On the dark Azkaban Island, jagged rocks rose everywhere, and heavy clouds pressed down overhead.
Gloomy winds blew here all year round, without a trace of sunlight.
Apart from withered, pitch-black branches stretching toward the sky like the hands of the dead, there was not a shred of green left on the island. It was as though all life had vanished from this place, leaving behind nothing but deathly silence.
Yet on such an island, a delicate-featured young wizard strode enthusiastically through the jagged rocks.
As he walked, he laughed and called out cheerfully.
"Uncle Dementors, I'm so happy to see you! Come over here!"
That young wizard was naturally Charle.
This was already his second hour after arriving at Azkaban.
Over the past hour, the joyful aura radiating from him had lured in more than a dozen Dementors.
After all, in a place like Azkaban, it was not only the prisoners who had it rough—the Dementors suffered terribly too.
They could only feed on the prisoners' happiness every day to survive.
But the prisoners were on the verge of mental collapse in Azkaban. What happiness could they possibly have?
Naturally, all the Dementors got to eat were "leftovers."
If the Ministry of Magic had not tacitly permitted the Dementors to "kiss" certain prisoners without status or backing and directly devour their souls to fill their stomachs, the Dementors would probably have rioted from starvation long ago.
Under such circumstances, a young, vibrant, energetic, and exceedingly happy wizard like Charle was simply an irresistible delicacy to the Dementors.
Those dozen or so Dementors had been drawn in by Charle without the slightest hesitation.
As for their fate, there was no need to say more. They had all become nourishment for the ever more brilliant golden Holy Magic of the Only