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Chapter 671: The Dementor in the Headmaster’s Office
🕑 Added 2025-04-01 12:51:13 +0000 UTC“This is unexpected.”
After the last lesson of the morning, students gathered in the corridor, chatting animatedly about the class.
“I never knew there was so much to pay attention to in a simple Human Transfiguration Spell,” one said, shaking their head in disbelief.
“Yeah, that Assistant Professor Tonks is really something. I bet I could’ve changed my appearance before the end of the lesson!”
“Don’t brag—you only managed to make your head bigger...”
Their laughter echoed through the hall as they made their way to the Great Hall. The buzz of excitement made it clear they were thoroughly intrigued by the new Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
Unfortunately, the excitement was bittersweet; there were only two lessons a week. The rest of the time, they were stuck dealing with Umbridge.
When they reached the Great Hall, a few early arrivals were already there. Spotting them, others eagerly called out, “What’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor like? They’re not going to make us read the whole time, are they?”
“Of course not!” the sixth-years exclaimed, diving into an enthusiastic recounting of their class. Their animated descriptions soon drew a crowd, all eager to listen.
“Changing your appearance...” Ron mused, a thoughtful expression spreading across his face. “Harry, if we could learn this trick, imagine—couldn’t we give Malfoy a good beating? Just turn into Crabbe and Goyle, and no one would suspect a thing!”
Harry’s eyes lit up at the idea. It had always been a dream of his to deal with Malfoy without getting caught.
“Don’t even think about it,” Hermione said sharply, casting them a stern glance. Her tone was indifferent, as if already resigned to their mischief. “That course is for sixth-years and above. We won’t be able to take it until next year—if Assistant Professor Tonks is still at Hogwarts by then.”
“Why not?” Ron asked, clearly dissatisfied. “Don’t people younger than sixth-years need to hide their identities too? Or is it just fine for us to stay visible all the time?”
“You weren’t even listening to what they said,” Hermione replied, her voice tinged with impatience. “Let me remind you—the prerequisite for changing your appearance is mastering Human Transfiguration. That’s high-level Transfiguration magic, and no one learns it before fifth year.”
“But we are in fifth year,” Harry pointed out, flipping open his Transfiguration textbook. “Look—our homework is all about the development and stages of Human Transfiguration.” He jabbed a finger at the page. “See? This section even outlines its progression over time.”
“I’m aware,” Hermione said coolly, crossing her arms. “But have you actually learned it?”
Harry froze at her pointed question.
Had he learned it?
The answer, unfortunately, was a definite no.
At best, he had reached a level just good enough to avoid being scolded by Professor McGonagall. As for Ron...well, his skills lagged even further behind. In their last Transfiguration class, Ron had failed to meet the professor’s requirements and lost two house points as a result.
“You see, that's the point,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “Changing one's appearance and skeleton is far more complicated than simply turning your arms into branches. Even if she’s willing to teach it, could you even learn it?”
Ron opened his mouth to argue but found no convincing rebuttal. After a moment, he muttered under his breath, “Really, it’s supposed to be Defence Against the Dark Arts—why does it have to involve Transfiguration?”
No one answered him. Hermione, seemingly oblivious to his grumbling, continued, “That’s why these lessons only appear in sixth and seventh years—until we finish learning Human Transfiguration.”
“What about us...” Harry asked anxiously. “We’re not stuck with Umbridge for the rest of the year, are we? I’ve had enough of her.”
“I don’t know,” Hermione replied, shaking her head. “It could be something else.” She glanced down at her new timetable. “We don’t have Assistant Professor Tonks’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class until Wednesday. We’ll find out then.”
After lunch, the group left the Great Hall, while elsewhere, Kyle was summoned to the Headmaster’s Office.
Upon entering, he noticed a Dementor floating eerily in its tattered black cloak. Raising an eyebrow, Kyle asked, “Have you decided to get a new pet, Professor? If so, Fawkes can be my responsibility.”
“The Ministry of Magic does not permit Dementors to be kept anywhere outside of Azkaban, certainly not by private individuals,” Dumbledore said calmly. “And as for Fawkes, looking after him is hardly a challenging task—I can manage it myself.”
Kyle gestured at the Dementor. “And this one?”
Dumbledore’s expression turned more serious. “Do you remember what we discussed the other day? We need to determine whether the Dementors has defected to Voldemort.”
Kyle’s face lit with understanding. “Ah, right. But didn’t Fudge say the Dementors refused to leave Azkaban? It came to Hogwarts on its own that afternoon, didn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, nodding. “The question is, did the Dementors change their mind? Or...did someone else change it for them?”
He paused, his tone growing thoughtful. “It’s quite a coincidence—I had only just informed Fudge of my intent to visit Azkaban personally when the Ministry delivered this one to me.”
Kyle tilted his head. “That is quite a coincidence.” He glanced around the office and noted that he and Dumbledore were alone. “It came here by itself?”
“Certainly not,” Dumbledore replied, shaking his head. “The Hit Wizards tasked with escorting it had a rather unfortunate case of upset stomachs. Madam Pomfrey is tending to them in the Hospital Wing as we speak. They should recover in about two hours.”
“I see. So what now?”
“I’ll be visiting the Hospital Wing to check on them shortly,” Dumbledore said, moving towards the door. “In the meantime, I’ll leave you in charge here. Is that acceptable?”
“No problem, Professor,” Kyle said with a nod.
“Excellent,” Dumbledore said with a slight smile, departing and leaving Kyle alone with the Dementor.
The fire in the fireplace crackled brightly, but it did little to warm the room. Kyle pulled his thick robe tighter around himself, acknowledging what everyone knew: no amount of heat could counter the icy aura of a Dementor.
Even when they did nothing but float silently, these creatures drained all warmth from their surroundings, making small spaces like this one particularly unbearable.
It might have been manageable in the summer, but in the dead of winter, it was intolerable.
Fortunately, Fawkes swooped down onto Kyle’s shoulder just then, radiating warmth that immediately banished the bone-chilling cold.
The Dementor recoiled slightly, shrinking back against the wall, clearly uncomfortable in the phoenix’s presence.
“Well, that’s handy,” Kyle murmured, scratching Fawkes’s feathers and feeling a twinge of envy for Dumbledore. A phoenix not only provided warmth but also seemed to serve as an effective Dementor deterrent.
Kyle turned his attention back to the Dementor, studying it carefully. He tried to discern whether it was one he had encountered before, but they all looked the same to him—dark, hooded, and utterly indistinguishable.
Taking a cautious step forward, Kyle noticed the Dementor retreat further, pressing itself against the wall.
“Don’t be afraid,” Kyle said gently, holding Fawkes in one hand and offering the phoenix a pod from his pocket—something Professor Sprout had given him earlier. “I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you remember the day the prisoners escaped?”
The Dementor remained silent, its hooded face offering no response.
Kyle didn’t push, choosing instead to wait patiently.
After a few minutes, the creature finally made a low, rasping sound—a dull, clicking noise, like an old radio struggling with static.
“Which... incident?”
“The one where ten people escaped,” Kyle clarified.
“I remember...”
“Very good,” Kyle nodded approvingly. “Can you tell me what happened that day?”
The Dementor’s gaze lingered uneasily on Fawkes, who was still perched in Kyle’s arms.
“Don’t worry, you can speak freely,” Kyle assured it. “He won’t harm you.”
The Dementor shifted back slightly, but the wall behind it prevented further retreat. Resigned, it floated motionlessly for a moment before finally speaking in its hollow, raspy voice.
“That day... a lot of people came... It was them... who opened... the prison door...”
Kyle frowned. “Didn’t you try to stop them? Guarding the prisoners was your job, wasn’t it?”
“Couldn’t stop...”
“Why? Were you unable to overpower them?”
“Couldn’t stop...” the Dementor repeated, its tone eerily consistent. “Not allowed... to be stopped...”
“Not allowed? By whom?” Kyle pressed. “By the ones who opened the prison door, or by the other Dementors?”
The Dementor fell silent, refusing to answer. Kyle, however, had a growing suspicion of what the answer might be. Deciding to change his approach, he asked,
“Can you tell me how many Dementors have left Azkaban since that day? Don’t worry, if you’re here, the Ministry won’t find out. I swear it—on Dumbledore’s life.”
This time, the Dementor remained silent for over ten minutes. When it finally spoke, its hoarse voice cut through the tense quiet.
“Three groups...”
“Three groups of Dementors?” Kyle’s frown deepened. “How many is that?”
“Sixty,” answered a voice from nearby.
Kyle turned to see a witch in a portrait. She had her hair neatly tied in a bun and had been sitting idly with her eyes closed when he arrived. Now she had moved to the nearest frame and was watching him intently.
She elaborated, “When Azkaban was established, it was divided into five wards, each housing prisoners of varying criminal levels. Each ward was guarded by twenty Dementors. To ensure efficiency in Ministry oversight, every three days, another twenty would rotate in. The total number per group has remained fixed for administrative purposes.”
“Ah, I see,” Kyle murmured, piecing it together.
So sixty Dementors had chosen to follow Voldemort. Since he didn’t know the total number of Dementors stationed at Azkaban, it was hard to gauge whether that figure was significant. Still, one thing was certain—there were defectors among their ranks.
No wonder the Ministry hadn’t mentioned Dementors in their efforts to recapture the escaped Death Eaters. It explained why they had only sent Hit Wizards and Aurors this time. That was a stark contrast to the manhunt for Sirius Black two years ago, when nearly a hundred Dementors had been mobilized to Hogwarts to lead the search, with the Hit Wizards acting as little more than a backup force.
Clearly, the Ministry had long known about the Dementor rebellion—they just hadn’t informed Dumbledore.
“Boy!”
Kyle’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp voice from another portrait.
Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius’s grandfather and former headmaster of Hogwarts, leaned forward in his frame, regarding Kyle with undisguised curiosity. “You can speak to Dementors?”
His tone carried an air of certainty despite his phrasing it as a question. “That’s quite the talent. With an ability like that, you could escape Azkaban easily—should you ever land there—or even take control of the place entirely.”
Phineas gave a smirk. “Frankly, that makes you far more dangerous than Voldemort himself.”
“Phineas!” the witch from earlier snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. “You should trust Albus. He’s the headmaster now.”
“Trust Dumbledore?” Phineas scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Hogwarts under his leadership has churned out far more dangerous students than in my day. It’s becoming a cradle for Dark Lords, I tell you.”
“Phineas, say that again, and I’ll—” the witch began, rolling up her sleeves with a dangerous glint in her eye.
“What are you doing?!” Phineas ducked back defensively. “I’m only speaking for the good of the school! Don’t mess with me—I pack a mean punch!”
“Headmaster Black,” Kyle interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “Can you please keep this conversation confidential?”
“Huh?” Phineas cupped a hand to his ear theatrically. “Didn’t catch that.” He dodged the witch’s incoming fist and made a hasty retreat into another frame.
Kyle let out a long sigh, moving to the wall to inspect Phineas’s portrait.
“Fawkes,” he said in a low voice, “how about I give you ten Mandrake roots if you burn this ugly portrait for me?”
At this, Fawkes perked up, looking at Kyle with an unmistakable interest and smacking his beak eagerly.
“I know this is the headmaster's office, but isn’t Professor Dumbledore away at the moment? Just say a Dementor tried to attack me.” Kyle smirked. “Alright, I’ll pay you twenty Mandrake roots and—”
“Boy, what are you trying to pull!”
At that moment, Phineas, who had fled earlier, reappeared in his frame, staring at Kyle with a mix of disbelief and indignation. “This is the headmaster’s office!”
“I know, but what choice do I have? You’ve discovered my biggest secret.” Kyle shook his head with mock regret. “Sorry, Professor Black.”
“No, no, no, we can talk about this!” Phineas waved his hands frantically. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone! After all, I was a headmaster once too. Protecting the secrets of my students is part of my job.”
Kyle considered this for a moment but shook his head again. “Still, it doesn’t feel safe.”
Fawkes, perched beside him, cooperated by extending a claw toward the edge of the portrait, its fiery gaze locked on Phineas.
“No! You have to trust me!” Phineas was visibly panicked now. “My great-grandson is on good terms with you! Even if you don’t trust me, trust him!”
Then, he turned to another nearby portrait. “Don’t just stand there—help me out! If my portrait is destroyed, yours won’t be safe either! Come on, beg him with me!”
“Shut it, you fool! The portraits and the castle are one!”
Before Phineas could say more, a wizard from the neighboring portrait appeared, promptly kicking him to the side. Phineas groaned in pain but had no time to recover as others swarmed in from different frames. What followed was a coordinated assault—a flurry of punches and kicks raining down on him as though the group had rehearsed this countless times before.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, lad,” the wizard who had delivered the first kick said, straightening his robes and speaking seriously. “The previous headmasters were normal. Phineas is an exception. His behavior doesn’t represent the rest of us.”
Kyle chuckled. “The most unpopular headmaster—I get it.”
The man sighed in relief and nodded. “Good. Rest assured, none of us will reveal what happened here. And honestly, Fawkes’s behavior says it all. A phoenix would never associate with someone harboring inner darkness.”
“That’s fine, I already knew that,” Kyle replied with a shrug. Then, he asked curiously, “But I do have a question—can portraits actually be destroyed so easily? I thought even the Fiendfyre Curse couldn’t damage them.”
“If the entire castle were destroyed, then yes,” the man replied.
“So... could a phoenix destroy them?”
“Not even a phoenix could, unless the current headmaster authorized it.”
“Then why was Headmaster Black so scared just now?”
“Obviously, that idiot forgot.” The man rolled his eyes. “Well, back to work. I need to stretch my legs.”
With that, he joined the fray, landing a solid kick to Phineas’s face.
“OWW! You haven’t washed your feet in centuries!” Phineas yelled, writhing on the ground.
“Shut up. Have you ever seen a portrait wash its feet?”
The office erupted into chaos, filled with Phineas’s screams and the lively sounds of combat.
“Oh, what a lively scene,” came a calm, amused voice.
Kyle turned to see Dumbledore entering the office.
“What’s going on here?” Dumbledore asked, looking at the animated portraits with mild curiosity.
“They said they wanted to exercise,” Kyle replied casually.
“And Phineas?”
“Well... he’s sort of the organizer of this exercise.”
“How generous of him,” Dumbledore said with a faint smile. Then his expression turned serious. “So, what’s the verdict?”
“At least sixty Dementors have defected,” Kyle reported. “Possibly more. What’s the plan, Professor?”
“When creatures as dangerous as Dementors are left unchecked, it is best to act decisively,” Dumbledore said, his face unreadable. He raised a hand, and Fawkes immediately flew to his side. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“It was nothing—just a conversation,” Kyle said modestly, his gaze shifting to the Dementor, which had been trembling ever since Dumbledore entered the room. “Professor, what about this one?”
“It will be returned to the Ministry of Magic,” Dumbledore said, his tone heavy with meaning. “Dementors should not be seen outside Azkaban.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Kyle murmured.
