Hadrian Potter: The Dark Lord of House Azaroth

Chapter 4

The hours in Azkaban crawled by at a torturous pace, marked only by the soft, distant echoes of the waves crashing against the prison's cliffs. Harry sat in the corner of the cell, his thoughts swirling in confusion, exhaustion, and a hint of something new—power. Bellatrix lay slumped against the opposite wall, her ragged breathing the only sound in the small, grim room.

The oppressive weight of Azkaban's usual atmosphere was strangely absent. The coldness of despair, the relentless assault of the Dementors—none of it had come. Bellatrix shifted slightly, groaning as she stretched, her arms stiff from hours of remaining still.

"It's been quiet... too quiet," she muttered, her voice breaking the silence. She glanced around, her sharp eyes scanning the room as though expecting something to materialize from the shadows. "The Dementors haven't come for us. Not since we've been in here."

Harry frowned. She was right. The dread that typically accompanied Azkaban, the cold grip that sucked all the hope and happiness from prisoners—none of it had appeared. He felt strange, almost... protected, though he didn't understand why.

"Maybe they're busy torturing someone else," Harry offered half-heartedly, though he knew it wasn't likely.

Bellatrix tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. "No. The Dementors... they sense when someone is here. They don't ignore new inmates. And you, Potter—you should be their favorite meal."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Something was definitely wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint what. And there was something else that had been gnawing at him for hours. His magic—the strange warmth that had flowed from him earlier when he transformed their meals—was unlike anything he had ever felt before.

"Do you think this has something to do with my magic?" Harry asked, glancing over at Bellatrix. "I mean... whatever happened earlier. Maybe it's keeping the Dementors away?"

Bellatrix sat up straighter, her eyes gleaming with interest. "Your magic? You tell me, Potter. You're the one who just performed miracles with nothing but a thought."

Harry swallowed hard. It had felt strange, but natural too. Different. Not the thick, raw power he usually called upon with spells. This was... softer, warmer, like a gentle current running through him instead of a force to be controlled.

"You know," Harry said, his voice low, "I don't think this is the same magic I've been using my whole life. It's... cleaner, somehow."

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Cleaner, you say? And what do you plan to do with this 'clean' magic, Potter?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "But... I feel like it could do more than just change food. Maybe it could... I don't know, help with other things."

Bellatrix let out a dry laugh, though her eyes didn't lose their edge. "Help with other things? What, you going to heal the sick and raise the dead now?"

"Maybe..." Harry said quietly, surprising even himself. His eyes met Bellatrix's, and he found himself asking the question that had been burning in his mind for hours. "Bellatrix... was your mind always this... broken?"

Her smile faded, replaced with a hard, almost defensive look. "My mind?" she repeated, her voice brittle. "Let's just say years of serving the Dark Lord... and enduring his Crucios have a way of shattering one's sanity. He loved his spells. Especially on me."

For the first time, Harry saw something different in her expression. Vulnerability. Beneath all the hatred, the madness, the cruelty—there was a person, broken and twisted by years of torture and obsession.

A strange surge of determination rose in Harry, unbidden. "I can fix it."

Bellatrix stared at him, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What?"