The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 606, Section 615: That Deceptive Game 8

Voldemort was very happy, but at the same time, he also had some concerns. It was clear that Voldemort had been genuinely frightened before, which explained his timid and hesitant manner.

"but----

His smile gradually faded, and his brows furrowed slightly.

"Could it be a trap?" He turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down. The tentacles danced behind him, their dark red light flickering uncertainly.

“Grindelwald isn’t dead. The raven is still here. They must be preparing something,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse. “Dumbledore is a man who never easily exposes his weaknesses. If he really lost his magic, why would he let the news get out? He should have kept it a secret, he should have made everyone think he was alright.”

Voldemort remained silent for a long time, so long that even the owl that delivered the message grew impatient and flapped its wings and flew away.

Then he simply stood up and walked to the fireplace. The flames in the fireplace flickered, illuminating his distorted, inhuman face.

"Someone come here," Voldemort began to order his subordinates.

A Death Eater emerged from the shadows and knelt on the ground.

"Owner."

The Death Eater's expression was obsequious, but Voldemort ignored him, his gaze fixed on the flames in the fireplace. "How is Azkaban?"

The Death Eater answered tremblingly, "Master, Azkaban is still being rebuilt. The guard is weak; most of the Dementors were taken away by that raven, and the rest are no match for it. The Ministry of Magic has transferred many Aurors to guard the area, but they are still short-handed."

Voldemort's lips curled up slightly.

"very good."

He turned around and looked at the Death Eater kneeling on the ground.

"Send your clones. Attack Azkaban and rescue the people inside."

The Death Eater paused for a moment.

"Master, you mean—"

He hesitated, unsure how to begin.

"I said, send my Horcruxes," Voldemort's voice was calm and composed. "Attack Azkaban and rescue the imprisoned Death Eaters. On the surface, it's for our people." He paused, a sinister smile spreading across his face.

"It's a test."

He walked back to the window, looking at the night outside, making no attempt to hide his purpose. How disheartened his subordinates were seemed to be of no concern to him.

"Test Dumbledore. Test Grindelwald. Test the raven." A cold light gleamed in his three scarlet eyes.

"If they're really preparing something, they'll definitely make a move. If they don't—"

His smile deepened.

"That means Dumbledore is really finished."

The night wind blew past the window, carrying a low, mournful sound. Voldemort stood there, gazing into the darkness, his tentacles swaying gently behind him.

"Go," he said softly, "let my clone go."

Upon hearing this, the Death Eater nodded hastily and scrambled out, leaving Voldemort alone by the window, gazing at the night sky.

"Dumbledore."

He spoke softly.

"Let me see just how many cards you have up your sleeve."

There was still some worry in his tone.

The ruins of Azkaban looked particularly desolate in the morning light.

The black fortress that once stood on the isolated island of Beihai is now only half of what it was, barely retaining its original shape.

The other half was completely destroyed in the earth-shattering battle between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, with rubble scattered on the reefs and sinking into the roaring sea.

Washed by the waves day and night, it gleams with a pale, bone-like sheen.

The charred marks stretched from the remaining walls to the ground, and from the ground to the sea, like scars that would never heal.

But the Ministry of Magic cannot allow it to fall into disuse.

Azkaban is not just a prison, but also a symbol. It represents the order of the magical world, the power of justice, and a deterrent to prisoners who have committed unforgivable crimes.

If it were to collapse there like an unclaimed corpse, what would the dark wizards lurking in the shadows think? What would the restless Death Eaters think? What would the pure-blood families who are still watching, still hesitating, still waiting to choose sides think?

Therefore, reconstruction is necessary.

The Ministry of Magic mobilized its best architectural wizards, drawing nearly a hundred people from all over Britain, and even the International Wizarding Federation sent several experts specializing in the restoration of ancient buildings.

They worked from sunrise to sunset and from sunset to sunrise, using magic to piece together the shattered boulders, rebuild the collapsed walls, and smooth the ground scorched by fierce fire.

"Left, a little to the left—no, right—stop!"

A wizard wearing a hard helmet and a dragon-skin apron stood in mid-air, his wand pointing at a huge rock suspended in mid-air. The rock was as big as a carriage, its surface covered with fine cracks. It had been dug out from the depths of the ruins and was originally the foundation stone of the main tower of Azkaban.

Several wizards simultaneously cast a levitation spell, slowly lifting it up, moving it to the designated location, and then gently lowering it down.

"Okay! Release it!"

The boulder landed, fitting perfectly into the foundation. The ground trembled slightly, kicking up a cloud of dust. Several wizards simultaneously withdrew their wands, wiped the sweat from their brows, and wore tired but satisfied smiles.

"Next piece!" shouted the helmeted architect, pointing his wand deeper into the ruins.

Many more people were busy. Some were clearing away rubble, moving unusable stones to the beach and throwing them into the deep sea; others were casting restorative spells, filling in cracks, smoothing them out, and restoring them to their original state.

Some were re-engraving those ancient protective runes, meticulously crafting each stroke, every single one requiring a great deal of magic and energy. The air was thick with the smells of dust, sweat, and magic, mingling with the salty sea breeze to create a unique aroma.

The smell of a construction site.

In the distance, several Aurors dressed in scarlet robes stood on the rocks, vigilantly watching the sea. They were elites selected by the Ministry of Magic to guard Azkaban, each a seasoned veteran with combat experience, their wands never leaving their hands, their eyes never leaving the horizon.

Azkaban is at its most vulnerable point now—the prisoners are still in their cells, but the guards are severely inadequate. If the Death Eaters launch an attack at this time, the consequences would be unimaginable.

"Do you think they'll come?" a young Auror asked in a low voice, a hint of barely concealed tension in his eyes.

His companion—an older Auror with a scar on his face—did not answer immediately. He simply stared at the sea, at the rising and falling waves.

I stared at the bubbles shimmering in the morning light for a long time.

"meeting."

He finally said, in a low and calm voice, "It will."

The young Auror's face paled slightly. "Then what do we want?"

"Just do our job," the older Auror interrupted him. "Stand here, keep an eye on the prisoners, and signal immediately if anything seems amiss. The rest is none of our business."

The young Auror opened his mouth, as if to say something, but only sighed softly. He gripped his wand tightly and continued to stare at the sea.

On the sea, waves rise and fall, and the morning light shimmers.

Everything was calm, a calm that was unsettling.

There was indeed an attack.

No one saw where they came from.

That black smoke—no, not black smoke, but something thicker, heavier, and more suffocating than black smoke, the wizard contaminated by deep space.

It surged in from the horizon, not fast, but with an unstoppable, destiny-like momentum.

These creatures cling to the sea surface, blending seamlessly with the waves, appearing and disappearing in the morning light, like a group of sharks lurking in the deep water, waiting for their chance to strike.

The young Auror was the first to see it.

He stared at the sea, his brow furrowed slightly. In that instant, he seemed to see something moving in the waves—not a fish, not a boat, not anything he recognized. It was some vague, distorted, hallucinatory presence that flashed by in the morning light and then vanished.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again. There was nothing on the sea. Only waves, only foam, only golden fragments of sunlight dancing on the water.

"What's wrong?" The older Auror noticed his unusual behavior.

"It's nothing." The young Auror shook his head. "I might have been seeing things."

The older Auror glanced at him but said nothing. He continued to stare at the sea, gripping his wand even tighter.

The black smoke continued to move close to the sea, getting closer and closer. It made no sound, caused no ripples, and simply advanced silently, like a swarm of ghosts, like a trap that was closing in.

When they were less than 100 meters away from Azkaban, the lead plume of black smoke suddenly accelerated!

Like an arrow released from a bow, it shot up from the sea, piercing the morning light, and hurtled straight toward the old Auror standing on the reef!

The older Auror reacted quickly. His wand instantly pointed at the black smoke, and a beam of red light shot from its tip. However, he didn't have time to cast any complex spells; he could only instinctively release the simplest Stunning Charm. The beam of light struck the black smoke without explosion or impact, simply passing through it silently, as if it were passing through a real cloud of smoke.

Black smoke exploded in front of him.

A twisted, enormous figure emerged from the black smoke. It had six arms, each ending in a sharp claw; countless dark red, pupil-less eyes blinked in every corner of its body; its body was pieced together from countless twisted limbs and torsos, looking like some kind of mad, blasphemous work of art.

Stitched monster.

It raised an arm, its claws slicing through the air. The older Auror didn't even have time to scream before his body was sliced ​​in two, blood gushing out and splashing onto the black reef, glaringly bright in the morning light. His wand slipped from his hand, bounced twice on the ground, and then rolled into the sea.

The young Auror stared blankly at the scene, his mind a complete blank. His lips trembled, his hands trembled, his whole body trembled. He wanted to scream, to run away, to do anything to escape this horrific nightmare—but his legs wouldn't obey him, his body wouldn't obey him, and he just stood there, looking at the monster, at those eyes, at those still-dripping claws.

The stitched-together monster turned to him. Its eyes blinked simultaneously, and a dark red light danced across its face.

"One." Bellatrix's voice came from the half-fused face, low and chaotic, with a morbid, almost manic pleasure.

The claws sliced ​​through the air once more.

The young Auror's body was also cut in half, falling onto the rocks, his blood staining the black stones red, before being swept away by the waves and into the deep sea.

More black smoke rose from the sea, falling on the ruins of Azkaban, among the busy wizards building structures, and behind the Aurors who were still vigilantly watching the sea.

The Death Eaters emerged from the black smoke, clad in black robes and wearing silver masks, their wands gleaming ominously. They spoke no words, made no shouts, but silently, efficiently, and ruthlessly slaughtered.

A wizard was intently repairing a wall, his back to the sea. He sensed something approaching, turned around, and a green light struck him in the chest. Before he could even scream, he collapsed to the ground, his eyes wide open, his face frozen with the bewilderment of his past life.

Another wizard heard the commotion, turned around, and saw the figures in black robes and masks. His face turned deathly pale instantly.

He instinctively raised his wand, but a red light was faster than him, striking his wrist and sending the wand flying. Then, a green light ended his life.

Several Aurors attempted to mount a resistance. They took cover behind the remaining walls, wands extending from their positions as they unleashed spells at the Death Eaters. Red, gold, and blue light swirled in the air, some striking their targets, some deflected, and some exploding on the ground, kicking up rubble and dust. But the Death Eaters were too numerous, their attacks too dense, and the Aurors were quickly overwhelmed, falling one after another.

A young Auror was cornered against a wall, his wand still in his hand, but his spells were exhausted. He looked at the approaching Death Eaters, at their cold silver masks, his eyes filled with despair. He closed his eyes, awaiting death.

But death did not come.

A huge, twisted foot slammed into the ground in front of him, jolting him awake. He looked up and saw the stitched-together monster standing before him, its six arms outstretched, its eyes simultaneously staring down at him.

Bellatrix's voice came from the half-fused face: "This—is for the master—the others—"

They were all killed.

The young Auror didn't know who his "master" was, but he knew he had survived. At least, he had survived for the time being.

The stitched-together monster turned and walked deeper into Azkaban. The Death Eaters followed behind it, none of them glancing at the young Auror again.

The killings continued.

The wizards scattered and fled, some attempting to Apparate, but Azkaban's protective magic was not yet fully repaired, making Apparate impossible.

"We're finished!"

In a world where there is no Dumbledore to rely on.

The wizards were filled with despair.

Meanwhile, the Death Eaters were at the height of their power.