that—though, to be fair, he's already a bit unhinged.
"Mr. Jodie," the Headmaster said, turning to me, "can I count on your help in dealing with the demons?"
"Of course, Headmaster," I replied with a nod. "Here's my advice: if you capture any demons, imprison them and keep them contained in one place. The next time I'm on the island, I'll gladly finish them off for good."
"Thank you," he said, nodding in appreciation.
If I'm being honest, I don't really care what Dumbledore decides to do with Potter. The main thing for me is that the boy stays as far away as possible from Hermione, Fleur, Isolde, or anyone else I care about. Wherever he goes, he seems to bring nothing but grief and pain.
As it turned out, no one actually needed my help. The wizards had managed to mobilize a significant force from within the country. Not everyone had gone to the Championship, and those who stayed behind were the ones shouldering the bulk of the work clearing the debris.
Since my assistance wasn't particularly required, I decided to head back home.
I wasn't the least bit sleepy, though the house itself had become a kingdom of slumber. Everyone inside was fast asleep. Pulling out the transfigured demoness, I canceled the spell.
Maria appeared before me and immediately dropped to one knee. Her face was lowered to the floor as she waited for my next command.
"My lord, I am here," she said.
"Excellent, Maria. Very good," I replied with a nod. "I take it you're a decent sorceress?"
"Compared to you, my lord, my skills are trash," she said humbly. "But yes, I do know some spells."
"Follow me."
I led her to my study, where I settled into my chair and observed her. She stood silently, waiting for my next words or orders. I kept thinking about what to do. This demoness didn't look entirely human, but compared to her companions—the ones I had destroyed—she was far closer to our kind.
"Tell me, how pliable is your body?" I asked her.
"My lord, forgive your unworthy slave," she said, bowing her head lower. "But I cannot create a more human form for myself without certain ingredients that do not exist in your world."
"Is that so?" I said, surprised.
At that moment, a slightly crazy idea sparked in my mind. During my travels, I had seen how desperately all kinds of beings sought to possess the Philosopher's Stone, which was still in my possession. If I thought about it, why not show it to her?
"And what would you say to this?" I asked, placing the Philosopher's Stone on the table.
The demoness's eyes widened, round and unblinking. She stared at the stone as though she'd spent a hundred days under a scorching sun without a single drop of water, and now someone had placed a bottle of life-saving liquid before her.
"My lord," she said, her voice trembling with excitement, "just a few grains of this stone would allow me to change my body into whatever form you desire!"
"Interesting," I replied with a nod. "Tell me, what do you feel when you look at this stone?"
"Power, strength, possibilities," she rattled off eagerly. "My lord, this stone would be a coveted treasure for us. It's like a source of pure magic!"
"So that's how you perceive the Philosopher's Stone," I mused aloud.
Her demonic appearance wasn't something I wanted to look at longer than necessary. If her features were minimal, I wouldn't mind so much… but as things stood, I didn't see any problem with giving her a few grains of the stone. Watching her transformation would also give me insight into how such a process worked for her kind.
"Yes, my lord," the demoness said, her eagerness almost palpable.
Tapping my fingers on the table, I picked up the stone and returned it to its place.
"Alright," I said, retrieving my wand. With a quick spell, I transfigured the demoness back into a figurine.
I ultimately decided to give Maria a few tiny fragments of the Philosopher's Stone to make her appearance more pleasing to my eyes.
I chose a secluded location to carry out the process.
Night had already fallen, cloaking the land in darkness. The silence felt oppressive, though faintly, the sounds of nocturnal creatures rustling and moving through the shadows could be heard if one listened closely.
With a wave of my wand, I began transfiguring a pit. I fortified the walls and floor with several protective and reinforcement spells, ensuring it could withstand even the most unexpected outcomes. After layering it with concealment charms, I levitated the figurine into the center of the pit. Crafting a small dish, I retrieved the Philosopher's Stone and carefully sliced off several tiny fragments.
Once everything was ready, I transfigured Maria back into her demonic form and placed a shield around her. I had no intention of giving her even the slightest opportunity to escape.
"Maria, there are a few fragments on the dish," I told her. "You may consume them to make your body almost indistinguishable from a human's."
"My lord, thank you," she said gratefully.
She approached the dish, knelt down, and began licking the fragments of the Philosopher's Stone like a desperate, starving creature. After a moment, she closed her eyes, and her body began to shift and flow, morphing before my eyes.
The transformation was fascinating to watch, but what intrigued me even more was what was happening on a magical level.
Her soul, which had been hidden from my view until now, suddenly flared with a luminous light. Almost immediately, I noticed a strange umbilical cord-like extension radiating from her soul. It stretched outward into the world but had been crudely severed, as though someone had forcibly cut it from the other end.
What else? I could feel a new kind of energy radiating from her—a type of energy entirely unfamiliar to me. It resonated on a deeper level, something tied to the very essence of the soul itself. I couldn't identify it, but I was certain it held some significance I had yet to understand.
Next, I observed her soul beginning to split into distinct layers. The outer shell separated from the inner core, with a strange, lubricating energy acting as a buffer between the two. The outer shell grew increasingly transparent, revealing the inner soul as it began to transform into something more human-like. The slave mark I had placed on her started sinking deeper and deeper, eventually embedding itself in the very core of her soul.
As the transformation progressed, the inner core began sliding within the soul, pushing its way through the umbilical cord. The cord, like a serpent, expanded to accommodate the passage of the inner core until it forced its way into the outside world. The process resembled nothing so much as a snake shedding its skin.
Once the inner soul emerged, the now-empty outer shell began to dissolve into the surrounding space. The energy it contained didn't vanish, however. Instead, it began enveloping the newly formed soul, slowly manifesting into the physical world.
The energy then started constructing a body—a body that was strikingly human-like. Memorizing the process as best I could, I watched intently, waiting to see how it would conclude. The transformation was accompanied by a radiant display of light, illuminating the area around us with a mesmerizing glow. The unused energy dissipated, though most of it appeared to be redirected into internal processes that, frustratingly, I couldn't decipher.
After a few more moments, where the grotesque demoness had once stood, there now stood a stunningly beautiful woman. The first thing that caught my eye was her pink hair, which faded into a lime-green shade at the tips. Her green eyes gazed at me with submissive adoration.
Her attire was simple yet alluring—a tight-fitting outfit that resembled a delicate nightgown. It struck a fine balance between modesty and suggestiveness, and, well… it was undeniably appealing.
Once I was confident she wasn't planning anything reckless, I began dispelling the enchantments. First, the outer protective barriers fell, followed by the inner ones. As the first barrier came down, I felt a familiar ripple of magical energy—the same sensation I'd felt during her transformation.
Finally, I dispelled the last enchantment, allowing her to step out of the pit. The demoness immediately dropped to her knees before me.
"My lord, thank you," she said gratefully.
In addition to becoming genuinely attractive, her magical power had also increased. While it wasn't a monumental boost, it was still enough to overshadow most other wizards. She remained far from my level, of course. Moreover, the slave mark had now fully fused with her soul. Removing it would require tearing a piece of her soul away, an inherently destructive process that was not easily undone.
"Well, now you look much better, Maria," I said with a nod.
"Thank you, my lord," she responded. "What would you have me do next?"
"For now, nothing in particular," I replied. "My next goal is to wipe out the rest of your kind hiding on the island. What do you say—will you help me with that?"
"Of course, my lord," she agreed after a brief pause. Truthfully, I didn't even need to ask if she'd help. The demoness had no choice but to assist me. Though, to be fair… I didn't actually need her help. Still, I decided to let her come along.
Before I return to France—where, I hear, some interesting events are also unfolding—I want to focus on clearing the demons from the island. My goal is to ensure the safety of not only wizards but ordinary people as well. Will I be rewarded for it? Probably not, but I don't particularly need any reward.
When I returned home, I didn't bother transfiguring the demoness back into a figurine. She now looked human enough that she wouldn't attract much attention.
Heading to bed, I drifted off into a rather pleasant sleep.
The morning greeted me with a cacophony echoing through the entire house. Though, after glancing at the clock, I realized it wasn't morning at all—it was well into lunchtime. Stretching and quickly shaking off the remnants of sleep, I stepped outside to find a bustling scene.
Hundred Veelas, along with Fleur, Hermione, and Maria, were busy preparing food. House-elves scurried around frantically, trying to keep up but with limited success. After all, a hundred witches were… a hundred witches.
To be honest, I never thought I'd see such a large group of witches bustling about in my yard, all focused on some activity.
"Timothy," Hermione called, waving at me as she was the first to notice my presence.
"Hello, everyone," I greeted them with a nod. "How's it going here?"
"Not bad," Fleur replied with a tired exhale, looking a bit worn out. "We decided to organize a little celebration. It's Angelina's birthday today."
"Oh, congratulations," I said, nodding toward the Veela who raised her hand to indicate she was the one being celebrated. "If I'd known earlier, I'd have prepared a gift."
"No need," Angelina said, waving her hand dismissively, though her smile revealed she appreciated the sentiment.
"By the way, Timothy," Fleur said, catching my attention, "a few letters arrived for you."
"Alright, let's see them," I replied. Fleur pointed to where the letters were, and I summoned them to my hand with a flick of my wand.
The first letter was from Malfoy. He expressed his gratitude for saving him and his family and extended an invitation to an official evening event. I quickly penned a response, letting him know I'd be happy to attend and provided an approximate time when I'd be free.
The second letter was from Isolde's father, formally requesting that I take his daughter on as my apprentice. Since Isolde and I had already discussed this arrangement, I saw no reason to refuse. My reply to him was brief but positive, confirming that I accepted her as my apprentice.
A few other letters came from people I didn't know at all, requesting assistance or asking for favors. Those were promptly tossed into the fire. Among the correspondence, there was also a newspaper.
The front page reported on the catastrophic events at the World Championship. The number of identified wizard casualties had already exceeded ten thousand, with an even greater number of unidentified bodies. No exact figure was mentioned, but the memory of those mountains of bodies remained vivid in my mind.
Another major headline detailed an attempted coup in France. While the attempt had been thwarted, the French Ministry had suffered some losses. Amélie Delacour had been appointed the new Minister of Magic and was working tirelessly to stabilize the government's structure.
It seemed, for now, that her efforts were bearing fruit. I would need to head to France soon—not only to express my support but also to secure Corsica for my personal use. Strange as it might sound, I wasn't entirely opposed to owning such a massive island where I could effectively be "king."
There was nothing else of interest in the letters or the newspaper. Alright, time to meet with Isolde and then head to France. The school term was set to begin soon, and I had work to do.
***
Harry Potter sat in a small boat alongside Headmaster Dumbledore and two Aurors who kept a constant, vigilant watch on him. The boat rocked gently on the waves as a light breeze played with his hair. Thankfully, the warm sun chased away much of the chill that rose from the ocean's depths.
They were heading to Azkaban, where Dumbledore had some business to attend to. Over the past few days, Harry had come to see the Headmaster in a new light. The man who once seemed so kind and benevolent now appeared distant and detached. Yet, oddly enough, Harry felt remarkably well. He had been sleeping soundly, and Ron had yet to appear in his dreams. All things considered, the Boy Who Lived was in surprisingly good spirits.
Still, Dumbledore's silent presence dampened his mood.
As they approached, Azkaban loomed into view—a rocky island constantly battered by the relentless waves of the North Sea. Isolated and desolate, it seemed perfectly designed to contain the worst of society. Despite its reputation, Sirius Black had proven that escaping it wasn't entirely impossible. The prison itself rose from the ocean like a jagged, broken tooth. Its dark gray walls, uniform and forbidding, were punctuated by narrow, slitted windows that barely allowed sunlight to penetrate.
The boat came to a halt at a small pier, where two Aurors stood waiting. They waved their wands, lifting the boat briefly to inspect the underside, ensuring no one had latched onto the hull. Only after this inspection were Dumbledore, Harry, and the Aurors allowed to step onto the wooden dock.
The salty scent of the ocean hung thick in the air, but it wasn't the smell that unsettled them. What truly unnerved the group was the faint sight of Dementors gliding through the skies above. A shiver ran down every wizard's spine, but Harry felt it most acutely.
No one had told Harry the purpose of their visit. Naturally, this left him uneasy—not panicked, but undeniably anxious.
The entrance to Azkaban was surprisingly unassuming. A wooden door reinforced with metal and marked with strange runic symbols stood before them, flanked by well-fortified guardrooms. There weren't many guards—just two stationed at the dock and six inside the prison itself.
"What's the purpose of your visit?" one of the guards asked. He was old and gray-haired, his wrinkled face resembling a dried apple.
"The release of a prisoner," one of the Aurors replied, handing over a document.
The guard unfolded the paper and scanned it quickly.
"Alright," he said with a curt nod. "One moment."
He reached into his robes and retrieved a small artifact, which he activated. A faint white wave spread along the walls, triggering something unseen. Harry's curiosity must have been obvious because the guard offered an explanation:
"It's an artifact that signals the Dementors someone will be walking the corridors."
"I see," Harry muttered. But when he realized the old guard had no interest in him whatsoever, he stifled the urge to ask any more questions.
"By the way, I see you've got a new face among you," the old guard said, nodding toward one of the younger Aurors.
"Adam Stone," the young wizard introduced himself. "I only recently joined the force. This is my first assignment."
"Hmm," the guard grunted, his tone skeptical. "Young, and already so eager… Well, no matter. A career in the Auror Office quickly brings people down to earth from their lofty clouds. By the way, Headmaster, why did you bring this boy here?"
Harry immediately realized they were talking about him.
"I want to familiarize the younger generation with the place where criminals are held," Dumbledore explained evenly.
"I see," the old man muttered with a disinterested nod. "Seems a bit early for that, but it's your decision. I don't care. Wait here for a moment."
"Mr. Stone," the Headmaster said, turning to the young Auror, "I see you've managed to find your path in life."
"Of course, Headmaster," Stone replied confidently. "After my OWLs, I went through a lot and re-evaluated my life."
"Yes," Dumbledore sighed, his voice heavy with memory. "That year was a very unpleasant one for me as well."
"I understand," Stone nodded solemnly.
The second Auror remained silent the entire time. He looked exhausted, as if he didn't want to be there at all.
The old guard returned with a large key in hand and said, "Follow me."
The wizards obeyed, their footsteps echoing off the cold, stone walls. The atmosphere grew colder and more oppressive with every step. The sense of pressure—of positivity being drained from the very air—intensified. Harry noticed that none of the others seemed to show any signs of discomfort, so he worked hard to bury his own feelings as deeply as possible.
"This is where the most dangerous criminals are held," the old man explained, his voice gruff. "Many of them were part of the Dark Lord's inner circle. Now that the Dementors have retreated, they have a moment to recover before the next round of emotional torture begins."
"I'm not feeling well," muttered Auror Stone.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Stone stick two fingers into his mouth for some reason before clutching his stomach, his face pale.
The young Auror leaned against one of the cell doors, clearly trying to steady himself. Then, as if trying to hide his nausea, he turned toward the small window in the door and vomited.
The others averted their eyes, unwilling to linger on the Auror's moment of weakness.
"My apologies," Stone said after a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He pulled a bottle of water from a small bag and drank furiously. "I must have eaten something bad yesterday."
"Hmm," the old guard grunted, his tone unimpressed. "Of all places, you had to vomit on Bellatrix Lestrange's cell. If she could, she'd gladly rip your eyes out and feed them to pigs."
"It's a good thing she's locked up here and won't be getting out anytime soon," the Auror replied, his voice steadier now.
"Alright, I don't care. Let's move on," the guard said in a tone of indifference.
"Are you okay?" Harry asked, glancing at the Auror.
"Yes, thank you," the Auror replied with a faint smile. "It felt like I swallowed a wand, and it got stuck. My advice to you: don't mix seaweed with Italian pasta again."
The comment, tinged with humor, lightened the oppressive atmosphere just a little. Harry chuckled softly but paused when he thought he heard something hard hit the stone floor. He glanced around but quickly dismissed it as his imagination.
"Good to know," Harry nodded before turning to Dumbledore. "Headmaster, who are we here for?"
"Rubeus Hagrid," Dumbledore replied calmly. "The Ministry has decided to pardon him."
"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. "That's wonderful!"
"Indeed," Albus Dumbledore agreed with a small nod, his expression softening slightly.