Chapter 560: The Dementor Invasion
Sirius stood frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked at Lupin, who wore
a matching expression of shock. The two men stood in the silence of the
dilapidated, leaking room, unable to find the words to describe the turn of
events.
Water seeped through every crack in the Shack. The wooden support beams were
marked with dark, slimy trails of moisture, cold to the touch. The iron
reinforcements were choked with deep red rust. The hay on the floor was no
longer dry; it had soaked up so much water that it felt like stepping on
something soft, heavy, and strangely resistant.
Raindrops slid down Snape's sallow face. In that moment, he found himself
wishing for an annoying portrait—even Sir Cadogan—to burst in and break the
heavy silence. Anything was better than being left alone with his own thoughts
in this rotting house.
He instinctively pushed away the feelings of guilt and regret that threatened to
resurface. To Snape, hope was like poison. He was a man who had grown accustomed
to loss, a man who expected nothing and was rarely disappointed. He was like a
starving beggar whose stomach could no longer digest a proper meal; if he were
handed a feast, he would likely choke on it.
In the corner, Peter Pettigrew groaned as he regained consciousness. He blinked
his small, watery eyes, looking around the room with mounting panic. As he
remembered where he was, his breathing turned into a series of sharp, wheezing
gasps. His gaze darted frantically toward the door.
Sean observed the rat-man, sensing the frantic, calculating thoughts swirling
through Pettigrew's mind. He allowed a small, hidden smile to touch his lips.
Everything was proceeding according to the "plan."
The Goblin Contract was already in place, its magic anchored deep within Peter's
soul. To ensure the transition went smoothly, Sean had quietly modified Peter's
recent memories while the man was unconscious. Now, Peter would only remember
being cornered by Sirius and Remus, the subsequent arrival of Snape, and the
chaotic three-way duel that followed. He would believe he had simply been
"lucky" enough to find an opening to escape.
Lupin and Sirius cast confused, furtive glances at Sean. Within seconds, they
had both reached the same silent conclusion: Trust the boy.
And so, Peter Pettigrew found what he thought was an abandoned wand on the
floor. With a desperate, trembling focus, he transformed.
With a frantic rustling sound, a grey rat with a missing toe scurried into a
dark, damp hole in the wall. It would take quite some time for the rat to reach
the exit of the tunnel under the Whomping Willow. It would poke its head out
into the darkness, see the faint lights of the castle in the distance, and
scurry toward the forest, wheezing and squeaking in terror.
Only after the rat had vanished did Sean finally allow himself to exhale.
Until Pettigrew officially located the Dark Lord, Sean didn't want the timeline
to deviate too drastically. If Peter was caught now, who knew if Voldemort would
ever find a way back to a physical form? Sean preferred a known enemy to a
hidden one. Once Peter played his role, Sean would ensure the rat remembered
every second of the truth.
On this night, the Dark Lord's servant was free. Just before midnight, he had
broken his "chains" to rejoin his master. Voldemort would rise again with his
help—greater, more terrible, and far more cunning than before.
"Where is he?! WHERE IS PETER?!"
Sirius's voice erupted in a roar of fury. Lupin and a "startled" Sean quickly
looked toward the corner.
"He's gone!" Lupin cried, realizing his wand was missing as well.
Snape emerged from his dark, internal trance. He frowned, glancing at the empty
corner. The sound of the torrential rain had provided the perfect cover for the
rat's transformation and retreat.
"Twelve years... I waited twelve years for this!" Sirius howled.
"Severus!"
Snape let out a sharp, derisive snort, carefully masking the underlying worry in
his eyes. Peter Pettigrew had escaped, exactly as the world would expect.
As they exited the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, Sirius leaned in close to
Sean.
"Did I do alright? Was the performance convincing, Mr. Green?" he asked, his
voice regaining its vitality.
Though the revelations about Snape had been a blow, Sirius was a man of his
word. He had pledged his life to the young wizard before him, and once Sirius
Black made up his mind about someone, he didn't question them.
"You were excellent, Mr. Black," Sean nodded approvingly.
"Are we... are we truly not going to tell Dumbledore?" Lupin asked in a low,
worried whisper.
"Oh, come off it, Moony. Have you told Dumbledore everything since you arrived?"
Sirius teased, a manic grin spreading across his face. "Why start being a
chatterbox now?"
Lupin sighed, but the weight of the evening seemed to lift slightly.
Snape walked several paces ahead of them. Hearing the murmurs behind him, he
turned and gave a cold, mocking laugh. "You'd best watch yourself, fugitive.
Your face is still plastered on every post office in the country. Why don't you
turn back into a dog? It suits you, Black. You've always been good at barking."
Sirius bristled but said nothing. He scanned the grounds nervously and spotted a
group of students near the castle gates.
"We're going to find the Messenger of Luck today, I just know it!" a young
witch's voice rang out.
"Give it a rest, Ginny. This is the ninety-third time you've said that," another
girl replied irritably.
"Shh! If that giant bat catches us patrolling out here..."
Ginny reached out to cover her friend's mouth, but she was too late. The "giant
bat" was already rounding the corner.
Sirius, in his dog form, couldn't help but let out a silent, toothy grin. He
wondered if the girl realized just how accurate her description was.
"NIGHT-WALKING!" Snape roared, lunging toward the terrified girls.
The witches turned ashen. They were already mentally calculating which bathroom
they'd be scrubbing for the next month.
November arrived with a brutal chill. The mountains surrounding the school were
shrouded in grey mist and capped with ice, and the Great Lake turned as cold and
hard as tempered steel. Every morning, the grounds were covered in a thick layer
of frost.
The first Quidditch match was finally here.
On Friday morning, Sean woke up before dawn. At first, he thought the howling
wind had disturbed his sleep, but then he felt a sharp, cold draft against the
back of his neck. He sat bolt upright to find Peeves the Poltergeist floating
beside his bed, busily blowing air into his ear.
"My, my, your face is awfully red, Mr. Green! I'm just helping you out, sir! No
need to thank me, and certainly no need to tell the Baron I was bothering
you..." Peeves cackled.
"Thank you, Peeves," Sean croaked. The moment he spoke, he realized he was ill.
His voice was thick and raspy, his throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper,
and his forehead was burning. In a place like the Scottish Highlands, falling
ill was practically a seasonal tradition. The damp, misty weather was a
permanent fixture, and the sun was as rare as a goblin's smile. Moisture seemed
to seep into one's very bones.
Most people handled it with a hot tea and a heavy blanket, but Sean wasn't used
to stopping.
Magical practice had become the heartbeat of his life. Between his studies and
his Time-Turner, he had once managed to practice for twenty-five hours in a
single day. But now, his head was spinning and his limbs felt like lead. If he
tried to cast high-level magic in this state, his proficiency gains would be
abysmal.
He decided to spend the day reviewing his progress instead.
He had achieved [Master] rank in the Dark Arts, and his reconstruction theories
were paving a road toward [Legendary] status. He just needed to keep grinding.
Transfiguration, however, was his strongest suit. His original spells—Dragon's
Wings, Vine-Stone Guardian, and Element Vitalization—were powerful, but they
were also incredibly taxing. To reduce the magical "drain," he needed to push
their proficiency from [Proficient] and [Novice] up to [Expert]. He estimated it
would take him another month or two of intense focus.
Thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the castle walls. In the distance, the trees
of the Forbidden Forest swayed violently in the gale.
Sean wrapped a thick scarf around his neck and headed for the corridors. The
statues seemed to have double-images today, and the draft in the hallways felt
like a physical blow. He planned to head to the hospital wing for a Pepperup
Potion, but first, he had a Potions class to assist.
The senior-level Potions classes always started early. Before he reached the
dungeon, a voice called out to him.
"Mr. Green!"
It was a seventh-year witch he didn't know well. "Good morning! Oh—are you
alright? You look like you've got a cold."
Sean nodded.
"Er... Mr. Green? I'm over here," the voice said awkwardly.
Sean blinked, realized he was nodding at a suit of armor, and turned toward the
voice. "Ah. My apologies."
"Oh, Merlin, are you going to be able to finish the lesson? Please don't leave
us alone with him..." the girl whispered, her voice trembling with dread.
Sean adjusted his balance and nodded again. Even if he couldn't cast, he could
still guide them through their brews.
"Mr. Green—" the girl started to cry. "I'm over here now."
"What are you doing?!"
A sharp, angry voice cut through the girl's whining before Sean could locate her
again. Simultaneously, a calmer, familiar voice added:
"Severus, you really should be more patient with the students during exam
season... Oh, Sean. You look peaked."
"I'm fine, Headmaster," Sean said, blinking at the blurry form of Albus
Dumbledore. He realized it was probably time to tell the Headmaster the truth
about Sirius.
"You should be in the hospital wing!" Snape snapped, his voice sharp and laced
with a rare, frantic edge.
"Now, now, Severus," Dumbledore chuckled, his beard twitching as he watched the
dazed boy. "He said he's fine."
"Hush, Albus! This isn't your concern—" Snape growled. He caught Dumbledore's
eyes widening and quickly bit back the rest of his sentence. He reached out and
grabbed Sean firmly by the arm. "Come."
Sean felt himself being steered away.
"Oh... it seems the castle is in for another eventful day," Dumbledore murmured,
watching them go with a knowing look.
Sean spent the rest of the morning in a rare state of rest. Madam Pomfrey had
been surprisingly insistent. The Pepperup Potion worked wonders—though the steam
coming out of his ears for the next hour was a bit distracting. Even the matron
had agreed when Ron and the others came to drag him to the Quidditch pitch.
"Take the day off, you busy little thing. Go watch the match," Pomfrey said,
practically shooing him out the door.
Despite the pouring rain, the Quidditch match went ahead. Lightning and gales
were considered "minor weather inconveniences" by the Department of Magical
Games and Sports.
In the corridor, they ran into Wood, Harry, and a tall, sturdy-looking
Hufflepuff.
"That's Cedric Diggory," Wood whispered to Harry. "Fifth year. Much bigger than
you. Usually, being light is an advantage for a Seeker, but in this wind,
Diggory's weight will keep him from being blown off his broom. It's going to be
a tough fight."
"Don't worry, Oliver," Alicia Spinnet said, patting the Captain's shoulder. "We
aren't afraid of a little drizzle."
It was not "a little drizzle."
The rain was a deluge. Even in the covered stands, the wind whipped spray into
the faces of the spectators. Sean sat with Justin and the others, cradling a mug
of hot pumpkin juice Justin had prepared. The warmth spread through his chest,
and he finally felt human again.
Under his seat, a large, shaggy black dog was curled into a ball. No one else
seemed to notice him; it was as if a Disillusionment Charm had been cast over
the animal.
The match was a blur of mud and speed. Suddenly, an unnatural chill swept over
the stadium. This wasn't the cold of the storm; it was something far more
ancient and hollow.
"What is that?!" someone screamed.
Sean looked toward the pitch. There they were. Dementors. At least a hundred of
them, a black, gliding tide moving across the emerald grass toward the stands.
Sean stared at them. The cold pierced through his robes and into his very soul.
A thick, white mist began to rise from the ground, blurring the world around
him. At the edge of the pitch, more and more of the creatures were emerging from
the shadows, surrounding the stadium.
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