Seconds ticked by before Argus could discern the fallen figure amid the storm. It wasn't Harry—just a Hufflepuff player, tumbling through the torrent.
From the stands, Dumbledore raised a hand. The plummeting Hufflepuff teammates halted mid-fall, as if cradled by invisible arms, and settled gently onto the pitch. Madam Hooch dashed out into the downpour, scooping up the injured player and sprinting toward the castle infirmary.
High above, Harry spotted his classmates' descent and hesitated, glancing at the Golden Snitch drifting away. Gritting his teeth, he surged onward into the icy heights.
The air grew brutally cold, frosting his goggles and broom. Harry blocked it all out, fixated on snatching that Snitch—oblivious to the shadowy form closing in from behind.
Whoosh!
The shadow hurtled toward him. Harry twisted away just in time, heart pounding. Shaken, he abandoned the chase and dove toward the pitch below. Only then did he register the circling horrors: Dementors.
The pair didn't relent, pursuing him relentlessly. Terror gripped Harry; he couldn't bear looking back. The memory of that train encounter—the bone-chilling despair—still haunted him. He'd never endure it again.
Plunging through the clouds, Harry froze at the sight: a swarm of Dementors blotting the sky, lightning turning the storm into a hellish nightmare. Distracted, he grazed one.
It lunged instinctively. Harry's face twisted in agony, consciousness and strength evaporating. He plummeted like a stone, broom forgotten.
Gasps echoed across the Quidditch pitch. This time, Dumbledore could no longer watch idly. He vaulted from the stands in a blur, his pristine white robes untouched by rain. Pointing a finger toward Harry, he intoned, "Suspend in mid-air!"
An overwhelming surge of magic rippled through the stadium. Harry halted, suspended. Even the raindrops froze, hanging motionless in the air.
"Wordless and wandless casting—and at that scale!" Argus thought, his mind racing while younger students fretted over injuries. "Even without the Elder Wand, Dumbledore's unmatched in the wizarding world."
Wandless spells weren't rare, nor was levitating a single target. But halting every droplet in range without harming the boy? That demanded precision Argus himself would need years to master.
Yet the crisis deepened. Dementors, lured by the crowd's fleeting joy, breached their perimeter and swarmed the pitch—defying their fragile truce.
Screams shattered the chaos. With rain and Sirius Black's shadow keeping professors away, only Dumbledore and Quidditch enthusiast McGonagall remained.
As Dementors dove toward the students, Dumbledore's eyes blazed with fury. "Begone! You've gone too far!"
The creatures, sensing his power but not his words, veered toward softer prey. Dumbledore's face hardened. Dual wandless spells pushed even his limits—he prioritized lowering Harry safely first.
Then, from the Slytherin stands, a brilliant white light pierced the gloom. "Expecto Patronum!"
A silvery unicorn erupted from Argus's wand, charging through the Dementors and scattering them.
"Hogwarts students who've mastered the Patronus Charm—wands up!" Argus's voice boomed steadily, amplified by Sonorus, cutting through the panic like a lifeline. "Shield those behind you and evacuate! Deans, organize your houses—get everyone off the pitch in order."
His calm command quelled the frenzy. A few upper-year students, their Patronuses faint wisps, formed a protective line as the group retreated methodically.
McGonagall, catching on, flicked her wand. A sleek silver tabby cat Patronus bounded forth—smaller than Argus's unicorn but nimble and vividly lifelike, nearly indistinguishable from the real thing.
With her aid, the students' safety held. Argus's unicorn and McGonagall's cat divided the pitch, while Slytherin prefects conjured meager mists to bolster the defense. Nearby Ravenclaws stayed composed, their capable casters adding Patronuses while the rest queued to exit.
The Dementors pressed on, rebuffed at every turn—no chance to feed. Immortal and insatiable, they hammered the barriers.
Argus felt a twinge of regret. "Should've packed the Philosopher's Stone battery. My magic's holding, but not forever."
Boom!
A solar blaze of white light exploded from Dumbledore. Expression stoic, he drew an old wand—the one from his youth—and slashed the air. A majestic silver phoenix materialized, its cry echoing as if alive.
The Dementors recoiled in terror, fleeing skyward. Dumbledore swept his wand in a wide arc; the phoenix pursued, trailing shimmering mist that lingered like a promise.
"His Patronus has to be eighth-level at least," Argus mused. "In the Potter tales, only one matches this potency. Most wizards fade with age—he thrives, growing unfathomably stronger. Beating him outright? Not anytime soon."
Within moments, the sky cleared. Frozen rain resumed its fall, then steadied. The stadium's chill lifted, normalcy returning.
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