Third Year

Well, this stinks.

You'd think, after a millennium of waiting in helpless captivity, that when the time came that brought freedom within my grasp, that I'd, you know, actually grasp it.

Nope.

We were so overwhelmed by the prospect (so long awaited!) of speaking freely, that we were temporarily incapable of saying anything at all.

Actually, that was mostly Robin. Robin the Stout. Cursed be his name.

Of course, his near-catatonia didn't seem to affect his vise-like grip on the Mouth, so much that even the concerted efforts of Godric and Salazar weren't enough to seize control.

We hate me. I hate ourselves. Multiple personalities are confusing.

Naturally, Robin only returned to his senses after the beloved Headmaster had placed the blade in our leathery interior.

Ah, there's nothing like the comforting feel of shackles around your soul.

There was something a bit… off. Just the slightest tingle of a difference. From what I could tell, Dumbledore didn't push the sword all the way in, no doubt fearing that he wouldn't be able to pull it out again if it disappeared.

But it didn't matter. The bindings were very much back, and our window of opportunity was defenestrated.

Needless to say, we had words.

Lots of words.

Lots and… well, suffice it to say our conversation took most of the summer.

The final result was this: Robin would keep control during the Sortings, as the Artificers intended, but the rest of us would have our time in the sun as well. Godric and Salazar – the two among us with combat experience – would have joint control any time we were taken anywhere besides the Headmaster's Office and the Great Hall, while Helga and Rowena would take charge at all other times.

Not that it'd do us any good now, but you know what they say. Hope springs eternal, even if that means it only springs once every thousand years.

Yep. This sucks.

The day of the Sorting Ceremony, the air was a bit chillier than I would have expected, it being the middle of summer and all, but nothing I hadn't experienced before.

With a thousand years under my metaphorical belt, I've lived through pretty much every permutation of weather you can imagine.

Still, it was on the extreme end of the spectrum, and I was a bit curious about the cause.

Again, thousand years of isolation under my belt. Small talk gives me an adrenaline high.

So when little Miss Minnie brought me in down and I viewed the auras scattered throughout the Great Hall, I noticed something was a little odd.

The auras were… quivering.

Not just one; not just a few. Every single student. And… two staff members. Didn't notice them, sitting off to the side. No, wait… that's only one staff member.

Merlin's saggy earlobes, what is going on at Hogwarts these days? Double auras in the Great Hall, three years in a row? Is that the new 'thing', these days? Granted, it's been different every time – and don't get me started on Harry Potter either. First year it was possession. Second year was a horcrux. This year… well, by the look of things, the new Professor is a werewolf.

Of course, I can't fault the poor man for his condition. Merlin forbid. He wasn't to blame. Who would ever want to be infected with a life-endangering disease that turns you into a creature of ancient folklore?

Wait, no, don't answer that.

On the other hand… I could very easily fault the man for the state of his inner wolf. This guy definitely wasn't an alpha. Oh no, looking further down the alphabetic chain. From where I'm sitting, he'd be lucky to qualify as a beta, if that. More like an omega in my book.

Why am I ragging on the werewolf, you ask? Because… well look at him! His animal nature is practically neutered. His inner wolf was quivering more pathetically than his human side! For that matter, he seemed more strongly affected than most of the First Years who had just entered the Hall to be Sorted.

Merlin.

What happened? What could do that, to the aura of every single student?

Magic is affected by emotion and intent, and these auras were dealing with so much fear and anxiety that I wouldn't be surprised if some of them had experienced accidental magic during the train ride.

Impressive. Slightly intimidating – oh, who am I kidding, more than a little intimidating – but impressive nonetheless.

Of course it wasn't long at all before I learned the answer. I just had to wait for the first student to come up to my stool, before I could taste the memory that had sent their magic a-quiver.

Oh.

Oh my.

Dementors. That's what caused all this. Dementors. In the middle of the ride to Hogwarts, the train was stopped and searched. Why? This kid was a muggle-born, so he was no help – he'd heard a snippet of conversation about an escaped fugitive, but that was it.

But still, dementors? What a way to spend your first day in the magical world.

'Hi, you're a wizard! Here's your wand, cauldron, guidebook, and train ticket. You ready? Oh, don't mind the demon. It's perfectly friendly. Sure, it's pretty much the definition of 'terminally depressive,' and could probably suck out your soul on a whim, but that's pretty much par for the course. Now, are you ready to learn?'

Right. Something's screwy here.

Now, it's possible I'm just sadly misinformed. I was constructed nearly five hundred years before the Ministry of Magic, and I didn't really get out much after that. But I've been Sorting for quite a while, and I don't remember the Ministry being quite so insane. Corrupt and nepotistic, sure, and I'd tasted more than a few memories to prove it. But graft is a far cry from… well, the Ministry ordering eleven-year-olds to be strip-searched by hell-spawn.

Taking it a bit far, don't you think?

The next few First Years were a bit more informative. Turns out the missing convict was Sirius Black, which would explain Mr. Lupin's presence as a new member of the staff. I still wasn't sure I believed the public story. Sure, when I Sorted him he was as reckless a Gryffindor as I'd ever beheld, but his loyalty nearly sent him to Hufflepuff, and he had little regard for the junior Death Eaters of Slytherin House.

Then again, it's quite possible the adult Black did not share the same attitudes as his eleven-year-old self. Who knows?

I finished the rest of the Sorting on autopilot. There was little to interest me, though the last girl – Vane something – had some… odd memories. Apparently her favorite bedtime story was how her Mum had won her husband's affection by means of a cleverly concealed love potion. It was more than a little creepy, especially since the girl seemed poised to follow her lead. She'd even picked her target.

Harry Potter: her very own personal Chosen One.

Anyway, once she was Sorted – Gryffindor, if you must know – I was once more plucked off my stool by the Deputy Head and brought out of the Hall. I heard the Headmaster begin his speech, his magically amplified words staying with me even as I was moved away.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast. As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business. They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while they are with us, I must make it plain..." His voice trailed off.

Oh Merlin save me.

Dementors. Dementors here.

I've lived a thousand years, and you can bet it wasn't just leather that kept me going. The Artificers loaded me with more protection charms than you'd put on a guppy animagus about to swim in piranha-infested waters. And that's not even to mention the incidental defenses placed on me over the years by various Headmasters. No, at this point I doubt even basilisk venom could get to me.

But that doesn't mean I don't have weaknesses.

I got two big ones.

The first is Fiendfyre. Fiendfyre is fueled not by oxygen, but by ambient magic. It'd burn through my magical shields faster than Diffindo through conjured butter.

My second weakness is Dementors. You see, some materials retain magic better than others. Metal is best. Leather is not. My impenetrable protections would have given out long ago were it not for Godric's soul shard. It was that shard that allowed me to interact with my magic, reinforce the charms. It gave me life, above and beyond the memories placed in me. I am not some lowly artifact; I am a being!

And Dementors eat beings, just like me. None of my protections would avail, in the face of such sheer, simple death.

It terrifies me.

It terrified Robin too. It took a few minutes cajoling, but soon enough he released control to Godric and Salazar, who would remain on guard, alternating shifts, until the menace was removed.

So we waited.

And watched.

And waited.

It was a long year.