Writer of the Aether
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A Path Beyond Survival: Chapter 14 - Winds and Protection
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 01:51:19 +0000 UTCThe wind cut across the field like invisible blades, whipping the grass and whistling in the players' ears. Harry spiraled down to the ground, his heart still racing after the last play of practice. His hair, damp with sweat and wind, stuck to his forehead, but he didn’t care. The feeling of freedom that came with flying still vibrated in his muscles.
"Excellent finish, Potter!" Angelina shouted as she landed a few meters ahead, a victorious smile on her lips. "If you can repeat that on Saturday, Slytherin won’t know what hit them."
"With luck, they won’t even see the Snitch," Harry replied, trying to catch his breath.
The rest of the team gathered gradually, bumping fists with each other, still euphoric from the successful sequence of plays. Fred and George were discussing strategies between mutual taunts, while Katie Bell played with her broom as if it were an extension of her own arm.
Harry stepped away a little, carrying his Nimbus to the bench near the empty stands. The sky was darkening, tinged with orange and deep blue. A low mist had begun to rise in the distance, wrapping around the edges of the field like cold fingers creeping over the earth.
Despite his exhaustion, he felt good. It was a rare feeling, as if the worries that always followed him—the whispers about Sirius Black, Ron’s sharp glances, the mystery of the Dementors—had been left suspended up there, among the clouds and the golden hoops.
It was the kind of relief only Quidditch seemed capable of offering.
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath of the scent of cut grass and damp earth. Practice had been intense, and his arms ached. But there was something invigorating about seeing the team united, about feeling the anticipation before an important match. It was as if, for a few hours, he could simply be... himself. Not the Boy Who Lived. Not the target of worried looks. Just Harry, Gryffindor’s Seeker.
A soft crack sounded behind him. Harry turned slightly and saw Alicia Spinnet already saying goodbye with a wave, her broom resting on her shoulders. One by one, his teammates left the field, chatting animatedly or lost in their own thoughts. Fred and George were the last to leave, shouting something about "strategic charm" and "disorientation with exploding sweets."
Harry chuckled to himself.
When he was finally alone, he let himself sink onto the wooden bench, stretching out his legs and resting his broom beside him. The sky was darkening quickly now, tinged with a deeper blue, speckled with the first stars. In the distance, the Forbidden Forest seemed to whisper with the wind.
He thought of Daphne, of Tracey, of Blaise. He thought of Neville, of Hermione, of how everything had changed in such a short time. And he thought, of course, of Sirius Black. He was closer now—that was undeniable. And even though no one spoke about it openly, there was a silent fear circulating through the corridors and whispers of Hogwarts.
But Harry didn’t want to think about that now.
He stood up, picking up his broom, and began to walk slowly back to the castle, feeling his tired muscles protest with every step. Still, there was a slight smile on his lips. The kind of smile that came not from the absence of problems, but from having found something worthwhile—even amid the chaos.
In the distance, the silhouette of the castle stood illuminated against the sky, its towers like silent sentinels in the night.
Harry quickened his pace.
He still needed to write his Ancient Runes essay. And, with luck, he might finish in time to return to the library.
After all, there was something in that book about Green Magic that he just couldn’t get out of his head.
Harry climbed the slope leading to the castle, his eyes fixed on the golden light escaping through the high windows of the west tower. The cold was beginning to intensify as the sun disappeared completely, and the breeze carried with it a dense silence, broken only by the muffled sounds of footsteps on gravel.
Then he heard it.
"Harry?"
He stopped. The voice was soft, hesitant, but recognizable.
He turned slowly, finding Susan Bones a few steps behind. She had a Hufflepuff scarf wrapped around her neck, her face slightly flushed from the cold or, perhaps, from nervousness.
She took a step forward. "Can I... can I talk to you for a minute?"
Harry hesitated. For a moment, he thought about simply shaking his head and walking away. He was too tired, both in body and mind. But something in her gaze—perhaps regret, perhaps just humanity—made him stop.
"Talk," he said, his voice low.
Susan bit her lower lip, seeming to search for the right words.
"I... I know you probably don’t want to hear me. And I understand. I just... I just wanted to say that I regret it. That year. Everything that happened between us."
Harry held her gaze. He didn’t reply. The silence stretched between them until Susan spoke again, faster now, as if the words needed to come out all at once.
"I was stupid. Scared. Everyone was saying things, and I... went along with it. I said horrible things. And later, when things became clear, I should have apologized. But I didn’t have the courage."
Harry's chest tightened. He lowered his eyes, staring at the ground for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was steady but carried something even he couldn’t quite name.
"You didn’t just go along with it. You looked me in the eyes and said it was my fault. That I was the heir. That people were being attacked because I existed."
Susan's eyes widened, and for a second, she seemed about to respond. But Harry raised a hand, stopping her.
"I wasn’t close to many people, Susan. There were always those who hated me from a distance, who were afraid, who whispered in corners... But you were someone who... who was there. In class. In the Hall. And when you turned your back on me... it hurt. More than I expected."
His voice trembled slightly at the end, and he looked away. The weight of that year, carried since his second year, felt more present in that moment than ever before.
Susan looked at him, her eyes glassy but without tears. "I regret it every day. I thought I was on the right side. But I wasn’t. And... if I could go back in time, I’d do things differently."
Harry nodded, still not looking at her.
"I know you can’t go back in time," he said, his voice calmer now. "But there are things people don’t forget. I haven’t forgotten."
Silence.
After a moment, Harry took a deep breath and raised his eyes to her.
"But that doesn’t mean I’m still angry. Just that... some wounds take time to heal."
Susan nodded slowly, and even in the silence, something between them felt lighter.
"Thank you for listening," she whispered before turning and disappearing toward the castle’s side entrance.
Harry stood still for a few seconds, watching the path she left behind. He felt his heart beating slowly, as if something that had been trapped inside him for a long time had finally shifted.
Then, he resumed his path to the Gryffindor tower.
The night was just beginning.
And he still needed to go back to the library.
The path back to the castle remained silent. Susan walked beside Harry with restrained steps, as if afraid to say more than she should. The wind whistled through the nearby trees, carrying dry leaves and a cold that felt sharper than before.
"Harry..." she began, her voice hesitant.
But he stopped.
Suddenly, the sensation came. A chill that did not come from outside but from within—as if the very warmth of his body had been drained in seconds. His lungs seemed to freeze in his chest. The air grew heavy, and the remaining light in the sky seemed to darken.
No... not now.
Susan turned to him, confused. "What is it?"
Harry did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the trail ahead, where the mist thickened in an unnatural way, as if the very night were materializing among the trees. The presence was unmistakable. Cold. Rotten. Hungry.
"Susan," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Run."
She frowned, not understanding. "What?"
"Run!"
But the warning came too late.
From the shadows of the woods, a hooded figure glided onto the path, rising with an almost ceremonial slowness. The black cloak dragged along the ground, and the air around it seemed to vibrate, distorting the world like fogged glass. The hooded head turned in their direction, and Harry felt the despair grow—familiar, cruel, paralyzing.
Susan tried to step back but tripped over an exposed root and fell onto the ground, the scream caught in her throat.
Harry did not think.
His body moved before his mind. He placed himself between her and the Dementor, arms spread in a protective gesture. He had no wand raised. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to stop it.
But he wouldn’t let Susan face it alone.
The Dementor advanced.
The cold became unbearable. Images exploded in his mind—muffled screams, a woman crying, a cold, high-pitched laugh. The world around him spun, disappearing.
He fell to his knees.
He felt the air slipping away. His heart beat slowly, as if trying to give up. The pain was emotional but as intense as any curse. And then, something neared his face—a putrid breath, a damp, unbearable presence. The hood began to lift...
It was the last thing he saw.
Then, darkness.
