Chapter 273: Double-Agent Dementors, and a Cautious Voldemort

When the Dementors chose submission, Voldemort immediately issued his first command.

"Bring every prisoner in Azkaban to me."

Only now did he realize something.

He was the Dark Lord.

Was he really going to lower himself to personally rescue each follower one by one?

That lacked dignity.

So he chose the more fitting approach—

Have the Dementors deliver his followers to him.

What Voldemort did not know, however, was that among the countless Dementors were two double agents.

Or rather—

They had never truly submitted to him in the first place.

Their true master was Arthur.

These were the same two Dementors Arthur had subdued over a year ago. He had carved soul imprints into them, ensuring they would never harbor betrayal.

Once out of Voldemort’s immediate presence, the two Dementors used that imprint to contact Arthur.

They reported everything that had happened—and pleaded to be rescued.

To them, Voldemort was terrifying beyond measure.

They wanted off this cursed island immediately.

But Arthur did not grant their request.

His order was simple:

For now, obey Voldemort.

Thus, the two Dementors truly became double agents.

Arthur had anticipated Voldemort might return using his final Horcrux.

But he had not expected the return to be so swift.

What Arthur did not know was that Voldemort’s revival had been aided by Death itself.

His final Horcrux still lay buried beneath the forests of Albania.

The Dementors’ primitive minds were incapable of describing the finer details of Voldemort’s power.

Had Arthur known the nature of the energy Voldemort wielded, he might have sensed something deeply wrong.

The Gathering of Prisoners

Before long, the Dementors returned, sweeping across Azkaban with prisoners in tow.

They dumped the inmates before Voldemort and retreated to await further orders.

Voldemort surveyed the faces—familiar and unfamiliar alike.

"It has been a long time," he said softly. "Do you still recognize me?"

A disheveled woman forced her way through the crowd and knelt before him.

Years in Azkaban had hollowed her features, but the sharp lines of her face still hinted at former beauty.

"Dark Lord," she whispered, voice trembling with devotion, "Bellatrix Lestrange has never forgotten you."

At her action, other prisoners stepped forward—those bearing the Dark Mark.

Death Eaters.

The loyalists.

One by one, they knelt, declaring fealty.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes lingered on Bellatrix.

She was among his most devoted followers—perhaps second only to Barty Crouch Jr.

He knew of her actions years ago—how she and others had tortured the Longbottoms in pursuit of his whereabouts.

Yet—

He did not fully trust her.

Before marriage, her surname had been Black.

Yes.

Bellatrix was of the House of Black.

And Regulus Black had betrayed him—destroying one of his Horcruxes.

That betrayal still burned.

Could Bellatrix one day falter the same way?

Voldemort would not risk it.

"Bellatrix," he said calmly, "your cousin Regulus betrayed me. His actions cost me dearly."

Bellatrix’s eyes flashed.

"I did not know this, my Lord. Where is he? I will kill him myself."

"He is already dead."

"How fortunate for him," she replied bitterly.

Voldemort continued, "But your other cousin—Sirius Black—still lives."

A test.

"I have a task for you. Find Sirius Black. Kill him."

Bellatrix did not hesitate.

"I will not fail you."

In truth, the test was unnecessary.

Bellatrix was utterly devoted—fanatically so. She loved Voldemort.

But Voldemort did not understand love.

He understood only control.

After suffering humiliation at Arthur and Hermione’s hands—mental and physical—he had become far more cautious.

He had to.

His soul could no longer be divided.

Death had altered it when granting him power.

He could no longer create Horcruxes.

If he died again—

The final Horcrux buried in Albania would be his last chance.

And he dared not rely on Death to resurrect him twice.

If he failed his assigned task, Death would likely obliterate him instead.

Thus, Voldemort’s recklessness was gone.

He had chosen today—during Ministry elections—to strike Azkaban.

He planned carefully now.

Patiently.

Methodically.

The Dark Lord had become... prudent.

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