Voldemort was overjoyed, but at the same time, he had some concerns. "It's clear Voldemort 've been badly beaten before, which is why he's so hesitant." "But..."
His smile gradually faded, and his brows furrowed slightly.
"Could it be a trap?" He turned and walked back to the table, sitting down. The tentacles danced behind him, their dark red light flickering. " Grindelwald isn't dead. The Raven is still here. They must be preparing something," he murmured, his voice low and hoarse. " Dumbledore is a man who never easily exposes his weaknesses. If he had truly lost his Magic Power, why would he let the news get out? He should have kept it a secret, made everyone believe he was alright."
Voldemort remained silent for a long time, so long that even the messenger Owl grew impatient and flapped its wings and flew away.
Then he stood up abruptly and walked to the fireplace. The flames flickered, illuminating his distorted, inhuman face. "Someone come here," Voldemort began to order his men.
A Death Eater emerged from the shadows and knelt on the ground.
"Owner."
The Death Eater's expression was obsequious, but Voldemort ignored him, his eyes fixed on the flames in the fireplace. "How is Azkaban?" The Death Eater trembled as he replied, "Master, Azkaban is still being rebuilt. The guard is weak; most of the Dementor were taken by that Raven, and the rest are no match for us. The Ministry of Magic has sent many Auror to guard it, but we're still short-handed."
Voldemort's lips curled into a slight smile.
"Very good."
He turned around and looked at the Death Eater kneeling on the ground.
"Send your clone to attack Azkaban and rescue the people inside."
The Death Eater paused for a moment.
"Master, you mean...?"
He hesitated, unsure how to begin.
"I said, send my Horcrux Clone," Voldemort's voice was calm and composed. "Attack Azkaban, rescue the imprisoned Death Eater. Ostensibly, it's for our people. But actually..." He paused, a sinister smile spreading across his face.
"It's a test."
He walked back to the window, gazing at the night sky, making no attempt to conceal his purpose. The disillusionment of his men seemed utterly irrelevant to him. "Test Dumbledore. Test Grindelwald. Test that Raven." A cold light gleamed in his three scarlet eyes. "If they're truly preparing something, they will act. If they don't..."
His smile deepened.
"That means Dumbledore is really finished."
A night breeze blew in through the window, carrying a low, sobbing sound. Voldemort stood there, gazing into the darkness, his tentacles swaying gently behind him. "Go," he whispered, "Let my clone go."
Upon hearing this, the Death Eater nodded hastily and scrambled out, leaving Voldemort alone by the window, gazing at the night. " Dumbledore."
He spoke softly.
"Let me see just how many cards you have up your sleeve."
There was still some worry in his tone.
The ruins of Azkaban looked particularly desolate in the morning light.
The black fortress that once stood on the isolated island in the North Sea now only retains half of its original shape. The other half was completely destroyed in the earth-shattering battle between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, with rubble scattered on the reefs and sinking into the roaring sea.
Washed by the waves day and night, it gleams with a pale, bone-like sheen.
The charred marks stretched from the remaining walls to the ground, and from the ground to the sea, like scars that would never heal. But the Ministry of Magic could not let it fall into ruin like this.
Azkaban is not just a prison, but a symbol. It represents the order of the Wizarding World, the power of justice, and a deterrent to prisoners who have committed unforgivable crimes. If it were to collapse there, like an unclaimed corpse, what would the dark Wizard lurking in the shadows think? What would the restless Death Eater think? What would the Pure-blood families still watching, still hesitating, still waiting to choose sides think?
Therefore, reconstruction is necessary.
The Ministry of Magic mobilized its finest architectural Wizard, drawing nearly a hundred men from across the United Kingdom. Even the International Wizarding Union sent several experts specializing in the restoration of ancient buildings. They worked from sunrise to sunset, and from sunset to sunrise, using magic to piece together the shattered boulders, rebuild the collapsed walls, and smooth the ground scorched by Fiendfyre. "Left, a little to the left—no, right—stop!"
A Wizard wearing a hard helmet and Dragon Hide apron stood in mid-air, his wand pointing at a huge rock suspended in mid-air. The rock was as big as a carriage, its surface covered with fine cracks. It had been dug out from the depths of the ruins and was originally the foundation stone of the main tower of Azkaban.
Several Wizard simultaneously cast Wingardium Leviosa, slowly lifting it up, moving it to the designated location, and then gently lowering it down.
"Okay! Release it!"
The boulder landed, fitting perfectly into the foundation. The ground trembled slightly, kicking up a cloud of dust. Several Wizard simultaneously withdrew their wands, wiped the sweat from their brows, and wore tired but satisfied smiles. "Next one!" shouted the helmeted construction Wizard, pointing his wand deeper into the ruins.
Many more people were busy. Some were clearing away rubble, moving unusable stones to the beach and throwing them into the deep sea; others were casting Reparo Charm, filling, smoothing, and restoring cracks to their original state; still others were re-carving ancient Protective Runes, meticulously crafting each stroke, each rune requiring a great deal of Magic Power and energy. The air was thick with the smells of dust, sweat, and Magic Power, mingling with the salty sea breeze to create a unique aroma.
The smell of a construction site.
In the distance, several Auror dressed in scarlet robes stood on the rocks, watching the sea warily. They were elites selected by the Ministry of Magic to guard Azkaban, each a seasoned veteran with combat experience. Their wands were never out of their hands, and their eyes never left the horizon.
Azkaban is at its most vulnerable now—the prisoners are still in the cells, but the guards are severely inadequate. If the Death Eater launch an attack at this time, the consequences would be unimaginable. "Do you think they might come?" a young Auror asked in a low voice, a hint of barely concealed tension in his eyes.
His companion—an older Auror with a scar on his face—did not answer immediately. He simply stared at the sea, at the rising and falling waves, at the foam shimmering in the morning light, for a long time.
He finally said, in a low, calm voice, "It will."
The young Auror's face paled slightly. "Then we need one."
"Just do our job," the older Auror interrupted him. "Stay here, keep an eye on the prisoners, and signal immediately if anything seems amiss. The rest is none of our business." The younger Auror opened his mouth as if to say something, but only sighed softly. He gripped his wand tightly and continued to stare at the sea.
On the sea, waves rose and fell, and the morning light shimmered.
Everything was calm, a calm that was unsettling.
An attack did occur.
No one saw where they came from.
That black smoke—no, it wasn't black smoke at all, but something much thicker, heavier, and more suffocating than black smoke—was Wizard corrupted by Deep Space. It surged in from the horizon, not fast, but with an unstoppable, Destiny -like momentum.
These creatures clung to the sea surface, blending into the waves, appearing and disappearing in the morning light like a group of sharks lurking in the deep water, waiting for their chance to strike. The young Auror was the first to see them.
He stared at the sea, his brow furrowed slightly. In that instant, he seemed to see something moving in the waves—not a fish, not a boat, not anything he recognized. It was some vague, distorted, hallucinatory presence that flashed by in the morning light and then vanished.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. There was nothing on the sea. Only waves, only foam, only golden fragments of sunlight dancing on the water. "What's wrong?" The older Auror noticed his unusual expression.
"It's nothing," the young Auror shook his head. "I must have been seeing things."
The older Auror glanced at him but said nothing. He continued to stare at the sea, gripping his wand even tighter.
The black smoke continued to move close to the sea surface, getting closer and closer. It made no sound, caused no ripples, and simply advanced silently, like a swarm of ghosts, like a trap that was closing in.
When they were less than 100 meters from Azkaban, the lead plume of black smoke suddenly accelerated!
Like an arrow released from a bow, it shot up from the sea, piercing the morning light, and hurtled straight toward the old Auror standing on the reef!
The older Auror reacted quickly. His wand instantly pointed at the black smoke, and a beam of red light shot from its tip—but he didn't have time to cast any complex spells, and could only instinctively release the simplest Stunning Spell. The beam of light struck the black smoke, without explosion or impact, it simply passed through silently, as if passing through a real cloud of smoke. The black smoke exploded in front of him.
A twisted, gigantic figure emerged from the black smoke. It had six arms, each ending in a sharp claw; countless dark red, pupil-less eyes blinked in every corner of its body; its body was pieced together from countless twisted limbs and torsos, resembling some kind of mad, blasphemous work of art. A stitched monster.
It raised an arm, its claws slicing through the air. The older Auror didn't even have time to scream before his body was sliced in two, blood gushing out and splashing onto the black reef, glaringly bright in the morning light. His wand slipped from his hand, fell to the ground, bounced twice, and then rolled into the sea.
The young Auror stared blankly at the scene, his mind a complete blank. His lips trembled, his hands trembled, his whole body trembled. He wanted to scream, to run away, to do anything to escape this horrific nightmare—but his legs wouldn't obey him, his body wouldn't obey him, he just stood there, looking at the monster, at those eyes, at those still-dripping claws. The stitched monster turned to him. Those eyes blinked simultaneously, a dark red light dancing on his face.
"One." Bellatrix's voice came from the half-fused face, low and chaotic, with a morbid, almost manic pleasure. Claws slashed through the air again.
The young Auror's body, too, was severed in two and fell onto the rocks, his blood staining the black stones before being swept away by the waves and into the deep sea. More black smoke rose from the sea, falling upon the ruins of Azkaban, among the busy Wizard still building, and behind the Auror who were still vigilantly watching the sea. Death Eater emerged from the black smoke, dressed in black robes and wearing silver masks, their wands gleaming ominously. They spoke no words, shouted no words, but silently, efficiently, and ruthlessly slaughtered.
A Wizard was intently repairing a wall, his back to the sea. He sensed something approaching, turned around—and a beam of green light struck him in the chest. Before he could even scream, he collapsed to the ground, his eyes wide open, his face frozen with the bewilderment of his past life.
Another Wizard, hearing the commotion, turned around and saw the figures in black robes and masks. His face instantly turned deathly pale. He instinctively raised his wand, but a red light was faster than him, striking his wrist and sending the wand flying. Immediately afterward, a green light ended his life.
Several Auror attempted to organize a resistance. They hid behind the remaining walls, wands extending from their cover, firing spells at the Death Eater. Red, gold, and blue light intertwined in the air; some struck their targets, some were deflected, and some exploded on the ground, kicking up a cloud of rubble and dust. But the Death Eater were too numerous, their attacks too dense, and the Auror were quickly overwhelmed, falling one after another. A young Auror was cornered, wand still in his hand, but his spells were exhausted. He looked at the approaching Death Eater, at those cold silver masks, his eyes filled with despair. He closed his eyes, awaiting death.
But death did not come.
A massive, twisted foot slammed into the ground before him, jolting him awake. He looked up to see the stitched-together monster standing before him, its six arms outstretched, its eyes simultaneously staring down at him. Bellatrix's voice came from the fused face. "This... is for the master... the others... all killed..." The young Auror didn't know who the "master" was, but he knew he had survived. At least, for the time being.
The stitched-together monster turned and walked deeper into Azkaban. The Death Eater followed behind it, none of them glancing at the young Auror again. The slaughter continued.
The Wizard scattered and fled, some attempting Apparition, but Azkaban's Protective Magic wasn't fully restored, making Apparition useless here. "We're doomed!"
In a world where there is no Dumbledore to rely on.
The Wizard were filled with despair.
Meanwhile, the Death Eater were at the height of their power.