The North Sea churned with muddy waves as cold, salty rain poured down, lashing the black stone fortress of Azkaban on its lonely island.
Enormous waves battered the jagged reefs without pause, shattering into spray as the sea wind carried a despairing chill.
Lead-gray clouds hung low over the sky, without even a sliver of sunlight in sight. The cold gray towers stood silently amid the wind and rain.
The black shadows of Dementors drifted through the curtain of rain, their frigid aura seeping into every inch of the stone walls.
The sea roared, the cold rain fell mournfully, and the entire prison stood silently amid the foul wind and filthy rain. Hope and happiness had long been devoured by the Dementors, leaving behind only cold despair and sorrow!
Peter Pettigrew struggled to turn over inside his one-square-meter cage. Calculating the time, he realized it was not yet time for the Dementors to feed, and a few traces of joy and hope could not help rising in his heart:
"No, no. I, Peter Pettigrew, have to escape! I absolutely cannot die here!"
"I've had enough of the Dementors sucking away my soul and happiness!"
"Master! Master Voldemort! Where are you?"
"Dumbledore, Dumbledore, please spare me!"
"James, James Potter, my good brother, I was wrong! Sob..."
After having his hope and happiness sucked away for so long, the once short, fat, filthy Peter Pettigrew had become skin and bones. Yet his dirty, wretched appearance, his panicked eyes darting everywhere, still made him look much like a rat.
Only now, he had gone somewhat mad!
The reason the Dementors had not simply extracted Peter Pettigrew's soul and devoured it entirely
was that they had discovered that this fellow possessed an exceptionally strong will to survive and would occasionally still produce hope and