Late at night, a sea ship was cutting through the churning waves.
The old oil lamp at the bow swayed gently with the waves, still illuminating the way ahead and guiding the sea ship onward.
Suddenly, several eerie black shadows swept past the sea 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 hurriedly hung the lamp, now covered in frost, nearby and pushed open the door to enter the cabin and warm himself. Not every Dark wizard could endure Dementors.
Deprived of the happiness they could suck away, the Dementors guarding the vessel began gliding forward, escorting the sea ship toward the waters ahead.
"It's freezing out there. I hate Dementors."
"Here!"
A slightly drunk wizard beside him poured him a glass of whisky. "Today is a good day."
"Yeah, yeah."
"That madman is finally dead."
"Definitely worth celebrating."
The Dark wizard on watch took the whisky, lightly clinked glasses with the others, then gulped down a large mouthful and joined them in denouncing Scrimgeour.
Far 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 needed to fear persecution by Scrimgeour's government.
It meant that the British magical world was about to enter Voldemort's era—the best of times, as far as they were concerned.
"To the Dark Lord."
If they wanted a share of the spoils in this new era, they would need to go a step further. Ideally, they would become Death Eaters and join the ranks of those with