The castle felt colder these days, as though the Dementors outside had seeped their chill into the very stones. The once-lively chatter in the corridors had dulled to a low murmur, punctuated by sighs and the occasional quiet sob. Even the Great Hall, usually filled with laughter and clinking cutlery, seemed subdued—its high windows misted over, letting in a dull gray light that did nothing to lift the gloom.
Harry hunched over his breakfast, poking at his eggs with a listless fork. Around him, the other Gryffindors wore expressions of quiet exhaustion. It was as though the castle itself was sighing.
Hermione sat beside him, her forehead creased with worry. "It's getting worse," she murmured, glancing around the table. "Madam Pomfrey said she's never seen so many students coming in with panic attacks and nightmares. Some of them can't even sleep properly anymore."
Harry's stomach twisted. He knew that feeling all too well—the Dementors' cold presence always clawed at the edges of his mind, threatening to drag him back into that darkness where his mother screamed.
"It was a stupid decision," he muttered, his voice low and bitter. "Putting Dementors around a school. What did they think would happen? If Sirius Black can slip past them once, he can do it again. They're worse than useless. They make everyone miserable."
Hermione bit her lip. "I know, Harry. I hate it too. But Dumbledore—"
"—didn't want them here," Harry finished for her. "I know. But the Ministry insisted, and now everyone's paying for it."
A tense silence stretched between them. Harry could feel the weight of the castle pressing down on him, the air thick with dread. Even the portraits on the walls seemed to be frowning.
But today, at least, he had something to look forward to.
He shoved his plate aside and stood up. "I'm going to Quidditch practice," he announced, his tone grim but resolute. "First match against Slytherin's coming up, and we need to be ready."
Hermione nodded, though her worry didn't fade. "Just be careful, Harry. The Dementors—"
"I know." Harry cut her off gently. "I'll be careful." But even as he said it, he felt that familiar flicker of defiance. Careful. Right.
He left the Great Hall, heading out into the misty morning. The wind cut through his robes like a knife, but Harry welcomed it—it felt real, unlike the damp chill the Dementors brought. As he trudged toward the pitch, he forced himself to focus on the game. Slytherin was always a challenge, and he needed every edge he could get.
He reached the changing rooms and paused for a moment, letting the sounds of the pitch wash over him: the crack of broomsticks against the stands, the chatter of the team, the muffled cheer of Gryffindors who'd come early to watch. For a moment, the world felt normal again.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to fight the darkness creeping into every corner of the castle.
After Quidditch practice, Harry left the pitch sore but determined. The team was shaping up well, and even though the Dementors loomed in the distance like watchful predators, Harry felt a spark of fire every time he took to the skies. The Slytherin match was around the corner, and he'd be ready.
He hurried to the changing rooms, showered, and pulled on his robes, pushing aside the lingering fatigue. There was still the matter of classes—and later, something far more important.
Potions were as grim as ever under Snape's watchful eye, each cauldron bubbling like a sinister potion of its own. Harry forced himself to focus, to keep his mind sharp even when Snape's cold sneers threatened to break his concentration. In Ancient Runes, they continued their studies of elder Futhrak and how they reacted to the world around them.
When the final bell rang, he barely paused for dinner before slipping away toward the seventh floor. The Room of Requirement appeared before him as though it had been waiting.
He stepped inside and felt the familiar thrill of seeing the vast training hall he'd shaped—complete with targets, dummies, and spellbooks stacked high. He dropped his bag and rolled up his sleeves.
"Time to get serious," he muttered.
He started with combat spell casting—practicing hexes and jinxes, firing Stunners, and Disarming Charms in rapid succession. Each flick of his wand grew sharper, faster, more precise. He could feel his muscles responding to the discipline, his magic surging with each cast.
Then he moved to the darker arts. Not curses, exactly—but spells that required control, power, and an unshakable will.
When he felt his magic humming just beneath his skin, Harry paused, catching his breath. He made his way towards the study table and picked up a book that delved into details of Legilimency.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out the small container. With a muttered spell, he unsealed it, and the stunned rat tumbled out. Harry's expression hardened.
"Animagora Revelio," he whispered. The rat convulsed, and with a wet, sickening crack, Peter Pettigrew sprawled on the floor, eyes glazed with terror.
Before he could move, Harry flicked his wand. "Vincula Maledicta." The cursed ropes burst forth, binding Pettigrew tighter than before. A moment later, "Silencio," and the traitor's mouth snapped shut—no begging, no excuses.
Harry stood over him, his wand steady. This was dangerous—he knew it. Legilimency was delicate and invasive. But he needed the truth, and Pettigrew was a well of secrets.
He took a deep breath and focused, lowering his wand to Pettigrew's forehead. "Legilimens," he murmured.
The world blurred. Harry felt himself pulled into a swirling current of memories—faces, sounds, laughter. He grasped at one that felt familiar: the scent of fresh grass, the sun on his face, the laughter of four boys—Marauders.
He plunged deeper and saw it: James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter huddled around a wooden plank set between two tree stumps. They were balancing on it, challenging each other to see who could stay on the longest without falling off. James was grinning, wand at the ready, while Sirius pretended to swoon dramatically, nearly toppling off. Remus was laughing, and Peter was clutching the plank as though his life depended on it.
For a fleeting second, Harry felt the warmth of their friendship—and then the memory slipped away, like mist in the wind.
Harry pulled back, breathing hard. Pettigrew's eyes were rolling in their sockets, sweat beading on his brow even under Silencio.
"Again," Harry muttered. "Legilimens."
This time the current felt stronger, wilder, like an untamed river. He tried to focus on Voldemort's plans, anything that might give him an advantage. But the memory shifted too quickly—dark shapes, flickering lights, a whisper of something important—and then it shattered. The connection slipped, and Harry was thrown back into himself, gasping, trembling.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his wand hand shaking.
"Not yet," he murmured. "But soon."
With a flick of his wand, he reversed Pettigrew's transformation again, forcing him back into rat form. The small creature trembled, squeaking helplessly.
Harry guided him back into the container, snapping the lock tight. He tucked the container into his pouch.
Tomorrow, he'd try again. And next time, he'd be stronger.
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A/N] - I hope you're all enjoying the story so far. I'd love to hear your thoughts—what's working for you, what's not, and what you'd like to see in future chapters. Your feedback means a lot and helps me make this story even better. Please let me know in the comments or drop a review!
Thanks for reading !