windkaze
patreon
HRHL# CHAPTER 209
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 02:10:31 +0000 UTC“The Patronus Charm?”
Harry recalled this spell. Before the final battle with Ranrok, the Order of the Phoenix had been preparing to learn it.
But…
Because he had traveled through time, he had never actually learned the spell.
The same went for Occlumency.
What he didn’t know was that neither Cassandra nor Veratia seemed particularly keen on teaching him this charm.
Harry shook his head and said, “Not really. You know, before I came back to this era, I was just starting my sixth year. I hadn’t even touched the Patronus Charm yet.”
“I see…”
Dumbledore nodded knowingly. “I still suggest you learn a few spells to deal with Dementors. After all, those creatures are profoundly malevolent. Generally, only the Patronus Charm…”
Before he could finish, Dumbledore noticed two flames flickering to life in Harry’s hands.
In his left hand burned the azure blaze of Gubraithian Fire, and in his right, the inky darkness of Fiendfyre.
Harry’s expression practically screamed, “Dear old Headmaster, are you talking about Gubraithian Fire or Fiendfyre?”
Dumbledore stared at the twin flames, falling silent for a moment.
Of course, he knew that, aside from the Patronus Charm, both Fiendfyre and Gubraithian Fire could harm Dementors.
“There’s no harm in learning a few more spells, Harry,” he said, salvaging his dignity with a diplomatic tone.
Azkaban Prison, a fortress perched on a small island in the middle of the North Sea, was built in the 15th century and had served as Britain’s wizarding prison since 1718.
The island was never marked on any map, its interior space magically expanded. What the Ministry of Magic hadn’t anticipated, however, was that the place had become a veritable nest for Dementors. These creatures could drain every ounce of happiness from their victims, casting a suffocating pall of despair over anyone who drew near.
The Ministry had once considered demolishing the fortress, but the fear of retaliation from the island—or its Dementor inhabitants—had quashed the idea.
Dumbledore brought Harry to the outskirts of Azkaban with a swift Apparition. The sky above was choked with dark clouds, and the sea churned with turbulent waves, lending the isolated island an even more sinister air.
Noticing Harry’s curiosity, Dumbledore smiled and explained, “The weather in Azkaban is always like this, Harry. Have you never been here?”
Harry glanced up at Dumbledore.
“A hundred years ago, I was a law-abiding student, Professor,” he replied. “But I’ve always been curious about Azkaban—why it became the prison for wizards.”
“It’s no great secret, Harry,” Dumbledore said with a nod. “Azkaban was originally just a fortress, home to a dark wizard named Ekrizdis. He was a vile sort, luring Muggles to his island and torturing them to death.”
“That’s beyond evil,” Harry interjected, playing along.
“Indeed,” Dumbledore continued, his gaze flickering toward the fortress ahead. “After Ekrizdis’s death, the concealment charms he’d placed on the fortress and island failed, and that’s when the Ministry discovered its existence.”
He went on, “The island was abandoned for years afterward. When the International Statute of Secrecy came into effect, it became clear that small wizarding prisons were impractical. Escaping prisoners often caused noticeable disturbances—sounds, smells, or flashes of light. So, the Ministry began planning a dedicated wizarding prison in the remote Hebrides.”
“But in 1718, Damocles Rowle was appointed Minister for Magic. He decided that instead of expending resources to build a new prison, they could use Azkaban and let the Dementors already present serve as guards, saving a significant expense.”
“There were objections, of course, but the plan went ahead. Since there have been almost no successful escapes or breaches of the Statute of Secrecy, Azkaban has served as a prison ever since.”
“That’s everything I know about Azkaban,” Dumbledore concluded.
Harry suddenly spoke up. “I heard an anecdote from Mr. Septimus.”
“Mr. Septimus?” Dumbledore asked, intrigued. “Septimus Weasley?”
“Oh, no, that’s Gareth’s son,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I meant Septimus Malfoy. He’d be Lucius Malfoy’s great-grandfather, I suppose.”
“I see…”
Dumbledore’s curiosity was piqued. “It seems you’re quite familiar with the Malfoy family? I recall you and Miss Cassandra Malfoy are good friends. But from what I know, a hundred years ago, the Malfoys were even more obsessed with blood purity than they are now… and back then, you were just an orphan from the Muggle world.”
“It wasn’t like that a hundred years ago, Professor,” Harry said. “At least, Mr. Septimus, Cassandra’s father, wasn’t an extreme blood purist.”
“And why was that?” Dumbledore pressed, growing more curious. In his memory, both Septimus Malfoy, the former Undersecretary, and his son Ignatius Malfoy were staunch blood purists.
Harry’s face darkened slightly.
It was entirely possible that the Malfoys’ descent into blood purism was sparked by a certain Muggle-born “troublemaker” who had swept their precious daughter off her feet…
“Perhaps because of Cassandra,” Harry said, feigning nonchalance. “You know, like how Aberforth resented an Austrian for stealing his brother and extended that grudge to all Austrians.”
Dumbledore suddenly felt a bit uneasy.
Harry was a sly one—cutting straight to the core without even meaning to. It was an instinctive jab, not a deliberate one.
“Let’s head upstairs,” Dumbledore said, changing the subject. “Morfin Gaunt is held on the top floor, where they keep the worst of the lot—Death Eaters who followed Voldemort, the most brutal and irredeemable of them.”
As they entered the fortress, a group of Dementors glided toward them.
There were no wizard guards in Azkaban; no one was mad enough to work alongside Dementors.
“I’m here to see Morfin Gaunt,” Dumbledore announced.
The Dementors seemed to understand, nodding slightly before turning their hollow gazes to Harry.
They froze, staring at him for an unnervingly long time. Suddenly, the lead Dementor let out a rasping wail directed at Dumbledore.
“He’s just a Hogwarts student, not a dark wizard,” Dumbledore explained calmly.
Even as he spoke, he wondered why the Dementors would mistake Harry for a dark wizard.
The creatures continued their eerie wails, seemingly conferring among themselves.
Moments later, the lead Dementor stepped forward and let out another guttural cry.
“What does it mean?” Harry asked.
“It says you can enter, but they’ll be keeping an eye on you,” Dumbledore said, then chuckled dryly. “I don’t recall Azkaban’s Dementors ever being this diligent.”
“Maybe they’re just bored,” Harry said with a shrug. “Or maybe they’re just hungry?”
At that, Dumbledore’s thoughts turned to the Philosopher’s Stone Harry had absorbed.
Could the Dementors be drawn to the Stone’s energy within him?
But the Dementors merely assigned one of their sturdier-looking members to trail closely behind the pair as they moved deeper into the fortress.
“Follow me, Harry,” Dumbledore said, ascending the stairs and leading the way toward the upper levels.
Azkaban’s interior was far larger than it appeared from the outside. They climbed to the seventh floor, where Dumbledore guided Harry into a spacious chamber resembling a hall.
On either side were rows of cells, their bars rusted and neglected, clearly untouched for years.
Noticing Harry’s puzzled look, Dumbledore said, “No one wants to come here to repair the cells… You know, those sent to Azkaban refuse to speak of what they’ve seen here. The least horrifying part is that this place has become a haven for Dementors.”
“I’m still a kid, Professor,” Harry said, glancing at a nearby cell. A disheveled man inside suddenly opened his eyes and stared at him.
The man seemed shocked for a fleeting moment before lowering his head again.
He muttered a name under his breath, too soft for anyone but himself to hear.
Harry paid it no mind. Dumbledore was speaking again. “But you’re not like most people, Harry.”
They continued forward. After passing a few more cells, a cackling laugh from a witch echoed through the hall, her voice unhinged, as if her sanity had long since shattered.
“What was that anecdote you mentioned earlier?” Dumbledore asked.
“Oh,” Harry replied. “Mr. Septimus told me that in the 18th century, Minister Eldritch Diggory visited Azkaban and was horrified by what he saw. He started looking for alternatives to the prison—at the very least, to remove the Dementors as guards.”
“Unfortunately, Eldritch died of Dragon Pox in 1747, and no one ever picked up his plans to replace Azkaban.”
“What do you think, Professor?” Harry asked, looking up at Dumbledore.
“I think Azkaban serves its purpose as a prison,” Dumbledore replied. “But I also believe that for certain crimes, it’s not entirely appropriate to throw prisoners in here to be tormented by Dementors.”
“I agree,” Harry said, his tone carrying an edge. “Even the strongest fortress can fall on its own someday. The Dementors might obey the Ministry for now, but who’s to say they won’t turn? If they sided with Voldemort, wouldn’t the Death Eaters locked up here just become his allies again, ready to wreak havoc?”
Dumbledore stopped in his tracks. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing, Professor,” Harry said, turning his gaze to the cell in front of them.
Inside, a small, hunched figure curled up in the corner. By the faint light filtering through a tiny skylight, Harry could see the man’s face—rough and simian, much like Marvolo Gaunt’s.
“This is Morfin Gaunt,” Dumbledore said, gesturing to a nearby Dementor.
As President of the International Confederation of Wizards, he had enough authority for such a request. The Dementor glided forward and unlocked the cell door.
The two stepped inside. The elderly man on the floor suddenly opened his eyes.
“Morfin Gaunt,” Dumbledore said, settling onto a stone bench beside the cell and motioning for Harry to join him.
Morfin straightened slightly, his rheumy eyes blinking warily. “You’re…?”
“Albus Dumbledore,” Dumbledore replied.
“Dumbledore? Merlin…”
Tears welled in Morfin’s eyes. “And this… this is…?”
“This is Harry Potter,” Dumbledore answered.
At the sound of the name, a spark of recognition flared in Morfin’s eyes.
Harry Potter?
“I’m here to ask you a few things, Mr. Gaunt,” Dumbledore said gently. “About your nephew, Merope Gaunt’s son—Tom Riddle.”
“Why bring up that half-blood?” Morfin snapped, but he quickly softened, realizing his outburst. “Sorry, Headmaster Dumbledore, I…”
“It’s alright,” Dumbledore said, not bothering to defend Tom. “I want to know about the portrait of Ominis Gaunt. Where did Tom Riddle take it?”
Morfin paused, thinking.
“I’m sorry, Professor Dumbledore,” he said quietly. “I only remember that half-blood coming to my house, talking about the Riddle family. After that… I don’t recall anything. Then I was thrown into Azkaban.”
“Could you share your memory with us?” Dumbledore asked, producing a small vial from his robes.
Morfin nodded. Harry pulled a spare wand from his pocket and handed it to him.
Morfin took the wand, pressed it to his temple, and drew out a silvery thread of memory, placing it in the vial.
“That’s everything I remember from that day, Professor Dumbledore,” Morfin said softly. “I was accused of killing the Riddle family, but I swear I didn’t…”
He continued, “I hope you can uncover the truth and get me out of this cursed place—or maybe you could get me out now.”
“You mean, arrange for your release?” Dumbledore asked, pocketing the vial.
“Yes,” Morfin said, nodding. He turned to Harry. “Mr. Potter—I know you were friends with my uncle, Ominis Gaunt, weren’t you? Could you… could you…?”
Harry didn’t respond.
“I know where Mr. Sallow is,” Morfin suddenly blurted out. “I know which cell Sebastian Sallow is in!”
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
