Every crack in the stone wall seeped cold air, like countless tiny ice needles, piercing Morin's limbs and bones.
He huddled in the corner of Selwyn's cell, his knuckles white under his tattered black robe from clenching—
He was clutching something tightly, hidden in his sleeve, pressed against his palm, with the unique grain of wood.
The Dementors floated closer—
They had discovered the unfamiliar intruder and intended to give Morin a kiss.
The smell of rotting seaweed mixed with despair was so thick it wouldn't dissipate, and when it entered his nostrils, it was like swallowing a mouthful of icy water mixed with grit.
Their black robes gently undulated in the lingering torchlight, their edges frayed like shredded shrouds, dragging with a rustling sound on the stone floor, as if something was wriggling in the darkness.
The closest one stopped in front of the cell door, its black robe slowly lifting, revealing the bottomless void beneath—
No face, no eyes, only an emptiness that could devour all light and joy.
Morin's heart sank to his stomach.
But this was what he wanted.
He hadn't stumbled into Azkaban to actively seek death; quite the opposite, he was perfectly lucid.
"...An Obscurus, neither curse nor magic, but the rage of imprisoned magic. A young Wizard, under extreme suppression, unable to release his magic, which then transforms into a dark entity, residing within his body..."
An adult Wizard's mind is like a stone wall reinforced with magic; even the deepest pain can only leave shallow marks, making it impossible to become an Obscurus.
Yet he needed power, power to fight Riddle, to fight those Wizards at the top of the pyramid.
So he came to Azkaban.
The despair of Azkaban, the fear the Dementors brought him, was the only possibility he found—
To use the most extreme emotions as a catalyst, forcing his magic to completely "mutate."
It was like throwing a piece of iron into a pool of venom, not caring what it would become, as long as it became sharp enough, deadly enough.
The void beneath the black robe was only a few inches from the iron bars. Morin could feel his memories fading:
The sunlight filtering through Borgin's shop skylight, Finn clumsily practicing Expelliarmus, even the cicada's chirping on a summer afternoon on Bluestar... All warm, vivid images were rapidly blurring, leaving only cold fear, like a tide washing over his chest.
He began to gasp for breath, his throat felt like it was blocked by a wad of wet cotton, and even his fingertips trembled uncontrollably.
Now was the time.
Morin's hand moved abruptly.
He pulled his wand from his tattered robe sleeve—
No incantation, not even raised. He just clutched it tightly, letting the coldness of the wand penetrate his palm, seeping into his blood.
Just then, something changed.
It wasn't an explosive burst of light, nor a violent energy shock. It was a... deathly coldness.
Starting from his palm, a chill spread along the wand, purer and emptier than the cold brought by the Dementors, like the icy wind of the far northern ice fields.
The magic within him was no longer a gently flowing stream, but had suddenly frozen into angular ice crystals, each collision emitting a faint, almost inaudible cracking sound.
The surging fear, resentment, and anger seemed to have their colors instantly drained, leaving only the numbness of a black-and-white silent film.
He felt as if he was standing on the edge of a deep well, looking down into the darkness at the bottom, but no longer feeling fear, instead experiencing a strange... sense of belonging.
The Dementor's raised black robe paused.
That void seemed to be "observing" him, not like a predator observing prey, but more like recognizing a kindred spirit.
Morin could feel that the despair emanating from the Dementor was like encountering a mirror in front of him, even showing a slight... tendency to be absorbed.
His magic was undergoing some bizarre transformation, possessing both the extreme destructive power of an Obscurus and the unique, emotion-feeding void of a Dementor.
The black robe slowly fell.
No reason, no warning.
Just like a bird skimming over water, finding no fish, and then flying away.
The leading Dementor changed direction, the sound of its black robe fluttering like a long sigh.
The other ones followed, passing Morin's cell without even a pause, as if it were empty.
The chill in the stone corridor gradually receded, leaving only the occasional crackle of the torch.
Morin still clutched his wand, his knuckles white from the effort.
He looked down at his hand—this withered hand belonging to Selwyn, now glowed with a nearly transparent cold light.
He could feel that the magic within him had become strange and dangerous, like a awakened icefield behemoth, lurking beneath his skin.
He had won the gamble.
Not an Obscurus, nor a Dementor. It was something caught in the cracks, a power of darkness born from extreme fear.
Morin slowly released his grip, and the wand slid back into his sleeve.
He leaned against the cold stone wall, closed his eyes, but a faint, cold curve played on his lips.
From deep within the stone corridor, came the suppressed sobs of other prisoners.
Besides that, he heard other sounds.
Not the prisoners' ravings, nor the rustling of Dementors' robes dragging on the floor.
It was a more subtle movement, like countless strings tightening, or countless hearts pounding in chests.
When he listened closely, the sound dispersed, turning into a fragmented hum, drifting from the adjacent cell, from behind the iron bars diagonally opposite, and even from the end of the stone corridor.
It was fear.
He suddenly understood. Just as some people can smell the dampness before rain, and some can hear the desolation of falling leaves, he could now "taste" emotions—
The mad Wizard in the innermost cell, his emotions seemed to have been boiled down to dregs, leaving only an earthy smell, which even the Dementors couldn't be bothered to touch.
The woman diagonally opposite, her emotions were like spoiled honey, sweetly bitter—
Morin's fingertips suddenly grew hot, and the wisp of half-gray, half-black mist seemed to come alive, climbing up his wrist, its tip trembling slightly, reaching out towards the woman.
The magic within him also became restless, like a ravenous beast smelling meat, and a slightly itchy craving even rose in his throat—to devour this sweet emotion.
"Tch."
Morin suddenly poked his arm hard with the end of his wand.
The gray mist, like a spanked mischievous child, instantly retreated back into his body.
Morin casually stood up, his joints making faint cracking sounds, and he returned to the appearance of Mr. Borgin.
He didn't look at the Dementors, but only stared at the iron bars in front of him.
Black patterns suddenly crawled all over the rusty iron bars, like living vines—
That was the magic emanating from his palm, carrying the twisted destructive power unique to an Obscurus, yet more controllable than any Obscurus's magic.
"I'll call you... 'Turbid.'"
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