Late at night, a ship cut through the churning waves.
An old oil lamp at the bow swayed gently with the waves, still casting its light ahead and guiding the ship onward.
Suddenly, several strange black shadows swept past the ship, and a thick layer of frost silently spread across the deck.
A wizard on watch, wrapped in a heavy cloak and carrying an oil lamp, could not help shivering. Cursing under his breath, he quickly hung the lamp, now covered in frost, to one side and pushed open the door to enter the cabin and warm himself. Not every dark wizard could endure Dementors.
Deprived of any happiness to suck away, the Dementors guarding the vessel began gliding ahead, escorting the ship toward the waters before them.
"It's freezing out there. I hate Dementors."
"Here!"
A slightly tipsy wizard beside him poured him a glass of whiskey. "Today's a good day."
"Yeah, yeah."
"That madman is finally dead."
"Definitely worth celebrating."
The dark wizard on watch accepted the whiskey, lightly clinked glasses with the other dark wizards, and took a large gulp before joining their denunciation of Scrimgeour.
Too much had happened tonight.
Scrimgeour's death, in particular, was undoubtedly good news to them.
After the Ministry of Magic collapsed and was reorganized, those who had once lived in the gray areas had finally welcomed their spring. They no longer had to fear persecution by Scrimgeour's government.
It meant that the British wizarding world was about to enter Voldemort's era—the finest era in their eyes.
"To the Dark Lord."
If they wanted a share of the spoils in this era, they needed to go a step further. Ideally, they would become Death Eaters and join the ranks of those with vested interests, just like them.
Several Dark Wizards secretly cast