Dementors fed on happy memories.
In Azkaban — that desolate fortress of despair — prisoners barely clung to scraps of happiness, and even those scraps were quickly devoured. Always starving, like ravenous ghosts, the Dementors found Hogwarts a feast beyond imagining. Here, the air was thick with young laughter, secrets whispered in corridors, and the bright excitement of Quidditch season. For a day or two, they could restrain themselves. But now — with a match in full swing and so much joy blooming at once — how could they possibly resist?
"Are these Dementors insane?" Blaise's voice trembled as the cold settled over the stands.
He grabbed Sean's arm. "Sean, let's go! Now!"
But Sean had already stood up, wand raised, eyes fixed on the black, gliding shapes descending through the misting rain.
"You three, move! I'll hold them off!"
"We're not leaving you here!" Blaise barked.
Before Sean could argue, he shoved Blaise and the others back behind him, planting his feet on the freezing wooden planks of the stands. The ground beneath them frosted over in spreading tendrils of white. High above, the Dementors closed in — hollow hoods, rotting hands outstretched.
Sean forced himself to breathe. He reached deep — for the warmth that anchored him: Adrian and Margaret waiting at home, Aldridge's steady presence, Jason's quick grin, Caesar's tiny hands clutching his sleeve…
His wand cut the air."Expecto Patronus!"
Boom!
Silver-white mist burst out like a shield, flaring to life and forcing the lead Dementor back. For a moment, the chill receded — but two more Dementors glided down, merging into the first. A stronger cold sank its claws into Sean's mind, gnawing at every bright thought. The mist-shield flickered, the silvery glow thinning, shrinking.
Sean clenched his teeth, trying to summon another memory — but the cold pressed in deeper.
Then Blaise moved. He stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with Sean — then Jason came up on his other side, then Andy — all three standing between Sean and the abyss, letting the Dementors feed on them instead.
Sean stared at them — at the stubborn, reckless shield his friends had become. Warmth flooded his chest, fierce and grateful.
He hadn't needed saving — he'd planned to hold out until Dumbledore intervened. Even if the Headmaster didn't act, he'd trusted his Patronus to hold. But seeing them stand there anyway — without hesitation — was worth more than any charm.
Sean exhaled, a clear breath in the freezing air. He closed his eyes, let the warmth gather — then opened them, fierce and sure.
His voice cut through the cold.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Buzz…
A white light flared and spun at the tip of Sean's wand. A silver mist burst out, shimmering between reality and illusion, like a meteor darting around him and the other four students. The light chased away the icy dread of the Dementors, warmth flowing back into their chests and pushing away the chill.
The silver mist circled once more, then streaked forward and slammed into a Dementor. A ripple of silver spread where it struck, forcing the creature to shriek and recoil.
Sean flicked his wand again. The silvery meteor swung in a tight arc and smashed into the other two Dementors. It moved fast — impossibly fast — weaving and striking with sharp precision. One against three, and Sean felt he still had strength to spare. After a few more strikes, the Dementors seemed to realize he wasn't an easy target. With shrill hisses, they turned and fled for the student stands, hungry for new victims.
But at that moment, a low, thunderous voice echoed from the staff podium — Dumbledore had arrived. Striding out from the entrance, he took in the chaos with a single sweep of his piercing eyes. He raised his wand and swung it sharply. A silver shield of light burst out around him, washing over the pitch. In a heartbeat, every last Dementor scattered, fleeing like smoke before a storm.
Watching Dumbledore's effortless spellwork, Sean realized this must be the fifth level — or perhaps the very peak — of the Patronus Charm. Such raw, unshackled power was like a magical nuclear bomb for Dementors and other dark things that fed on fear and misery.
In that instant, Sean understood how far he still had to go.
A simple outline formed in his mind:Level One: Summons a faint silvery mist, barely enough to fend off Dementors.
Level Two: Sean's current level, producing thicker mist that forms shields or semi-corporeal shapes.
He guessed further:
Level Three: Likely summons a corporeal Patronus, but at a basic level.
Level Four: Enables advanced uses, like messaging.
Level Five or Max: Like Dumbledore's, transcending form to create domes or shockwaves.
Against Dementors — and perhaps even vampires or werewolves — a masterful Patronus Charm was their ultimate counter.
The match, of course, couldn't continue as it was. After the Dementors were driven off, the game resumed, but with Harry unconscious, it didn't last long. Hufflepuff's new captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory, caught the Golden Snitch, sealing the win.
Malfoy — who'd been screaming for his father moments earlier — was now waving his arms in fake triumph, ignoring the fake sling on his arm as he cheered wildly. He didn't care who beat Harry as long as Harry was humiliated. Winning wasn't his goal — Harry's defeat was.
Potter, you stinking Mudblood lover, Malfoy sneered to himself.
Sean finally got the rest he'd needed for so long.
Even Snape — strict as he was — didn't stop him. Early Friday morning, when Sean handed over his finished paper, Snape maintained his usual cold expression, but inside he was stunned. Sean's pale face, the deep circles under his eyes, his dry lips — and that clearly polished paper, impossible to finish overnight — all told Snape exactly how much effort Sean had poured in.
For once, Snape let him be. Even he thought Sean deserved a break.
So after the match, Sean stumbled back to his dorm, fed Kurkan, and collapsed into bed. He slept straight through until Saturday afternoon. When he woke, he washed up, grabbed something to eat, and went to visit Harry in the Hospital Wing.
By Saturday night, Sean felt like himself again — energy back, eyes bright.
And then came Snape's message: no revisions needed. His paper was ready — ready to be sent straight to The Golden Crucible.