The storm had been a living thing—howling, tearing at the pitch, the rain like icy needles on skin. But in the midst of that chaos, something worse had come.
High above the Quidditch field, Harry had been chasing the Snitch, eyes locked on the glint of gold against the swirling gray. His opponent was only a few meters ahead, wind roaring in their ears, broom handles slick with rain. And then—
They came.
Tall, hooded figures, drifting from the clouds as though the storm itself had birthed them. The air grew cold—colder than the rain, colder than winter—and Harry's breath caught in his throat. He knew what they were. Dementors.
He should have been afraid because of their look, their presence. But the fear was different—deeper. It came with a sound that cut through the pounding rain.
Screams. A woman's screams.
They were faint, distant, but sharp enough to make his chest tighten. The voice—desperate, breaking—pleading.
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—"
The words blurred into the roaring in his ears, but the pain in them—raw and unbearable—made his heart ache. He didn't know whose voice it was. He didn't want to know.
The world tilted. His hands slipped. The Snitch vanished from sight as the storm spun around him. The rain swallowed the pitch below.
And then—light.
A silver phoenix erupted from the ground, wings wide, feathers blazing with a warm, silvery glow. It soared toward him, calling out with a cry that seemed to burn through the cold in his chest. Its head butted his shoulder gently, and warmth flooded through him, chasing away the hollow despair. The last thing he saw before blackness took him was the phoenix diving into the sky, driving the Dementors back like shadows fleeing the sun.
From the stands, there were screams. A boy was falling.
"Arresto Momentum!" Dumbledore's voice cut through the chaos, calm and commanding. Harry's fall slowed until he hovered just above the green grass. Professor McGonagall was already sprinting across the pitch, skirts whipping in the wind.
On the stands, Hermione clutched Ron's arm, both of them pale.
McGonagall reached Harry first, wand still in hand. She bent over him, checking pulse, breath, eyes. "He's alive," she announced loudly. "Just unconscious. Madam Pomfrey will see to him." She turned sharply to the prefects. "Get the students back to the castle—every single one. Now."
"Yes, Professor," Percy Weasley said crisply, already barking orders at the Gryffindors.
High above, the silvery phoenix still circled, tearing through the black forms of the Dementors. Dumbledore watched silently, his expression unreadable.
********
Hospital Wing – Hours Later
Harry's eyes opened to blurred shapes and the faint scent of antiseptic. The ceiling above him was familiar—he'd been here too many times before. He adjusted his glasses, the weight of the storm still in his bones.
His chest tightened. The match. The Dementors. His broom—
He sat up quickly, wincing at the ache in his ribs. "Where's my broom?" he asked hoarsely, looking between the two shapes sitting beside him.
Hermione bit her lip. Ron shifted uncomfortably.
"Harry…" Hermione began gently, her voice low, the sort of tone she used when bracing someone for bad news.
"It's gone, mate," Ron said bluntly. "Smashed to bits. The Whomping Willow got it."
Harry stared at him, the words thudding into place. "Gone?"
Ron nodded, grimacing. "Completely. Twigs everywhere. It—well—it didn't stand a chance."
Harry sank back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling. His Nimbus 2000—his first broom, his first real gift, his freedom—was gone. He felt hollow, like the air had been pulled out of him.
Hermione leaned forward. "I'm sorry, Harry. I know how much it meant to you."
He swallowed, pushing down the ache. "What about Hagrid? I didn't see him before the match."
Hermione straightened. "He had to go to his hearing. For Buckbeak. Because of—"
"Malfoy," Ron finished sourly. "Because that git can't keep his mouth shut when he sees a chance to cause trouble."
Hermione shot him a look. "It wasn't just his mouth. He made a formal complaint. The Ministry's Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures is involved now."
Harry frowned. "I promised I'd help him. I completely forgot…"
"I didn't," Hermione said quickly. "I've been looking up similar cases in the library—times where a magical creature attacked someone but wasn't put down. I gave Hagrid all the examples and legal precedents I could find. If he presents them well, the committee might spare Buckbeak."
Ron snorted. "Might. You've seen Malfoy. He'll twist things however he wants. His dad's probably already bribing half the committee."
"That's not how it works, Ron!" Hermione said sharply. "The Ministry—"
"Oh, please," Ron interrupted, leaning forward. "You think Lucius Malfoy's going to sit back and let his son be 'humiliated' without pulling strings? You know how these things go."
Hermione huffed. "Just because you're cynical doesn't mean we should give up before trying!"
Harry held up a hand, his voice tired but firm. "Enough. Buckbeak needs our help. We'll give it. Arguing about Malfoy won't change anything."
Ron muttered, "Doesn't mean I have to like it," but he didn't push further.
Hermione sighed, smoothing the pages of the notebook resting on her lap.
"Well, if Hagrid uses the right arguments, there's a chance. That's what matters."
"And if he can't?" she added after a pause. "Then I'll have to ask for help from her."
Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Her? Who's her?"
"A friend I made in France," Hermione replied.
Ron stared at her as if she'd just claimed she could speak Parseltongue. "Wait—Hermione, you have a friend? I mean, other than me, Harry, and that little monster you call Crookshanks?"
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "First of all, Crookshanks is not a monster. And secondly, I have friends—lots of friends."
Ron snorted. "Yeah? Like who? You're always following us around."
Hermione huffed, slammed her notebook shut, and glared at him. "Honestly, Ronald, you are insufferable." Without another word, she rose from her chair and swept out of the hospital wing, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor.
Harry leaned back, trying to drift off to sleep, paying little attention to his friends as they tore each other apart.