With Pettigrew's secrets locked away in his mind—and the traitor locked away in his container—Harry turned his focus to the challenges still ahead. The days that followed blurred together in a relentless rhythm of classes, practice, and stolen moments in the Room of Requirement. Even as the castle's gloom deepened with the Dementors' presence, Harry felt a growing sense of purpose—a focus that cut through the darkness like a blade.
In class, he outshone everyone. His wandwork had become sharper, his spells more precise. Even Snape's barbed criticisms couldn't touch him; Harry parried them with a quiet confidence that left the Potions Master fuming. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Lupin praised his progress—though Harry suspected Lupin didn't know half of what he was actually learning.
Between training sessions on the pitch, Harry continued his private lessons. In Quidditch practice, the team drilled through every tactic in the playbook.
In the privacy of the Room of Requirement, his Legilimency practice had begun to bear fruit. Though the skill was delicate and draining, Harry found that with each session, his mind grew stronger, his hold on Pettigrew's memories a little steadier.
Most of the memories he uncovered were mundane—snatches of conversations in dark alleys whispered exchanges with cloaked figures, glimpses of the Marauders in their carefree days. But every piece, no matter how small, added to Harry's growing picture of the man who had betrayed his parents.
Pettigrew's mind was a labyrinth of cowardice and fear. Harry found no grand plans, no master strategy—just a series of desperate choices, each more pathetic than the last. Pettigrew had always sought the strongest protection he could find, shifting allegiance whenever the tide turned.
Harry knew he'd soon have to bring Pettigrew to Dumbledore. Every time he probed the traitor's mind, the risk of leaving traces grew. Erasing memories was no simple matter, and with each passing day, it became harder to control. He'd have to Obliviate Pettigrew carefully—wiping any sign of their sessions together—so no one would know Harry had delved so deep.
But for now, there was a more immediate concern: Quidditch.
The day of the match dawned stormy and gray. Sheets of rain lashed the castle, and thunder rumbled overhead like a living thing. The Slytherin team, predictably, tried to postpone the game, citing the dangerous weather. But Madam Hooch would have none of it. Her steely glare alone sent the Slytherin captain slinking away in defeat.
By the time the players assembled on the pitch, the wind was howling through the stands, carrying banners and cheers alike. The rain came down in torrents, soaking the players to the bone.
Harry huddled with his team, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, water dripping from the tip of his nose. Despite the chill, a spark of anticipation lit his chest—a fire that no Dementor could touch.
"Let's show them what Gryffindor's made of," he growled, his voice a low growl of determination. The team roared their agreement, eyes blazing even through the sheets of rain.
The whistle shrieked, and they were off. Gryffindor exploded from the starting line, weaving through the downpour like streaks of red and gold lightning. Harry soared higher than the rest, scanning the sky for a glimpse of gold. Below, chasers darted and passed, Bludgers streaked like cannonballs, and the crowd's cheers rose and fell with every near miss and goal.
The wind whipped across Harry's face, cold and sharp, but his focus was unbreakable. He felt the magic singing in his blood, the sense of rightness that came with flying.
Draco Malfoy drifted closer, his broom weaving lazily. His sneer was as oily as ever. "Bit dark up here, Potter. Sure you're not scared?"
Harry didn't even glance at him. His eyes were sharp, scanning the pitch. Then—a glint of gold near the far end of the field. His heart leaped.
He shot upward, rain lashing his face. The Snitch darted through the mist, its wings beating furiously. Harry's muscles strained as he leaned forward, broom vibrating with speed.
But suddenly—a cold wave of despair slammed into him. The shadows deepened, and out of the mist, Dementors emerged—tattered cloaks billowing, skeletal hands reaching. Their presence clawed at his soul, dragging him down into darkness.
Harry's breath came in ragged gasps. His mother's screams rose in his ears—his parents' deaths. He fought to cast a Patronus, but it sputtered weakly. The darkness pressed in, suffocating.
But then—he remembered his parents from another life, even James and Lily, alive and laughing. The warmth of their love, their strength. Memories from this life and his past life burned together, defiant and bright.
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he roared, his voice slicing through the storm like a blade.
A brilliant Thestral erupted from his wand, its silvery wings spreading wide. It soared into the air with an eerie, ethereal beauty—an elegant creature of death and strength, its eyes glinting with defiance. The Dementors recoiled, hissing and shrieking, their claws retreating from the glowing creature.
Gasps echoed through the stands. A fully formed Patronus—a Thestral—a magical creature Patronus so rare it was said only Dumbledore himself had ever managed it in living memory.
Harry felt its power surge through him, steadying his breath. The thestral's hooves struck sparks in the air as it charged the Dementors, scattering them like dead leaves.
His heart pounded as he lunged forward, eyes locked on the Snitch. His fingers closed around the tiny sphere, and a roar erupted from the stands.
Below, Dementors had begun to drift toward the stands, drawn by fear and panic. Harry's thestral Patronus still shimmered in the air, but even its glow couldn't hold them all back.
Suddenly, a phoenix Patronus, bright as the sun itself burst forth from Dumbledore's wand. Its song rose above the storm—a clear, fierce note that banished the darkness. The Dementors shrieked in terror, retreating in a swirl of tattered black. Other professors joined in, their Patronuses—shapes of every kind—joining the fight. All except Snape, who stood at the edge of the pitch, his expression hidden in shadow.
Harry's eyes found Dumbledore's across the pitch. The Headmaster's face was lined with worry, but in those blue eyes, Harry saw a glimmer of pride—an acknowledgment of Harry's strength.
Together, their Patronuses—phoenix and thestral—stood side by side, unwavering as the Dementors fled in fear.
The crowd erupted in cheers, a sound that rose and rolled like thunder across the stadium. The Gryffindor team circled in triumph, whooping with joy.
When Harry finally landed, the roar of the crowd still ringing in his ears, he saw Malfoy crumpled on the ground, pale and motionless. His broom lay splintered beside him.
Later, Harry would learn that Malfoy had fainted mid-flight, terror-stricken by the Dementors' presence. Dumbledore, with his lightning-quick reflexes, had cast Arresto Momentum just in time to save him from a deadly fall.
Harry tucked the Snitch into his pocket, his robes drenched but his heart triumphant. Even in the darkness, even in the cold, he had won—not just the match, but a victory over fear itself.