Chapter 101
"Let me try."
Hermione stepped forward, her cloak pulled up against the rain. Because of Ron, the time she and Harry spent together had been greatly reduced. And since Harry had taken Ron's side before, he hadn't expected her to help him now.
"Thanks," Harry said quietly, handing her his glasses. The air between them was awkward, heavy with things left unsaid.
"I'm just doing my duty—for my House and my friends," Hermione replied evenly.
She tapped the lenses with her wand.
"Impervius."
"There." She pushed the glasses back into Harry's hands. "The water won't interfere anymore."
Wood stared at her as though he'd just witnessed a miracle. He looked ready to rush forward and hug her on the spot.
---
The Slytherin side, by contrast, remained calm.
Their overall physical condition was better, and with the equipment someone had thoughtfully provided, the storm's effects were reduced to a minimum.
"So?" Malfoy said coolly, scanning his team. "Your opponents managed to hold you to a draw using the most basic gear. Are you proud of that?"
Even Marcus Flint, a seventh-year and the team captain, remained silent under his gaze.
"But it's acceptable," Malfoy went on, nodding slightly. "At least they haven't taken the Snitch."
"Keep playing to your strengths. The longer Gryffindor drags this out, the better it is for us."
As he spoke, he flicked his wand. An orange-red flame appeared, dancing softly in the storm-darkened air. It radiated gentle warmth and light.
"Even the best equipment can't block everything," Malfoy said calmly.
He guided the flame around the team, drying the exposed parts of their robes and gloves. Warmth seeped back into their stiff limbs. The players visibly relaxed.
"Dra—" Pansy started, wanting to ask about tactics, but Malfoy cut in immediately.
"Madam Hooch is signalling. Move."
The whistle shrieked.
All players shot back into the air.
---
Malfoy watched the blurred figures streak across the pitch, momentarily lost in thought.
Truthfully, he had never cared much for Quidditch. Even when Pansy asked him to help the team, he usually did so out of convenience rather than interest.
This year was different.
Whether it was this match or the Cup itself, Slytherin had no choice but to win.
"There's someone dangerous here."
His gaze swept past the cheering stands. Students shouted themselves hoarse despite the wind and rain. A girl wearing a lion-shaped hat—clearly not from Gryffindor—was yelling enthusiastically, the hat occasionally letting out a realistic roar. No one wanted to sit near her.
Malfoy ignored the front rows.
His eyes locked onto the very back.
A large black dog stood there, coarse fur bristling, forepaws resting on the seat in front as it stared intently at the sky.
"How touching," Malfoy murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. Whether it was mockery or something else, even he wasn't sure.
"By blood, you're my elder," he thought coldly. "Forgive me—but next time we meet, I won't be so polite."
Today wasn't the right moment to deal with Black. He had more important matters at hand.
A sudden gasp rippled through the stands.
The black dog shot to its feet, eyes fixed on the sky—emotion flooding its gaze in a way that felt disturbingly human. A second later, it dropped back down, leapt from the benches, and vanished into another section.
Too noticeable already.
Lupin would recognize the Animagus. Black could only suppress his concern for Harry and retreat for now.
Let Dumbledore handle it, Malfoy thought coolly.
Then his expression sharpened.
"Finally made a move?" he sneered inwardly. "A Dementor?"
Today, perhaps, would be the last time such creatures dared appear openly before humans.
---
On the pitch—
Harry's numb fingers slipped on the broom handle. His Nimbus dipped sharply.
He'd just seen the dog.
The enormous black dog—the omen of death and misfortune.
He blinked rain from his glasses and glanced back at the stands.
Gone.
There was no time to think about it.
A flash of gold cut through the storm.
"The Snitch!"
Harry's heart slammed against his ribs. He leaned forward, accelerating after it—
Then everything changed.
An unnatural silence fell over the stadium.
The wind, moments ago howling, seemed to vanish. It was as if the world had gone deaf.
Cold flooded him.
A familiar, horrifying cold.
Something was moving below.
Harry tore his eyes from the Snitch and looked down.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of Dementors stood beneath him, hooded faces tilted upward.
Ice surged from his chest, slicing through his insides.
And then he heard it again.
A woman's voice, echoing inside his head.
"Don't move, Harry… don't move…"
"Go away… stupid woman… go away—"
"Please, Harry… please don't move… take me… just kill me…"
His thoughts dissolved into white fog.
Why was he flying?
He had to help her.
She was going to die.
He was falling—falling through the cold mist.
"Don't move, Harry… have mercy… have mercy…"
Shrill laughter rang out.
A woman screamed.
Harry knew nothing anymore.
"It's lucky the ground's soft."
"I thought he'd die."
"At least his glasses aren't broken."
Voices whispered around him, meaningless and distant.
Pain throbbed through his body.
Cold. Darkness. Screams.
The hooded figure.
The cold again.
The screaming again.
The most terrible thing he had ever known.