0230 Visits

When training ended, darkness had completely enveloped Hogwarts. The temperature had dropped significantly since the afternoon, and frost was beginning to form on the grass. Because he wanted to become more familiar with Firebolt's extraordinary capabilities, Harry was the last to leave the pitch. His teammates had long since left, their laughter and excited chatter about the upcoming season fading into the distance as they made their way back to the warmth of Gryffindor Tower. Under the night sky, Harry walked alone on the cobblestone path back to the castle. As he walked, Harry found himself feeling somewhat emotional—everything seemed to be developing in a positive direction for once. He desperately hoped this term could pass peacefully. After all, his first and second years could hardly be called tranquil—they had been filled with Dark Lords, deadly monsters, and life-threatening adventures that no teenage boy should have to endure. He felt like he had always been right in the center of the storm. When he reached a particularly open area of the grounds, a cold wind suddenly swept across the landscape. Harry couldn't help but pull his black robes tighter around his shoulders. The weather was definitely getting colder with each passing day. Suddenly, without warning, Harry felt an inexplicable chill run down his spine. His entire body tensed with sudden alertness, and his hand instinctively moved toward his wand pocket. "!" He immediately spun around to look behind him, his eyes scanning the darkness. In the pitch-black night, he saw a pair of eyes gleaming eyes in the nearby bushes, staring fixedly at him. Those eyes were bloodshot but unusually bright. "Who's there?" Harry called out, his voice trembling slightly in the night wind despite his efforts to sound brave and confident. But there was no answer from the shadows, only the rustling sound of dry leaves being blown by the wind and the distant hooting of an owl somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. Harry slowly began to back away. His heart was pounding so violently in his chest that he was almost certain the sound must be audible to whatever was watching him from the darkness. Who would be here so late? His mind began to race with wild thoughts. Then, those eyes moved, beginning to slowly approach him. Finally, as the mysterious figure emerged from the shadows of the bushes, Harry could clearly see the owner of those haunting eyes. It was a dog. Just a dog. But it was pitch-black from nose to tail. It was tall in stature, with the lean build of a hunting hound, but it was very thin, as if it had been surviving on scraps and whatever prey it could catch in the wild. The only truly notable thing about the animal was that those eyes were unusually bright for a dog, and they continued to stare directly at Harry. "Whew—" Harry immediately breathed a sigh of relief. His entire body relaxed, and he felt somewhat foolish for his previous panic. So, it was just a dog—he had thought it was Sirius Black. But soon, as his rational mind reasserted itself, he became alert again. Something wasn't quite right about this situation. How could there be a stray dog here, on the grounds of Hogwarts? The castle was supposed to be one of the most secure magical locations in Britain, protected by countless enchantments and wards. Surely such protections would prevent random animals from simply wandering onto the grounds? He should be at Hogwarts, right? Apart from Hagrid, who kept various creatures both legal and questionable, he had never seen anyone else at Hogwarts keep a dog. The professors certainly didn't have pets wandering the corridors, and students weren't allowed to bring anything larger than a cat, owl, or toad. While Harry stood there puzzled, trying to make sense of the situation, the black dog stopped a few steps away from him, maintaining what seemed like a respectful distance. It showed neither aggressive intent nor any sign of fleeing from the human presence. It just stood there in the moonlight, slightly tilting its head, as if studying Harry. Harry keenly noticed that the dog's front leg had a deep wound that had already scabbed over, leaving a dark line through the matted fur. "Are you injured?" Harry found himself crouching down and asking in a soft, concerned voice. The moment the words left his mouth, however, he regretted them and felt rather foolish. How could a dog possibly understand human speech? He was talking to a wild animal as if it were a person, which was clearly ridiculous. But strangely, the dog seemed to react to his words. Its ears perked up slightly, and its head tilted further to one side. Finally, the black dog moved again. It slowly began to back away. It never took its bright eyes off Harry's face, maintaining eye contact until the very last moment before it melted back into the shadows and eventually disappeared completely from Harry's sight. Seeing the creature vanish as mysteriously as it had appeared, Harry didn't suspect anything further. His mind had already provided a perfectly reasonable explanation for the encounter. It was just a dog without an owner, probably a stray that had wandered onto the grounds in search of food or shelter. Perhaps it had been injured in a fight with another animal, or maybe it had escaped from a nearby village and was now living wild in the Forbidden Forest. Such things happened, even in the magical world. He stood up from his crouched position, brushing off his robes and adjusting his grip on the wrapped Firebolt. This little incident didn't affect his good mood in the slightest. However, as he resumed his walk toward the castle, Harry suddenly remembered something that made his steps falter slightly. In the first Divination class of the term, Professor Trelawney had made one of her typical prophecies for him—that he would encounter the Grim, a legendary black dog that was said to be an omen of death. Of course, Harry didn't think much of it even now. This was probably just a coincidence. He didn't believe anything that came out of Trelawney's mouth, and he wasn't about to start now. In the following period, as October progressed toward November, Quidditch training proceeded with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Wood's determination to win the Cup in his final year had transformed their practice sessions into grueling boot camps that left every team member exhausted but euphoric. Harry would train at least three times a week, sometimes more when Wood decided that their performance wasn't meeting his exacting standards. To deceive potential spies and maintain their strategic advantage, most of the time Wood didn't allow Harry to use the Firebolt during regular practices. "You must keep your Firebolt completely hidden," Wood would remind him repeatedly. "So, others won't be able to develop specific strategies to target you during the match. The element of surprise will be crucial to our victory." Harry was slightly dissatisfied with Wood's cautious approach, feeling somewhat restricted by the captain's paranoid secrecy. He felt confident that no matter what tricks or strategies their opponents might use, he could win any match with his own natural skill and talent. The Firebolt was just an added advantage, not a crutch he needed to depend on. But... who told Wood he was the captain? His authority was absolute when it came to Quidditch matters, and Harry had learned from experience that arguing with Wood about team strategy was usually futile. Harry ultimately listened to Wood's advice, though he couldn't help but feel frustrated by the restriction. Another week passed in this routine of intense training and academic responsibilities. The castle had settled into the familiar rhythm of autumn term, with students hurrying between classes wrapped in increasingly heavy robes and the Great Hall filled with the warm, comforting smells of hearty stews and fresh-baked bread. In the morning, as pale sunlight filtered through the windows of the castle, Adrian was receiving a special and rather unwelcome guest in his office. "Adrian, you've made me spend a great deal of effort to smooth over this rather complicated matter," Cornelius Fudge said with an air of weary resignation, looking helplessly at Adrian, who was standing by the tall window overlooking the grounds. "Ever since you drove away those Dementors from the Hogwarts Express, I've been under constant pressure from various departments and officials," Fudge continued. "Finding them and dealing with the aftermath took me quite some time and considerable resources." At this moment, Adrian was grooming the feathers of Ray. Ray had grown to an impressive size over the period—so large, in fact, that every time the bird wanted to enter Adrian's office, Adrian had to cast a temporary enlargement spell on the window frame to accommodate it. Hearing Fudge's words, Adrian gave Ray's head a pat and watched as itits wings and flew gracefully toward the Forbidden Forest. "I thought that for the Ministry of Magic, locating a few Dementors would be as easy as pie," Adrian replied turning around and spread his hands. "After all, they're supposed to be important guards of Azkaban, under your direct control and supervision." Fudge's expression shifted to one of bitter frustration, and he let out a long sigh. Under normal circumstances, the Ministry of Magic indeed had foolproof methods to locate every Dementor's position. But strangely, there had been some highly unusual and troubling problems with those specific Dementors that Adrian had driven away from the Hogwarts Express. The Ministry's tracking systems had simply... failed. The Ministry had suddenly and inexplicably lost the ability to sense their locations! But fortunately, after days of intensive searching using both magical and conventional methods, they had eventually found traces of those missing Dementors along the train's route. However, the state of those Dementors when they were finally discovered was very strange indeed, unlike anything the Ministry officials had seen before in their centuries of dealing with the creatures. Or rather... it was as if they had been seriously harmed by something far more powerful than a simple Patronus Charm. The Dementors were huddled in the depths of dark woods, and instead of their usual floating in the air, they were pressed tightly against the ground, as if hiding from something terrible. Their already tattered robes had become even more torn and were covered with what looked like scorch marks. For this reason, the Ministry had been forced to use some highly specialized and expensive magical methods to restore the Dementors to their original state. "The Dementors are here to carry out their assigned mission, Adrian," Fudge said, adopting a more serious expression and straightening his shoulders in an attempt to project authority. "If you have any objections to their presence or methods, you can come talk to me about it through proper channels. That's the reasonable and civilized way to resolve such disputes, don't you think?" His voice took on a slightly threatening tone as he continued, "You should know that seriously interfering with the Ministry's official work could be considered a criminal offense, and there are penalties for such actions." "I already warned those guards very clearly about the boundaries of acceptable behavior, Minister," Adrian replied somewhat coldly. "If you have any complaints about my actions, go tell Dumbledore." "Oh, of course I'm not here to file complaints," Fudge said quickly, his expression shifting to one of conciliating diplomacy. "In fact, I've already discussed this entire matter with Albus, and we've reached an understanding about the situation." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I'm just here to remind you not to take such... dramatic actions again in the future. It's difficult for me to maintain political balance when incidents like this occur, and I won't be able to help you smooth things over if there's a next time." Adrian sighed inwardly, feeling a familiar surge of irritation and disgust. Indeed, he still very much disliked Fudge. Fudge's visit to tell him these things was simply a veiled attempt to convey one specific message—Adrian's driving away of those Dementors had interfered with the Ministry's work, and Fudge had graciously helped him smooth over some potential trouble with various departments and officials. It was a classic politician's method of creating the appearance of assistance while actually delivering a warning and establishing a debt of gratitude that could be called upon later. Adrian immediately became somewhat impatient with the entire charade, feeling his temper beginning to rise. Because this was mainly the Ministry's fault to begin with—he had warned those two Dementor guards several times, not to enter the students' compartments or to subject children to their presence. They had ignored his warnings and continued their intimidating behavior, forcing him to take more direct action. Adrian suddenly wanted to punch Fudge's smiling, chubby face. At this moment, Fudge rubbed his hands together. A fake, overly curious expression appeared on his face as he leaned forward slightly. "Speaking of which, Professor Westeros, I'm extremely curious about something..." "What?" Adrian asked. "I mean," Fudge said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "as far as I know from decades of experience with these creatures, Dementors can hardly be truly harmed by conventional magical means. They're among the most resilient dark creatures in existence." He paused, his eyes observing Adrian's face for any reaction. "So, what exactly did you do to those Dementors? What kind of magic could possibly leave them in such a damaged state?" "Just an ordinary Patronus Charm," Adrian replied with a casual shrug. "Really?" Fudge's expression became openly skeptical, his eyebrows rising in disbelief. This answer made no sense at all. An ordinary Patronus Charm couldn't harm Dementors in the way he had witnessed—it could only drive them away temporarily, creating a barrier of positive energy that the creatures found uncomfortable but not actually damaging. Were all the Patronuses he'd seen other wizards cast before somehow fake or defective? "Of course," Adrian replied with a smile. He then picked up a thick textbook from his desk clearly indicating that he considered the conversation to be over. "Class time is approaching, Minister. I'm sure you have many important matters to attend to back at the Ministry. Please return to your duties." ________________ You can read more chapters on: /IamLuis