The bumpy, uneven road sent faint vibrations through the fabric of the coat pocket. Peter Pettigrew, in his rat form, tucked his tail in tighter, his missing-toed paw burrowing deeper into the silk lining. He gripped the cloth carefully, wary of leaving claw marks.
Azkaban wasn't as smooth as a glass jar, but Peter was used to hiding in pockets, curling up to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. While listening to the conversation between the young female Auror and the professor, he stole glances at the surroundings.
His limited view showed no signs of life—no plants, no greenery, just barren rock. The sky blended into the stone, both a dull, lifeless gray. The desolate island echoed only with the sound of crashing waves, deep blue water slamming against rocky cliffs, shattering into white foam.
The monotonous roar of the sea and the unchanging landscape made it hard to focus. Peter's mind drifted, thoughts wandering unchecked.
…
A delicate white porcelain cup painted with violets held steaming pumpkin juice, its sweet aroma filling the air with a comforting warmth.
Across a wide desk, Peter Pettigrew sat opposite the young professor, staring nervously at the cup, too timid to meet his gaze.
It was early morning, and the professor had roused him for breakfast. The food from Hogwarts' kitchens was tempting, but just ten minutes ago, Peter had been a rat, curled up in a cramped glass bottle, his beady eyes darting around.
"This task isn't too difficult," Melvin said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "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 halfway to his lips. He didn't dare drink or set the cup down.
A small, delicate glass vial sat nearby, no bigger than half a knuckle, its walls thin and transparent. Even in rat form, he could easily carry it. Inside was a colorless liquid, just a drop or two.
"Your job is to sneak into 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 thin string was tied to it for easy carrying. "She's just a prisoner, weakened by twelve years of Dementors, without a wand. There's no danger, and you won't need to reveal yourself."
"And you'll let me go if I do this?" Peter asked, his voice quivering.
"Of course," Melvin said. "We don't have any deep grudges. If all goes well, you can go back to being Scabbers—or Peter, the hero. If Britain feels unsafe, I can even give you some Galleons to start fresh abroad."
"You really trust me?" Peter asked hesitantly.
"Absolutely," Melvin replied, looking up. "But… a few precautions are necessary."
…
Scabbers raised his left front paw. Beneath the patchy, matted fur on the inner arm, a faint pattern of a coiled snake was barely visible.
He'd seen something like it before—a snake and a skull…
They called it the Dark Mark.
"In Azkaban, prisoners with different sentences are kept separate. The ones in the fortress are the lifers, mostly Death Eaters…" The female Auror's voice was light and casual.
Peter curled tighter, his rat eyes glazing over.
Azkaban, the prison for Death Eaters…
He was probably here, wasn't he?
Three faces flashed in Peter's mind, blurred by the passage of time but still recognizable.
Remus wasn't handsome—his face long and thin, his pale skin giving him a frail look. His faint, tired smile and deep, complex eyes seemed to hide heavy secrets.
Peter hadn't heard of Remus in years. He was probably hiding somewhere, scraping by, just like him.
James was striking—dark hair, square jaw, always laughing with infectious energy. His light brown eyes sparkled with life, his steps quick from years of Quidditch.
He'd never catch another Snitch. He died twelve years ago, on the last day of October.
Then there was Sirius, with high cheekbones and gray eyes that radiated defiance. He'd challenged professors, rejected the Black family, and 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 wanted to tear him apart and swallow him whole.
Peter's heart raced, and he curled even tighter, a glint of resolve flickering in his eyes.
…
By now, they'd walked some distance. The low roar of the waves grew louder, then faded again. The rugged path twisted through several turns until they reached 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 corridor of rough limestone, flanked by cells. Most prisoners leaned listlessly against the walls. Only a few stirred at the sound of footsteps, their gaunt, filthy frames clad in tattered rags, seemingly numb to the world.
Scratched graffiti and dates marred the walls, barely legible.
"These are the minor offenders, serving a few months to a year," Tonks explained. "If they could pay the fines, they'd be out, but they're broke…"
Broke, so they were left here to feed the Dementors.
Melvin had visited Knockturn Alley when he first arrived in Britain, learning about the wizards scraping by in the shadows. Seeing these numb prisoners deepened his understanding of the British wizarding world.
The oppressive atmosphere silenced them. Melvin slowed his pace, in no rush to send Scabbers to the Death Eaters.
After a loop through the cells, Tonks closed the door, rehung the chain without locking it, and led them toward the next prison.
"The security here seems… lax," Melvin remarked casually.
"I thought so too at first," Tonks said, hesitating before lowering her voice. "But Azkaban doesn't need high walls or locks. The Dementors break the prisoners' spirits—most lose the will to escape. On good days, the Aurors even let them out for fresh air."
"Those prisoners in there—were they just fed on by Dementors?" Melvin asked.
"Three days ago," Tonks said. "They're in recovery now. Minor offenders only get fed on once a week, so they're spared for the next few days."
She paused. "If Dementors feed too often, normal wizards can suffer soul damage, drastic personality changes, and struggle to recover after release."
Sustainable feeding… Melvin felt a grim absurdity. This wasn't just a prison for dark wizards—it was a farm for Dementors.
"This is already an improvement under Minister Eldritch Diggory," Tonks added 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 continued, "They say on stormy nights, the fortress walls weep, and those who see it can smell despair…"
They pressed on along the rocky path, winding through more turns until another low, rough stone building loomed ahead. As they approached, a chilling, ominous feeling grew stronger.
"The Dementors feed in batches," Tonks said softly at the door. "You're lucky, Professor—you're catching them in action."
She pushed open the door.
Before Melvin could observe the prisoners, shadows lurking outside the skylight stole his attention.
A group of creatures in tattered black cloaks hovered, each two to three meters tall, their faces hidden beneath hoods. Their skeletal, scabbed hands stretched out, pale as corpses soaked in liquid, mere skin draped over bone.
A wave of cold swept through the prison, the air nearly freezing, thick with a damp, moldy stench mixed with the briny tang of seawater. The dim light seemed to fade, save for a faint glow from beneath the cloaks.
Melvin noticed Tonks tense beside him.
These prisoners, serving longer sentences, were even more emaciated, their eyes duller. Yet even they couldn't stay calm in the Dementors' presence, shrinking into corners, trembling, clutching their sleeves.
The Dementors, ghostlike yet tangible, glided through cell bars, able to breathe and touch. One approached a middle-aged wizard, its hooded face lowering with a bone-chilling hiss.
The wizard jolted 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 from him—silvery wisps of mist, emotions, memories, an abnormal kind of magic—flowing from his eyes and mouth into the Dementor's maw.
Melvin, who'd encountered similar phenomena, watched wide-eyed from a distance.
"Ha… ha…"
Hoarse, halting gasps echoed in the cell, indistinguishable between prisoner and Dementor. The Dementor's chest heaved, each inhale paired with a low growl. The wizard's body shook violently, fingers clawing at the air, scraping the walls.
The sounds were faint, rustling, yet carried a soul-deep terror.
Minutes later, the air grew heavier, tinged with the scent of death. The Dementor pulled back, drifting restlessly, while the wizard sweated coldly, his gaunt frame dripping onto the floor, lips purple, glowing with a sickly sheen, as if magic were eating away at his life.
Their hollow eyes stared at the ceiling, limbs twitching before going limp, like empty husks.
Perhaps these prisoners were too broken, their souls and bodies too worn. The Dementors' harvest was meager, their hunger unsated, only growing stronger.
One Dementor, agitated, suddenly noticed the two newcomers. The one not in an Auror uniform radiated an enticing aura and paused midair.
Per their deal with the Ministry, anyone on the island not employed by them was fair game.
Melvin wasn't sure how Dementors communicated, but the others turned, drawn to this fresh, delectable prey.
"Professor, I think… they're targeting you," Tonks said, her face paling.
She was just a newly trained Auror. Though she knew the Patronus Charm, she had little confidence in saving the professor from a Dementor swarm.
"They picked the wrong guy," Melvin said, raising his hand, a wand materializing. He pointed it forward.
The Dementors froze, like wolves realizing their prey was a lion. They hesitated, caught between fear and hunger.
But hunger won. The nearest Dementor raised its skeletal hands, emitting a low, rasping hiss toward Melvin.
"Expecto…"
Melvin's voice was soft, almost lighter than the wind, drawing out the incantation. A powerful surge of magic began to build.
Tonks noticed something astonishing—the prison seemed to freeze. The twitching prisoners, the lunging Dementors, the air itself shimmered with milky-white specks, like mist.
"Patronum!"
Melvin's second half of the spell burst forth.
Silver light coalesced, nearly solid, like a full moon or an egg. A sharp horn pierced through, and as it broke free, radiant light exploded. A silver creature shot forward, an arrow loosed from a bow, charging the hovering Dementors.
Dementors were nearly indestructible, sustained by their unique magical forms. But against this extraordinary magic, their resilience meant nothing. Already vulnerable to a Patronus' light, they were utterly defenseless now.
The violent impact tore their tattered cloaks into rags, their exposed hands shriveling further. The damp, rotting stench began to fade.
Under the silver glow, the dark shapes dulled to a pale gray, shrieking as they fled.