Hogwarts Castle hadn't been this quiet in a long time. From the Entrance Hall to the Astronomy Tower, not a soul stirred. Even the library and Hospital Wing were sealed—every classroom door tightly shut.
A few minutes later, it was as if winter itself had descended on the castle. The temperature plummeted, and a bone-deep chill swept in through the main doors. Frost glazed the banisters and floors, turning statues to a dull, ashen white. Icicles shimmered in the air.
Then the front doors opened.
Hundreds of Dementors surged inside, a cloud of dark, cloaked figures drifting forward, greedily inhaling the lingering "flavors" left in the castle.
To the Dementors, Hogwarts was a feast—an enormous dinner plate still scented with the essence of all its occupants.
The "roast meats," "pan-seared steaks," and "hearty stews" had all been removed (i.e., the students), but even the faint aroma left behind was enough to intoxicate them.
Instantly, the castle grew even colder.
Dumbledore stood nearby, watching them, his expression darkening. The Dementors' behavior was blatant provocation—as if he were too old to lift a wand.
Suddenly, a slender wand appeared in his hand.
"What do you think you're doing?!"
Before Dumbledore could act, Scrimgeour stepped forward and barked at the Dementors, "Remember your orders! You are here only to find your missing kin. If any of you overstep, the Ministry will withdraw support!"
A third figure stepped out, emitting a strange sound—like wind rushing through a hollow pipe.
Only then did the Dementors reluctantly draw back their hooded faces and begin floating deeper into the castle.
"Sorry, Albus. You know how it is…" Fudge approached Dumbledore, nervously twisting his bowler hat in his hands. "The Dementors… they care about their own. They insisted on searching for the missing one or they'd go on strike.
"You understand—we can't run Azkaban without them. Only Dementors can keep those criminals in line."
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said softly. "Azkaban can't be without Dementors."
"But tell me something, Cornelius…" He leaned forward slightly, blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles gleaming like sharpened ice. "Since when do these soulless, joy-consuming creatures… care about their comrades?
"They are not beings with hearts, yet now they defy the Ministry for the sake of one of their own?"
He narrowed his eyes. Content orıginally comes from NovєlFіre.net
"And what's even more fascinating… is that the Ministry yielded. To Dementors. Remarkable."
"This wasn't yielding!" Fudge insisted, voice rising. "They had a reasonable request—we couldn't refuse it. Dementors are part of the Ministry. When something goes wrong during one of their assignments, we have a duty to respond. Don't we?"
"I'm afraid I must disagree, Cornelius," Dumbledore said. "I never once requested Dementors to guard Hogwarts. That was their decision—uninvited and unneeded."
He straightened. "And frankly, their 'usefulness' has been… questionable."
Fudge's face flushed red—partly with anger, partly because Dumbledore was right.
Sirius Black had entered Hogwarts.
That fact alone had struck like an invisible slap across the Ministry's face—and the Dementors' as well.
It was a hard truth to swallow, especially after the Ministry had boasted that with Dementors guarding the school, Sirius Black wouldn't dare get near Harry Potter.
Now, Dumbledore's words twisted like a dagger in Fudge's side.
The Daily Prophet had already shamed the Ministry enough with its front-page article. And now, Dumbledore was twisting the knife.
Fudge's expression darkened. But he didn't dare lash out—not at Dumbledore. He made up a flimsy excuse, turned on his heel, and left the castle—leaving Scrimgeour alone to deal with the swarming Dementors.
Scrimgeour didn't want the job either—but he wasn't the Minister. So he followed the cloaked figures deeper into the castle.
From the Entrance Hall to the second floor, then the third… Wherever the Dementors passed, even the portraits fled, slipping out of their frames long before the shadows approached.
If there was any upside, it was that the cold also froze the castle's spiders and bugs solid.
Maybe Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests should include a chapter on Dementors. They were far more effective than any bug-repellent charm—if you could tolerate them hovering in your home.
Roughly two hundred Dementors had come—every one pulled from Azkaban.
It seemed like a large number, but Hogwarts was vast. The sprawling towers and courtyards meant the Dementors had to spread out. Their drifting forms quickly became sparse shadows vanishing into turrets and cloisters.
No one could follow them all.
So the professors and Scrimgeour split up. The teachers posted themselves at the entrances to the common rooms, guarding against any Dementor who got… "confused."
Scrimgeour, meanwhile, dashed around the castle like a headless fly.
On the eighth floor, Professor McGonagall stood guard outside the Gryffindor common room. Behind her, the painting of a short-legged knight astride a shaggy pony was shouting at a group of approaching Dementors.
"Come on, you floating rags! Filthy mongrel hounds! You limp-limbed cowards!"
"Sniveling halfwits, worse than trolls!"
"If you dare come closer, I swear I'll kick your ghostly backsides with my boots!"
This was Sir Cadogan—one of Hogwarts' less stable portrait guardians.
After the Fat Lady had her painting slashed by Sirius Black, she'd been too frightened to return. In the meantime, Sir Cadogan had been assigned to watch over the Gryffindor entrance.
He waved his sword wildly as the Dementors crept closer.
Oddly enough, the Dementors began to back away.
But not because of the blustering knight.
It was because of the real threat standing in front of the painting: Professor McGonagall, and the silver tabby cat perched gracefully on her shoulder.
And wherever a Patronus glowed, no Dementor dared to linger—even if the scent of "prey" was strong behind the portrait.
Still, they hesitated. They backed off, but not far.
Suddenly, the silver tabby leapt forward, streaking through the air in a flash of white-blue light.
The Dementors scattered like ice under boiling water. Their tattered cloaks twisted and flailed. They shrieked and fled—some bursting through nearby windows into the storm, others slamming into suits of armor with loud metallic clangs.
One Dementor, quicker than the rest, had fled as soon as the Patronus had launched.
It dove into a dark, unused corridor on the far end of the floor, away from anyone watching.
But it failed to notice… that it wasn't alone.
There was a cat there—not the silver of a Patronus, but pitch black. One eye gleamed orange in the shadows.