After the green flame of the Portkey completely extinguished, only the crackling of burning torches remained in Azkaban's stone corridor.
Inside the cell, the figure of Selwyn, curled in the corner, suddenly stirred.
It wasn't the shivering twitch from the cold wind as before, but a nimble, energetic tremor.
His head slowly lifted, and in his clear, bright eyes, there was no trace of murkiness or emptiness, no numbness or despair, only the joy of a successful scheme.
Morin—now wearing Selwyn's emaciated face—leaned against the cold stone wall, the peculiar taste of Polyjuice Potion still lingering on his lips.
He could feel the power of Imperio, like an invisible thread, remotely guiding the actions of his 'self' far away in London.
This was the first time Morin had cast an Unforgivable Curse since transmigrating, and he hadn't expected its effect to be so potent.
Just moments ago, while Bulstrode and the Aurors waited for Morin around the corner, he accomplished two things with movements too quick to be seen.
First, he quietly uttered "Imperio" towards Selwyn on the other side of the bars.
That invisible force, like a venomous snake, drilled into Selwyn's brain, instantly devouring his last shred of consciousness.
The Wizard, whose soul had been drained by Dementors, couldn't even muster a thought of resistance before becoming a puppet at Morin's command.
Second, he swiftly pulled two small glass vials from his sleeve. One vial contained Polyjuice Potion prepared in advance with his own hair;
The other was a potion brewed from a few strands of hair he'd snatched from Selwyn when he wasn't looking, during their 'whisper' just now.
As the magical potion for swapping identities exploded with a fishy sweet taste on his tongue, the excruciating pain, like dislocated bones, lasted only a few seconds. He already bore Selwyn's face, while the Selwyn controlled by Imperio had transformed into Borgin—
The 'refreshed' smile was an instruction he had telepathically instilled in the puppet;
The slightly stiff gait was a trace of Imperio's struggle against Selwyn's dwindling thoughts;
As for the cloudy eyes, the poor Selwyn's mind had already collapsed, having been ravaged by Dementors and then subjected to Imperio by Morin.
At this moment, the sound of receding footsteps echoed from outside the cell—
That was 'himself' following Bulstrode towards the exit.
Morin could vaguely sense the outside world through the Imperio connection: the cold wind in the stone corridor, the rustling sound of Auror boots scuffing the ground, and Bulstrode's impatient urging... Although the Imperio link became intermittent after Selwyn used the Portkey, no one should have noticed anything amiss.
Confirmed his plan was successful, Morin slowly stood up. This body, transformed by Polyjuice Potion, was weaker than he imagined; every step felt like walking on cotton.
He leaned on the stone wall and walked to the iron bars, looking through the gap towards the end of the corridor.
Several black silhouettes were slowly floating over.
Those were Dementors, monsters that fed on happiness to create fear.
Their black robes were darker than the deepest night, their edges frayed like torn shrouds, fluttering slightly in the windless stone corridor as if countless invisible hands were pulling at them from below.
There was no face beneath the black robes, only a bottomless darkness, with occasional long, pale fingers extending from the edge of the robe, like frozen branches, slowly, repeatedly swaying.
The chill from the stone walls seeped out like a living thing, drilling into Morin's bones.
He huddled in the corner of Selwyn's cell, his skin beneath the black robe covered in fine beads of sweat.
Morin's breath suddenly hitched—the Dementors had sensed him.
Polyjuice Potion was undoubtedly a great magical creation; it allowed Morin to deceive Bulstrode and the two Aurors, but it couldn't deceive Azkaban's guards.
The torchlight suddenly dimmed, the orange-red flames flickering, casting several distorted shadows on the wall.
The shadows floated extremely slowly, the edges of their black robes dragging across the cold stone floor, making an almost inaudible rustling sound, like giant insects crawling.
Morin stared at them, unable to tear his gaze away—
There was nothing beneath the black robes, no face, no eyes, only a void that could swallow all light, with a few long, pale fingers occasionally extending from the edge of the robe, slowly, repeatedly twitching.
A coldness more biting than the stone walls enveloped him.
It wasn't a cold of temperature, but a chill seeping from his heart.
He felt his recently gathered thoughts—about disguise, about infiltration, about plans to find power—burst like popped soap bubbles, one after another.
The Dementors, imbued with endless malice, sucked the warmth from his chest, leaving only a heavy, suffocating fear.
He was afraid.
This fear came surging and unfamiliar, like an old, forgotten wound suddenly tearing open.
He remembered Riddle's icy eyes, and the polite yet cold smile at the corner of his lips when he spoke.
Morin's teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Riddle knew more tormenting curses than all the Dark Arts artifacts in Knockturn Alley combined.
He would be torn to shreds little by little, not even bone fragments would remain, and his soul would be locked in some dark corner, never to find peace.
He was also afraid of being too weak.
This thought settled in his stomach like a lead weight.
Before coming, he had made ample preparations—
The Burke Family's ancient books were worn out from reading, Dark Arts spells memorized by heart, but now, in front of the Dementors, he was no different from the mad, idiotic fools in the cells.
He also recalled Borgin's childhood memories—
When spells emerged from his wand, they always sounded like deflated balloons, lacking power.
When he got out of here, could he really stand against Riddle? He might not even be able to protect Finn and Lina, and be treated as an after-dinner snack by the wolf cubs.
Countless terrifying thoughts grew in Morin's mind.
They emerged without warning, carrying pure malice and suffocating despair.
He felt as if he was back on Blue Star in his previous life, sitting behind mountains of test papers, sweat soaking his shirt, the rustling of pen nibs on paper in his ears, his heart clenched by an invisible hand, beating as if it would explode.
That fear of failure, that confusion about the unknown, was so similar to the despair he felt now.
It turns out that no matter in which world, people's deepest fears are the same—
Fear of giving their all, only to achieve nothing in the end.
The nearest Dementor stopped, its black robe leaning slightly forward, as if 'sizing up' his withered body.
The Dementors seemed to have 'tasted' something sweet, and their black robes dipped a few more inches.
The others nearby were also drawn over. The temperature in the stone corridor plummeted, and the torchlight completely extinguished, leaving only the pitiful green glow of the fluorescent moss, making the folds on the black robes look like gaping mouths.
He leaned against the cold stone wall, gasping for breath, cold sweat soaking Selwyn's tattered black robe.
It turned out he could also be this afraid, like a Hogwarts first-year student facing a Dementor for the first time, all his disguises and calculations stripped away, leaving only the most primitive fear of darkness.
"Hoo—"
A long sigh, like wind passing through a tomb, drifted from beneath the black robe—the Dementor had unveiled its hood.
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