October 1993.
The Scottish Highlands had moved from a state of autumn decay into a full-scale meteorological assault. The day of the first Quidditch match—Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff—arrived with a storm that felt personal. The sky was a churning cauldron of lead and iron, dumping sheets of freezing rain that moved horizontally across the grounds, driven by a gale that shrieked through the castle's battlements.
I stood in the Ravenclaw section of the stands, my heavy cloak charmed with a localized repulsion field to keep the water from soaking through to my skin. Beside me, the Alliance was a huddled phalanx of blue and bronze. Tobias was squinting through the downpour, his sandy hair plastered to his forehead. Adrian was holding a pair of enchanted binoculars, his lips moving as he calculated the wind-shear variables.
"Statistically, this match should be postponed," Adrian shouted over the roar of the thunder. "The visibility is less than three percent. The probability of a collision with the stadium towers is rising by the minute."
"Logic has never been a prerequisite for Quidditch, Adrian," Cassian replied, his dark eyes tracking the silver-grey silhouettes of the players as they took to the air. "It's a game of momentum and ego. The storm just adds a layer of theater."
Before the whistle even blew, the social theater was in full effect. Draco Malfoy had claimed a prominent spot in the Slytherin stands, surrounded by his usual retinue. He wasn't playing this match, but he was certainly performing. His voice loud and booming, full of scorching mockery.
"Watch out, Potter!" Malfoy's voice carried through a Sonorus-boosted megaphone. "There's a bit of a breeze! Try not to faint this time! Or do we need to bring out the smelling salts and a nice warm blanket?"
The Slytherins erupted into a synchronized, mocking laughter. Malfoy's cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, were wearing oversized black hoods and making slow, exaggerated swooping motions with their arms, imitating the Dementors.
"His obsession with Harry's 'fainting' is becoming a biological fixation," I noted to Cassian. "It's a fascinating study in projection. Malfoy is terrified of the Dementors, so he seeks to externalize that fear by anchoring it to a rival."
"It's working," Cassian said, nodding toward the pitch. "Harry's grip on his broom is too tight. He's fighting the wind, but he's also fighting the noise."
Harry Potter sat on his Nimbus 2000, his glasses obscured by the rain, his posture rigid. Beside him, Harper was a blur of motion, her face a mask of protective fury as she glared at the Slytherin stands.
The whistle shrieked, and the match began.
The game was more of a test of endurance than a friendly competition. The players were buffeted by gusts that looked powerful enough to snap a broomstick in half. The Quaffle was a sodden, heavy lump, and the Bludgers moved with a terrifying, unpredictable trajectory through the thick air.
I leaned forward, my silver eye beginning to hum.
"Orion?" Elliot whispered, noticing the change in my aura. "What is it? Did you see the Snitch?"
"No," I said, my voice dropping into the "Deer of Death" register. "The atmospheric pressure just bottomed out. The storm isn't the only thing here."
I looked up. Beyond the grey clouds, in the layer of reality where the "Currents" flowed, I saw them.
The Dementors were no longer staying at the gates. They were descending in a silent, freezing spiral, drawn by the concentrated emotions of the stadium—the frantic hope of the fans, the raw adrenaline of the players, and the jagged edge of the storm. To my Thestral-sight, they looked like ink-blots spreading through a glass of water. They were black holes of energy, hungry for the light.
"They're coming," I said.
The temperature in the stands dropped twenty degrees in a single heartbeat. The rain didn't just fall; it began to turn into jagged sleet mid-air. A heavy, suffocating silence began to swallow the cheers of the crowd.
Harry was high above the pitch, a lone speck of scarlet circling the highest tower. He had spotted the Snitch—a tiny glimmer of gold near the Hufflepuff Seeker, Cedric Diggory. But as Harry dived, the Dementors breached the perimeter.
Hundreds of them.
They swarmed the pitch like a shroud of rotting silk. The effect was instantaneous. The players began to falter, their brooms dipping as the joy was leached from their marrow. Harry, however, was the primary target. He was a beacon of high-frequency trauma, a feast for creatures that feed on the past.
I saw Harry's life-thread flicker. The silver cable of his intent began to fray, losing its anchor to the physical world. He slumped over his broom, his hands slipping from the wood.
"Harry!" Harper's scream was lost in the howling wind.
Harry Potter fell.
He didn't tumble; he drifted, a ragdoll surrendered to gravity. From a hundred feet up, it was a terminal descent.
"Arresto Momentum!" Dumbledore's voice roared from the staff box—a massive, tectonic wave of power that caught Harry inches before he hit the sodden grass.
The stadium was in chaos. Dumbledore stood at the edge of the box, his face a mask of absolute, white-hot fury. He raised his wand, and a silver light so bright it hurt to look at erupted from the tip—a massive, radiant phoenix that drove the Dementors back into the clouds with a single, echoing cry.
But the damage was done. In the confusion, Cedric Diggory had closed his fingers around the Snitch.
"Hufflepuff wins!" the announcer's voice cracked over the wind.
The aftermath was a grim parade. Harry was rushed to the hospital wing on a stretcher, looking more like a corpse than a hero. The Gryffindors followed in a silent, heartbroken wake.
"Go, Tobias," I commanded as we descended the stands. "You have the 'Concealment' I taught you. Slip into the infirmary shadows. If Lupin has any solution then he will reveal it to Potter now."
Tobias nodded, his expression sober. He vanished into the crowd, his magical signature dampening until he was just another smudge in the grey light.
Two hours later, we met in the Room of Requirement. Tobias was pacing, his eyes wide.
"I was there," Tobias whispered, his voice vibrating with excitement. "I stayed in the corner behind the screen. Harry woke up... he was devastated. He lost his broom, Orion. It blew into the Whomping Willow. It's kind of just... toothpicks now."
"And Lupin?" I asked.
"Harry begged him," Tobias said, leaning in. "He looked Lupin in the eye and told him he couldn't handle the 'Voices.' He said the Dementors make him hear his mother dying. He begged Lupin to teach him how to fight them. To teach him that silver-light spell."
"The Patronus," Adrian noted. "A high-level defensive manifestation. It's an 'Ocean' spell, but taught as a 'River' incantation."
"Lupin agreed," Tobias finished. "He looked... I don't know, Orion. He looked like he was going to cry. He told Harry they'd start after the holidays. Private lessons."
I leaned back against a stone pillar, my mind processing the new alignment. Harry was seeking the Patronus—the light of the Phoenix. He was trying to find a way to preserve his joy. It was a logical, reactive response to the Dementors.
But I knew that a Patronus was only a shield. It didn't solve the problem of the Void.
"So Harry is learning to build a fence," I said quietly.
Cassian smirked, his green thread pulsing. "And what are we learning, Orion?"
"The Patronus Charm, Cassian."
"The Patronus Charm and then we solve the void."