Azkaban's stone corridors were even colder than Borgin and Burkes' cellar, with torchlight casting flickering shadows on the damp walls, like a group of silent ghosts.
Morin followed Bulstrode and stopped in front of a cell. A thin layer of white frost condensed on the iron bars, so cold it could freeze one to the bone.
Inside the cell, Ignis Selwyn was huddled in a corner, looking like a bundle of old, waterlogged twine.
His black robes had long lost their original color, stained with dark brown smudges, and his matted hair, like a clump of moldy seaweed, almost completely covered his face.
This capable subordinate of Grindelwald now didn't even have the strength to lift his head.
Morin's gaze swept over Selwyn's half-dead appearance, and a frivolous smile played on his lips:
"It seems Dementors are better at 'educating' people than I thought."
He lightly tapped the bars with the tip of his wand, producing a crisp sound, "Selwyn, your old friend has come to visit you."
The corpse in the corner stirred.
After a long while, Selwyn slowly raised his head, revealing a face ravaged by fear and despair, pockmarked and hollow.
His eyes were muddy like dirty water, pupils shrunken to pinpricks, and a piece of his nose bridge had been scraped off by a spell.
"Bo… Borgin?"
His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against stone, each word accompanied by a gasping, leaking sound, as if his throat were clogged with rotten cotton.
"It seems he's not completely muddled yet." Morin sneered, the contempt in his tone stinging like a needle, "My old friend, I told you long ago, without a master, you are even viler than a stray dog on the street."
Selwyn's lips trembled, but he couldn't even utter a complete sentence, only making unintelligible whimpers.
His hands desperately clawed at the stone floor, knuckles terrifyingly white, yet he didn't even have the strength to stand up.
"Is this the 'old acquaintance' you've been thinking about for ten years?"
Bulstrode's voice carried undisguised mockery; he clearly found the scene somewhat comical.
Morin looked at him for a long time, seemingly also finding it dull, then turned and spread his hands to Bulstrode:
"How boring. I thought I'd see him jump up and curse me, but it turns out he only has this much spirit left."
"If you find it boring, then let's go."
Bulstrode's robes were trembling slightly—even though the Dementors had been temporarily called away, no one wanted to stay in such a place any longer than necessary.
"What's the rush." Morin waved his hand, his gaze casually sweeping the depths of the corridor, "It's not easy to come all this way, I should at least get to see something. Otherwise, how can I brag to those people in Knockturn Alley when I get back?"
Morin, disregarding Bulstrode's objections, took two steps forward on his own, examining a Witch in the next cell who was muttering to the wall, his tone as relaxed as if he were discerning the flavors of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans:
"And this is? The one who stole half of Gringotts back then? Look at her, she probably doesn't even remember her own name."
Bulstrode frowned but didn't say much, only patiently accompanied Morin as he walked forward.
Two Aurors followed behind, their wands still in hand, but the vigilance in their eyes had clearly relaxed—a Dark Wizard who was merely commenting on prisoners was always more reassuring than the previously sinister-eyed owner of a Dark Arts shop.
Despite the extremely oppressive environment, Morin's spirits seemed high. He would stop occasionally to make a few remarks, perfectly portraying a mean-spirited villain—
He pointed to a Wizard huddled in a corner and said: "This one once boasted about overthrowing the Ministry of Magic, a 'big shot,' but now he can't even scare a mouse." Then he chuckled at a Witch banging her head against the bars, "It seems if you use the 'Confundus Charm' on yourself too much, you really do go mad."
His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, just enough for Bulstrode and the Aurors to hear. His gloating expression was exactly like a Dark Wizard who had come to revel in his enemies' misfortunes and satisfy his own twisted tastes.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Bulstrode finally lost his patience:
"Alright, Takus, we've finished the tour. It's time to go back. I don't want to spend another minute in this wretched place."
Morin waved his hand, a look of lingering desire on his face: "As you command, Director."
On their way back, passing Selwyn's cell, Morin stopped again.
"What is it again, Takus?" Bulstrode asked warily.
Morin pointed to Selwyn in the cell, a hint of nonchalant amusement on his face:
"I suddenly wanted to have a few 'heart-to-heart' words with him alone. Don't worry, just two sentences, and then I'll leave."
"No." The young Auror immediately refused, his hand on the wand at his waist, "The Ministry of Magic has regulations—"
"Regulations are dead, people are alive."
Morin didn't look at him, only stared at Bulstrode, and their gazes suddenly became subtle, a tacit understanding between pure-blood Wizards.
"Director, what kind of trouble do you think he can stir up now? Me speaking to him, surely that won't cost you your position, will it?"
Bulstrode frowned, observing the lifeless shadow in the cell—even if Borgin really did something to this useless person, given his status, suppressing it wouldn't be difficult.
As for Borgin's safety, could a Wizard whose soul had been sucked dry by Dementors still be considered a "threat"?
"Hurry up."
He finally took two steps back, pointed to the corner, and gestured to Morin:
"We'll wait right there."
Morin nodded, turned and walked to the iron bars, his back to Bulstrode and the others, lowered his head, and spoke in a very low voice.
Selwyn in the cell remained unresponsive, like a rusted piece of iron.
After about five minutes, just as Bulstrode was getting a bit impatient, Morin straightened up, patted non-existent dust from his robes, and turned to walk towards Bulstrode.
"Finished?" Bulstrode asked.
"Mm," Morin nodded, his tone as light as if discussing the weather, "Just cleared up that little 'misunderstanding' from back then."
Bulstrode's gaze swept over Selwyn in the cell—still in that half-dead state, not even having changed his posture.
He completely relaxed—and turned towards the direction of the Portkey: "Let's go, this unlucky place."
Morin followed behind him.
No one noticed that Morin's eyes were a few shades murkier than when he first entered the room, as if covered by a thin mist.
His walking movements also had a subtle, imperceptible stiffness, not as free and fluid as before.
The smile was still on his face, but it seemed pasted on, instead revealing an indescribable strangeness.
Leaving Azkaban and returning to the barren reef, the sea wind made his black robes flap loudly.
Bulstrode smiled apologetically at Morin: "My apologies, Mr. Borgin, after all, that kind of place… sigh…"
Immediately after, the group grabbed the Portkey and returned to London.
Half a minute later, Morin returned to the basement of Borgin and Burkes, his eyes now completely hollow and lifeless.
His hands slowly clenched inside his robes, his fingertips feeling somewhat cold.
The smile on his face gradually faded, and his movements became increasingly stiff, as if something was settling and fermenting within him.
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