39. The Patronus
Hope knew Hermione meant well. She always meant well.
And she understood—really, she did—that all Hermione wanted was for her and Harry to be safe. A part of her even wanted to forgive her. She missed her best friend.
But she had never had anything that nice before.
She didn’t mind, really. She liked life with her father. But holding the best broom in the world in her hands, knowing it was hers—it felt good. It felt like for once, something incredible had landed in her lap just because. And every time she looked at Hermione, she remembered that her brand-new, sleek, beautiful broom was probably being stripped down at that very moment.
And her anger returned.
Hermione wasn’t faring any better with Harry or Ron. Both were ignoring her too.
Harry couldn’t even look at her, his mind preoccupied with worries about the Firebolt. He was positive there was nothing wrong with it—but what sort of state would it be in after all those anti-jinx tests? Ron was furious. As far as he was concerned, stripping down a brand-new Firebolt was nothing short of criminal.
Hermione, convinced she had done the right thing, started avoiding the common room. They assumed she had taken refuge in the library, and none of them made an effort to bring her back.
All in all, they were relieved when the rest of the school returned after New Year, filling Gryffindor Tower with noise and chatter again.
Wood tracked down Harry and Hope the night before term started.
"Had a good Christmas?" he asked, but before either of them could answer, he sat down, leaned in, and lowered his voice. "I’ve been thinking over the holidays—about the last match. If the Dementors come again, we can’t afford either of you to—well—"
He broke off, looking awkward.
"We’re working on it," Harry said quickly.
"My dad said he’d train us to ward them off," Hope added with a nod.
"We should be starting this week," Harry continued. "He said he’d have time after Christmas."
"Ah." Wood’s expression cleared. "Well, that’s good. I really didn’t want to lose a Seeker or a Chaser. And, Harry, have you ordered a new broom yet?"
"Don’t talk about brooms around me," Hope grumbled.
Wood blinked at her, confused, but turned back to Harry. "You haven’t ordered one yet?"
Harry shook his head. "No."
"What? You’d better get a move on—you can’t ride that Shooting Star against Ravenclaw!"
"He got a Firebolt for Christmas," Ron said. "Hope did too."
Wood’s jaw dropped. "A Firebolt? No! Seriously? A—an actual Firebolt?"
"Don’t get excited," Harry muttered. "We don’t have them anymore. McGonagall confiscated them."
"What?" Wood looked like Harry had just told him Christmas was canceled. "Why?"
"They’re being checked for jinxes," Harry explained.
"Jinxed? How could they be jinxed?"
Harry sighed. "Sirius Black. He’s supposed to be after me. McGonagall thinks he might’ve sent it."
Waving off the small detail that a mass murderer was supposedly hunting his Seeker, Wood scoffed. "But Black couldn’t have bought a Firebolt! He’s on the run! The whole country’s looking for him! How would he just stroll into Quality Quidditch Supplies and buy a broomstick?"
"I know," Harry said, exasperated.
"And Black’s not after Hope," Wood pointed out. "So why’d hers get taken too?"
Hope threw her arms up. "That’s what I’ve been saying!"
"But McGonagall still wants to strip it down—" Harry started.
Wood went pale.
"I’ll talk to her," he said firmly. "I’ll make her see reason. A Firebolt… a real Firebolt. And not just one—two—on our team! She wants Gryffindor to win as much as we do… I’ll make her see sense. A Firebolt…"
He trailed off, eyes still shining in disbelief.
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Lessons resumed the next day. And he last thing anyone wanted was to spend two hours outside on a raw January morning. But Hagrid had provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their enjoyment, and the lesson turned out better than expected. They gathered dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing while the flame-loving lizards darted up and down the crumbling, white-hot logs. The heat from the fire offered a brief respite from the biting cold.
Divination, however, was far less enjoyable. Professor Trelawney had decided to teach them palmistry. Normally, Hope didn’t mind Divination — there was something fascinating about interpreting signs and symbols — but after Trelawney’s grim prediction about her father, her patience was running thin. And the professor didn’t seem to be slowing down with her death predictions. No sooner had the class begun than she solemnly informed Harry that he had the shortest life-lines she had ever seen.
Hope clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
At least there was Defense Against the Dark Arts to look forward to. The class had been better than ever since her dad took over teaching it, and soon she and Harry would begin their anti-Dementor lessons.
"Ah, yes," Lupin said when Hope reminded him of his promise at the end of class. "Let me see... how about eight o’clock on Thursday evening? The History of Magic classroom should be large enough. I’ll have to think carefully about how we’re going to do this... we can’t exactly bring a real Dementor into the castle to practice on."
Hope nodded, her stomach twisting with nerves and anticipation. She wasn’t sure what to expect from the lessons, but if anyone could help her and Harry, it was her dad.
"Still looks ill, doesn’t he?"
Ron’s voice was low, but not low enough. Hope stiffened, catching his words as the three of them walked down the corridor toward dinner. He leaned closer to Harry, as if she wouldn’t hear.
"What d’you reckon’s the matter with him?"
"Nothing’s the matter with him," Hope shot back, her voice flat.
Ron blinked, but before he could reply, a sharp "tuh" came from behind them.
Hermione had been sitting at the feet of a suit of armor, hurriedly repacking her bag, which was so stuffed with books it wouldn’t close. Now, with her bag slung over her shoulder, she was glaring at them with an air of superiority.
"And what are you tutting at us for?" Ron asked irritably.
"Nothing," Hermione replied, her tone clipped.
"Yes, you were," Ron argued. "I said I wonder what’s wrong with Lupin, and you—"
"Well, isn’t it obvious?" Hermione interrupted, that maddening know-it-all expression creeping across her face.
Hope froze.
Her hands clenched tightly around her bag, her heart thudding. She didn’t know, did she? She couldn’t possibly.
Hermione wouldn’t just—say it. Would she?
Hope bit her lip, nerves twisting inside her.
"If you don’t want to tell us, don’t," Ron snapped.
"Just shut up, all of you!" Hope burst out, her voice shaking with frustration. "There’s nothing wrong with my dad! None of you know anything! Honestly, you sound like Professor Trelawney at this point — spouting and theorizing nonsense!"
Without waiting for a response, she stormed ahead, her face burning. The thought of them gossiping about her father — about something they knew nothing about — made her stomach churn.
Behind her, the three were left in stunned silence.
Hermione’s face twisted with guilt, her shoulders sagging. Ron looked bewildered, still processing Hope’s outburst. Harry, though startled, quickly grew irritated as the inevitable argument resumed.
"Great. Now look what you’ve done," Ron muttered.
"Me?" Hermione shot back, incredulous. "You’re the one always going on and on about how ill Professor Lupin looks! How do you think that makes her feel?"
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At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Harry and Hope left Gryffindor Tower for the History of Magic classroom. It was dark and empty when they arrived, but Harry lit the lamps with his wand. They hadn’t been waiting long when Professor Lupin appeared, hauling a large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor Binns’ desk.
“What’s that?” Harry asked, eyeing the case.
“Another Boggart,” Lupin explained, stripping off his cloak. “I’ve been combing the castle since Tuesday and found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch’s filing cabinet. It’s the nearest we’ll get to a real Dementor. The Boggart will turn into a Dementor when it sees you, so we’ll be able to practice on it. I’ll store it in my office when we’re done — there’s a cupboard under my desk it’ll like.”
Lupin then turned to Hope, his tone gentler. “Unfortunately, since Dementors aren’t your fear, the Boggart won’t work for you. But I can still teach you the spell.”
Hope nodded.
“Okay,” Harry said, trying to sound brave, though a knot of apprehension twisted in his stomach.
Lupin took out his wand and gestured for them to do the same. “The spell I’m about to teach you is highly advanced — well beyond Ordinary Wizarding Level. It’s called the Patronus Charm.”
“How does it work?” Harry asked nervously.
“When performed correctly, it conjures a Patronus,” Lupin explained. “A kind of guardian, a shield between you and the Dementor. It’s a positive force — a projection of the very things a Dementor feeds on: hope, happiness, and the will to survive. Since it isn’t alive, it can’t feel despair like we can, which makes it immune to them. But,” he added with a slight smile, “it’s difficult. Many fully-qualified wizards struggle with it.”
“What does a Patronus look like?” Hope asked, curiously.
“Each one is unique to its caster,” Lupin replied. “No two are exactly alike.”
“And how do you conjure it?” Harry pressed.
“With an incantation,” Lupin said. “But the words alone aren’t enough. You need to focus — really focus — on a single, very happy memory.”
Hope’s brow furrowed as she searched her mind for the happiest memory she could summon. The first train ride to Hogwarts with Ron and Harry? Hermione waking up from being petrified? Making the Quidditch team? Then, deeper still, she found it — her last Christmas with her parents. She could almost hear the laughter, see the glow of the tree. It brought a pang of sadness, but it was strong. Strong enough, she hoped.
“Right,” Harry said, concentrating on the exhilarating rush of his first broom ride.
“The incantation is this,” Lupin said clearly, “Expecto Patronum.”
“Expecto Patronum,” Harry murmured under his breath. “Expecto Patronum.”
“Are you both concentrating on your memories?” Lupin asked, his eyes sharp.
“Oh — yeah —” Harry quickly forced his thoughts back to the broom ride. “Expecto Patrono — no, Patronum — sorry — Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum.”
A thin wisp of silvery gas whirled from the tip of his wand.
Hope clapped for him giving him a small smile.
Harry beamed, his confidence rising. “Did you see that? Something happened!”
“Very good,” Lupin said, smiling before turning to Hope. “Ready to give it a try?”
She took a steadying breath. “Okay.”
“Expecto Patronum,” she said firmly.
Nothing.
She exhaled, frustration creeping in. “Expecto Patronum.”
Still nothing.
“Remember the memory,” Lupin encouraged gently. “Hold onto it.”
Hope closed her eyes, gripping her wand tightly. She pictured the warmth of her parents’ laughter, the crackling fire, the scent of pine. “Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum.” she took a deep breath trying again “Expecto Patronum.” she repeated.
But the air remained still.
“Why isn’t it working?” she asked, disappointment thick in her voice.
Lupin rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s an advanced spell, darling. It’s only your first time. Don’t get frustrated — you’ll get there.”
Hope nodded, though the sting of failure lingered.
Lupin turned back to Harry. “Right then — ready to try it on a Dementor?”
Harry swallowed, his grip tightening on his wand. “Yes.”
Lupin moved to the case, while Hope instinctively stepped back, not wanting to risk the Boggart confusing her for Harry. With a swift motion, Lupin lifted the lid.
A Dementor rose from the box, its skeletal hands gripping its cloak. Its hooded face turned toward Harry as it glided forward. The lamps flickered and went out, plunging the room into an eerie darkness. A biting cold washed over them.
“Expecto Patronum!” Harry yelled. “Expecto Patronum! Expecto —”
But Hope saw it — the way Harry’s voice faltered, his eyes glazed over, his wand slipping from his trembling hand. He collapsed to the floor, his breathing shallow.
“Riddikulus!” Lupin commanded, stepping in front of the Boggart. With a crack, it shrank back into the packing case.
Hope was already at Harry’s side, her heart racing. She shook him gently. “Harry?”
His eyelids fluttered open, and he blinked up at her. “Sorry,” he muttered, sitting up. Cold sweat trickled down his face, his glasses askew.
“Are you all right?” Lupin asked, kneeling beside them.
Harry nodded weakly, though his face was pale.
“Here,” Lupin said, handing him a Chocolate Frog. “Eat this before we try again. I didn’t expect you to manage it on your first attempt. Honestly, I’d have been astonished if you had.”
“It’s getting worse,” Harry mumbled between bites. “I could hear her louder that time. And him. Voldemort.”
Hope shivered, the name alone sending a chill through her. Even Lupin looked slightly paler.
“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I’d understand,” Lupin said, his voice laced with concern.
“I do!” Harry said fiercely, shoving the last bit of chocolate into his mouth. “I have to. What if the Dementors show up at our match against Ravenclaw? I can’t afford to fall off my broom again. If we lose that game, we lose the Quidditch Cup.”
Lupin regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “All right. But perhaps try another memory. A stronger one this time.”
Harry paused, thinking hard before nodding. He gripped his wand tightly again and took up his position in the middle of the classroom.
"Ready?" Lupin asked, his hands gripping the lid of the box.
"Ready," Harry said, forcing his mind to focus on happy thoughts—Gryffindor winning the Quidditch Cup—anything to keep the looming fear at bay.
"Go!" Lupin said, pulling off the lid.
The room turned cold and dark once more. The Dementor glided forward, its rattling breath filling the air. One rotting hand reached toward Harry.
"Expecto Patronum!" Harry yelled. "Expecto Patronum! Expecto Pat–"
He collapsed.
"Riddikulus!" Lupin shouted, forcing the Boggart back into its case with a sharp crack.
Hope rushed to Harry, shaking him urgently. "Harry!" But he didn't stir.
Lupin knelt down, tapping Harry's face. "Harry! Wake up."
Finally, Harry’s eyes fluttered open. It took a moment before he seemed to understand where he was.
"I heard my dad," Harry mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him. He tried to take on Voldemort himself—to give my mum time to run."
Tears welled in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks. Harry ducked his head, pretending to tie his shoelace. But Hope saw through it. She knew. He didn’t want them to see him cry. He hated the thought of anyone feeling sorry for him.
Hope’s gaze shifted to her father. Lupin had a strange, far-off look in his eyes. His mouth was slightly open, as though caught between words, his brow furrowed.
"You heard James?" Lupin said, his voice low and unfamiliar.
Hope furrowed her brows.
"Yeah..." Harry straightened, his face dry now. "Why? You didn’t know my dad, did you?"
"I... I did, actually,"Lupin replied, his voice oddly strained. "We were friends at Hogwarts."
Hope blinked. "You never told me that," she murmured.
Lupin shifted uncomfortably, but before either could press further, he cleared his throat. "Listen, perhaps we should leave it here for tonight. The Patronus Charm is incredibly advanced. I shouldn’t have put you through that."
"No!" Harry’s voice cut through the air. He pushed himself up. "I’ll have one more go! I’m not thinking of happy enough things, that’s all. Hang on..."
He searched his mind, desperately trying to summon a memory strong enough to hold the Dementor at bay. Lupin watched him with growing concern, while Hope stepped back, her curious gaze flicking between her father and Harry.
"Ready?" Lupin asked, though he seemed reluctant. "Concentrating hard?"
"Yeah. Ready."
"All right—go!"
The lid flew open once more, and the Dementor rose, the classroom dimming instantly. Harry stood his ground.
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" Harry bellowed. "EXPECTO PATRONUM! EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
A silver shadow burst from his wand, massive and shimmering. It hovered between him and the Dementor. Harry’s legs trembled. Hope could tell he was moments from collapsing.
"Riddikulus!" Lupin roared, springing forward.
With a loud crack, the Dementor vanished, and the Boggart was sealed back inside its case. Harry staggered, his legs trembling as he collapsed into a chair. Hope hovered beside him. "You okay?" she asked softly.
Harry gave a shaky nod.
Lupin smiled, brushing his hands off. "Excellent! That was definitely a start, Harry."
"Can we try again? Just once more?" Harry asked, though his voice lacked its earlier determination.
"Not now," Lupin said firmly. "You’ve done enough for one night."
He handed Harry a large bar of Honeydukes’ chocolate. "Eat this, or Madam Pomfrey will have my head. Same time next week?"
"Okay."
Lupin then turned to Hope, his expression softening. "Don't get discouraged, love. It was only your first practice. You’ll be casting a Patronus before your next match, I’m sure of it."
Hope nodded, offering a small smile, though her mind lingered elsewhere. She wasn’t just upset about her own failure to produce a Patronus. But also the fact that her father had known Harry’s dad—and never told her—gnawed at her.
Harry nibbled at the chocolate, watching Lupin extinguish the lamps. The room grew dim, shadows flickering along the stone walls. A thought struck him.
"Professor Lupin?" he asked. "If you knew my dad, you must’ve known Sirius Black too."
Hope froze. She hadn’t even considered that.
Lupin’s head snapped toward Harry, his voice sharp. "What makes you say that?"
"Nothing," Harry said quickly. "I just knew they were friends at Hogwarts, too."
Lupin’s face relaxed, though not entirely. "Yes. I knew him," he said, his tone clipped. "Or I thought I did. You’d both better get off now—it’s getting late."
They left the classroom, walking down the dimly lit corridor. After a few turns, they ducked behind a suit of armor and slumped down on the plinth. Harry broke off another piece of chocolate.
"Your dad never mentioned knowing mine?" Harry asked.
Hope sighed, shaking her head. "No. Honestly, he’s always been pretty cagey about his Hogwarts days. But he’s known for years that we’re friends. The fact that he never mentioned it before today..." Her voice trailed off in frustration.
"I’m sure it’s hard for him," Harry said, remembering the look on Lupin’s face. The mention of Black had clearly unsettled him.
"Maybe," Hope murmured, twisting her fingers in her lap. "Still, he never tells me anything. And after one lesson with you, he suddenly seems a lot more willing to talk."Her voice was bitter, though she immediately regretted it. "I’m sorry," she added softly.
"You don’t have to apologize," Harry said.
Silence lingered until Hope forced a small smile. "At least now, if any Dementors show up at the match, you should be able to take them on no problem."
"You will too," Harry said, with an encouraging nod.
"I don’t know," Hope admitted.
"Maybe you’re just not thinking of a happy enough memory," he suggested.
Hope hesitated. "Maybe. A lot of memories went through my mind, but the one I settled on…" She trailed off, her throat tightening. "It’s... the last Christmas I had with Mum. It’s all in bits and pieces really but, I remember her and Dad laughingher making her special hot chocolate. We had this huge snowball fight — Mum and I against Dad." She smiled faintly. "It’s the happiest I can remember being, but—"
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until Harry gently wiped them away with his sleeve.
"But it reminds you she’s gone," he said softly. "That it will never be like that again."
Hope sniffled and nodded. "And now, since the Dementors, when I think of her, my mind always drifts to her last moments."
Harry gingerly wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Hope leaned into him, her tears dampening his shoulder.
"I’m sorry about your mum," he whispered.
"I’m sorry about your parents," she replied, her voice breaking.
And for a while, they just sat there, holding onto the comfort they could find in each other.
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Ravenclaw played Slytherin a week after the start of term. Slytherin won, though just barely. According to Wood, this was good news for Gryffindor — as long as they could beat Ravenclaw, they’d take second place. His excitement, however, meant he increased their practices to five times a week. Combined with Lupin’s Anti-Dementor lessons, which Hope still couldn’t produce a Patronus in, and six Quidditch practices, she and Harry were left with just one night a week to tackle all their homework.
Still, it was nothing compared to how stretched thin Hermione seemed.
Hope caught glimpses of her constantly rushing between classes, her eyes glazed with exhaustion. Books were always clutched tightly to her chest, and Hope was sure she hadn't seen Hermione without a quill tucked behind her ear in days. Even with Hope’s lingering frustration over the Firebolt incident, it was hard to ignore how tired Hermione looked.
One night when Hope was having dinner she noticed Hermione wasn’t in the Great Hall. Normally, Hermione wasn’t one to skip meals, but Hope didn’t need to guess where she was.
Library, Hope thought with a sigh.
By the time dinner ended, Hope grabbed a couple of roast sandwiches and a pumpkin pasty, wrapping them up in a napkin. She ignored the questioning looks from Ron and Harry, brushing off their curiosity. When they all headed back to the Gryffindor Tower, Hope climbed the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the enchanted lanterns. Hermione’s bed was as neat as ever, but the stack of parchment on her nightstand showed she’d barely been back all day.
Hope placed the wrapped food on Hermione’s bedside table, adjusting the napkin to make sure it wouldn’t dry out. She lingered for a moment, then turned away, not expecting any thanks.
Later that night, when Hermione finally returned from the library, Hope pretended to be asleep. But she could still hear the soft shuffle of footsteps and the faint rustle of fabric. Then, the quietest intake of breath — a sound of surprise. Even without looking, Hope knew Hermione had seen the food. She could almost feel the small smile tugging at Hermione’s lips before the girl slipped beneath her covers.
A few mornings later, Hope woke up to a rare sight — Hermione still asleep. Usually, Hermione was the first to rise, already at her desk before anyone else stirred. But today, the faint morning light only highlighted how deeply she slept, her hair sprawled across her pillow.
Hope hesitated. She could wake her — it would be easy to give her a shake and remind her how late it was. But Hermione’s face, relaxed for once, made her pause. She needed the rest.
At breakfast, Hope pushed the eggs around her plate, barely listening to Ron’s latest Quidditch theory. Hermione was all she could think about. Finally, she stood up, ignoring Ron’s confused “Where’re you off to?”
When she returned to the dormitory, she carried a small plate with a couple of slices of toast. The warmth still clung to the bread, and the buttery scent lingered. She set it carefully on Hermione’s nightstand, then leaned down and gave her friend’s shoulder a gentle shake.
“Hermione,” Hope whispered.
Hermione stirred, blinking blearily. “Mm?”
“Wake up. I brought you some breakfast.” Hope said before leaving without another word.
That next night, Hope’s sleep was restless. The nightmare came back — the swirling cold, the distant shouts. She jolted awake, gasping, her chest tight. But even as her heart pounded, it didn’t take long to notice something else.
Hermione’s bed was empty.
Frowning, Hope slipped out from beneath her covers. The dormitory was silent, save for the rhythmic breathing of the other girls. Barefoot, she padded down the spiral staircase and into the common room.
There, in the corner, Hermione was slumped in an armchair. Books and parchment lay scattered around her, illuminated by the flickering embers of the dying fire. Her head rested awkwardly on her shoulder, strands of bushy hair covering her face.
Hope crossed the room and crouched beside her. “Hermione,” she murmured, giving her a gentle shake.
Hermione stirred, her eyes fluttering open. “Hope?” Her voice was groggy, her words slurred with sleep. “What time is it?”
Hope shrugged. “Late.”
Rubbing her eyes, Hermione tried to sit up properly. “What are you doing up?”
“Nightmare,” Hope admitted softly. ““But I noticed you weren’t in bed. Hermione, this is getting ridiculous. What’s going on with you?”
“I’m fine,” Hermione said quickly, but Hope wasn’t buying it.
“No, you’re not.” Her voice softened. “You’re exhausted. You fall asleep with your books more often than not. You’re taking way too many classes. Hermione, I think you’ve taken on too much.”
Hermione looked away, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “I’m surprised you’re even talking to me,” she muttered. “I’m sorry about the Firebolt, Hope. I really was just trying to keep you and Harry safe. I was worried.”
Hope exhaled slowly, the tension in her chest easing. “I know.” She hesitated. “But now I’m worried about you.”
At that, Hermione froze. For a moment, she seemed to weigh her options, then finally sighed. Without a word, she reached beneath her robes and pulled out a delicate gold chain. Dangling from it was a small, hourglass pendant. It gleamed softly in the low light.
Hope’s eyes widened. “What—”
“It’s a Time-Turner,” Hermione explained, her voice barely above a whisper. “Professor McGonagall gave it to me at the start of the year. It lets me go back in time so I can take extra classes.”
Hope’s mouth dropped open. “You’re using a device that manipulates time… for school?”
Hermione nodded, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “It’s the only way I could manage all my subjects.”
Hope blinked, then cracked a small smile. “You’re probably the only person in the world who’d get a magical device to turn back time and only use it for homework.”
Hermione’s lips twitched, a small smile breaking through.
“Come on,” Hope said, standing and offering her a hand. “You’re not sleeping down here.”
Hermione hesitated before taking it. As they climbed the stairs, Hope kept her voice light. “Seriously, though. If you ever get tired of using it for classes, I can think of a few better ideas.”
“Not a chance,” Hermione shot back, though her smile lingered.
And just like that, the weight between them felt a little lighter.
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"How’s she doing it?" Ron muttered to Harry and Hope one evening as Harry scribbled away at his essay on Undetectable Poisons for Snape. Hope, seated next to him, was equally focused on her History of Magic homework.
Harry looked up, blinking. Across the common room, Hermione was barely visible behind a staggering pile of books, her quill scratching furiously against parchment.
"Doing what?" Harry asked, though the answer seemed obvious.
"Getting to all her classes!" Ron said, lowering his voice but still glancing around as though the walls themselves might be listening. "I heard her talking to Professor Vector — you know, that Arithmancy witch — this morning. They were going on about yesterday’s lesson, but Hermione can’t have been there. She was with us in Care of Magical Creatures!" He leaned closer, his voice dripping with bewilderment. "And Ernie McMillan told me she’s never missed a Muggle Studies class. But half of them are at the same time as Divination, and she’s never skipped that either!"
Hope barely spared him a glance, her quill scratching steadily. "Who knows, who cares," she said, her tone flat. "She’s probably just getting extra lessons or something."
"But—"
Luckily for Hope, Ron’s protests were cut short.
"Bad news," Wood announced, striding over with a grim expression. His robes were slightly damp, the smell of the evening air clinging to him. "I’ve just been to see Professor McGonagall about the Firebolt. She — er — wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me."
"Shirty, more like," Wood grumbled, crossing his arms. "Told me I’ve got my priorities all wrong. As if I care more about winning the Cup than you two staying alive. And all because I said I didn’t care if it threw Harry off, so long as he caught the Snitch first." He shook his head, his disbelief practically radiating off him. "Honestly, the way she was yelling at me... you’d think I’d said something really terrible. Then I asked how much longer she’s planning to keep it..."
Wood scrunched his face, mimicking Professor McGonagall’s stern voice. "‘As long as necessary, Wood.’" He groaned. "I reckon it’s time you ordered a new broom, Harry. There’s an order form at the back of Which Broomstick? You could get a Nimbus Two Thousand and One — like Malfoy’s got."
Harry’s jaw tightened. "I’m not buying anything Malfoy thinks is good," he said flatly.
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January faded into February, the bitter cold showing no signs of relenting. The match against Ravenclaw crept closer, but Harry still hadn’t ordered a new broom. After every Transfiguration lesson, he approached Professor McGonagall, Ron and Hope lingering hopefully at his side. Hermione always rushed past without meeting their eyes.
"No, Potter, you can’t have it back yet," Professor McGonagall snapped the twelfth time he tried, before he even opened his mouth. "We’ve checked for most of the usual curses, but Professor Flitwick believes the broom might be carrying a Hurling Hex. I’ll let you know once we’ve finished. Now, please stop badgering me."
Harry bit back his frustration, and Ron let out a defeated sigh. Hope, though, said nothing. She wasn’t surprised — just annoyed.
To make matters worse, Hope and Harry's Anti-Dementor lessons weren’t going as well as they'd hoped. After weeks of trying, Harry could summon only a vague, silvery shadow when the Boggart-Dementor approached. His Patronus had no strength — just a ghostly mist hovering uselessly. It drained him every time he tried to maintain it.
Still, that was far better than Hope. No matter how hard she tried, she hadn’t managed even a wisp of silver. She hated the frustration that built inside her with every failed attempt. And though she wouldn’t admit it, seeing Harry make progress made her a bit jealous. Sure he may not have been perfect at it, but at least he could do something.
She couldn’t.
"You’re expecting too much of yourselves," Professor Lupin said sternly during their fourth week of practice, his tone firm but kind. "For a thirteen-year-old wizard, even an indistinct Patronus is a huge achievement." he told Harry.
"I’m fourteen," Hope muttered, kicking at the floor. "And I still can’t do it."
"You just turned fourteen," Lupin replied, his voice unwavering. "And even for your age, this is advanced magic. Not being able to do it isn’t a knock on your talent or skill." Lupin turned to Harry. "And you aren’t passing out anymore, are you?"
Harry shook his head. "No, but I thought a Patronus would… I don’t know. Charge at the Dementors or something. Make them disappear."
"A true Patronus does do that," Lupin explained patiently. "But you’ve achieved a lot in a short time. If the Dementors show up at your next Quidditch match, you’ll be able to hold them off long enough to get back to the ground."
"But you said it’s harder if there are loads of them," Harry pointed out, doubt still lingering in his voice.
Lupin smiled. "I have complete confidence in both of you." He reached into his briefcase, pulling out three glass bottles. "Here — you’ve earned a drink. Something from the Three Broomsticks. You won’t have tried it before."
Hope’s eyes lit up as Harry leaned forward.
"Butterbeer!" they exclaimed in unison.
"Yeah, I like that stuff!" Harry blurted, then froze.
Lupin’s brow lifted. "Really?"
Hope jumped in, her voice a little too quick. "Ron and Hermione brought us some back from Hogsmeade."
"I see," Lupin said, though the suspicion lingered in his expression. "Well, let’s drink to a Gryffindor victory against Ravenclaw! Not that I’m supposed to take sides, of course..." he added with a chuckle.
They sipped their Butterbeer in silence, the warmth of the drink spreading through them. But Harry’s thoughts soon darkened. The image of the Dementors lingered, twisting into another, darker question. He set his bottle down.
"What’s under a Dementor’s hood?" he asked quietly.
Lupin lowered his own bottle, his expression thoughtful. "Hmm... well, the only people who truly know aren’t exactly in a condition to tell us. You see, a Dementor only lowers its hood to use its last and worst weapon."
"What’s that?" Hope asked, though she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.
"They call it the Dementors’ Kiss," Lupin said, his mouth tightening into a grim line. "It’s how Dementors destroy someone completely. They clamp their jaws on their victim’s mouth and... suck out their soul."
Harry choked on his Butterbeer. "What — they kill —?"
"Oh no," Lupin replied, his voice grave. "Much worse. You can live without your soul. As long as your brain and heart are working, you’ll keep going. But you’ll have no sense of self. No memory. No... anything. There’s no recovery from that. You’d just exist — an empty shell. And your soul? Gone. Forever."
Hope’s hands curled around her bottle. The thought of anyone experiencing something so horrifying made her shudder. A fate worse than death — no one deserved that.
But Harry’s expression darkened. The image of Black flashed in his mind. The man who had betrayed his parents. The reason they were gone.
"He deserves it," Harry said suddenly, his voice low.
"You think so?" Lupin’s brow furrowed. "Do you really think anyone deserves that?"
"Yes," Harry said firmly. "For... for some things."
He wanted to tell Lupin about the conversation he’d overheard in the Three Broomsticks. About how Black had handed his parents over to Voldemort. But admitting that would mean confessing how he and Hope had snuck into Hogsmeade. He doubted Lupin would be impressed by that.
Instead, they finished their Butterbeer in tense silence, muttering quick thanks before leaving the History of Magic classroom.
Hope walked beside Harry, her thoughts spinning. She kept glancing at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was too lost in the terrifying idea of losing his soul. Only when he collided directly into Professor McGonagall halfway up the stairs did he snap back to reality.
"Do watch where you’re going, Potter!" she scolded, her voice sharp.
"Sorry, Professor," Harry mumbled, rubbing his shoulder.
"I’ve just been looking for you in the Gryffindor common room." Her stern face softened ever so slightly. "Well, here it is. We’ve done everything we could think of, and there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it at all. You’ve got a very good friend somewhere, Potter."
Harry’s eyes widened as he stared at the gleaming broom in her hands. His Firebolt. It looked magnificent.
"I can have it back?" His voice cracked. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," McGonagall said, and to Harry’s astonishment, she actually smiled. "I daresay you’ll want to get the feel of it before Saturday’s match. And Potter — do try and win, won’t you? Or we’ll be out of the running for the eighth year in a row, as Professor Snape kindly reminded me last night."
Hope shifted on her feet. "Um, Professor... what about mine?"
McGonagall’s smile faded, her expression unreadable. "Ah, Miss Lupin. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to return your Firebolt."
Hope blinked, her brows drawing together. "Why? Was it jinxed?"
"No," McGonagall said, her voice oddly hesitant. "There’s nothing wrong with it."
"Then why does Harry get his back and I don’t?" Hope’s frustration seeped into her voice.
McGonagall’s lips thinned. "You’ll have to take it up with your father. The broom is currently in his possession, and he’s made it clear he would prefer you not have it back."
Hope stormed through the stone corridors of Hogwarts, her footsteps sharp and quick. Harry’s confused voice echoed behind her, and she caught McGonagall’s questioning glance, but she ignored them both. Her fists clenched at her sides, her entire body buzzing with frustration.
She didn't slow down until she reached the History of Magic classroom, shoving the heavy door open. Lupin stood near the desk, extinguishing the lamps with a flick of his wand. His calm expression faltered the moment he saw her.
"Ah," he said quietly, his gaze heavy with understanding. "I see you know about the broom."
"Yeah, the broom you're keeping from me," Hope shot back, the words spilling out before she could stop them.
"Hope—" Lupin's voice was soft, but there was a warning in it.
"There’s nothing wrong with it. They checked. They said it was fine! So why does Harry get his back and I don’t?" Her voice cracked, frustration rising with every word.
Lupin's face remained unreadable. "I suggested they not return Harry’s either," he said evenly. "But I’m not Harry’s father."
"Why not return it at all? The brooms are fine!"
"Because I’m not convinced it’s safe." His words were firm, but Hope heard the strain beneath them. He was holding something back.
"But why?" She shook her head, her chest tightening.
"Hope, there are things you don’t know—"
"It seems most things I don't know, when it comes to you." she cut in, her voice trembling. "I bet if I were Harry, you'd tell me the reason."
"That’s not true."
"It is." Her eyes flashed. "You never told me you were friends with his dad. You never said anything about knowing Sirius Black."
Lupin flinched at the name, but his voice remained steady. "You don’t need to know everything, Hope. It’s for your protection."
"Keeping me in the dark is for my protection?" She scoffed, her hands trembling at her sides.
"Yes," Lupin said, his voice low. "And I don’t expect you to understand."
"Well, you're right about one thing," she bit out.
"Hope, that’s enough," Lupin snapped, his patience cracking. "I’m keeping you safe! You may not understand now"—he held up a hand to silence her protest—"but I’m not risking you on that broom."
"Risk of what?" Hope asked, with a defeated expression.
Silence.
Her heart pounded against her ribs. She waited, hoping, begging him to just tell her. But he wouldn’t. She could see it in his face.
"Right," she whispered. "Got it."
She turned sharply on her heel.
"Hope—"
But she was already gone.
Lupin sighed heavily, lowering himself onto a desk. He rubbed a hand over his exhausted face, his eyes closing briefly.
"You would have been so much better at this, Bella," he murmured under his breath.
The air outside was bitterly cold, but Hope barely felt it. She didn’t even realize where she was going until the ground sloped downward and the Black Lake stretched out before her. The water, dark and still, mirrored the swirling clouds above.
She sank to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest. The tears she’d fought so hard to hold back finally spilled, sobs wracking her small frame.
It wasn’t fair. None of it was.
The cold dampness of the grass seeped through her robes, but she didn’t care. Her breath came in shaky gasps, the weight in her chest unbearable.
Then—movement.
A shape, shifting just beyond the trees.
Hope stiffened. At first, she thought it might be a shadow. But then it stepped forward, dark against the pale winter sky.
A dog.
A massive, black dog stood at the edge of the trees, half-hidden in the shadows. Its fur was matted and unkempt, and its ribs showed faintly beneath the dark coat. A wild, mangy thing.
Her breath caught. The dog’s eyes locked with hers—deep, dark, and strangely familiar. There was no malice in its gaze, no sign of aggression. Only something else. Something that made her heart twist.
Sadness.
The dog stepped forward, its movements slow and deliberate. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she couldn’t move. The creature seemed cautious, almost hesitant.
"Stay back," she whispered, her voice trembling.
The dog didn’t stop. It lowered its head slightly, ears flattened. Each step was careful, deliberate, as if it didn’t want to scare her. Hope scooted back, her hands digging into the cold earth. But the dog didn’t lunge. It didn’t snarl. It simply watched her, those dark eyes searching.
Something about the way it moved, the sorrow in its gaze—it wasn’t like any stray she’d ever seen. There was no wildness. Just… a quiet understanding.
Tears still welled in her eyes, but the fear ebbed. Slowly, her trembling hand reached forward, fingers hovering uncertainly.
The dog didn’t flinch.
It stepped closer, lowering its head until its nose brushed against her outstretched palm. The warmth of its breath mingled with the cold air. Hope’s chest tightened.
She sniffled, swiping at her damp cheeks. "You’re not so scary up close, huh?" she murmured, her voice thick.
The dog let out a soft huff—almost like agreement.
It pushed its head gently against her hand, nuzzling into her touch. Its fur was coarse and tangled beneath her fingers, but the rhythmic thump of its tail showed it seemed rather pleased.
Hope couldn’t help but smile, just a little.
The dog settled beside her, its large body curling close. It leaned into her, the warmth of it bleeding through her chilled robes. Every so often, it nudged its head against her side, like it could somehow press the sadness away.
She didn’t know why the dog had come to her, but in that moment, she didn’t care.
She found it comforting.