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Chapter 106
"What do you think, Professor Dumbledore?" Malfoy asked quietly, standing in a shadowed corner where the man on the floor could not see them. "Are you still hoping to use Obliviate to make him forget?"
Not long ago, the two of them had witnessed the addict's collapse with their own eyes. Even after Dumbledore had cast Obliviate, the addiction itself had not disappeared.
In order to escape the pain brought on by withdrawal, the man desperately tried to distract himself. But the emptiness in his mind could not be erased, so he turned his body into an outlet instead. Sweat poured down his face, and the hollow ache in his chest nearly swallowed him whole. Trembling, he staggered into the corner, raised his fist, and slammed it into the hard wall again and again. Then he dropped to his knees and smashed his forehead against it.
He didn't understand why he hurt so much. All he knew was that pain was the only thing that could drown out the pain.
Soon his eyes turned bloodshot, veins standing out as though they might burst at any moment. This crude method was no longer enough. His gaze darted around the room, instinctively searching for something sharp—something that could tear deeper, hurt more, and drown out the agony completely.
But the room was empty.
There was nothing.
Then there was only himself.
He still had his teeth.
Shaking his head, he opened his mouth and bit down hard on his own arm like a madman. Deep teeth marks appeared instantly, blood seeping through the skin. It was horrifying—almost impossible to imagine someone being so ruthless to himself. But even that failed him. Even tearing flesh away only dulled the pain slightly.
Cold and heat crashed over him in waves. One moment, it felt as though he had fallen into an icy abyss, frozen to the bone. The next, it was as if he were drowning in molten lava, burning alive in endless torment.
Is this hell?
Maybe it is.
Then his eyes suddenly lit up.
The door was locked—but the window wasn't.
If he couldn't escape the pain gnawing at his heart like countless ants, then perhaps throwing himself from here would finally end it.
Compared to endless suffering, death really was a kind of mercy.
He rushed toward the window, grabbed the frame, and flung it open—
"Stupefy!"
The spell struck him mid-movement. His body went limp, and he collapsed to the floor, the pain and his suicide attempt both cut short in an instant.
Malfoy and Dumbledore stepped out of the shadows.
"Why is it like this?" Dumbledore asked at once, unable to look at the man's ruined state.
"In Muggle terms," Malfoy said calmly, tapping his wand against his own temple, "addiction has to be broken in both the mind and the body. Once someone becomes addicted, physical changes occur in the brain. They're irreversible."
"So 'quitting' is a lie," he continued. "What you just saw was withdrawal in its purest form."
A faint, chilling smile curved Malfoy's lips, and Dumbledore felt his heart sink.
"When someone chooses this path, they've already lost their place in society. In other words, we can no longer treat him as a normal person."
"As food for Dementors," Malfoy said flatly, "this is probably the best use of what remains of his life. I can't imagine him contributing anything else."
"There are nests of corruption everywhere in places like this. This one man is ruined—but there are countless others drowning themselves elsewhere, beyond our sight. I can even ensure he has a steady supply. Perhaps he should be thanking me."
Dumbledore fell silent once more.
He had lost count of how many times he had been shaken today. Even if part of him resisted Malfoy's reasoning, he couldn't find a single argument to refute it.
This was the lowest stratum of Muggle society. Crime thrived here. And this boy had not dragged the man into addiction—he had merely made use of what already existed.
The drug's effect was terrifyingly strong. Even if hundreds of Dementors fed on a single person at once, it would still be more than enough—without spreading harm further.
And even if Dumbledore wished otherwise, he was powerless. The Obliviate he had cast proved it clearly: even after forgetting the drug itself, forgetting the bliss it brought, the corruption had already sunk into the man's bones. He would never escape it.
Perhaps what weighed on Dumbledore was not disagreement—but helplessness.
"By the way, Professor," Malfoy added lightly, "you could still try it before you die. It's supposedly the happiest feeling there is. Wouldn't it be a shame to miss it?"
"Even so, I won't," Dumbledore replied without hesitation, as though avoiding a deadly curse.
"Why?"
"Because I want to die with dignity," Dumbledore said quietly.
Malfoy shrugged. "I feel the same. If someone tasted endless pleasure at the very end, they'd probably regret not starting sooner."
Regret, he thought, might follow them even into death.
Besides, with magic in the world, if Dumbledore truly tried it and lost himself, the Wizarding World might gain a second Dark Lord. That would be a grim joke indeed.
True discipline was never proven by falling and crawling back out. Keeping one's distance was always better.
"Well," Malfoy said, changing the subject, "are you satisfied with my solution, Professor?"
"Yes," Dumbledore answered simply.
He moved to the window and gazed at the bright moon outside, saying nothing more, only sighing occasionally.
"Some people," Malfoy said softly, "aren't worth saving."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion. In that moment, he seemed less like the greatest wizard alive, and more like an old man worn down by suffering he could not erase.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He tapped his wand lightly against the glass—a meaningless habit, one he used whenever his thoughts grew too heavy.
"I find myself very interested in you, Draco," Dumbledore said at last, turning around and adjusting his half-moon spectacles.
Malfoy inwardly sighed. That doesn't sound comforting coming from an old man.
Aloud, he said casually, "There's nothing mysterious about it, Professor. I just read a lot of books. In the Muggle world, this is common knowledge."
"Oh?" Dumbledore drawled, studying him closely.
"Then we'll leave it at that," he said at last, stroking his beard.
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On the second day after the Dementors attacked the Quidditch match, students were shocked to discover that the Dementors stationed outside Hogwarts had vanished overnight.
Speculation spread quickly.
"The Ministry backing down?" Ron scoffed over dinner. "Impossible. My dad says the current Minister doesn't listen to anyone—especially not the Headmaster."
Lowering his voice, he added, "Dumbledore protested strongly, but it didn't work. Fudge won't back down. Even when his subordinates mess up, he protects them."
Ron sighed, glancing at his arm, now nearly healed. "His rise to power really is a tragedy."
"So the Dementors really are gone?" Simon asked.
"No idea," Ron said, grabbing a piece of mutton pie. "Maybe the Headmaster scared them half to death."
"Ahem—!"
He choked mid-sentence, face flushing red, and it took a few quick spells from nearby students to fix it.
Just a minor incident.
Dinner soon ended. As students stood to leave, the Great Hall doors slammed shut.
"Everyone," Dumbledore's voice echoed. "I have a brief announcement. Please remain seated."
The students obeyed.
"I believe you've all noticed," Dumbledore said calmly, "that peace has returned to Hogwarts."
"Yes, Headmaster!" a Hufflepuff student shouted. "Those horrible creatures are gone! Was it you?"
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "As much as I'd like to take the credit, this time it wasn't me."
His gaze drifted toward Slytherin—toward Malfoy—before he continued.
"After yesterday's incident, I wrote a letter of protest to the Minister of Magic. As you know, owls are slow. A reply would normally take at least a day."
He paused.
"But something unexpected occurred."
With a flick of his wand, copies of the Daily Prophet appeared on every table.
The headline was unmistakable:
DERELICT MINISTER OF MAGIC?
HOW LONG CAN CORNELIUS FUDGE HOLD OFFICE?
The photograph showed Fudge standing before Azkaban, pale and defeated.
The article spared no mercy.
It detailed his rise after Millicent Bagnold's resignation in 1990, his luck in inheriting peace, and his failures since. Why had Azkaban—never breached before—collapsed under his watch? Why had Dementors repeatedly lost control, spreading chaos even into Hogwarts itself?
Were they guards—or ticking bombs?
The answer, it declared, was now obvious.
In a single night, all Dementors stationed at Hogwarts, those hunting fugitives, and even those guarding Azkaban vanished.
A strike.
A rebellion.
Had Dumbledore not arrived in time, the article concluded, the Wizarding World might have faced its darkest day yet.
Azkaban's potential mass prison break would have plunged society into utter chaos, and would have dealt a devastating blow to the Statute of Secrecy before the Muggle world.
Fortunately, our greatest white Wizard arrived in time, and the disaster was stopped before it could unfold. Otherwise, the headlines you see today might have been ones no one would ever wish to read.
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