A/N: Originally part of the previous chapter… But these scenes had a major tone shift and didn't really build off any of the prior scenes.
I do not own Harry Potter unlike J.K.
AU Changes: Hogsmeade
The Tragedy of Harry Potter
By. Momento Virtuoso
Edited By: Menaka
Chapter 20
A Portrait out of Time Pt. 2
Hogsmeade looked like a portrait out of time, though whether from the past or future, Harry couldn't tell. It appeared just as it had in 1998, yet it was also vastly different. The river, Boar's Bend, curved around the village's southern side, crossable only by the two bridges along its shores. One was to the south and the other to the west, where the Shrieking Shack sat in the hills overlooking the village.
Students milled about the main thoroughfare, joined by a few wizards and witches who preferred the village's lower prices over Diagon Alley's. A thin blanket of snow covered the ground, an unusual sight this early in winter. Such early snowfall was rare in Scotland, leaving students—Harry included—bundled up more than usual for their weekend.
Examining the storefronts only ushered a host of Harry's memories from the future, swimming freely through his mind. It was his first visit ever without Ron or Hermione. He passed by a branch of Ollivander's wand store in the village, Zonko's, Honeydukes, Dervish and Banges, and even the Post Office. Every building looked familiar except for two puzzling details. Along the street were unlit iron braziers stocked with wood and oil as if they were ready to be lit at a moments notice, yet they remained cold despite the weather. Then along nearly every home or storefronts' door or window were rowan branches crossed over them in an X-formation, with berries dangling from the ornament. As he watched one woman nailing the rowan over her door, Harry couldn't recall if he had ever seen such a sight before in all his other visits to the village.
His first stop of the visit was Tomes and Scrolls. A pang of loss for Hermione tightened his chest at the sight of the store. How many times had he and Ron been dragged inside, unwilling participants in Hermione's endless pursuit of books to understand more of the wizarding world? Now he was visiting alone to satisfy his own need for knowledge.
The bookstore resembled others he'd visited, though its stock was noticeably smaller. Yet, it was larger than most others on the street. Harry browsed the spines of the library for sale, reciting the names of the texts to himself—seeking anything which contained historical accounts of dark magic over the last few centuries. None of the bindings held anything he sought to have, which were more sources to reference against the Sayre Journal. Harry wasn't surprised, given the journal's liberal and volatile stance on forbidden magics.
What he was surprised to find was the second floor in a complete state of disarray. There were books misplaced across the room, some opened haphazardly as if a person looked through them briefly before throwing them over their shoulder. The room was roped off to keep customers out and from trampling over the tomes but Harry stepped closer to the edge, kneeling down to pick up a book and glance at the title, 'The Witch of Thessaly'.
Harry skimmed the first few pages and was surprised to find it was only a children's book, one warning young witches and wizards not to play with magic beyond their understanding so they didn't curse their souls like the witch in the story. Closing the book, Harry placed it back on a nearby shelf. One less book for the owner to clean up. 'Hermione would have hamstrung whoever did this,' Harry thought, recalling his friend's zealous defense of her textbooks.
With his search coming up short, Harry departed from the bookstore, deciding instead to fetch a drink to warm his bones from the chill permeating the village.
Stepping past the threshold of the Three Broomsticks, Harry's face flushed as the inn's warmth hit him. It was filled nearly to bursting with limited space to sit by all the patrons crowding around to avoid the cold outdoors. He scanned the room for a seat to enjoy a drink, but the tables and bar were full.
He almost gave up until he saw a hand waving him over from the corner of his eye, turning to see who was attempting to attract his attention. Harry's eyes widened at the sight of Lily Evans, sitting alongside her friends, Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadowes, and Mary Macdonald.
Harry hesitated, then returned the greeting with a nervous smile. He restarted his search for a solitary spot but they each shook their heads in turn and beckoned him over with a smile once more, causing Harry to burst in a blush and nod shyly before making his way over to join his fellow Gryffindors.
"Harry! Here, sit down! You look like you've frozen over from being outside," Lily exclaimed, earning nods of agreement from her friends.
"Thank you, no matter how many times I reapply my heating charm it doesn't seem to help." Harry joked nervously, taking a seat across from his future mother and in between the space Dorcas and Marlene opened for him.
"Don't be nervous around us, Harry. You're a housemate. We don't care what the boys think of you—we all don't share the same brain in Gryffindor." Mary spoke up, eyeing Harry's nerves.
Lily nodded passionately at Mary's observation to Harry before her eyes simmered in anger much like his own took. "Right! They're wrong about you! They had no right to say what they did! Sirius—I don't know why he gets off on accusing people."
Harry grimaced, recalling the accusations from supper two weeks ago. "Thank you, I appreciate the support," Harry said sincerely, unsure of what else to add. Thankfully, the conversation soon moved away from him.
"Snowing this early in October. We're only through the first week! We shouldn't be seeing snow till next month! Imagine how Quidditch practice will be in this," Marlene said, lazily twirling her wand over her butterbeer.
"At least you won't fall off like last year against Ravenclaw." Dorcas quipped, bringing her own drink to her lips. "You'll just be frozen to your broom instead."
Marlene scowled at the girl, ready to lash back before the table was interrupted by an approaching waitress.
Harry's eyes widened at the sight of a much younger Madam Rosmerta. She looked twenty years younger, and Harry couldn't help but notice. Suddenly, every youthful story Sirius and Remus' older selves had ever told him about her made perfect sense.
"I said, what can I get you, handsome?" Rosmerta asked, tapping a quill against a notepad with a teasing grin.
"Um—uh. Butterbear—beer, please ma'am." Harry stammered.
"Hmm, you've got manners on you, darling. It'll be right out!"
Harry studied Rosmerta closely as she strutted away, sparking a plethora of giggles from the girls he was sitting with.
"Stare a little harder, why don't you, Harry?" Marlene whistled, eliciting another blush from Harry as the barmaid came back with his beverage.
Hiding his grimace behind his cup, Harry enjoyed the savoury flavour of the butterbeer spreading heat through him with every sip. "So you're on the Quidditch team, Mckinnon?" Harry asked, eager to steer the conversation away from Rosmerta, whose gaze he swore was still on him from behind the bar.
Marlene nodded but Mary interrupted.
"Aye! She's our seeker! Best one there ever was. She secured us the championship last year. That falling off her broom." Mary gestured a nose-dive with her hand. "This gal was practically leaping for the Snitch as Ravenclaw almost swiped it. Lucky for us, Marlene's fingers weren't frozen yet."
"Do you play, Harry?" Lily asked interestedly, striking Harry's interest.
"I used to, yeah. With my friends. We'd have some mock-games. Each team with only one chaser or beater depending how many played." Harry recalled from all the games he had taken part in at the Burrow with the Weasleys behind their orchard. "I always tended to be the seeker." Harry nodded to Marlene.
Marlene clapped her hands down on the table excitedly. "You're a seeker too?! What broom model do you usually fly? Are you thinking about trying out for the quidditch team? Do you think you're better than me?" Marlene spouted each question off rapidly, making Harry's head spin for a moment.
"Uhhh—Cleansweep." Harry prayed he hadn't just named a broom model that didn't exist yet. "I don't think so? And I'm sure you're very talented," he answered diplomatically.
In truth, he had considered trying out for the quidditch team. It was something that he wanted to pursue again in this lifetime, but was it important to? Stopping Voldemort was everything now along with saving lives that had been lost before and redeeming those not yet lost to darkness like the Dumbledore he had known before instructed.
He hesitated, wary of the fanfare and attention that came with being a Quidditch star. While he wouldn't be the youngest seeker in a century this time around, he still worried about any fame being attached to his name. Keeping a low profile was paramount.
"A Cleansweep?" Marlene questioned, looking over to Mary and Dorcas who only shrugged. "That broom is a bit slow for seekers… isn't it? Usually a Comet is the go-to model for us. If you've been chasing Snitches on that, then your games must have lasted for days."
Lily's eyes widened. "Oh! I have an idea—let's take him to Dervish and Banges? You can show him some of the models that are there. I heard James say there was a new shipment for this weekend. Practically every quidditch player is going there at some point today."
"Well there's an idea!" Dorcas agreed, finishing her own drink. "I think I'll enjoy Marlene harassing someone else for once about Quidditch."
Harry nodded, consenting to the idea. He wanted to see the brooms anyway. He missed flying and it could be a valuable tool for the future. "Alright, lead the way," he said, pretending not to know where the Quidditch store was.
As they all got up to leave, Harry spotted Bellatrix Black and Regulus Black sitting together near the bar.
A chill crept up Harry's spine at the sight of Bellatrix. Since their confrontation together, his mind whirled with emotions over her, some of which he understood and others that were foreign in nature. He had spent many of the days afterward avoiding the conversation they shared in his head; avoiding the allure of the image of her lips across from his own with her wolfish smirk and yet still dreaming of her crazed laughter.
Harry could see the determination painted across Bellatrix's face even from a distance by the parchment clutched tightly in her fist. Meanwhile, Regulus sat quietly and stiffly at her side, as if he didn't know how to comfort the witch.
In fact, her young cousin looked uncomfortable as Bellatrix whispered tensely to him in a disturbed state. Harry narrowed his eyes at Regulus when he saw the young boy shake his head as if to deny something.
It looked like Bellatrix was trying to convince Regulus of something, but Harry couldn't be sure. Without preamble, he began to shift his way closer to the bar, hoping to overhear what was being spoken.
As if sensing him, Bellatrix's eyes snapped to Harry, freezing him in place. He quickly turned away, feigning a change of mind about an order.
From behind, Harry could almost feel the witch trying to skewer him with her gaze, and strangely, he didn't mind the hostility. It was familiar—the only true emotion he was certain Bellatrix could produce.
Shoving the feeling aside, Harry stepped away from the bar, slipping out the door with his group—missing the furious glare Bellatrix shot his way and the curious stare Regulus fixed on his retreating back.
The moment they stepped outside, it felt as though the temperature had dropped in the short time it had taken them all to get a drink. Harry's breath escaped his lips only to float before his eyes in a fog. Not wanting to freeze any further, he and the Gryffindor girls walked briskly, shivering as the snow crunched beneath their feet.
"B-bloody hell, i-is it c-colder!?" Lily stammered, her teeth clacking together.
"How is that p-possible?" Dorcas asked, shivering so hard it was unclear if she was shaking her head or just trembling.
Each and everyone of them tried different methods of retaining heat. Marlene and Mary pulled their coats tighter, while Dorcas casted a heating charm over them—but it barely seemed to take effect against the bone-deep chill.
Harry's eyes darted to the surrounding buildings, noting more and more rowan branches hanging up. Finally, his curiosity over the decoration got the better of him.
"Why are they hanging all of that up and not lighting any of the fires?" He asked, pointing with a slightly trembling finger. He noticed Lily's surprise at his observation but Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas all shared a look before Mary answered.
"It's for Samhain. An old druidic custom that rowan trees protected the dead so they planted them in cemeteries but they also ward from the evil amongst their number. So all the locals hang branches and berries from the tree to seal their homes and stores." Mary paused for a moment. "Fires are lit as a path for the dead but past that… I don't know why the locals are doing it so early."
"It's a tradition here—maybe four or three hundred years old? My family used to run a store here and my grandfather always put up rowan on the first of October—even at home and after he sold the shop. He always said it was better safe than sorry when it came to ill omen and dark magic," Marlene spoke up. "Normally we don't see this… this is the first hogsmeade weekend that's been this early in nearly a decade."
"Your grandfather sounds like a wise man," Harry chimed. He knew from experience it was always better to be safe than sorry with dark magic; from his previous life and the magic that thrummed inside the shrunken journal on his person.
Soon the group came upon Dervish and Banges sitting beside Gladrags Wizardwear at the end of High Street. The two stores were seemingly connected, built nearly on top of one another with a wing of Gladrags presiding over the bottom two-floor of Dervish and Banges.
Marlene let out a low whistle at the crowd gathering around the store. Clearly, they weren't the only ones eager to see the new broom models "Wow. This place is bustling… probably more people here than in Diagon Alley—or any other wizarding centre."
Harry raised a brow at her remark, "How so?" While shopping in Diagon was always a skewed affair in August and from the number of shops, he had always seen crowds at Quality Quidditch Supplies and the Broom Shop.
"Panicked shoppers. Several stores were burned down recently in Merthyr Mawr out in Wales. It's spooked a lot of owners so stores in villages everywhere have been closing early, and only Diagon holds regular hours now but everyone's afraid that Diagon is going to be attacked next." Marlene explained. "It was mentioned in the back pages of The Prophet. They can't be stopped from printing it but the Ministry wants to limit the scare."
Harry grunted in reply, not willing to comment on how far the Ministry would go to censor the news in the name of public safety.
As the group stepped into the supply store, Harry began to inspect the counters of all the merchandise they sold. There were ward amulets and defense charms against dark magic placed alongside sneakoscopes meant to detect dark intent and lies. A whole side-room was dedicated to musical instruments such as self-tuning violins, dancing flutes, and singing harps which sang opera whenever someone plucked a string. Finally, at the back of the store behind several glass cases were the quidditch supplies.
Harry's eyes traced over the models of several new brooms, each with their wood handles finely polished to a gloss. There was the latest Cleansweep, Comet and even a Nimbus-1900. He suspected it to be the progenitor of his own first broom. Each broom was displayed with a placard that listed the stats of the model followed by the pricing. They were within reason though they were still not cheap.
Harry reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the coin purse holding the last of Dumbledore's stipend. He had enough money to purchase perhaps a maintenance kit for a broom, but a broom itself was out of the question with his meager funds.
'Looks like I'll need a job over the winter holidays… or find a way to print galleons.' Harry sighed, frustrated that he couldn't access the Potter or Black vaults without risk. What kind of job could he even get? Selling Quidditch gear, maybe? He often wondered about his future, but every time the thought made his stomach twist, so he shoved it aside.
"Look at these models!" Marlene called out, beckoning Harry over from his thoughts.
Turning to the girl and stepping over, Harry closely inspected a case of the newer sports models that the store had on display.
"That one there, the Howling Gale! It's a part of the Tempest Series! One of the most versatile brooms on the market currently. It turns on a dime, handles top speed better than most, and can hit nearly a hundred and twenty miles per hour!" Marlene explained, pointing to the studded stirrups and the glossy tail.
Its ashen-grey handle seemed to pulse with thin blue lines, as if lightning had been trapped inside the wood. Despite being considerably slower than his old Firebolt by a few margins, the Howling Gale was one of the most beautiful brooms he had ever seen.
"Oh look! They even have a Drakkenvlam! Blimey, I've only ever seen a photo of one." Marlene grabbed Harry, dragging him over to another case before turning to Lily with a smirk. "What do you think James would give to have one of these, eh?"
Lily shook her head. "He'd either sell something important he wasn't supposed to or win it in a stupid bet—no in-between," she said dryly.
"A Drakkenvlam—most expensive broom in the world! Top of the Tyrant Series. This is a Seeker's broom, Harry—not some rickety old Cleansweep," Marlene teased.
Harry inspected the broom closely as Marlene glossed over its details. The Drakkenvlam was similar to its namesake. The wooden shaft of its handle was carved as if to imitate dragon scales for a textured grip. He could make out just the hint of red glowing beneath each scale as if a power source was on the verge of a meltdown with the item. Its body was made of a dark wood which looked almost burnt by fire and every piece of metal on the broom was golden inlay.
"Merlin—I want that broom," Harry mumbled out loud to himself.
"It'd set you back a whole Minister's pay, Harry," Marlene countered. "I wonder if James even knows about this. Speaking of which—Lily, where is he?"
Lily looked up from a stack of amulets she was browsing, scrunching her face in question. "I don't know actually. Now that you mention it, I should be pulling the prat off that broom case with a spatula but he isn't here. None of them are." Lily referred to the group of Marauders. "He wouldn't miss this broom for the world—hell, not even for asking me out."
Harry frowned. It was odd that none of the Marauders were here—especially Sirius, who should have been accusing him of corrupting Gryffindor just by standing near his best friend's girlfriend.
"He didn't say anything? None of them did?" Harry asked critically, only to be answered by Lily shaking her head negatively.
"Bah—enough of that toe-rag! This is just a girls day out—and Harry," Marlene finished, scratching the back of her head sheepishly. "Sorry!"
Harry grunted nonchalantly as he inspected more of the broom before him then moved onwards to products that he could actually afford. The wand holsters were nice but he preferred the two on his person already. The hum of the phoenix wand strapped to his leg and the allure of the gorgon were always distinctly felt in their holsters. Otherwise, nothing seemed to jump out at him to purchase. There wasn't much on the shelves he could see a need for.
He did, however, cross the store and through a doorway into Gladrags Wizardwear. The store was a hodgepodge building of clothes, reminding Harry of all the department stores that Aunt Petunia would drag him to when she went shopping for Dudley. Everything from regular robes, dress robes, and even a decaying rack of muggle clothes which appeared as if they were in fashion fifty-years prior were scattered about the place with no semblance of order. However, Harry was interested in a section of clothing racks and display cases off in a corner which offered quidditch pads and even some auror robes with combat capabilities.
There were dragonscale vests and Nemean fur cloaks, capable of deflecting minor to moderate spells. There were gloves to keep one stuck to flat surfaces which were excellent in some tasks but illegal in sports like dueling and quidditch. A plethora of helmets and even some glasses which Harry suspected were enchanted or inscribed with some variations of runes. What caught his undivided attention however, was a cloak tucked in a corner by itself as if forgotten amongst the other inventory.
The cloak's surface was like an untouched snow, eerily pristine. There were no blemishes or discrepancies of any pattern for Harry to behold. In truth, he wasn't sure what he was beholding. Looking at it made his eyes itch, as if his brain refused to process what he was seeing. But Harry couldn't look away. He reached out and felt the material. It was thick as wool yet smooth as silk. The material looked like it could withstand a blizzard but also weather a blistering sunny day. Harry couldn't help but think the article was anything but a litany of paradoxes.
Harry was surprised to find his fingers were coated in a thin layer of dust as if the object hadn't been handled or let alone cleaned in some time. Inspecting it closer, he wondered what had kept anyone from picking it out as he uncovered the price tag. It was meager compared to the broom equipment he could afford and practically worthless to the object of his previous desire.
Removing the cloak from its peg, Harry put it underneath his arm and moved to the counter, parting with the last few remaining galleons to his name. A part of him lamented having spent so much on lodging before Hogwarts and his school materials but it was done.
Removing his purchase from beneath his arm, Harry decided to use the cloak for some extra warmth as he stepped outside, wrapping over his body and head; even his feet disappeared beneath the cloth.
Outside, the air was even more frigid than before by some unmeasurable standard. He couldn't wrap his head around how the world seemed to be sinking closer and closer into the next ice age. He was dismayed as even snowflakes began to fall on his head. He threw the cloak's hood over his head.
Harry stood in the street for a moment, realizing that passersby were giving him a wide berth—without even noticing they were doing watched as Lily, Marlene, Dorcas, and Mary all stepped out too, looking up and down the High Street before them.
"He was just here… I saw him walk outside. Where the hell did he go?" Lily muttered, scanning the street.
"Beats me. I would have walked away too after finding out the price of the Drakkenvlam." Dorcas commented.
Harry raised his brow as he stood before the four girls. He watched as their eyes glazed any time they passed over his person. He even waved an arm, pushing the folds of the cloak upward but that seemed to not catch any attention either. 'Perhaps they just can't see me with all the snow?' Harry wondered.
With caution in his movements, Harry pulled back the hood of his cloak, pushing the folds behind his shoulders to fully reveal himself to the girls. The effect was immediate.
Lily gasped, clutching Mary's hand in surprise, while both Marlene and Dorcas recoiled, clearly startled by Harry's sudden appearance.
"Merlin's beard, Evans! Where in Morgana's foul name did you just spring from?" Marlene spat accusingly, gesturing to the snow beneath Harry's feet.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I was here the whole time? I just stepped outside a few moments before you lot," he said, clearly confused.
"Rubbish! You just appeared like a white rabbit out of the snow! What on earth are you wearing?!" Marlene demanded, pointing her finger at the white cloak. "You'll be hit by a carriage wearing that in the road!—or Hagrid!"
Harry stretched out the cloak, watching as each of the girls' gaze seemingly unfocused once more, but Dorcas shook her head fiercely, narrowing her eyes at the article. She nudged Mary and Marlene alongside her, who in turn dispelled whatever hold was over Lily.
"It's like I see it—but then I can't?" Mary stated with uncertainty.
"Yeah! Makes the brain go fuzzy or something when looking at it." Dorcas clicked her fingers together before pointing at the cloak's folds. "Did you get a cloak with a shimmer charm?"
"A shimmer charm?" Harry inquired, looking down at the item he bought. In truth, he felt the way Dorcas had described when he had stumbled upon the object. It had taken him a few moments to even realize what he was looking at. Yet, it appeared to cloak him from being noticed almost like a disillusionment charm would have done. It was as if someone had tried to produce an invisibility cloak but gave up halfway.
"Blah—enough of Evan's fancy new cape. I want to go see the bridge! Someone mentioned a Kelpie's been spotted in the river, off and on in the past few weeks. Maybe one came down from the Highlands? Imagine!" Marlene said, her voice full of excitement.
Lily shook her head. "You've been obsessed with kelpies ever since you saw Professor Renault's tattoo."
"Can you blame me? His kelpie's adorable... I swear it winked at me once. Plus, it's just one of many features I like about him. I have a thing for scars," Marlene said, tapping her cheeks. "So alluring.
Dorcas whistled sharply, "Watch out Harry, she'll jump you in the portrait hole if you aren't paying attention."
Harry blushed but shook his head. Still, he couldn't shake the thought of the Defence Professor. For the past few classes, the man had been watching him, sometimes even approaching him in the hallways before abruptly walking away, as if he had another task. It made his skin prickle uncomfortably each time. With another shake of his head, he dismissed the absurdity of the Defense Professor's attention from his mind. While he was wary of any faculty he didn't explicitly know, there was no reason for someone of that post to make an attempt on his life in this time period.
Soon, they made their way to one of the bridges crossing the river. The Boar's Bend was nearly frozen, the sluggish water dragging malformed ice along its current.
"Well—safe to say there won't be any kelpies hiding in there. They can't stand the cold, according to Professor Kettleburn."
Harry was inclined to agree. He couldn't imagine how anything could thrive in that water or enjoy the frigid weather. The landscape had practically turned into a tundra overnight, a shift that would usually take weeks. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end, and goosebumps broke out across his skin, urging him to pull his cloak tighter around his body.
He watched the water swirl as each of the girls meandered about the bridge, strolling past its stonework and into the field surrounding Hogsmeade. The field stretched for several hundred yards, littered with stones that had tumbled down from the neighboring hills over the centuries. Across the stretch of land lay the beginnings of forested hills, home to the Shrieking Shack, which howled once a month to the terror of the locals.
Lost in his thoughts, Harry was only jolted back to reality by the sudden silence—a world entirely deafened by the snow. The river beneath them had frozen solid. He scrutinized the now solid water. 'Temperatures have been dropping all day… but nothing just freezes that quickly,' Harry thought. A chill ran through him, not from the cold but from a growing realization—this wasn't natural; not without magic.
Harry nearly missed the scream that erupted from the girls, crying out in panic, "MARY!"
Spinning on his heels, Harry's blood ran cold at the sight before him. A dementor was lifting Mary Macdonald as though it were an abusive lover, greedily consuming every joyful memory from her soul. He threw his wand out, starting the incantation to summon the creature's antithesis. For a brief moment, Harry hesitated, wondering what Lily Evans would think of a stag like James Potter's bursting from his wand.
"Expecto Patronum!" Harry's voice rang out, cutting through the dementor's growl—a screeching sound, like knives scraping bone. Harry channelled his magic, pouring all his urgency into the spell. He thought of his days at the Burrow, spent in the shade with Ron and Ginny.
A thin strip of silver shot from his wand, elongating until it fully formed. To Harry's shock, the wispy shape wasn't a stag. Instead, its long body was serpentine, like the gorgon hair of his wand's core, bursting from the blackened tip. At the creature's zenith, the form split into three heads, all hissing, snarling, and snapping as it lunged for the dementor, wrestling the dark creature away from Mary.
Harry could only watch as his newly changed patronus fended off the dementor before slithering around Mary Macdonald protectively, shielding her from the biting cold.
Marlene, Dorcas, and Lily all ran to Mary's side, only to hesitate awkwardly as they gawked at the ethereal Runespoor. The three snake heads scrutinized the witches before two resumed their bickering, snapping at each other. The third, the rightmost head, remained vigilant, scanning for more dementors before turning to Harry for orders.
"Mary—oh Merlin. She's breathing but she's cold as ice." Lily stated, pressing her palm to Mary's forehead. "We need to get her up to the castle now."
"Pick her up and get her back to the village," Harry ordered, his eyes fixed ahead, earning puzzled looks from the three girls. "Do it. Now!" Harry pointed towards the tree line where a horde of dementors was gliding toward them.
Each girl paled at the sight, needing no further encouragement. Dorcas and Lily hauled Mary up between them, one arm over each of their shoulders, while Marlene drew her wand.
"E-expecto Pa-patronum!" She stammered, but only a faint mist emerged from her wand.
"No time for that! Get Mary out of here—I'll cover the bridge—go now!" Harry barked, his Runespoor rearing up, snarling in defiance at the horde of shadows, protecting them from the crushing despair the dark creatures emanated.
Seeing her friend struggle with the spell and Harry's Patronus holding back the mass of dementors stirred Lily into action. "Take her!" she urged before drawing her own wand.
"Expecto Patronum!" Lily chanted, summoning a silver doe to join the three-headed serpent against the horde. The small deer trotted around protectively before placing itself beside Mary, radiating strength to the girls. Without another word, Lily pushed Dorcas and Marlene forward.
The two Gryffindors carried Mary across the bridge, with Lily leading the way while Harry followed, walking backwards.
Seeing his mother's doe struck Harry with a deep pain for the loss of his own stag, and he couldn't help but spare a moment to admire his new Patronus. The Runespoor was a menace, each of the heads independently, lashing with their fangs and their own strategies to fend off the waves of swirling shadows. However, it was only a single Patronus, and Harry knew it wouldn't last—especially not with Lily guarding the front.
However, despite the comforting glow of the creature, Harry could feel the despair the dementors were exuding all around him, slowly creeping into his mind and body. The wound from Voldemort's curse in the Forbidden Forest throbbed painfully, as though the Dementors were attempting to leech his soul through it. Their presence beckoned howls forward from Harry's memories—the cries of the dead and the living, but all lost to him. Hermione's screams of agony. Dumbledore pleading with Snape. Bellatrix's cackles. Sirius's death rattle. Lily Potter begging for her son's life, not her own.
At last, the horde of dementors overcame his patronus, slicing through the three-headed serpent with their cruel aura like a knife, before gliding toward him, leaving nothing but permafrost in the wake of their tattered robes.
Darkness began to cloud Harry's vision as the protection of the Runespoor faded—he was on the verge of fainting, barely able to stagger across the bridge. Gripping the railing for support, Harry steadied himself and pushed on after Lily and the others.
He had barely taken a few steps off of the bridge and into the town proper before a dark figure descended upon him, its foul breath brushing his skin like decay. It reached hungrily for the light within him as it circled back.
"Expecto Patronum!" Harry chanted again, but instead of the runespoor, a shield bellowed from his wand, into the lunging dementor and hurling it backward.
Free of the foe but with pain searing from his side, Harry stumbled across the cobblestones of the High Street, his eyes widening at the horrific sight before him.
The street was filled with the panicked bodies of students and residents, scrambling for doors and windows to shield themselves inside from the dementors' pestilence. But many were unable to shut the doors behind them, their hinges frozen solid by the frigid air.
Desperate to help—to save lives—Harry turned his wand on the horde once more. He thought of his parents—seeing Sirius alive again, before the man despised him. "Expecto Patronum!" The Runespoor slithered back to life from his wand, enraged at having been beaten before.
Weakened, Harry focused his magic to prevent the dementors from overcoming his patronus again. Maintaining the spell was difficult—nearly impossible but somehow his arm held out, despite trembling like a leaf.
Once, he had defended himself and his godfather from hundreds of dementors in his third year; but the shades of Azkaban hadn't been directly focused on him during that ordeal. He hadn't felt the gloom they injected their prey from within their murky cowls. One by one, Harry tried to count the swarm before him, but they were too numerous and the mist around them only grew thicker, restricting his sight.
It was hopeless. Harry couldn't help but feel despair swirling around him like a vulture to his failing body. With a grunt, he fell, losing his glasses and wand as he crashed to the cobbled street, his head cracking against the stones with a spray of blood. Without his magic to sustain it, the runespoor gave one final hiss of defiance before dissipating in a haze, joining the mist conjured by the dementors.
With only darkness clouding his vision, Harry wasn't sure if he was losing consciousness or if the dementors had fully surrounded him. He waited for their cold, black hands—carrying Death's embrace—to greet him again, yet their touch never grazed his skin.
Instead, the host of dementors let out horrible shrieks in a deafening caterwaul as something bright tore through their ranks from behind, accompanied by a clap of thunder. Without his glasses, Harry could only make out the shape of a great beast, its size that of a giant, with a massive tail rising before slamming down upon the street like a deluge.
The beast rose up again, roaring like a rampaging river, close enough for Harry to spot its tell-tale feature; a mane of seagrass. The ethereal kelpie shook itself fiercely, scattering and bucking dementors away from their-would-be-victims, sending the horde fleeing in every direction like flies away from a corpse as it broke the siege around the village.
Bathed in its light, Harry felt the kelpie's magic hum as it rejuvenated his and every soul who heard its song with a soothing warmth like those emitted only by the softest of healing spells.
The sound of its casters' footsteps, as the water horse blessed his mind and all of the village with sanctuary, drew Harry's blurred attention.
Unrecognizable to him, Creon Renault wielded his wavy greenwood wand in front of him with a calm sternness, his left arm extended as the kelpie tattoo seemed to glower the same direction as the man.
The professor jerked his wand upward, sending his Patronus soaring with another roar before calling the beast to dive down like an aerial strike, driving the dementors out of the village and back across the river.
Creon commanded his patronus to circle the village like a watchman. The massive form hovered over the ice of Boar's Bend, humming towards the retreating mass of dementors. Meanwhile, cracks of Apparition echoed through the village as aurors appeared across the rooftops of the High Street, their patronuses trailing behind.
Harry's fingers brushed the frame of his glasses as he blindly searched for them, managing to grip them just as an auror approached and lifted him off the ground by his arm.
"Come on. Up you get, sonny." The auror's gruff voice ordered him.
Harry pressed his glasses back to his nose, revealing Alastor Moody's younger, unscarred blinked in shock at the sight of the man.
"What's the matter, lad? Something on my face, or did you take a hard hit there?" Moody asked, gesturing to the side of Harry's head. The auror whipped out his wand faster than Harry could track, then jabbed it at the side of Harry's head.
He felt the skin close over the gash on the side of his head, though he could still feel the warm blood caking his face..
"There ya go. Go see the matron up at the school before the end of the day and it won't scar. Though I'd imagine you don't care for such things," Moody smirked, flicking his eyes upward to Harry's lightning shaped scar. The paranoid auror's demeanor shifted as he inspected the cursed scar.
"Uh thank you—-um?" Harry feigned to ask for the man's name.
"Moody. Alastor Moody. Senior Auror," Moody grunted, holding out his hand for Harry to shake.
Accepting the handshake, Harry felt as though he was being shaken down for a secondary wand.
"Walk with me, lad. What's your name?" Moody grunted, turning his head to Harry expectantly, leveling two very real eyes at him.
"Harry, sir. Harry Evans."
"Evans, eh? Nice to meet you, lad. Got here a little earlier than most, so I saw part of that display of yours before one of those soul-sucking buggers tried to jump me." Moody growled, flicking his wand outward to cast a heating charm on them both. "Capable of casting a full-fledged patronus, then? Wasn't just some one-off I hope."
Harry nodded, "Yes, sir. I mean, no sir," he fumbled over his words, still in awe at seeing the man alive and well. It shouldn't have shocked Harry anymore, yet his heart rejoiced at seeing the return of the old, grizzled, and scarred auror—though he wasn't quite that man yet. "I've been able to cast a corporeal Patronus since I was thirteen."
Harry tried not to smirk at seeing the skeptical brow that raised on Moody's face as the man walked him over to where Professor McGonagall was attempting to round students back into carriages for the journey to the castle.
"Good showing, Evans. Could use someone quick like ye in the Department when you graduate but first like I said—go get that treated." Moody tapped the side of his head, mirroring Harry's injury.
"Yes sir—I'll uh, I'll consider it Mr. Moody," Harry responded, stepping up to a carriage with a few other students. He pressed his face to the glass of the window, watching as Creon stood vigilantly outside the village, now being harassed by Alastor Moody.
Harry's eyes met the Defense Professor's gaze from down the High Street for a brief pause but Creon Renault broke the line, turning back to Moody but still watching his patronus drift lazily about the sky, emitting, soothing hums across the village.
With a sigh, Harry listened to the kelpie's song as he closed his eyes, falling into quiet meditation as the carriage rocked and bounced back up to the castle.
Harry turned his head to the side as Madam Pomfrey finished cleaning the dried blood, and inspecting the area around his head for further trauma. He felt a pinch as the Matron re-performed whatever method the auror had used to heal the wound, but this time with a more delicate touch of the magic.
"There we are, Mr. Evans. All done! No lasting scars, but you may have a headache for the rest of the day. Take some Pepper-Up and this replenishing potion, and then you can leave when you're ready." Pomfrey instructed, handing him two vials from her medicine cart.
The matron even passed Harry a large bar of chocolate which he gratefully took as well.
Harry downed the vials, then swept his eyes across the room as he bit into the bar of chocolate.
The sun had begun to dim outside the panes of glass along the length of the Hospital Wing, abandoning the world to the biting cold of the night, a chill that not even the flames of candles, lanterns, and stone basins could alleviate.
It had taken some time to get everyone safely back from the village, with each caravan of carriages escorted by an auror's Patronus. Many students had been sent straight to their dormitories after showing no immediate signs that the Dementors affected them. Still, there were students occupying just as many beds in the Wing as well, all deeply shaken by the presence of the dementors.
One of those students was Mary Macdonald. Harry lingered on the sight of her, surrounded by her fellow Gryffindor girls, who were talking amongst each other in hushed whispers. He felt a spark of protectiveness for them as they were the few not to judge him or brand him a dark wizard; there were so few unwilling to do so in either time period, Harry mused.
A pang of regret echoed in Harry's chest. He had defended her well enough against the odds, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he should have sensed the proximity of the Dementors, with the frost and chill hanging unusually in the air.
At the sight of the Gryffindor girls though and his most recent failure, Harry's eyes were drawn to Amelia Bones, bedridden across the Hospital Wing. Her bed was surrounded by curtains, concealing her from any view. He hadn't heard any update about the girl's condition, only rumours and speculations as to why she was still bed-bound or if she was even awake.
Harry's thoughts lingered on the Hufflepuff girl but shifted at the sight of Sirius walking despondently in front of him towards Amelia's quartered off bedside. Harry fought the urge to turn his head when Sirius's lip curled at the sight of him, but it seemed to fall in reluctant hesitation, as though Harry wasn't worth the insult anymore. Sirius seemed to twitch under Harry's gaze before moving on..
He wondered what had changed in the Marauder's mind in the last two weeks since their explosive argument in the Great Hall. Harry suspected that despite the girl's statement of all Gryffindors not being of one mind, surely the Marauders were the exception to the rule.
Harry wanted to think more about the events of the supper, Bellatrix, and his new Patronus, but the gorgon wand concealed in its holster gave off a low thrum that reverberated up his arm and down his spine. His eyes widened, then narrowed at the alert that pulsed through him.
'Someone triggered the runes,' Harry concluded. He retrieved the Map from the pocket of his robes, opening the parchment to examine its contents as if he was reading a letter. His eyes narrowed at the secret passageway along the Second-floor. Without a word, he stood up from the bed, and stuffed the map back into his bag before grabbing the white cloak which was bundled at the foot of the bed.
Without wasting any time, Harry departed from the Hospital Wing, making his way to the entrance where the names Rodolphus Lestrange and Jaxian Parkinson had crossed over his runes, not noticing that the cloak he'd purchased changed from a white field to one that mimicked the stones of the castle wall as it nipped at his magic.
The Sayre Journal
Chapter 57 - On Dementors and the Patronus
Dementors are some of the vilest creatures to exist upon our plane—whose origins are unknown. We possess no knowledge of their breeding as 'tis unclear whether they are creatures… or former persons clothed in shadow.
Their presence is heralded by a chill which smothers the most eternal flames and stifles all-encompassing heating charms.
Like locusts—dementors roam the world in flocks, inflicting spiritual malady upon their victims beneath their blackened cowls bicause their nourishment is not the meat over thy bones but the very essence of thy soul.
Records annotate their diseased touch throughout history—such as the year Five-Hundred and Thirty-six when the Justinianic plague ravaged Constantinopolis. A swarm of cloaked figures descended like angels of death to carry away the sick and dying with naught but a kiss.
As the plague ebbed and flowed over the coming months and years, chroniclers record a dementor infestation lingering around the countryside as if they were besieging the sickened city.
As frequent as two centuries ago, Dementors swept across the whole Continent hand-in-hand with the Great Mortality in the largest gathering ever seen. Whatever poor soul the pestilence did not claim—dementors would glide over and feast upon. The calamity left whole villages without the protection of walls or wards accursed; never to be repopulated.
'Tis a truth of our world that where there is happiness, there is sorrow, and where lies sorrow; a dementor glides closely behind.
Dementors possess no physical weakness. If they were indeed ever mortal, thou cannot kill whatever it is which lingers on. The only defense one can conjure against these fiends is the Patronus Charm; any other method has either been lost to time or erased.
There is no other magic which I respect utmost than the Patronus Charm—to dispel darkness with one's inner warmth. 'Tis one of the few which I have not sought to improve upon as it is perfect to itself.
The sands of time have claimed the origin of the Patronus. Some believe it is the first spell ever created—when man first discovered magic, so elated was he that his soul burst forth from the branch he wielded. But many spout that the charm was only produced at some point in the last few centuries when dark creatures began roaming the southern shores of the Norwegian coast and northern banks of Denmark.
Memory is a fickle beast to consume such a universally recognizable spell. It shall remain so when it chooses which of our bones to gnaw upon when we are gone.
The charm conjures a shield to protect us from the guile of the Dementors—a patron in the shape of a beast. An interesting phenomenon of the spell is that our patrons can shift their forms—if the caster has undergone such a shift within themselves.
Perhaps there is credible enough evidence that the soul is the progenitor of magic. I, myself, cannot be certain. Despite my knowledge over the article—I am woefully ignorant of its machinations.
You will hear tales and mentions that I was unable to cast the charm myself as a dark witch; that all dark witches and wizards are incapable of such a feat. This is hearsay and unfounded. Anything sentient with an intact soul can invoke the Patronus within. There is no restriction to the charm but the memory of the caster; mayhaps the wand they wield if it is too far gone in corruption.
In my youth, the spell was taught to me by a friend. With their aid, I conjured forth the most beautiful Irish hound. Even thy mother was in awe when I performed the feat before her.
It has been nearly eight decades since I have seen my hound. Without a need to cast the charm, even dementors have learned to fear my presence. I wonder if I cast the charm—would the hound greet me again or something new after my soul has shifted from these long years?
I suppose it matters not. Since thy flight, my dear niece, there is no happiness left in me to coax such a holy beast from my soul.
Though I remember the memory I used to first conjure my patronus—I can no longer picture the Irish hound in my mind. It strays from me even in my dreams.
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! As always, if you find any remaining grammatical errors, let me know & I'll get to editing them out.
For those wondering, I decided to remove the end scenes with Creon from Ch. 15 and put them in their own chapter for easier categorizing. No new content but this chapter has been added.
As for Harry's new cloak, I'm inspired by the concept of a perception filter from Doctor Who.