The cave was busy, filled with echoes.
In the clearing before the Hero Memorial Altar, a temporary Teleportation Array tirelessly flashed with an eerie blue light.
Every time the light flared, it spat out several ragged, dazed figures, as though vomiting.
They were residents who had just been "moved" from Azkaban.
Before they could even make out their surroundings, they were greeted by an assembly line so smooth it was almost cold-blooded.
"Stupefy!"
An elderly voice rang out, hoarse yet powerful.
Barty Crouch Sr. stood beside the Teleportation Array, his wand moving like a precise metronome, without a single wasted motion.
For every person spat out, a jet of red light struck the back of their head with perfect accuracy.
The prisoners had no chance even to grunt before collapsing limply to the ground.
Immediately afterward, two small figures would rush forward.
"Kreacher, pour this in! Hurry, the bad men are going to wake up!"
Dobby squeaked, holding a bottle of potion that gave off an icy blue glow as he deftly pried open the mouth of a prisoner who had just fallen.
"Kreacher knows! Kreacher doesn't need reminding by Dobby, the bad elf who wears clothes!"
Grumbling in his bullfrog-like voice, Kreacher roughly twisted another prisoner's head around and poured in the Magic-Suppressing Potion as though dumping in swill.
Three people, one assembly line.
Stun them, give them the potion, then drag them aside into a pile.
The entire process was quiet and efficient, marked by an uncanny coordination.
Who knew how much time had passed.
At last, no one else came through.
"All right, everyone's here."
Old Crouch looked at the unconscious prisoners piled into a small mountain on the ground, his voice betraying no emotion.
He began sorting the prisoners as though they were merchandise.
"This one