Late night, Muggle Studies professor's office.
A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, three white porcelain teacups, one living guy, one ghostly projection, and a baby snake just tagging along for the vibes. The three of them sat around a walnut desk under soft lamplight.
The evening breeze rattled the windowpanes; rain tapped the glass in steady rhythm, syncing with the wall clock. The mood was eerie. Steam curled from the cups, adding a mysterious haze that made the thing in the briefcase look even weirder.
Sixteen-year-old Riddle sniffed his tea. "Gotta say, I'm surprised. Inviting me to a midnight tea party at Hogwarts? Mention Dementors last night, and boom, tonight you bring one over."
"As the Dark Lord's most loyal, ride-or-die ally, you think I'm the kind of shady wizard who'd stall and milk your memories for profit? I'm trying to crack Azkaban, spring your faithful servants, and yeah, I'm curious about Dementor magic."
Melvin sipped his tea, laying it all out for teen Riddle. "If you can help me figure out how to control Dementors fast, free those loyalists, then the Dark Lord's comeback is right around the corner."
"Rather than hunt for some missing… whatever, I'd put my money on myself." Riddle's eyes flickered; he studied Melvin's face.
Hiss…
Yulm was clearly into the "prey" too, slithering across the desk, tongue flicking.
Melvin pulled a black briefcase from under the desk and set it on top. Compact, copper core wrapped in black cowhide, metal-reinforced corners. The Magical Menagerie logo proved it was a sealed creature carrier.
Completely blocked magic and scent. It had crossed the Scottish Highlands to Hogwarts without a single other Dementor catching on.
Melvin knew exactly what was inside but felt zero magic—like it was just a normal briefcase.
He slid a brass key into the top lock, turned it once. Gears clicked softly; a hairline crack opened. Icy mist poured out, like the office had dropped into a blizzard.
Melvin lifted the lid and whispered, "Dementor."
Riddle had only studied them from afar; Yulm had never seen one. Both leaned in, caught up in the vibe.
But all that came out was cold fog—stage-dry-ice pretty, but useless.
"Come on, show yourself," Melvin said, tapping the lid.
The noise spooked the thing inside. A darker mist billowed, and a figure drifted out: tattered cloak, gray-white face hidden under the hood, shriveled skin, faint rot-stink, and a low, raspy hiss—like a demon crawling back from hell.
Riddle reached out. One was a memory-projection potion phantom; the other a weird magical construct. They passed through each other, just a slight lag on contact.
"Looks like a ghost. Supposedly sucks out souls and happy memories. Can't be killed. But if conditions aren't right for breeding, their numbers self-regulate."
Riddle's fingertip glowed green—pure projection, no effect on the Dementor.
"Reminds me of coastal scarecrows. Fishermen and farmers set up dummies to scare birds away from drying nets," Melvin observed quietly.
Huff…
The Dementor must've been cooped up too long; it seemed dazed, slow to react.
When Yulm slithered closer, the thing snapped awake. A shrill, guttural roar dropped the room temp instantly; frost bloomed on the teacups.
Dementors don't see—they smell magic. In the room: baby snake, stinky soul-shard, and one tasty live human right in front.
Born from pure despair, barely any memory, instincts half-baked. In just a few hours it had forgotten the pain of capture.
It inhaled lightly, locked onto Melvin, and stretched out gray, hidden hands. A sucking whoosh filled the room; air rippled, weird magic wrapping Melvin, trying to drain something.
Melvin frowned but didn't call his Patronus yet. He tested Riddle's control theory—nothing.
Crucio.
Imperio.
Two Unforgivables hit the Dementor; it slowed for half a second. Crucio and Imperius did squat; even the physical kickback barely nudged it.
The roaring thing got cocky, shoving its rotting maw right in Melvin's face.
Melvin's eyes flashed. Silver light exploded, slamming the Dementor into the wall. The chandelier swayed.
It tried to bolt, but the room was sealed in Patronus glow—a cage of silver light. Trapped.
"Your malice isn't pure enough. To cast an Unforgivable, you gotta mean the unforgivable. Make them scream, make them remember forever. Even the kindest wizard monk, tortured to death, wouldn't forgive."
Riddle shook his head. "You can still cast a Patronus. That means you can't unleash the full power of the Unforgivables."
Melvin looked thoughtful, then flicked his wand one last time. Green light vanished into the Dementor's gut. It shrieked in pain—but that was it.
"Avada Kedavra doesn't hurt. They should die without knowing," Riddle muttered. His dark-magic genius made sense, but Melvin couldn't master it overnight.
Yulm's eyes were saucers—three Unforgivables demoed, each one an Azkaban sentence.
Now the Dementor was bound in silver glow; the office looked like a fancy cathedral, the monster a demon awaiting judgment it couldn't punish.
"These things were first bred by a dark wizard named Ekrizdis on a lonely North Sea island. Built a grim fortress, lured Muggle sailors and local fishermen, tortured them beyond imagination until they died in agony and despair. Twisted souls, fermented evil magic—Dementors were born from that."
Melvin tapped the desk, reciting lore. "Kinda like how Silentuses are made. I even wonder if some of the victims were young wizards—their unstable, moldable magic warped into this."
"But I think Ekrizdis became a Dementor," Riddle countered. "Immune to most magic and physical damage, free of a frail body, immortal, grows stronger by eating joy and souls—another shortcut to conquering death."
Melvin actually paused. "He was chasing immortality… and failed?"
"Just a theory," Riddle said softly. "Maybe he succeeded, but something went wrong. Dementors absorb memories and souls but have no minds, no independent will. Low-level instincts only. His consciousness drowned in stolen memories and primal urges."
Silence fell. Just the clock ticking.
"True power isn't just magic—it's beating death and staying sane through eternity. Melvin, when I claw my way back from the grave, I'll share the secret of immortality."
Riddle seized the moment to tempt.
Melvin just nodded. "Of course. Aren't we already working on it? I'm gonna try Legilimency to talk to the Dementor."
Riddle gave him a long look and shut up.
A breeze flipped back the hood. The Dementor's face: crude rag doll or waterlogged, rotting corpse. Sunken sockets, no eyes—just faint gray mist. No nose, just two slits. Mouth a hollow tube.
Legilimency linked their magic; Melvin's mind probed the Dementor's brain—empty, soul lighter than a feather, barely there.
Gray mist filled the sockets, mirroring its hollow soul. Weak, alien magic pulled Melvin's consciousness in.
His brow furrowed. It wasn't hard to enter; it was hard to communicate. Like a college professor trying to teach a toddler with severe delays.
Couldn't grasp concepts way beyond its limits.
"Now recall the Imperius feeling—push your will in," Riddle said. "Keep commands simple. Don't try to control limbs. Order it like a corpse: attack, guard, leave."
Melvin dropped left/right commands, sent attack, and released the Patronus bind.
The Dementor hesitated, then roared and lunged at the only living thing—only to get blasted back by silver light.
Lunge, blast…
After several rounds, it finally shook off the command and learned: this wizard is not food.
Melvin rubbed his temples.
Good news: he could command it.
Bad news: this Dementor was stupid as bricks.
Was the whole species like this, or just this one?
…
Breakfast, Great Hall.
The four Heads of House, with prefect help, handed out paper timetables. Professor McGonagall prowled the tables: "Check your schedules carefully. First-years, arrive fifteen minutes early. Third-years with electives—if you don't know the stairs, leave early. No one wants to be the first to lose House points this year."
She pulled aside a few fifth-years for OWL reminders.
"Divination, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures…"
Hermione scanned hers—packed solid. Other third-years had gaps; she had none. Morning electives? She was scheduled for three at once.
Muggle Studies used to be an elective slot, but now it was basically required for the whole year, and Professor Lewinter refused split classes. McGonagall had carved out a separate block.
Ron leaned over, gaping at the wall-to-wall schedule. "Bloody hell, three classes at 9 a.m.?! I mean, Hermione, you're brilliant, but nobody's that good. How?!"
"Don't be ridiculous—I can't be in three places at once!"
She snapped, glancing nervously at McGonagall in the aisle, fingers brushing the chain around her neck, looking guilty. "Just pass the jam!"
McGonagall had drilled it into her: the Time-Turner was restricted magic. Not Unforgivable-level, but still Ministry-approved under lock and key. If word got out, disaster.
Schedules distributed, students chattered. Professors up on the staff table ate, smiling down.
Melvin sat between Lupin and Snape—placement suspiciously perfect. "Remus, sleep well?"
"Honestly? Best bed I've had in years. Stormy night, Hogwarts winds… soothing. Perfect for sleep." Lupin smiled, genuinely grateful. "Feels like Lady Luck's smiling on me."
Thick clouds had hidden the full moon; no transformation pain.
"Sounds like your first Defense lesson's off to a great start," Melvin said, raising his cup.
"Thanks for the toast." Lupin clinked back.
"Lady Luck won't stick around forever," Snape cut in, icy. "Scottish Highlands rain doesn't last. Once the clouds part, hmph…"
He trailed off, shooting Melvin a sidelong glance.
Melvin hesitated. This was bait, right? Trying to plant doubt, nudge him into digging up Lupin's werewolf secret, spark an "accident" like the last two Defense professors.
Why's Snape gotta be so mean?!
Any more of this and Melvin was gonna sic Snape on Wormtail instead.