"You know, Mr. Malfoy, not many of my students ask me for a duel," Snape said silkily, pulling out his wand. "The few who have angered me to this point usually realize they have made a mistake by the time the challenge has flown from their mouths."
His young charge gave him an arrogant smirk as he pulled out his own wand.
"Well, you know me, Professor. I live to make your day a bit more interesting."
The dungeon they stood in was one of the abandoned chambers beneath Hogwarts, dimly lit by flickering torches mounted on ancient stone walls. Dust clung stubbornly to the cracked stone floor, and the air carried the faint scent of mildew and old potions. A few dilapidated desks and tables, along with a single rusty cauldron, had been shoved against the far wall, leaving a wide-open space in the center of the room.
Snape's black eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed Draco. "What is the real purpose of this duel, Mr. Malfoy? Surely you're not foolish enough to believe you can best me in straightforward combat."
Draco's smirk widened into something sharper, a blade's edge of confidence. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Professor. I simply thought it was time to... show off one of my little inventions."
Snape raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He was well aware that Draco had been experimenting with spells, muting incantations, and modifying charms to give them unique properties—not entirely unlike his own Levicorpus. But Draco had spoken only in passing about these projects, leaving Snape with little more than tantalizing hints.
From his robe pocket, Draco withdrew a black iron sphere, roughly the size of a baseball. Its dark surface glinted faintly in the torchlight, and Snape immediately recognized the faint hum of enchantment. With a flick of his wand, Draco tapped the orb. The soft hum intensified, and suddenly, the golden Nordic runes engraved into the metal exterior flared to life, glowing brilliantly.
Snape squinted slightly, focusing on the runes. "What, precisely, am I looking at, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco smirked. "An altered Bludger, Professor. With a few... enhancements."
"Hmm," Snape murmured, slipping into a dueling stance. His wand rose, precise and sharp. "Very well. Show me what it can do."
Draco's grin turned feral, and without uttering a word, he unleashed a roaring stream of fire from his wand. Snape's eyes widened slightly as the torrent of flames rushed toward him, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, he conjured a shimmering shield. The fire roared against the barrier, crackling like a living beast, and Snape inwardly marveled at the sheer power Draco was pouring into what seemed like a standard Incendio.
But then, he heard it.
A faint, sharp whistle.
Snape's head snapped to the side just in time to see the altered Bludger hurtling toward him from the right. Cursing under his breath, he dispelled his shield and batted the Bludger away with a swift Knockback Jinx. But the flames were still advancing.
Thinking fast, Snape began Vanishing the fire, absorbing and dispersing the flames at an almost impossible pace. The air shimmered with heat, sweat beading on Snape's brow.
Then, suddenly, the flames stopped.
Through the rising steam, Snape caught a brief glimpse of Draco—his wand held high, a grin splitting his face—before the boy unleashed a thick cloud of black smoke.
Fumos, Snape realized, already preparing a silent Ventus to clear the air.
But the Bludger was back.
A sharp hum cut through the smoke as the iron sphere came hurtling toward his face. Snape barely managed to raise another shimmering shield, deflecting the Bludger with a resounding clang. Then, two red bolts shot through the smoke, impacting his shield with sharp cracks.
Stunners.
Snape retaliated with a volley of spells—bright flashes of light cutting through the darkness—as he kept Draco pinned down. But the Bludger returned again and again, grazing his robes and whipping past his hair. Snape snarled, frustration curling in his chest. The limited visibility, the relentless Bludger, and Draco's increasingly creative spells were beginning to wear on him.
The Bludger, ever persistent, swooped back into the fray. Snape conjured translucent barriers, only for the enchanted iron sphere to shatter them on impact, buzzing angrily as it zeroed in on him. The professor snarled in frustration, sidestepping just in time for the Bludger to narrowly miss his ear.
"Impressive, Mr. Malfoy!" Snape barked as he dodged a crackling whip of fire that Draco lashed toward him.
Draco smirked, sweat gleaming on his brow. "You haven't seen anything yet, Professor!"
Draco pressed his advantage, launching a ferocious torrent of smoke and flame. Snape, teeth clenched, spun his wand in a defensive arc, creating a whirlwind of air that sucked the smoke upward and dispersed it. He flicked his wand again, and a Stinging Hex zipped toward Draco, narrowly missing his cheek.
The duel became a dance.
Snape moved fluidly, sending rapid streams of spells—Stupefy, Flipendo, Petrificus Totalus—while dodging and blocking both the enchanted Bludger and Draco's attacks. The boy, for his part, was relentless, sending jets of green, blue, and red fire, manipulating the dungeon floor with spiked transfigurations and slippery patches of ice.
Snape had to admit—this was impressive.
Draco then cast a powerful Ventus, and the gust hit Snape squarely, pushing him back several steps. It was a fleeting mistake, but it was all the Bludger needed.
With a predatory hum, the Bludger lunged upward from below, striking Snape cleanly in the chin. His teeth rattled, his vision swam, and pain exploded through his jaw.
Before he could recover, Draco followed up with a low-powered Blasting Curse aimed at Snape's feet.
The explosion knocked Snape backward, and he hit the stone floor with a sharp grunt.
Draco froze, wide-eyed. "Holy shit, I actually got you! Wait—are you for real? Did I actually get you?"
For a split second, Draco's guard dropped.
Snape struck.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell ripped Draco's wand from his hand, sending it clattering across the dungeon floor. The force of the spell threw Draco backward into the stone wall with a dull thud.
The Bludger let out an angry, vibrating hum, its golden runes glowing furiously as it lunged at Snape again.
But this time, Snape was ready.
"Immobulus!"
The Bludger froze mid-flight, slowing to a lazy float. Snape snatched it from the air, feeling it vibrate furiously in his palm, the runes blazing like molten gold.
When he turned, Draco was already back on his feet—his wand retrieved, pointed squarely at Snape's chest.
Snape's own wand was aimed at Draco's head.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Snape's shoulders relaxed, and his wand lowered slightly.
"Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, his voice low and silky. "You are now as skilled as an experienced Death Eater in the Dark Lord's inner circle."
The smile that spread across Draco's face was victorious.
"Well, one that is holding back in every aspect of the phrase, at least," he added, chuckling internally at how his ward's face fell.
Snape considered the altered bludger still enclosed in his fist, buzzing angrily as it tried to escape from his grip.
"What alterations did you add to this?" he asked, curious.
"Not much. I used the Reducio to make it smaller, but I modified the spell so that it kept its mass even though its size was reduced. That slowed it down some, but it's still faster than most wizards can track. There's a Finite Incantatum enchantment on it that's supposed to let it crash through magical barriers and wards and dispel spells, but, you could still use Immobulus on it, and it only broke a few of your Protego, so I need to work on that. It also has a Bombarda enchantment that I can activate by saying a certain phrase, but that's a last-stand kind of thing."
"Hmm. Interesting. Innovative, to be sure. Why did it not attack you, though? Bludger's are indiscriminate, as far as I know."
"Oh, that's easy," Draco said with a smile. 'It's part of the reason why Bludgers don't attack civilians or referees. You see, right now, the enchantment on it allows it to differentiate between a player, civilian or referee. The Bludger has designated me as a 'referee', and you as a 'player', so it'll listen to my commands and attack you. It's why Bludgers stop attacking when a referee calls a time-out. When I'm fighting with allies, I can enchant the Bludger to designate them as 'civilians', or people not playing the game, and enemies as 'players'. I want about three of them with me when everything is said and done, and I think it'd be really cool to add some more enchantments…"
As Draco continued to blather on about his new toy, Severus came to a sudden realization.
Draco had been deadly serious when he talked about defying the Dark Lord.
The wandless magic could have been a fluke: the Lucky Potion could enhance your abilities, but not to the point of absurdity. With Felix Felicis, a normal person could survive Albus Dumbledore, not defeat him. But creating something like this…
Even with the potion guiding him, Draco needed to have serious skills to get to this point. Certain enchanted items like Brooms and Quidditch gear were very hard to customize because the regulations by the Department of Magical Games and Sports required them to be ironclad. For the boy to have manipulated those enchantments, and add his own, turning the toy into a weapon, it spoke of power, creativity and ingenuity.
Draco would not go under the radar, that much was obvious. His masters, the men he had chained himself to-both of them would one day see Draco's power, and they would ask him why he had not told them.
Either the Dark Lord or Dumbledore would have to be alerted to the boy's hunt for power, if only to keep his cover as a double agent.
The question was…which one?
The night was ink-dark and heavy with silence as Fred Weasley lay beneath his sheets, eyes wide open, waiting for the clock to tick closer to 2:30 AM. George, in the bed across from him, was similarly still, though Fred could tell by the faint rustling of fabric that his twin was equally awake.
The letter from Draco Malfoy had been gnawing at both of them all day—a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and an edge of something else.
Unease, perhaps? Distrust?
Draco Malfoy: the Slytherin prince, long-time tormentor of their little brother Ron, and a walking embodiment of everything they generally avoided in life. Malfoy thought they were scum on the boots of the world, and they thought the same of him.
But the meeting in the Hog's Head a few weeks back had planted a seed of doubt.
Malfoy had spoken in defense of Harry, and Harry and Hermione themselves had started vouching for him during D.A. meetings. Yet Ron—Ron was a different story. He'd scowled every time Malfoy's name was mentioned, never outright objecting, but never confirming the boy had changed either. And Ron—their usually hot-tempered, stubborn brother—had been distant these last few days. Quiet, morose, lost. Fred made a mental note to talk to him soon, get him out of his funk. For Ron, you couldn't let things run their course, or he'd fall into a rut. You had to push him, force him to open the curtains and let the sunlight in, or he'd be stuck in the dark for a long time.
The letter had been simple: a meeting at 3 AM, in an old, unused classroom on the fifth floor. Fred's first instinct had been to crumple it up and toss it into the common room fire. But curiosity was a Weasley trait, and the twins had it in spades.
At 2:30 sharp, the twins silently slid out from under their covers, fully dressed in dark robes. With synchronized movements, they aimed their wands at each other and whispered the incantation for the Disillusionment charm. The cold sensation of the charm washing over them was familiar—like an icy egg cracking over their heads. Moments later, their forms blurred and disappeared. Next came the Silencing Charms on their boots and robes, muffling every movement.
George moved to the dormitory door, pausing only to fire a nonverbal Silencio at the hinges, knowing well how they squeaked. When they had cleared that hurdle and reached the common room, Fred cast a quick Homenum Revelio—no one.
They slipped through the portrait hole, stirring the Fat Lady from her sleep.
"Hmm? Who is that? Who—?" she began, but the twins were already halfway down the corridor, silent as shadows and invisible to the naked eye.
The castle was alive at night in a way it never was during the day. The air was cooler, the stones seemed to hum softly underfoot, and the shadows twisted and stretched with every flicker of torchlight. Every sound could be a teacher. Every shadow could be hiding a prefect. With Umbridge in the castle, security had stepped up, and some sets of armor were even told to keep an eye out for troublemakers. It should have discouraged them, the danger.
Instead, it only invigorated them.
Fred grinned wildly, the same exhilaration coursing through him as it always did when they pulled off these late-night escapades. Beside him, though unseen, he knew George was grinning too.
They had spent countless nights like this over the years—exploring, pranking, dodging Filch, and discovering Hogwarts' secrets.
But tonight felt different. Heavier. Fred couldn't shake the thought that this was his last year—their last year—to feel this free. Adulthood loomed on the horizon, and while their joke shop was something to look forward to, it felt like they were leaving behind a part of themselves in these stone halls.
The thought made Fred's chest tighten. Hogwarts had been their home as much as the Burrow. He knew George felt it too, even if they never spoke about it. They didn't need to. George was more than his twin—he was a part of him. They had always been Fred-and-George, a singular entity against the world, and soon they'd be facing something much larger than prefects and cranky caretakers. They'd be facing responsibilities, taxes, and bills, a world they weren't used to. If Fred didn't know George would be by his side every step of the way, he wondered how he would even sleep at night.
Doors swung open for them without resistance, shortcuts revealed themselves as if the castle itself were guiding them.
Fred idly wondered if Hogwarts was alive—if it had been looking out for them all these years, aiding them in their mischief.
They reached the classroom that Draco had mentioned in his letter, with only a few seconds to spare.
Therefore, they were right on time.
George rapped on the door—three sharp knocks, a pause, then two more: the agreed-upon signal mentioned in the enigmatic letter. For a second, there was nothing but silence, and Fred began to wonder if this was some kind of trick or trap. But there was a click from the lock, and he knew that at the very least, someone who knew about the letter was in there. The door creaked open, and they slipped inside.
Draco Malfoy sat at one of the old desks, a single candle casting flickering light over his pale, exhausted face. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, and his pointed features were drawn tight with tension.
Fred flicked his wand at the door, casting a silent Colloportus, sealing it. George dispelled the Disillusionment Charm on Fred, and Fred did the same for George.
The twins stared at Draco, their expressions identical in their skepticism.
Fred broke the silence first. "So, what does the prince of snakes want from the lowly Weasley brothers?"
Draco sighed, shoulders sagging slightly. "I have a business proposition."
Fred and George exchanged a look, identical eyebrows arching.
George spoke next. "What possible business could the two of us have with you?"
Fred added, "We're not interested in curses or hurting people, Malfoy. That's been your main gig for the past four years, so why are we even here?"
Draco closed his eyes briefly, gathering himself. "I want to invest in your business. To become a primary shareholder."
Fred and George blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. It was rare for the twins to be at a loss for words, but Draco Malfoy offering to invest in their joke shop was about as likely as Peeves apologizing for causing chaos.
Fred recovered first, his grin sharp and incredulous. "Primary shareholder? Is this some sort of joke, Malfoy? Because we're usually the ones telling them."
George leaned against one of the old desks, arms crossed, his skepticism plain. "If it is a joke, it's not a very good one. You're barking up the wrong tree if you think we'd take Galleons from you of all people."
Draco's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he reached into his robes and withdrew a small leather mokeskin pouch, setting it on the desk in front of him. The faint jingle of coins was unmistakable.
Fred's eyes narrowed. "What's that? Your piggy bank?"
Draco's lips twitched, though it wasn't quite a smirk. "One thousand Galleons as an initial investment. Consider it proof that I'm serious."
The twins exchanged another look, this one more contemplative. A thousand Galleons wasn't just pocket change—it was equal to the amount Harry had given them. And right now, they needed that money. After the down payment for their spot in Diagon Alley, the ingredients they needed from vendors, how much they had paid for advertisements in the Prophet, the owls they had bought for the Owl Order service, the pay for the testers…well, right now, they were at an equilibrium. Not making enough cash for a profit, but not enough to make it a loss. This money could change that, and give them a lot more breathing room.
But the source of the money made their stomachs churn.
"Why?" George asked finally, his tone softer but no less suspicious. "Why us? Why now? You've spent years making Ron's life hell, sneering at our family, and now you want to fund our dream? Forgive us if we're not exactly lining up to shake your hand, Lord Malfoy."
Draco exhaled, his fingers drumming on the desk. For a moment, he looked almost... vulnerable.
"Because I believe in what you're doing. Your products—your ideas—they have potential. Not just for pranks, but for innovation. I've seen the way students flock to your inventions, and how your work inspires laughter even in the middle of all this…madness. People need that."
Fred and George were quiet, their usual banter tempered by the unexpected earnestness in Malfoy's voice.
Draco continued, his tone low and urgent. "I'm not asking you to like me. I don't even care if you hate me. But the world is changing, and we're all going to need... allies. Resources. If you think I'm doing this out of some misguided kindness, you're wrong. It's a strategic move—for both of us. Your shop could grow into something extraordinary, and I want to be part of that success."
Fred folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "And what's in it for you, exactly?"
Draco met his gaze evenly. "A share of the profits, of course. Some lessons on enchantments. I would also like to propose some…personal inventions, to sell through your shop: nothing dark, just useful. Useful enough that the Ministry will line up to buy them in droves. And... an association with something better than the family name I've been saddled with. Let's just say I'm diversifying my reputation."
George snorted. "That's one way to put it."
Fred tilted his head, studying Draco with uncharacteristic seriousness. "You really think our shop could be that big?"
Draco smirked faintly. "With the right funding and business strategy? Yes. But that's up to you. I'm just offering the means to make it happen."
The twins exchanged a long look, their silent conversation stretching for several beats. Finally, Fred turned back to Draco, his grin slowly returning.
"This is…a really nice amount, Lord Malfoy. But…we're gonna need a bit more than this."
Draco frowned. "How much more?"
George caught on to his plan immediately.
"I'd say…three more of these nifty little bags?" his brother said, taking the mokeskin pouch nonchalantly. "Yeah, three is fine."
"What?! That's wandpoint robbery!" Draco protested. "You cannot tell me Potter invested four thousand Galleons into your shop!"
Huh. Draco knew that Harry had given them the Triwizard Winnings? That was weird; he could have sworn that they'd kept that bit quiet…
"Yeah, but you see, you're paying the Tosser Tax," Fred said silkily. "And it looks like you've got a four-year backpay. And we're not even including how much time and effort it's gonna take for us to teach you the ins and outs of enchanting."
"Not to mention checking out what clumsy designs you've definitely made, and improving them to the point that they're worth selling in our shop," George ended. "And putting you under our name? That's a hit to our reputation, taking a suspected Death Eater's son as a business partner. Honestly, we're being very generous with you."
No, they weren't. Malfoy was right: they were robbing him at wandpoint. But they were also right in saying that they were taking a risk in taking him on. With how many people at the Hog's Head had confessed about how much of a berk Malfoy was, there was a significant chance that they could get boycotted by their target market just by having him as a partner. Not to mention, this was Newt Year, and they were definitely going to have to take time out of their pranking just to make sure he didn't blow himself up.
Plus, he'd been an arse for four years straight. Justice was needed; he could pay for it.
Draco's face turned red, and he looked like he was a few seconds away from having a meltdown.
But he calmed himself, and with a simple twitch of the eye, he said, "Fair enough. The rest will be deposited to you by the end of the week. Is that satisfactory?"
For a minute, Fred thought about tacking on a late fee…but, nah, that was a bit much.
With matching grins, the twins outstretched their hands for a shake.
"Welcome to Weasley Wizard Wheezes, Mr. Malfoy."
The study in Malfoy Manor was oppressively ornate, filled with unnecessary finery that grated on Voldemort's nerves. He lounged in Lucius's favorite armchair, its high back and soft cushions no comfort to him. The chandelier above, dripping with crystals, cast a faintly sickening glow, its gaudiness a constant reminder of Lucius's desperation to flaunt his supposed power. Everything here reeked of Malfoy's futile attempts to assert power and importance through wealth. It was laughable. No gilded mirror, no polished silverware, could mask the family's current impotence.
How dull this summer had been. At first, tormenting Lucius and his cowering family had provided some amusement. Watching the once-proud patriarch flinch at every word, seeing Narcissa pale as he dissected her failings, and observing the growing crack in Draco's trembling composure had been a satisfying distraction. But even the most exquisite suffering grew tiresome when the victims had no fight left in them. Lucius had been drained of defiance, Narcissa of pride, and Draco of courage. What was left but their empty shells?
Peacocks strutting in the garden, chandeliers cluttering the ceilings—everything here is an insult to simplicity and efficiency, Voldemort thought with disdain. His long, pale fingers drummed idly on the armrest as Nagini coiled near his feet, her scales glinting faintly in the firelight.
Nagini hissed softly, her voice slipping into his mind like silk. Bored, master?
"Yes, Nagini," Voldemort murmured. "These walls stifle me. I tire of this... decadence."
The serpent flicked her tongue as if in agreement, her sleek form coiling near his feet. Voldemort's hand brushed her head absently as his thoughts turned to more pressing matters.
The Ministry. He needed to move against it soon. The fool Fudge still clung to his delusions, but cracks were forming. The Ministry's resistance was a fragile dam holding back an inevitable flood. All it needed was the right pressure.
His lips curled into something resembling a smile. Yes, pressure. And who better to apply it than Nagini? She was perfect for the task. Intelligent, stealthy, and bound by loyalty far stronger than that of any of his Death Eaters.
But still, the thought annoyed him. He should not have to risk her. If he had more competent followers—if Bellatrix were free, for instance, she could carve a path through the Ministry with sheer ferocity. Her power was unmatched among his servants, save for him. And then there was Rookwood. His knowledge as a former Unspeakable would have been invaluable.
Two pawns, locked away with the others. What waste.
"The peacocks taste as ridiculous as they look," Nagini hissed in Parseltongue, her tone laced with disgust. "Too much feather. Too little meat."
Voldemort's lips twisted into something resembling amusement. "Patience, Nagini. You will feast on flesh that satisfies soon enough. Perhaps tonight, if my servant fails me." He gestured lazily toward the fireplace. "It has been too long since you tasted human blood."
Nagini's forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air, her amber eyes gleaming with anticipation. Humans taste better when their blood is spiced with fear, she remarked, coiling tighter.
Let me scare him first. I like the taste of adrenaline.
"You may play," Voldemort allowed with a faint smile. "But wait until we hear what he has to say. He might yet prove useful."
As if on cue, the flames in the fireplace flared emerald, and a cloaked figure tumbled out, landing on his knees. The man looked up, revealing Avery's pale, sweat-drenched face. His lips trembled as he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Nagini had begun circling him, her movements slow and deliberate, her head weaving closer to his face with every pass.
Avery froze, his breath hitching as Nagini hissed softly, her fangs gleaming. Voldemort chuckled, the sound low and cold.
"She's only playing, Avery. She's been bored—and hungry. If you have not brought me what I asked for, however, her boredom and hunger will be solved... by you."
"My Lord," Avery stammered, his voice cracking. "I—I have it. The information you requested."
"Oh? Did you finally find the particulars of whatever contract the Ministry has with the Dementors?"
He remembered it clearly: during the first war, the Dementors had flocked to him, eager to serve, their hunger drawn to his power like moths to flame. They obeyed his commands without hesitation. But the one time he had dared to set foot on the accursed island, it had been different. They had swarmed him, their soulless, rattling breaths reverberating in his ears. They had not obeyed him, had not even recognized him as their lord, even though they were his natural followers.
Why? What did the Ministry wield that could control such creatures?
The Dementors were not truly allied to anyone but their hunger. So what bound them to the Ministry's will?
He had concluded that it was some kind of magical contract, bounding the creatures to the Minister's will, but something that allowed them a bit of legroom. After all, they had defied orders before. If he could figure out the particulars of that contract, he could make one himself, and gain the Dementor's loyalty, a tool that would give him unmatched power. Even Dumbledore would not be able to stop him.
To his surprise, however, Avery quickly shook his head.
"My Lord, there is no contract, no such thing. I had to break into the Department of Mysteries, into their Hall of Records using my Imperisued puppets, but…My Lord, you need to see this for yourself."
Voldemort's gaze sharpened. "Show me."
Avery fumbled inside his robes, withdrawing an ancient scroll. He held it out with trembling hands, but Voldemort made no move to rise. With a flick of his wrist, the parchment flew to him, settling neatly in his hand.
He smirked at the mix of awe and fear on Avery's face.
Wandless magic. Such a small feat, and yet they look at me as if I've torn the stars from the heavens, Voldemort thought with faint disgust. He unrolled the scroll, careful not to damage the brittle material. His sharp eyes took in the faded ink and an interesting image: a black crown with sharp edges, high above a mountain. And at the bottom of that mountain were the hooded figures of the Dementors. Beneath the drawing was a script, nearly illegible and written in Old Norse.
His lips curved in satisfaction. A challenge, at last. He was well-versed in Old Norse, among other magical and mundane languages, and his sight in this new bodyw as comparable to an eagles. Leaning forward, he began to read, translating the words with ease.
The tale unfolded as such:
Long ago, in the shadowed heart of the North Sea, there existed a place of such dark power that even the waves seemed to shy away from its jagged shores. This was Azkaban, a fortress of despair, built by the sorcerer Ekrizdis to house his unspeakable experiments. It was said that he alone commanded the Dementors, wraithlike creatures birthed from his twisted magic, their hunger for souls unquenchable. Under his rule, they prowled the island, their cold hands gripping any living thing that dared approach. But when Ekrizdis vanished—some said by death, others by madness—his creations were unleashed upon the world.
The Dementors spread like a plague, descending upon villages in the dead of night. Their approach was heralded by an unnatural chill, a biting cold that no fire could ward off. They drained not only the warmth from the air but the joy from the heart, leaving behind empty husks of those unfortunate enough to face them. Entire towns were silenced, their inhabitants consumed in a single night. No walls could keep them out, no plea for mercy could stay their hunger.
The Ministry of Magic fought valiantly but in vain. Wizards cast Patronuses, silvery shields of light and hope, to drive the creatures back, but even the strongest could only hold them at bay. The Patronuses scattered the Dementors like shadows before dawn, but the creatures always returned, unrelenting. The land was on the brink of collapse, and hope dwindled like a guttering candle.
In desperation, the Ministry called for volunteers to embark on what many believed to be a suicide mission: to storm Azkaban itself and destroy the fortress. They hoped that by erasing the source of the Dementors' creation, they might banish the creatures forever. A group of brave souls answered the call—men and women whose courage was only matched by their despair. They sailed through the stormy sea, reaching the blackened shores of Azkaban as lightning split the sky.
The moment their boots touched the cursed sands, the air turned to ice. The Dementors came, swarming like locusts, their skeletal hands clawing at the air. The volunteers lit their wands, conjuring their Patronuses, and the silvery forms leaped forward to drive the creatures back. The beach became a battlefield of light and shadow, of shimmering hope against the suffocating despair. But the Dementors were relentless, and the Patronuses, though valiant, could not destroy them. For every Dementor driven back, two more surged forward.
One by one, the volunteers fell. Their Patronuses faltered, their lights extinguished as despair took hold. The creatures closed in, their rattling breaths echoing in the storm. By the time the last survivor stumbled through the gates of the fortress, he was alone.
This lone wizard, whose name history has forgotten, barricaded himself in the tallest tower, the chamber once occupied by Ekrizdis himself. It was a place of horrors—a testament to the sorcerer's madness. Books bound in human skin lined the shelves, and jars filled with unnameable things glinted in the dim light. The wizard searched desperately for anything that could save him as the Dementors battered at the door.
His hands trembled as he rifled through ancient tomes and cursed artifacts, his breath clouding in the frigid air.
Then, his fingers brushed something cold.
He pulled it free and found himself holding a crown—a strange, black thing of jagged crystal, sharp-edged and glinting like obsidian. Its surface shimmered faintly, as though it pulsed with its own malevolent life. The air around it grew heavier, and despair sank into his bones, as if the crown itself shared the same dreadful aura as the Dementors.
The door shattered behind him, and the Dementors poured in, their cloaks rustling like dry leaves. Their empty faces turned toward him, and he felt their hunger clawing at his soul. In a final act of desperation, he placed the crown on his head.
The world seemed to still.
A voice, silent yet commanding, surged through him. Without thinking, he raised his hand and spoke a single word:
Stop.
And they did. The Dementors froze, their skeletal forms swaying as if caught in an unseen wind. Their hunger ebbed, replaced by something he could only describe as submission. They bowed low, their cloaked heads nearly touching the ground, as though he had become their master.
It was said that the wizard returned to the Ministry with the crown and a terrible tale. The Dementors, he explained, could not be destroyed, but they could be controlled. The crown was the key, binding them to the will of its wearer. Thus, Azkaban became not only a fortress but a prison, its very horrors repurposed to guard the most dangerous of magical criminals. The crown was passed down from warden to warden, ensuring the Dementors' obedience.
Yet, the crown's power was not without limits. It was strongest on the island where it was forged, and the farther the Dementors strayed, the weaker the crown's hold. It is why, even now, they act with greater freedom when far from Azkaban's shores.
And so, the Dementors remain, neither ally nor enemy, but a force leashed to the Ministry's will. Yet a prophecy exists, whispering that the crown's magic is as dark as the creatures it commands and that one day, it may find a master who will not wield it for imprisonment, but conquest.
And just like that, everything clicked.
Voldemort leaned back, his red eyes gleaming with triumph. This was perhaps the biggest coverup in England's history. He had never heard of such an event, neither in textbooks nor from the mouths of old men who ought to have died centuries ago. And yet, here it was; proof of a forgotten war, in which the Ministry had gained control of Azkaban and the Dementors in one lucky swoop. They framed it as if the Dementors feared the wrath of the Ministry, and didn't dare move against them. But in reality, the Ministry held their literal leash.
Who would have known that the Ministry was in possession of such lovely toys?
But the farther they were from Azkaban, and by extension, the crown, the more loose their restrictions became. This was why the Dementors had lost control two years ago, when Black had escaped, and those beautiful creatures had taken a chance to feed during the Quidditch game. This was why they had joined him on his hunts for Muggles and Mudbloods, but had turned against him when he had first landed on Azkaban's shores.
The crown. It explains everything.
He laughed, a sharp, high sound that made Avery flinch. "You have done well, Avery," Voldemort said, his tone almost pleasant. "You have repaid your debt to me at last."
Avery, still on his knees, pressed his forehead to the floor. "Thank you, my Lord. I am honored by your forgiveness."
Voldemort turned to Nagini, speaking in Parseltongue. "Avery is off the menu. He has finally proven himself useful."
Nagini hissed in disappointment, coiling closer to him. "He smells of fear," she lamented. "A pity."
"Patience," Voldemort said, stroking her smooth head. "You will feast soon. But first, a mission."
Nagini's head tilted, her amber eyes alight with interest.
"The crown lies in Azkaban," Voldemort continued. "But first, we must try and recover the Prophecy. You will infiltrate the Department of Mysteries and retrieve it as soon as possible. When that is done, you will go to Azkaban itself."
Wormtail had told him that Sirius Black had been able to escape Azkaban because of his Animagus form. The Dementors did not care about animals, preferring to feast on humans. Nagini would have an easier time searching the prison than any man he would send. She would locate where his faithful followers were, allowing him to see through her eyes and case the prison…and she would also find the warden and retrieve the crown for him.
Nagini hissed in agreement, her tail flicking eagerly. Voldemort's gaze returned to the scroll, his thoughts already racing. A crown to control Dementors. How fitting.
After all, who was more deserving of such a crown than he, a future king?