A piercing chill seeped into the tattered black cloaks of the Dementors, freezing their ethereal, weightless forms—like desiccated husks encased in frost. It felt as though iron weights had been chained to their essence, dragging them down. Their movements grew sluggish, burdened by an unfamiliar heaviness. Never before had they known cold could turn against them, eroding their very being. They, who were the harbingers of cold and terror, now faced an alien force. What dark sorcery was this?
Worse still, wax-dripping, spider-like corpses—animated and ravenous—lunged from the shadows. One unlucky Dementor, struck by a corpse plummeting from the ceiling, unleashed a shriek of mingled fury and fear. As it collapsed, countless pale, skeletal arms surged from every direction, latching onto it like hyenas scenting blood. They tore into the Dementor's essence, devouring the dark energy that sustained its existence.
"Hiss… hiss…!" The captured Dementor writhed on the ground, its struggles futile and despairing. The power that once drove prisoners to madness in Azkaban had no effect on these emotionless, ravenous corpses. To humans, Dementors were predators; to these creatures, the Dementor was merely a feast.
"Save me! Save me!" it wailed, reaching out to its kin. But the other Dementors had no loyalty. They fled, desperate to escape the cursed, monster-devouring train and return to the grim sanctuary of Azkaban. These city-dwellers were far too terrifying!
Abandoned, the fallen Dementor was drained dry, leaving only a limp black cloak crumpled on the floor.
Clack.
A leather boot pressed down on the cloak. Ethan Vincent, dragging his silver-white warhammer, carved a deep furrow in the floor behind him. He inhaled deeply, savoring the acrid tang of fear in the air. His cobalt blue eyes gleamed with twisted delight. "What a delectable scent," he murmured. "As creatures of darkness, Dementors must adore it too."
Once, they had gorged on joy, leaving only pain in their wake. Now, the tables had turned. It was their turn to taste the primal, bone-deep fear they'd inflicted on others.
Ethan's head snapped toward the train compartment. Through the misty window, shrouded by a white veil, he glimpsed the trembling students inside. A grin curled his lips. Raising a hand, he traced two dots and an arc on the fogged glass—a cheerful smiley face. "Don't be afraid," he whispered, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. "With me here, Dementors are nothing to fear."
The smiley face, however, wept. Water droplets streamed from its eyes and mouth, trailing down the glass. No matter—surely the students were thrilled, practically fainting with excitement. Ethan flashed a dazzling, innocent smile, turned, and hummed a jaunty tune as he sauntered after the fleeing Dementors. His warhammer scraped along the floor, groaning ominously.
He wasn't in a hurry. Ethan Vincent was no impulsive child, spoiling his surprises too soon. The real fun was yet to come.
"Ten little Dementors went out to hunt, one choked on its prey, and then there were nine…" His clear, melodic voice echoed through the silent carriage. "Nine little Dementors failed to rise at dawn, one faded away, and then there were eight… One was left alone, and hung itself in shame. None were left."
Ron Weasley, huddled in a corner, whimpered. "None were left? Ethan's going to kill everyone on this train!"
On the snow-white Hogwarts Express, the remaining Dementors fled in panic. From hundreds, their numbers had dwindled to a mere dozen. They'd come to hunt a fugitive, not to die. Survival was their only instinct now, but the train seemed endless, its corridors looping like a trap. They were moths in a jar, with no escape.
Creak, creak. The sound of Ethan's warhammer dragging along the floor stalked them. Every so often, a deafening crash shook the carriage, and lightning flared. A jagged bolt tore through a lone Dementor, shredding it to nothingness.
Then, a faint glow appeared ahead. The Dementors froze, then surged toward it with desperate hope—an exit! But as they drew closer, they saw it was no escape, only an oil painting on the wall, depicting a golden field of swaying sunflowers. "Hiss?" they rasped, bewildered.
In an instant, their vision blurred. Golden light swallowed them, pulling them into the painting's world.
Blue skies stretched above, dotted with soft white clouds. Below, a sea of sunflowers shimmered, vibrant and alive. Yet, a closer look revealed their painted nature—mere strokes of color. In the center stood a graceful figure in a white dress, radiating warmth and happiness.
"Roar…" The Dementors, ravenous, drifted toward her. Their instincts screamed: Food—delicious food! They would feed, replenish, and then hunt down that wretched human boy. Air rushed into their void-like mouths as they drew closer.
But then, the girl turned. Her face—blank, featureless, a waxen mask like a living corpse's—stared back. The Dementors' hissing spiked into a choked gasp. Their souls quaked with terror. What was this? Another of that boy's twisted schemes?
The world shifted. The sky bled red, as if painted by a crimson brush. The Dementors looked up, frozen, as an enormous golden eye opened in the heavens, its light blinding, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. It pinned them in place.
"Hiss—hiss?!" they trembled.
A pitch-black door appeared within the eye. From it emerged the figure they dreaded most: Ethan Vincent, leaning casually against the golden orb, his silver-white warhammer glinting with malice. His presence oozed menace.
"Ding ding! Surprise! 'Girl in the Flower Field'!" Ethan spread his arms, grinning wickedly. "Isn't it warm? Thrilling?"
The Dementors were speechless. The corpse-faced "girl" murmured softly, her voice an eerie whisper.
"Sadly," Ethan continued, his cobalt eyes glinting, "our little game of cat and mouse ends here." He raised his warhammer. "Farewell, my friends. See you in the underworld."
The Dementors' fear peaked. They didn't want to face this chosen of darkness, not even in death. "Taste my righteous jump-slash!" Ethan bellowed, leaping from the sky. His warhammer blazed with light, framed by the golden eye behind him, like an avenging angel descending. It seared into the Dementors' final moments.
Boom!
[Congratulations!]
[You have successfully liberated the dark wandering souls, "Dementors"!]
[Allowing them to peacefully proceed to hell.]
[Due to your benevolent act, you have obtained an extraordinary material—]
[Dementor Essence!]
Ethan's eyes sparkled at the reward. A rustling came from the sunflower field. The corpse-faced girl, her features now a chaotic scribble, approached, holding a dark, spherical essence in her slender hands. The wind stirred, and under the blood-red sky, the golden sunflowers swayed. Evil had been vanquished. Peace returned.
The Hogwarts Express shuddered violently that day. In a broom cupboard, Sirius Black, disguised as a black dog, reeled from the tremors. What was happening? No prophecy foretold the magical world's end today! Recalling the masked figure chasing Dementors, Sirius fell silent. What had Hogwarts become? A haven for heroes—or monsters?
He hadn't dared venture out earlier, fearing capture. Now, the silence outside beckoned. Sirius leaped up, peering through the cupboard's slatted window. His godson, Harry Potter, couldn't be in danger, could he? He couldn't hide any longer. He had to find Harry.
As Sirius pushed the door open with his paws, a pair of cobalt blue eyes gleamed through the slats. "Hi hi hi~!" Ethan's voice chirped.
Click. Sirius slammed the door shut. Stay away!
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