January 15th, 1994, Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom, 4:47 PM
The classroom had been rearranged specifically for this lesson—desks pushed against the walls, the space opened up to create more space, and in the corner, covered by a heavy cloth, something moved with irregular, unsettling motion.
Harry stood in the centre of the empty floor, his holly wand gripped loosely in his right hand, his breathing deliberately controlled despite the nervous energy thrumming through his veins. Across from him, Professor Lupin looked unusually serious.
"The spell we'll be working on," Remus said quietly, "is called the Patronus Charm. It's one of the most difficult defensive spells in existence—well beyond O.W.L. standard, considerably beyond N.E.W.T. standard for most students. Many fully qualified wizards never master it."
"What does it do?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew.
"It creates a guardian—a projection of positive energy that Dementors cannot stand against. The spell literally forces them to retreat." Remus's expression carried both pride and concern. "Your father was remarkably skilled with it. One of the youngest students I ever saw successfully cast a corporeal Patronus."
Harry's chest tightened with familiar ache—pride in his father's achievement mixed with grief for never knowing him personally.
"There are two forms," Remus continued. "The incorporeal Patronus—which manifests as shapeless silver mist—and the corporeal Patronus, which takes the form of an animal unique to each caster. We'll be focusing on the incorporeal form today. It's difficult enough on its own."
He moved toward the covered object in the corner. "I've borrowed a Boggart from the staff room and tailored it specifically to mimic a Dementor as closely as possible. It won't be perfect—a Boggart can't truly replicate the psychological assault—but it should provide adequate practice."
Harry nodded, his jaw tightening with determination.
"The incantation is Expecto Patronum," Remus said. "But the words alone are meaningless. The Patronus Charm requires you to focus on a single, powerfully happy memory whilst casting. Not just remembering it, but reliving it—feeling the joy as strongly as you felt it originally. That happiness fuels the spell."
"A happy memory," Harry repeated. His mind immediately began cataloguing options—meeting Luna properly at the zoo, summers with Ethan, Christmas at Hogwarts, the moment Luna had smiled after he'd put the bracelet on her wrist—
"Choose carefully," Remus advised. "It needs to be genuinely powerful. Surface-level contentment won't suffice. The memory must be strong enough to anchor you against the Dementor's influence."
He pulled the cloth away.
The Boggart shifted immediately—its form blurring, reshaping, becoming tall and cloaked and wrong in ways that made Harry's danger sense scream. The temperature dropped. Frost crept across the floor. And that sound—that horrible rattling breathing—
Harry's vision tunneled.
Suddenly he was on the Hogwarts Express again. Cold seeping through his skin. The compartment door sliding open. That thing standing there, hooded and terrifying, pulling the warmth from the world—
His mother's voice. High and desperate. Pleading.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry—"
Green light. Screaming. The certainty that everyone he loved would die and he'd be alone forever—
"Riddikulus!"
Remus's spell banished the Boggart back into its container with decisive force. The cold receded. The rattling breathing stopped. Reality reasserted itself with jarring suddenness.
Harry found himself on his knees, shaking violently, his wand clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead despite the lingering chill.
"Breathe," Remus said gently, his hand finding Harry's shoulder. "Deep breaths. You're safe. You're in the classroom. It's gone."
Harry focused on breathing—in for four counts, hold for four, out for four—until the panic receded enough that he could think clearly again. His hands were still trembling.
"I'm sorry," Harry managed. "I couldn't—I couldn't even try to cast—"
"Harry, you stayed conscious," Remus interrupted firmly. "Most adults faint when facing a Dementor, even a Boggart approximation. You managed to remain upright through sheer force of will. That's remarkable."
"But I didn't cast the spell—"
"This was your first attempt at one of the most difficult spells in defensive magic, against a creature specifically designed to destroy happiness and hope. Failure was expected. Necessary, even." Remus's tone brooked no argument. "Learning to cast a Patronus isn't about immediate success. It's about building resistance to the Dementor's influence gradually whilst developing the mental discipline to maintain focus under extreme psychological assault."
Harry took a shaking breath and nodded. "Again. Let me try again."
"Not yet," Remus said. "First, we rest. Recover. And whilst we do... I'll tell you about your father and his friends."
They settled against the wall, chocolate appearing in Remus's hand—standard post-Dementor treatment that Harry accepted gratefully.
"Your father, James, had three best friends at Hogwarts," Remus began, his voice carrying nostalgia and old grief in equal measure. "Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and myself. We called ourselves the Marauders."
'The Marauders,' Harry thought, his mind immediately connecting to the map currently hidden in his dormitory. 'Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Uncle Remus is Moony no doubt. Which means—'
"We were inseparable," Remus continued. "From first year until... until everything fell apart. James and Sirius especially were closer than brothers. They had this bond, this absolute trust—" His voice caught. "Which made Sirius's betrayal so much worse."
Harry studied his uncle carefully. Something in Remus's tone didn't quite match the words—a hesitation, a conflict, a suggestion that the story was more complicated than public record indicated.
"What was Sirius like?" Harry asked quietly. "Before. Before he—before everything."
Remus's expression cycled through several emotions—fondness, grief, anger, and underneath it all, something that might have been doubt. "Brilliant. Loyal. Brave to the point of recklessness. He had this intensity about him, this fierce devotion to the people he loved. He would have died for James. For your mother. For you."
"But he didn't die," Harry said. "He betrayed them instead."
"So everyone believes," Remus said quietly. Then, more carefully: "The evidence was overwhelming. He was their Secret Keeper. He was found at the scene. He killed Peter along with thirteen Muggles. And yet—" He stopped abruptly, his jaw tightening. "Sometimes I wonder if we know the whole story. If there were details we missed in the chaos after Voldemort's fall."
Harry's pulse quickened. "You think he might be innocent?"
"I think," Remus said very carefully, "that Sirius never received a trial. Never got to explain himself. Never had the chance to face Veritaserum or present evidence in his defence. The Ministry sent him straight to Azkaban based on circumstantial evidence and one witness statement." He met Harry's eyes. "I'm not saying he's innocent. I'm saying I have... doubts. Questions I wish I could ask him."
They sat in silence whilst Harry processed this. His mind raced through implications.
"Ready to try again?" Remus asked, pulling Harry from his thoughts.
Harry wanted to ask more questions, wanted to press for details about the Marauders and the map and whether Remus suspected what Harry now knew. But the lesson took priority.
"Yes," Harry said. "But first—can I take a few minutes? My father taught me a meditation technique called Cogitation. It helps reset mental state after trauma."
Remus's eyebrows rose. "Cogitation? That's advanced mental discipline. Most adults struggle with it."
"Dad started teaching me young," Harry explained. "For managing the... complications from my childhood."
Understanding flickered across Remus's face. "Of course. Take whatever time you need."
Harry settled into proper meditation posture—back straight, hands resting on knees, breathing controlled. He closed his eyes and began the mental exercises Ethan had drilled into him since he was nine: cataloguing emotions, acknowledging fears without dwelling on them, separating memory from present reality, rebuilding mental walls that trauma had damaged.
Fifteen minutes later, he opened his eyes feeling considerably steadier.
"Better?" Remus asked.
"Better," Harry confirmed.
They spent the next hour working methodically. Remus would release the Boggart-Dementor for brief intervals whilst Harry focused on his chosen memory—the moment Luna had taken his hand at the zoo, grey eyes meeting his with absolute trust—and attempted the spell.
Progress came incrementally. First, he managed to speak the incantation without his voice breaking. Then he maintained focus on the memory whilst the cold invaded. Then finally, on his seventh attempt, his wand produced something.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Silver mist erupted from his holly wand—shapeless, formless, but unmistakably there. The incorporeal Patronus spread outward in a wave of light and warmth, and the Boggart-Dementor recoiled, its advance halted.
The spell lasted perhaps five seconds before dissipating, but it had worked.
Harry collapsed against the wall, utterly exhausted, whilst Remus banished the Boggart with obvious satisfaction.
"Excellent work, Harry!" Remus said, his pride evident. "That's better than most students manage in their first month of practice. The incorporeal Patronus you just cast was sufficient to drive the Dementor back—not destroy it, not chase it away completely, but create space and protection. That's exactly what we're aiming for at this stage."
"It felt—" Harry struggled for words. "—like trying to hold water. The happiness kept slipping away."
"That's normal. The Patronus Charm requires maintaining emotional focus whilst under psychological assault. It's extraordinarily difficult." Remus helped him to his feet. "We'll continue practicing over the coming weeks. Eventually, holding that focus will become second nature."
"Thank you, Uncle Remus," Harry said quietly. "For teaching me. For—for telling me about my father and his friends."
"You deserved to know," Remus said. "James would have wanted you to understand who he was. Who they all were, before everything went wrong."
February 14th, 1994, Great Hall, 7:23 AM
The Great Hall buzzed with Valentine's Day energy—enchanted hearts drifted across the ceiling, the usual toast smelled suspiciously like roses, and several students wore expressions suggesting imminent romantic declarations.
Harry ignored all of it in favour of watching Hermione's face cycle through intense concentration as she studied the chessboard between them.
"You're overthinking it," Harry observed mildly, spreading jam on his toast with his free hand.
"I am not overthinking," Hermione muttered, her fingers hovering over her knight. "I'm calculating optimal moves based on probability matrices."
"That's literally the definition of overthinking," Ron said from beside her, his attention divided between their match and the copy of Quidditch Weekly spread across his plate. "Chess is about instinct, not maths."
"Chess is absolutely about maths," Hermione countered. "There are calculable patterns, statistical advantages—"
"And yet you're losing," Harry said cheerfully.
Hermione made a frustrated noise and moved her knight. Harry's bishop claimed it immediately, putting her king in check.
"Checkmate in three moves," Harry announced.
"What? No—" Hermione studied the board with dawning horror. "Oh. Oh, you're right. How did I miss that?"
"By overthinking," Harry and Ron said in unison.
Hermione glared at both of them whilst resetting the board. "Rematch. I'm avenging this defeat."
"That's the spirit!" Ron said approvingly. "Never give up, even when you're hopelessly outclassed."
"I am not hopelessly outclassed," Hermione said with dignity. "I'm strategically disadvantaged by Harry's unfair amount of practice."
Whilst they bickered, Ron returned his attention to the magazine. "Listen to this—the Toyohashi Tengu nearly beat the Gorodok Gargoyles last month. Only lost by thirty points!"
"That's the Japanese team, right?" Neville asked from across the table.
"Yeah! Quidditch has only been properly established in Asia for the last century, so they're still building their competitive reputation. But the Tengu taking on the Gargoyles—who've been dominant in Eastern Europe for decades—and only losing by thirty? That's brilliant!" Ron's enthusiasm was infectious. "Shows the sport's growing globally. More competition means better matches."
"You're more excited about Asian Quidditch than our own upcoming match," Hermione observed.
"I can be excited about multiple things," Ron defended. "Asian Quidditch development and Gryffindor's chances at the Cup. Both important."
"Speaking of which," Neville said nervously, "you're playing Ravenclaw next month. Are you ready?"
Ron's expression shifted to something between determination and terror. "With the Firebolt? Absolutely. Without the Firebolt?" He shuddered. "I'd be flying a Nimbus Two Thousand against Cho Chang's Comet Two Sixty. Speed advantage wouldn't be enough."
Harry made his next chess move—claiming Hermione's rook—and let Ron's Quidditch analysis wash over him whilst his attention drifted to the Ravenclaw table.
Luna sat amongst a small group of second-years, her posture carrying its usual dreamy quality whilst she methodically worked through breakfast. The other students weren't precisely friendly—more cordial, performing basic courtesy without genuine warmth—but at least they weren't actively excluding her.
Progress. Small, but present.
Harry had been following Luna whenever possible since the duel—staying a respectful distance behind when she walked to classes, positioning himself where he could see her during meals, finding excuses to be in corridors she frequented. Not obviously, not intrusively, just... present. Available if needed.
It had earned him merciless teasing from Astoria, Hermione, and Ron. Draco tried to be subtle about his amusement and failed spectacularly. And apparently Harry's protective hovering had attracted considerable unwanted attention from female students of all ages who found his devotion "romantic" in ways that made him profoundly uncomfortable.
Harry couldn't care less about any of it.
As long as he kept his hood up and Luna was comfortable—which she oddly was, her smile whenever she spotted him carrying genuine warmth—the rest was irrelevant noise.
Luna glanced up from her breakfast, her grey eyes finding Harry's across the Hall with the uncanny awareness she brought to most things. She smiled—small, private, meant only for him—and returned to her porridge.
Harry's ears went red, but he smiled back.
"You're staring," Hermione observed without looking up from the newly reset chessboard.
"I'm not staring," Harry said. "I'm observing. There's a difference."
"You're staring," Ron confirmed. "Lovingly. Like a complete sap."
"Shut up and read your magazine," Harry muttered, his face now properly scarlet.
February 21st, 1994, Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom, 4:52 PM
"Expecto Patronum!"
Silver mist exploded from Harry's wand in a solid wave, driving the Boggart-Dementor backwards with decisive force. The incorporeal Patronus held steady for nearly fifteen seconds before Harry deliberately released it, his breathing controlled despite the exertion.
Remus banished the Boggart and turned to Harry with undisguised amazement. "That was excellent, Harry. Genuinely excellent. You've progressed from barely managing a wisp to casting a fully functional defensive Patronus in just over a month."
"It's getting easier," Harry confirmed, accepting the customary chocolate. "Holding the memory, maintaining focus—it feels more natural now."
"I'm astounded by your mental resilience," Remus admitted. "Most students struggle with psychological recovery between practice sessions. The Dementor's influence tends to accumulate—each exposure makes the next harder. But you're improving consistently."
"Dad's trainings," Harry explained.
"Ethan's methods are remarkably effective," Remus said. "Though I suspect he developed them from necessity rather than academic curiosity."
Harry thought about his father's carefully controlled emotions, his measured responses to stress, the way he seemed perpetually prepared for disaster. "Yeah. Probably."
They settled into their usual post-practice routine—chocolate, tea that appeared from somewhere, and conversation that ranged beyond simple spell instruction.
"Uncle Remus," Harry said carefully, "can you tell me more about the war? About what the Death Eaters actually did?"
Remus's expression went grave. "That's heavy territory, Harry."
"I know. But I need to understand. Need to know what we're up against if—when—Voldemort returns."
The use of the name without flinching seemed to surprise Remus. He studied Harry with those careful, assessing eyes that saw more than most people realized. "Alright. What do you want to know?"
"Everything. What made them so terrifying. Why people were so frightened. What they did that made the war so horrible."
Remus took a breath, and began.
He spoke for nearly half an hour—not sparing details, not softening reality. He described the systematic targeting of Muggle-borns, the torture used casually as intimidation, the way entire families disappeared overnight. The fear that permeated society, where nobody trusted anyone because Imperius Curse and threats turned friends into enemies. The children orphaned, the communities destroyed, the way violence became so normalized that people stopped reacting with horror and simply accepted it as daily reality.
"The Death Eaters weren't just fighters," Remus said quietly. "They were terrorists in the truest sense. Their goal was creating fear, destabilizing society, making people feel utterly helpless. And it worked. By the war's end, the magical community was traumatized on a scale that still affects us today."
Harry absorbed this with grim determination. "And Mordred Slythra was one of them."
"One of the most dangerous," Remus confirmed. "Competent, ruthless, and frighteningly intelligent. If he's hunting you, it's for dark purposes that extend beyond simple revenge."
"The Ministry's authorized the Dementor's Kiss for him," Harry said. "I read it in the Daily Prophet. When they catch him, the Dementors will—" He stopped, uncertain of specifics.
"The Dementor's Kiss," Remus said, his voice carrying revulsion, "is exactly what it sounds like. The Dementor lowers its hood and literally sucks out the victim's soul through their mouth. What remains is—" He struggled for words. "—an empty shell. Alive but not living. Aware but unable to think, to feel, to be anything beyond a breathing body with nothing inside it."
Horror crawled down Harry's spine. "That's—that's worse than death."
"Considerably worse. It's the ultimate punishment because there's no recovery, no hope, no chance at redemption. You simply cease to exist whilst your body continues functioning." Remus's expression was grim. "The Ministry reserves it for the most heinous criminals. Mordred Slythra qualifies."
They sat in heavy silence whilst Harry processed this. Finally, he asked the question that had been building: "Uncle Remus, you mentioned there are two forms of the Patronus. The incorporeal one I'm casting now, and the corporeal version. What's the difference?"
Remus's expression brightened slightly at the topic change. "The corporeal Patronus is significantly more powerful. Instead of shapeless mist, it takes the form of an animal—unique to each caster, representing some fundamental aspect of their character or spirit. It's fully solid, capable of complex actions, and can drive away dozens of Dementors simultaneously where an incorporeal Patronus might only repel one or two."
"How do I learn to cast it?"
"The same way you learned the incorporeal form," Remus said. "Practice, focus, and finding an even more powerful happy memory to fuel the spell. But Harry—" He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "—the corporeal Patronus is NEWT-level magic at minimum. Many fully qualified wizards never achieve it. Master it if you can, but don't pressure yourself. What you've accomplished already is remarkable."
March 19th, 1994, Quidditch Pitch, 3:47 PM
The sky was overcast but rain held off—perfect conditions for Gryffindor's final practice before tomorrow's match against Ravenclaw. Students had gathered despite the chill, drawn by the novelty of watching someone practice on a Firebolt.
Harry sat in the stands between Luna and Draco, with Lavender Brown just below them, her attention fixed on Ron's distant figure circling the goalposts.
Ron executed a diving turn that would have been impressive on any broom but looked absolutely spectacular on the Firebolt—the acceleration instant, the control precise, the speed bordering on ridiculous.
"Merlin's beard," Ron's voice drifted across the pitch, audible even from distance. "This broom is perfect. The balance, the responsiveness, the way it handles wind resistance—Harry, I'm never giving this back. You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands."
"You can keep it for the season," Harry called back, grinning. "After that, we negotiate."
Lavender turned to face them, her expression bright with excitement. "Ron's flying brilliantly! He's going to catch the Snitch tomorrow, I know it. Good luck, Ron!"
Ron, who'd descended low enough to hear, went predictably red. But his eyes shone with determination. "Thanks, Lavender. I'll—yeah. I'll do my best."
"Your best on a Firebolt is probably better than Cho Chang's best on a Comet," Draco observed. "The speed differential alone gives you substantial advantage."
Movement near the pitch entrance caught Harry's attention. Oliver Wood was approaching with the focused intensity of someone on a mission, his captain's armband gleaming, his expression mixing gratitude and manic energy in ways that made Harry suddenly nervous.
"Harry Potter!" Wood's voice carried across the pitch with embarrassing volume. "A moment, if you please!"
Harry stood warily. "Captain Wood. What—"
Wood grabbed Harry's shoulders with both hands, his grip surprisingly strong. "Thank you. Thank you. That Firebolt—lending it to Ron—you've single-handedly given us real chances at the Cup. Seven years I've been chasing this, seven years, and now—now we might actually—"
He was leaning in, and Harry suddenly realized with mounting horror that Wood was going to kiss his forehead in gratitude.
"N-no—wait—that's not—" Harry backpedaled frantically, his hands coming up defensively. "—really not necessary—"
Wood caught himself, blinked, and laughed with slightly manic edge. "Right. Yes. Sorry. Got carried away. But truly, Harry—this means everything."
He released Harry and bounded back toward the pitch, already shouting strategic adjustments at Ron.
Ron's laughter echoed across the stands whilst Harry collapsed back into his seat, face burning.
Luna's hand found his, her touch gentle and grounding. "Oliver Wood is very enthusiastic," she observed.
"That's one word for it," Harry muttered. "Terrifying works too."
Near the practice area, Katie Bell was attempting to instruct Hermione on basic broom flying. The Gryffindor Chaser had started the lesson with confidence—flying was easy, surely teaching the basics would be straightforward—
Twenty minutes later, Katie looked ready to cry.
"No, Hermione, you need to lean into the turn, not fight against it—yes, like that, but less dramatically—no, don't overthink the balance, just feel it—Hermione, please stop trying to calculate optimal weight distribution and just fly—"
Hermione was managing to stay airborne on the broom, technically speaking. But her flying was rigid, overly controlled, and considerably slower than the broom's capabilities allowed. She gripped the handle with white-knuckled intensity whilst mentally working through every aspect of aerodynamics rather than simply trusting instinct.
"This is why Wood's training methods exist," Katie said to nobody in particular, her voice carrying desperation. "This is why he makes us practice until we're dead on our feet. Because teaching people who overthink everything is impossible."
"I am not overthinking!" Hermione called down. "I'm applying proper theoretical frameworks to practical execution!"
"You're flying like a textbook!" Katie called back. "And textbooks are terrible at Quidditch!"
Despite the frustration, progress was occurring. Hermione managed to execute a proper turn without slowing to walking pace. She increased speed incrementally, her confidence building through sheer determination and Katie's increasingly creative teaching metaphors.
By practice's end, Hermione was flying at respectable amateur speed—not match-worthy, not remotely competitive, but functional enough that she could actually enjoy the experience rather than treating it as elaborate physics problem.
Katie landed looking simultaneously exhausted and triumphant. "She did it," the Chaser said to Harry with something approaching awe. "She's actually flying properly. I thought—I genuinely thought it was impossible, but she did it."
"Never underestimate Hermione's stubbornness," Harry said fondly.
March 20th, 1994, Quidditch Pitch, 2:34 PM
The match had been spectacular from the opening whistle.
Ron played with confidence that came from flying the best broom on the pitch, his dives sharp, his acceleration breathtaking, his focus absolute. Cho Chang was talented—genuinely skilled, with instincts that made her dangerous—but the equipment difference was simply too much to overcome.
They'd been circling the pitch for nearly forty minutes, both Seekers scanning desperately for the Snitch whilst the match continued at brutal pace below them. Gryffindor was ahead by sixty points—Katie, Angelina, and Alicia working together with practiced efficiency—but Ravenclaw's Chasers were mounting serious pressure.
Then Ron spotted it.
His posture changed—the subtle shift that meant he'd seen the Snitch. He angled into a dive that took full advantage of the Firebolt's superior acceleration, his hand reaching forward—
Cho Chang screamed.
The sound cut through the crowd noise like a knife, high and terrified and viscerally genuine. Harry's head whipped around, his danger sense blazing, and he saw them.
Three Dementors on the stands. Tall, cloaked, moving with that horrible gliding motion toward the pitch.
Harry's wand was out before conscious thought engaged.
"Expecto Patronum!"
The incorporeal Patronus erupted from his holly wand in a massive silver wave—formless but powerful, spreading outward to engulf the approaching Dementors with decisive force. The spell hit them squarely, driving them backwards, and they recoiled from the stands with that awful rattling breathing suggesting distress.
The entire stadium watched in stunned silence whilst Harry's Patronus chased the Dementors away from the pitch entirely.
And Ron—Ron had used Cho's distraction and Harry's defence to close the final distance to the Snitch. His fingers closed around the tiny golden ball just as Cho recovered enough to resume pursuit.
The whistle blew. Gryffindor won, 210-140.
The crowd erupted, but Harry barely registered the celebration. He was focused on the retreating Dementors, watching their movements, noticing details that seemed wrong—
Professor Lupin appeared beside him, his wand already raised and glowing with diagnostic magic. "Excellent Patronus work, Harry. Quick thinking, decisive execution—" He paused, his spell revealing something. "—and entirely unnecessary, as these aren't actually Dementors."
"What?"
Remus's wand moved in a complex pattern, and the three "Dementors" suddenly collapsed inward, their forms shrinking and resolving into three very human, very embarrassed Slytherin students wearing Dementor costumes enhanced with illusion charms.
Vincent Crabbe. Gregory Goyle. And Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain.
The crowd's celebration died into shocked silence.
Professor McGonagall materialized with the particular fury that came from witnessing deliberate sabotage during a match she was personally invested in. Her Scottish burr grew more pronounced with each word.
"Mister Flint. Mister Crabbe. Mister Goyle. Would one of you care to explain why you thought impersonating Dementors during a Quidditch match was acceptable behavior?"
Flint had the grace to look genuinely terrified. "We—it was just—we thought—"
"You thought," McGonagall interrupted icily, "that traumatizing students, disrupting an official match, and potentially causing serious injury through distraction was amusing? Fifty points from Slytherin. Each. That's one hundred fifty points total. And detention for the rest of term."
The Slytherin section of the stands looked mutinous, but nobody dared voice objection when McGonagall was in this particular mood.
Harry studied the three students carefully, noting their nervous glances toward the Slytherin section, the way they seemed to be following orders rather than acting independently. His eyes found Theodore Nott in the crowd.
Nott met Harry's gaze with something approaching smug satisfaction despite his housemates' humiliation.
'He planned this,' Harry thought with cold certainty.
But proving it would be nearly impossible. And right now, Gryffindor had won.
The celebration resumed with doubled intensity once McGonagall had escorted the offenders from the pitch. Students poured onto the field, surrounding Ron and lifting him onto their shoulders whilst he clutched the Snitch with manic glee.
"WE WON!" Ron's voice carried across the pitch. "WE ACTUALLY WON! HARRY, WE WON!"
Harry was pulled into the celebration—crushed by enthusiastic hugs, his back pounded by countless hands, Fred and George chanting victory songs that grew progressively more profane. Luna appeared at his elbow, Jasper chirping from her shoulder, her smile radiant.
"You saved the match," she said quietly, just for him. "Your Patronus was beautiful."
"Just doing what Uncle Remus taught me," Harry said, his ears going red.
"It was still beautiful," Luna insisted. "Like moonlight made solid."
The celebration continued for hours—flooding back to Gryffindor Tower, where somebody had procured butterbeer and sweets from mysterious sources, where music played and students danced and Oliver Wood looked simultaneously euphoric and on the verge of tears.
"We're in the finals!" Wood kept saying to anyone who'd listen. "Seven years! Seven years and we're finally in the finals!"
Professor McGonagall appeared near midnight, her expression stern but her eyes carrying unmistakable pride. "All of you, to bed. Now. Tomorrow is still a school day, and I will not have my students falling asleep in class because of excessive celebration."
The grumbling was half-hearted at best. Students filtered toward dormitories with that particular exhausted satisfaction that came from witnessing something special.
Harry climbed the stairs to his dormitory, Luna's words about his Patronus echoing in his mind, the warmth of victory and community settling into his chest like physical weight.
Third year spun onward through its complicated dance.