Until two months later, Lockhart still vividly remembered the experience of that day—
Prior to that day, the Dementors had "disappeared," and replacing them on patrol were the group of Death Eaters who were originally imprisoned in the life sentence area. These guys started wearing black robes, transformed from Azkaban prisoners into prison guards, replacing the Dementors, and began explaining the current situation to everyone—meaning the other prisoners.
That day, a man named Radolphus Lestrange pushed open the door of his cell and told Lockhart that there were two choices now—
Surrender, or be killed. At that moment, the tip of the man's Magic Wand already glowed with a hint of green light, and Lockhart naturally knew to act wisely.
After becoming a "glorious" Death Eater, Gilderoy Lockhart's life in Azkaban underwent a great change, so much so that he even had the mood to write another book entitled "Lockhart and the Death Eaters in Azkaban," but alas, there wasn't much time, as he had to help with evangelizing... er, persuading other prisoners to join.
It took a lot of time because Azkaban, being a Magical Architecture, was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Meanwhile, there were always some stubborn people who, although they eventually submitted, clearly, Lockhart could tell they weren't completely convinced.
Just like him.
But fortunately, those Death Eaters didn't care about such things. They didn't suffer any physical pain; instead, they got beds far better than those damp, filthy, stinky straw mats, better lodging than rocky nests, with the exception of unchanged food, their living conditions greatly improved—
Very meticulous, because according to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration—a Wizard cannot conjure food out of thin air.
Yet, the "evangelizing" work still progressed slowly because every month, there were always a few days—the rhythm of about twice a week—when Aurors from the Ministry of Magic came for inspections, and at those times, they all had to stay in their cells all day, lying on straw mats, the Dementors would appear in the corridors, and all "work" would halt.
Until half a month ago, they finally ended the evangelizing activities, after which everyone would gather at a square every morning—don't ask why there would be a square in Azkaban; it is a Medieval Magic building, as long as there isn't electric lighting it's reasonable—then their boss would appear.
The one named Voldemort, a... "monster."
Yes, when Lockhart first saw the tumor growing from a middle-aged man's neck, he nearly wet his pants in fright.
Fortunately, he wasn't wearing any underpants, so he just had to dry his outer pants.
The guy couldn't be described with words, no matter how many of the most disgusting, dirty, twisted words Lockhart piled onto him, they felt inadequate. He seemed like a two-faced monster climbing out of Hell; Lockhart simply couldn't imagine anything more repulsive in the world—
Of course, that was because he missed the "good times," never saw the Master of Creation, Rubeus Hagrid's "masterpiece."
Then, Voldemort would give a speech for about twenty minutes, his hoarse, low voice would resonate across the square, the central theme being roughly—those guys locked us in Azkaban, made us coexist with Dementors, they are torturing us, we must fight back, a loaf of bread costs fifty thousand... cough cough, something like that.
Actually, Lockhart didn't feel particularly inspired, but clearly Voldemort's "work" wasn't as simple as he imagined.
From within, in places Lockhart and others couldn't feel, they had all been planted with ideological steel stamps—
Looking at the square before him, at a group of fanatical "fresh blood," a hint of worry flashed in Voldemort's eyes, if those two red slits on the tumor could be considered eyes.
"...What are you hesitating for?"
A youthful voice sounded behind him, Voldemort turned his head, looking at the stone platform behind him, a young Wizard wearing a suit was sitting with his legs crossed at the edge of the damp stone platform. Seeing Voldemort turn around, Little Tom couldn't help but screw up his eyes, "How many times have I said this? You damn look ugly now—shameful."
"They... are not of much use."
Voldemort directly ignored the sarcastic remarks from Little Tom's latter half; clearly, those words no longer easily touched his heart. He couldn't say whether his heart was strong or his defensiveness against Little Tom's sarcasm had improved.
"We never intended to rely on them for anything important, Tom."
Little Tom shook his head, after much deliberation, he didn't know what to call Tom Senior, so he just called him Tom anyway, since Tom Senior generally called him little brat, little offspring, etc., and wouldn't be confused, "Our plan needs many people, many Wizards—we need to keep those two occupied!"
"...No, only the one, Dumbledore is not to be feared."
After pondering for a moment, Voldemort also shook his head, "That person solved my... hmm, 'ally,' Helbo, that sharp-nosed rat already dug another pit and buried himself—stupid fool who failed to steal the chicken and lost the rice instead, if he'd even given me a hint in advance..."
"Then you'd all be captured in one sweep."
Little Tom applauded, seeming to praise Voldemort's courage, "Clearly having brushed up on the history of the second Goblin Rebellion, I thought you already had a reasonable recognition of William Richard, he damn is a monster—" he wrinkled his nose, "more a monster than you look now—"
"..."
"Besides, 'Dumbledore is not to be feared'? Where does that old guy show he's not to be feared?"
"He's already old, and I only need..."
"A Dark Arts? A Curse? A vile means?"
Little Tom spoke in a sarcastic tone, although he knew his words could no longer provoke much emotional fluctuation in Voldemort, he still enjoyed doing so, "Don't be ridiculous, Tom, you can't quite pin down that old man's strength—my plan is more reliable."
"...Your plan, huh, so, why are we dawdling here? Clearly, we could let those Dementors 'drive' that group of Wizards, instead of making these... utterly useless speeches here." Voldemort showed a hint of dismissiveness.
"Because we cannot completely control those 'Tattered Cloaks,' your proposal is prone to errors, Tom, this is already the forty-second time I've explained this to you... haha, your memory is worsening."
Little Tom teased, with a glint of concealed laughter in his eyes, "Besides, who said speeches are useless? Seventy years ago, a German walked into a tavern..."
"..."
"..."
After a long silence that belonged only to the two...or rather, only to Voldemort, Little Tom suddenly chuckled, he repeated, "Tom, your memory really is getting worse..." The young Wizard's figure slowly faded away, leaving only a sentence lingering in the air, "Don't ever let me catch a chance, Tom..."
"..."