Drake Anglin stood among shattered stones. The roar of the crashing waves thundered to his ears as he stood with broom in hand. Dark grey clouds raged against the light the sun provided. Wind shuddered across the plateau where he stood, forcing him to take hold of his wide-brimmed hat, and step into the gust to avoid falling. His black greatcoat offered limited protection against the sharp cold, and even here, the ocean spray brought dampness to further chill him.
He strode carefully to what once was the entrance gate. The thick doors lay on the ground, rock shattered and metal bent. The place had been abandoned for some time. Even when it had been in use, nobody had wanted to come here. But now… What was left of the walls provided some shelter from the wind. But even without it, the temperature lowered further with every step he took, until it was colder than a tomb.
His sharp face was grave, dark blue eyes piercing through the mist that drifted from the gaping maw of the broken door. His ears could faintly detect the signs of his prey. He released the broom, and it drifted to float beside him. It would stay here for him in case he needed to run. He took a deep breath, and steeled his resolve. He had seen much in his nearly forty years, but he had never felt such dread as he did now. He drew his wand and held it between his eyes, its familiar weight giving him strength. The length of dark brown sequoia was patterned with ruler-straight lines with unpredictable changes in direction that grew fainter and fainter until they reached the hardened tip. He said a quick prayer. He had devoted his life to this. His father had lost his life for this. He could not back down now, not when he was so close. Drake shoved his wand down to his side, and looked up with fire in his eyes. Above the shattered doorway was a word. A name, repeated in dozens of different languages.
But no words could describe the darkness of Azkaban.
Drake entered.
"Lumos Maxima." He stated, his normally strong voice sounding weak to even his own ears. His wand flared to life, washing the walls and ceiling of the stone corridors in brilliant white light. But even then, he could not see more than a dozen feet in front of him. He walked past the area that had been the security checkpoints, magical detectors and plain desks empty save for bones wrapped in rotting clothes. The kills were relatively recent, within the last five years, but nothing lasted long on this rock. That had been Voldemort's work.
"Expecto patronum." He stated softly, the chosen memory rising to the forefront of his mind, and, momentarily, joy and happiness replaced the darkness in his mind. The physical darkness was driven back, and in its place stood a wolf. Seemingly crafted of light itself, the Patronus looked to him with glowing blue eyes, energy streaming from its limbs and body. Drake smiled, despite himself. He couldn't help but feel better when his Patronus was near. But he was not done here. He straightened his jacket, and strode deeper into the darkness, his only companion lighting the way.
They were still here. At first, he hadn't believed the reports that they were gathering, returning. Here, of all places? But they had been right, no matter what other misinformation they had also given Drake. At first he could not see them. But he knew they were there. The dementors. The Patronus's presence was keeping them at bay, for now.
There were hundreds of them. He passed room after room, cell after cell. All full. They shied away from the Patronus's light, the strength of its connection to Drake stronger than many of the dementors had seen before. But who knows what they had seen? They were immortal. They had faced countless Patronuses. Mine is stronger. Drake told himself. As he neared the bottom of the once-great tower, he noticed the numbers were still increasing.
And then he found what he was looking for. He entered a cavernous room, the ceiling beyond the reach of the light, covered with dozens of the foul beings. But there. At the center of the room was the thing he sought. The dementors formed a ring around it, as if even they were fearful of getting too close. As they approached, the dementors separated, like a divided sea of foul blackness. There. Hovering above the floor, floated a being. Had you seen it at a distance, it might have been confused with its lesser cousins. The Hollowed turned to face him. It wore a cloak, less ragged than its relatives, and its darkness made all others pale in comparison. It was not composed of black bones and perpetually rotting flesh, but of ethereal black energy that radiated in waves from it. It was oblivion incarnate. All instinct and rational thought begged, tore, at Drake, to run, to run far away, where he could die, cease to exist, in peace.
But he stood firm. The dark being seemed to regard him and his glowing companion. The Patronus settled lower to the ground and uttered an echoing growl of utter hatred.
There, in that darkest of moments, Drake felt joy. He had done what he had said he would. Nobody had believed him. His father had been right all along. They were really coming. And here was the proof. He smiled. Now came the easy part. Surviving.
He raised his glowing wand high and began to chant in a tongue forgotten to humanity. But dementors have better memory than humans. The dementors remembered. And they didn't like it.
The Hollowed screamed in anger, a discordant roar heard from the bottom of the void, and every dementor in Azkaban charged.