Thanks to Azkaban's existence, Cohn figured it made sense for him to hang around the area—Dementors were bound to have a few stragglers wandering about.
He dove down from a cliff, skimming close to the sea's surface. If any wizards spotted him from a distance, they'd just see a black dot on the water, maybe mistaking it for some magical sea creature. (Muggles couldn't see Dementors, after all.)
What would Azkaban's Dementor crew be like?
Cohn was genuinely curious. They were, after all, 60% of his "ancestry."
Since arriving in this world, he hadn't encountered a single Dementor.
In theory, they'd allied with the Ministry of Magic and later flipped to Voldemort's side mid-battle, which meant they had some level of thought and awareness.
There might even be something like a pack leader. Otherwise, controlling a huge group of Dementors in one spot would be a nightmare.
Unless… they really were just a bunch of little black cloaks happy with a steady food supply.
With a clear destination in mind, Cohn's search was quick.
An hour or so later, he spotted the island shrouded in dark clouds above the sea.
Some magical magnetic field kept it gloomy—even if the outside world was sunny and bright, this place stayed cloaked in shadow.
Steep cliffs surrounded it, and the only structure—a fortress—took up nearly the entire island.
It was a towering, hollow triangular prism, its gray-black walls blending seamlessly with the ominous sky.
Cohn could already see some Dementors drifting around outside.
They were probably patrolling, scoping out any chance for fresh food.
A futile effort, though. No one could escape this prison alive while mad and desperate enough to want to die, and no one sane would come near this hellhole on purpose.
Why did it suddenly feel like watching his own kin scavenging for scraps, hungry and pitiful…?
Wait—why was he feeling sorry for Dementors? Was this some kind of racial bond kicking in now that he was here?!
Cohn was still mulling over how to approach them—debating between "Hi, can I share your food? I'm a minor" and "Dementors, your emperor has returned"—when he didn't have to decide.
Two Dementors floated over to him first!
They circled around him on either side, not slowing his flight toward Azkaban.
They drifted closer, radiating concern.
Cohn could sense their thoughts clearly—or rather, Dementors communicated through this kind of mental link.
It was raw intuition instead of words, but since Cohn had a human mind, his brain instantly translated it into English.
He couldn't see their soul strength. Maybe Dementors didn't even *have* souls.
They seemed to exist in a completely different way from any other race in this world.
Still, Cohn felt an odd closeness to them—and they clearly felt it too. He could sense it in their minds.
Dementor #1 checked in with him.
Dementor #2 slid in front, eager to lead Cohn to "where the food was."
What a lovable bunch!
Cohn followed them through an iron gate at the fortress's base into Azkaban. To his surprise, they even knew how to use keys.
**[New?] [New?] [New?]**…
A flood of mental chatter hit Cohn's brain the moment he stepped inside. The corridor was packed with hovering Dementors, all zeroing in on this curious newcomer.
Their mind-to-mind exchange was so open—like Three-Body Problem aliens who'd never heard of suspicion or deceit. They were just excited by his presence, and…
Every single one wanted to share their cellblock prisoners with Cohn because he looked "too small and too thin."
Cohn drifted into a cell with one of them. A sign outside the bars read "Antonin Dolohov"—probably another Death Eater.
All buddies here—no need for fake courtesies. Happiness *was* pretty tasty, and since the target was a Death Eater, slurping it up didn't even dent Cohn's limited conscience.
But as he geared up for a little dessert, he realized this curled-up Death Eater had almost no happiness left—just a lonely soul and a pile of less-than-appetizing negative emotions.
"Is this what you eat all the time?" Cohn asked through the mental link, struggling to keep a straight face.
The Dementor sharing its meal seemed confused.
**[Food. Good food.]**
It even gave a helpful demo, hovering near Dolohov's head and plucking a tiny wisp of happiness from the mess of dark emotions—like a scavenger digging through trash.
Now Cohn got why Dementors couldn't resist the Quidditch pitch when guarding Hogwarts. Holy crap, their lives here weren't much better than the prisoners'!
When would Dementors finally rise up?!
"You go ahead and eat…"
What a bunch of content little black cloaks…
Now it clicked: Voldemort snagged the Dementors' loyalty in the second war because the Ministry's deal was straight-up lousy.
Couldn't they at least coordinate with the Muggles and toss in some death-row inmates to fatten them up?
Maybe the Ministry wizards were just too arrogant—figured they could keep the Dementors in check with the bare minimum and call it a day.
*"Dementor Emperor Returns to the Clan, Finds Hundreds of Kin Living in Doghouses, Eating Scraps."*
At least he'd scoped out the Dementors' deal now. They didn't even have a leader—they were just too naive, bought off with crumbs and stuck here.
If Cohn raised a hand and shouted where the good food was, they'd charge wherever he pointed without a second thought. They trusted their own kind's mental chatter over human words any day.
But now wasn't the time for a revolt. Cohn hadn't dug his roots into anything yet. Trying to seize power now would land him in the same boat as Voldemort—doomed.
Terror-based rule wouldn't work. In this fairy-tale-logic world, who knew when some hotheaded teens might pop up, yelling about friendship and bonds, and take him down with a destiny-fueled sucker punch?
Cohn had a safer, smarter plan: "Savior Rule."
But first, he needed to track down Bellatrix.