There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter… he could smell the Dementor’s putrid, death-cold breath filling his own lungs, drowning him — think… something happy… But there was no happiness in him… the Dementor’s icy fingers were closing on his throat — the high-pitched laughter was growing louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head: ’Bow to death, Harry…it might even be painless… I would not know … I have never died …" He was never going to see Ron…
There are no more uses of "putrid" in the book.
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The meat was putrid and covered with maggots.
an unusual flower with a putrid smell that attracts flies for pollination