Harry Potter sat in the corner of the dining table, his steak completely cold. His knife and fork were placed neatly on either side of his plate—he hadn't taken a single bite.
Ron and Hermione sat on either side of him, exchanging worried glances.
In today's Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Harry's Boggart had taken the form of a Dementor.
When his Boggart shifted into the cloaked monster, that same bone-deep, marrow-freezing chill from the Hogwarts Express had washed over him all over again.
He thought he heard a woman screaming again, and he was certain it was his mother's dying scream. The sheer terror nearly made him pass out, but Professor Lupin had stepped in front of him just in time.
Lupin had explained that Dementors were among the foulest creatures on earth and that they weren't ready to handle them yet. Right after that, Lupin conveniently dismissed the class.
Even though time ran out before a large chunk of the class could practice, Harry Potter was still the only student who hadn't managed to defeat his own Boggart.
To make matters worse, right as they walked into the Great Hall, Malfoy and his cronies had pulled their robes over their heads, pretending to be Dementors just to mock him.
"Just ignore Malfoy," Ron said around a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding. "He's just a..."
"I know," Harry interrupted, his voice low. "It's not about Malfoy."
His gaze drifted past Hermione, landing on a table further down the hall. Julien Black was deep in a quiet, relaxed conversation with Elizabeth Rosier and Liriya, looking as casual as if they were discussing the weather.
Harry's mind flashed back to the DADA classroom. He had practically fainted in front of a Boggart. Meanwhile, Julien had just smiled, said "Riddikulus," and turned his deepest fear into a complete joke.
"It shouldn't be like this," Harry said suddenly.
"What shouldn't?" Ron asked.
"Julien fought off actual Dementors on the Hogwarts Express," Harry's voice tightened with suppressed frustration. "Real Dementors. Not Boggarts. Professor Lupin said it was a special circumstance and that we were too young, but—"
He paused. A stubborn fire burned in his green eyes. "But if I can't even handle a Boggart turning into a Dementor, how am I supposed to fight off real ones? How am I supposed to fight Sirius Black?"
"What do you mean, 'fight Sirius Black'? Don't start overthinking this," Hermione said quickly, exchanging a loaded look with Ron.
They both knew Harry was under immense pressure right now—between the rumors about Dufftown, Black closing in , and Professor Trelawney's grim death omens.
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"Maybe..." Hermione hesitated. "Maybe you could ask Julien?"
"That's exactly what I was thinking." Harry didn't miss a beat. He stood up immediately and strode purposefully toward Julien's table.
Ron started to get up to follow him, but Hermione grabbed his arm. "It's better if Harry does this himself."
"Still, Harry's reaction to the Dementor was pretty extreme," Hermione noted, poking listlessly at her mashed potatoes with her fork. She had lost her appetite, too.
"Yeah, well, everyone's scared of something. Like me—I still think spiders are the worst. You're terrified of failing exams. And Neville... Wait. Why do you think Professor Lupin is so scared of the moon?"
"What?"
"Lupin's Boggart. It was a moon."
"A moon... Oh right, it was a full moon."
Harry and Julien sat on a stone bench by the Black Lake. The autumn wind swept up dead leaves, sending ripples across the dark water.
"Sorry about this, Julien," Harry said, his voice a bit raspy. "I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner."
Julien turned to him. His emerald-green eyes looked incredibly deep in the twilight. He seemed to have fully expected Harry to show up, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Don't be stupid, Harry. We're not just friends; we're brothers."
Harry managed a smile and nodded, his fingers unconsciously tracing his wand. "I want you to teach me. The real spell. Not the one for the Boggart, but the one you used on the train at the start of term—"
"The Patronus Charm," Julien finished for him. "It's called the Patronus Charm. For some reason, it's not in the third-year textbooks. Probably because the magical theory is too advanced."
"I don't care how hard it is," Harry interrupted, a hint of desperation in his voice. "I'm terrified of... of passing out again. I'm afraid of hearing that voice again, seeing that green light, and being completely helpless."
Julien fell silent, studying Harry. This was the Boy Who Lived. The boy chosen by fate, chosen by Trelawney's prophecy, chosen by Voldemort, and ultimately, chosen by Dumbledore.
It really did all come down to choices. At the very least, fate had chosen Harry instead of Neville, who was born at the exact same time.
"Alright," Julien finally said. "Actually, I already put this together for you." He reached into the inner pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
"Look here. This is the incantation for the Patronus Charm, and I've marked the cadence and inflection for you."
Julien pointed to a complex diagram drawn next to the words. "And this is the morphological wand trajectory for the spell."
Julien pulled out his own wand and traced the movement in the air. The tip of his silver lime wand left a faint, golden trail of light. "But the absolute most important part is the emotional anchor. When you cast it, you have to focus on your absolute happiest memory. You have to let that happiness surge out from inside you, not just from your wand—"
"From inside me?" Harry repeated, confused.
"Yes. It has to be genuine, visceral happiness." Julien lowered his wand. "There cannot be a single trace of fear. The reason Dementors make you pass out is because you've been surrounded by fear since the day you were born. Dementors don't just feed on your happiness; they force you to relive your worst traumas and amplify that fear."
He paused before continuing. "But if the happiness inside you is powerful enough—so powerful it can't be consumed—it can actually—"
"It can what?"
"It can defeat them," Julien said softly, thinking back to the Dementors he had completely eradicated on the train. "But it's incredibly dangerous, Harry. Extremely dangerous. If your happiness isn't pure enough, or if your willpower wavers for even a second—"
"I'll be sucked dry," Harry finished, his voice unnervingly calm. "I know. But I want to try."
"Right, one more crucial detail," Julien added. "The physical form of your Patronus. It's not just an animal; it's a direct projection of your soul. Do not try to force it into a specific shape. You have to let it manifest naturally—"
"Like your raven?"
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Julien blinked in surprise, then smiled. "How did you know it was a raven?"
"I saw it," Harry said. "On the train. That silver light..." He hesitated. "It's the symbol of Ravenclaw, right? Makes sense why you were sorted there. But... I always get the feeling there's something else about you—"
"Alright, alright," Julien waved him off, cutting him short. "Stop analyzing me. Remember the key elements: your happiest memory, let it flow from within, and don't force the shape. And one more thing—"
He lowered his voice, his emerald eyes glinting in the fading light. "You can practice the pronunciation and the wand movements on your own. But if you want to actually cast it against something, go find Professor Lupin first. His Boggart is the perfect training dummy. Do not go looking for a real Dementor on your own. Promise me."
Harry opened his mouth, seeming like he wanted to argue, but ultimately just nodded.
But Julien saw it. He saw that brief, stubborn flash in Harry's eyes.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed Percy Weasley, climbing the familiar path back to the Gryffindor common room along with the rest of their house.
The post-dinner food coma made the group sluggish. Lee Jordan was loudly exaggerating a low-pitched opera impersonation of the Fat Lady, making a few of the younger students giggle.
"Quiet down!" Percy snapped over his shoulder, his Prefect badge gleaming in the candlelight. "Keep your voices down!"
"Oh, give it a rest, Percy," one of the Weasley twins muttered. "You're the loudest one here. Besides, it's early. It's not even—"
His words died in his throat.
They had reached the top of the shifting staircase, stepping into the familiar corridor. The scarlet and gold tapestries flickered on the walls, and the torchlight bathed everything in a warm, comforting glow—except for the portrait.
The canvas where the Fat Lady was supposed to be.
"Merlin's shoes..." Neville Longbottom's voice drifted from the back of the crowd, thick with absolute horror.