Echo drifted through the echoing corridors of Hogwarts, a faint hum of boredom resonating within him. The castle was still mostly empty, the summer quiet stretching on, and for the first time in weeks, Echo found himself with absolutely nothing to do. His lessons with Cleen were finished for the day, his dragon-riding practice with Wick complete, and the Centaurs were settled in their grove. He had even managed to coax a few more insights from a particularly ancient and dusty tome in the library, but his mind felt saturated. He had faced down an existential crisis, healed a corrupted griffin, and navigated the complexities of dragon communication—all before the official start of term. Now, the mundane stretch of an idle afternoon felt almost unbearable. He kicked idly at a loose stone in the corridor, the small clatter echoing disproportionately in the silence. Sniffles, perched on his shoulder, let out a tiny, bored yawn, clearly mirroring Echo's mood.
"Honestly, Sniffles," Echo muttered, "I've learned everything there is to learn today. I've been everywhere there is to go. I even tidied my trunk. My trunk, Sniffles. This is a new low."
The Niffler merely blinked, then attempted to pull a loose thread from Echo's robes, clearly equally restless. Echo sighed, leaning against a cold stone wall. The sunlight streamed through a high-arched window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. Even the dust seemed to be having a more exciting day than he was. He missed the chaos of students, the sudden bursts of laughter, the frantic scurrying between classes. He missed the constant hum of life that usually filled these halls. Suddenly, a series of muffled thuds and a distant, high-pitched cackle broke the silence. Echo straightened, a flicker of interest replacing his ennui. That cackle was unmistakable.
"Peeves," he said, a faint smile touching his lips. Finally, something unpredictable.
The sounds grew closer, accompanied by a distinct rattling and the unmistakable crash of what sounded like an entire suit of armor collapsing. Echo turned a corner just as Peeves the Poltergeist, a red-faced, maniacal blur, zoomed past, dragging behind him a long, ghostly chain of silver goblets and a rather deflated-looking cushion.
"Oooh! Look at Peeves go! Causing trouble, causing chaos, never a dull moment with old Peeves!" the poltergeist shrieked, executing a perfect barrel roll mid-air. He nearly collided with Echo, stopping just inches from his nose, his bulbous eyes gleaming with mischief. "Well, well, well! If it isn't the little half-blood, looking like a lost house-elf! Bored, are we? Nothing to blow up today, eh?"
Echo blinked, unperturbed by Peeves' usual taunts. In fact, a mischievous idea sparked within him. "Peeves," he said, his voice surprisingly calm, "as a matter of fact, I am monumentally bored. Utterly, completely, mind-numbingly bored."
Peeves paused, his chaotic energy momentarily stilled by the unexpected admission. "Bored, are we?" he repeated, tilting his head. "Peeves knows boredom! It's when no one tries to stop Peeves from having fun!"
"Exactly," Echo agreed, leaning against the wall with a newfound purpose. "So, I was thinking. You're the master of entertainment, aren't you? The grand purveyor of pandemonium? The king of chaos?" He layered a subtle, almost imperceptible surge of genuine desire into his words, the same kind of magical projection he used with Wick, but this time aimed at a poltergeist. He was seeking not just a distraction, but a shared experience, a disruption to the oppressive quiet.
Peeves puffed out his chest, preening. "Oh, Peeves is all that and more! The best! No one better! What's your point, little wizard?"
"My point," Echo continued, a genuine glint entering his eyes, "is that if anyone can cure my profound, existential boredom, it's you, Peeves. So," he paused, adopting a mock-solemn tone, "I implore you, great Poltergeist of Hogwarts, entertain me. Show me what you've got. Impress me. If you can make me laugh, truly laugh, then... then I'll owe you one. A favor, from Echo. Anything within reason, of course."
Peeve's eyes widened to the size of saucers. A favor from a student? A willing participant in his chaos? This was unheard of! This was a challenge! His spectral form began to shimmer with excitement, a faint crackle of energy surrounding him.
"A favor, you say?" Peeves shrieked, rubbing his hands together. "Oh, this is going to be good! Peeves accepts! Peeves will show you boredom is for squibs! Prepare yourself, little wizard, for the grandest, giddiest, most glorious ghost-guided gala of guffaws!"
With another ear-splitting cackle, Peeves launched himself upward, leaving the train of goblets to clatter to the floor. Echo watched him go, a genuine smile finally gracing his lips. The quiet of the castle was about to be spectacularly broken. He spent the rest of the afternoon trailing Peeves, a delighted if slightly bewildered audience of one. Peeves was true to his word. He swung chandeliers, conjured buckets of water that narrowly missed Echo's head (but doused several unfortunate suits of armor), and levitated every loose object he could find, arranging them into precarious, groan-inducing sculptures that would inevitably collapse with a theatrical crash. He filled entire corridors with rubber chickens, made the portraits sing off-key opera, and even managed to tie the legs of a particularly grumpy gargoyle together with an invisible rope. Echo found himself laughing, truly laughing, a sound that felt foreign and exhilarating in the deserted castle. His loneliness receded, replaced by a giddy sense of shared absurdity. Sniffles, initially startled by the chaos, eventually seemed to enjoy the spectacle, occasionally attempting to snatch a rogue rubber chicken.
As dusk began to settle, casting long, purple shadows through the windows, Peeves finally hovered before Echo, panting slightly, his spectral form shimmering with exertion and triumph. "Well, little wizard?" he demanded, his eyes wide with anticipation. "Was Peeves entertaining enough? Did Peeves cure your dismal boredom?"
Echo wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. "Peeves," he said, genuinely impressed, "you were magnificent. Truly. I haven't laughed like that in… well, ever, probably."
Peeves preened, swelling visibly. "Aha! Peeves triumphs! Peeves is the best! So, a favor, eh? Peeves has many ideas for favors! Many, many ideas!" He bounced excitedly, a silver goblet clattering to the floor nearby.
"Indeed," Echo said, nodding. "Anything within reason, Peeves. You earned it." He meant it. This shared moment of joyful chaos had been a revelation, a reminder of the simple pleasure of human interaction (or at least, poltergeist interaction).
Peeves opened his mouth, no doubt to request something involving a large quantity of custard pies or potentially setting fire to Filch's office, when a sudden, profound cold washed over the corridor. It wasn't the chill of a dungeon or a draft. It was a suffocating, soul-numbing cold that seemed to drain the very air of warmth and happiness. The distant sounds of the castle, even Peeves's lingering cackles, seemed to be swallowed by it. The light from the windows faded, plunging the corridor into an unnatural gloom.
Echo felt his breath hitch. His skin crawled, and an overwhelming sense of despair, a crushing hopelessness, descended upon him. Every happy memory, every moment of joy, seemed to twist and contort into something ugly, something worthless. The laughter he had just shared with Peeves curdled into ash in his mind. He remembered his parents, their cold faces, his humiliating first years, the terrifying glint in Lucius Malfoy's eyes. His vision blurred, and the world seemed to shrink, closing in on him.
Sniffles, who had been on his shoulder, let out a terrified squeal, scrabbling desperately to bury himself deeper into Echo's robe. Peeves, for his part, had gone utterly still. His usual red face had turned a sickly, transparent grey, and his eyes, usually mischievous, were wide with an ancient, primal fear. He hovered, trembling, a silent, deflated specter.
A figure emerged from the deepening gloom at the far end of the corridor. It was tall, cloaked, and utterly devoid of anything resembling life. A skeletal, decaying hand, scabbed and grey, protruded from a fold in the robes, and the air around it shimmered with cold. It was a Dementor.
Echo felt a scream building in his throat, but the pervasive despair choked it. His wand, still in his hand, felt heavy, useless. He couldn't think, couldn't move. All he could feel was the icy grip of absolute misery, pulling him down, down into a swirling vortex of his darkest memories. He was worthless. He was alone. He deserved this.
The Dementor drifted closer, its faceless hood drawing in the light, drawing in the very essence of his soul. He heard a faint, high-pitched ringing in his ears, a sound of distant, childish laughter that was quickly fading, being devoured.
This is it, a voice whispered in his mind, cold and dead. This is how it ends. No one cares. You are nothing.
The Dementor loomed over him, a gaping maw of darkness. Echo felt a sickening wrench in his chest, as if an invisible hand was tearing at his very core. The warmth, the small sparks of happiness he had cultivated throughout the summer—Lilly's laughter, the exhilaration of riding Wick, the quiet peace of the unicorn glade, even the shared absurdity with Peeves—all of it began to unravel, dissolving into a cold, desolate emptiness. The lingering warmth of Fawkes's tear, a benevolent presence that had settled deep within him, shimmered violently, then was ruthlessly pulled away, leaving behind a profound chill that permeated his very bones. His mind, once alight with newfound purpose, became a barren landscape, stripped bare of joy, hope, and connection. He felt nothing but a vast, aching void.
Not only did his insides change, but so too did his outsides. His once lush and vibrant honeycomb brown hair darkened until it turned midnight black, and his bright blue eyes dulled into the darkest shade of blue. The Dementor drank heavily from the boy, taking his vibrant inside but his vibrant outside. The Dementor recoiled slightly, as if satiated, its oppressive presence receding, drawing the last vestiges of light and warmth with it. The corridor, though still dim, felt less overwhelmingly cold.
Sniffles slowly unburrowed from Echo's robe, peeking out with wide, frightened eyes. Peeves, still hovering, though his transparency had returned, slowly drifted closer, his voice hushed and unusually tentative. "Little wizard?" he whispered, his usual boisterous tone completely absent. Are…are you alright? That was… Peeves doesn't like those things. It made Peeves feel… very quiet."
Echo slowly raised his head. His eyes, usually bright with curiosity or mischief, were now flat, devoid of any discernible emotion. The spark was gone, replaced by a dull, cold emptiness. He looked at Peeves, then down at Sniffles, who was whimpering softly. He felt a faint, distant recognition of their presence, but no warmth, no concern.
"I'm fine, Peeves," Echo said, his voice flat and monotone, utterly devoid of inflection. He sounded hollow, like an echo in a tomb. He pushed himself up, his movements stiff and mechanical. The lingering essence of the Dementor clung to him like a shroud, a pervasive coldness that radiated from his very being. He felt as cold and hopeless as the creatures themselves had made others feel by their mere presence.
Peeves, still unnerved, tried to rally. "Oh, well, good! Good! Peeves can make you laugh again! We can throw… throw Filch's broomsticks into the Black Lake! Or maybe… maybe we can try to turn all the statues upside down? That would be fun, wouldn't it?" He managed a weak, forced chuckle.
Echo merely shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement. "No. I don't… I don't feel like it. I'm too cold." He hugged himself, though the gesture seemed to offer no comfort. His gaze was distant and unfocused, as if he were staring into an endless void. "I don't feel… anything."
Peeves's forced cheer faltered completely. He looked at Echo, truly seeing the stark, unnerving emptiness in his eyes. The poltergeist, which thrived on human reactions, noise, and mischief, was clearly disturbed by Echo's absolute stillness.
"A Dementor?" Peeves whispered, his voice thin, almost fearful. "In Hogwarts? Peeves… Peeves doesn't know why it was there, little wizard. They're not allowed. Not in the castle. Not ever." He hovered closer, his spectral form shivering, not from cold, but from a genuine, uncharacteristic apprehension. "The Headmaster… he wouldn't let them in. He banished them."
Echo's eyes remained distant, but a flicker, a tiny spark of his analytical mind, seemed to ignite within the void. "Then how did it get here, Peeves?" he asked, his voice still flat, but with a faint, chilling edge of curiosity. "How did it get past the wards? Past Dumbledore's protections?"
Peeves wrung his translucent hands. "Peeves… Peeves doesn't know! They just… appeared sometimes. At night. Near the Forbidden Forest, sometimes. But never inside the castle walls. Never like this. This is… this is very wrong, little wizard. Very, very wrong." He shuddered again.
Echo nodded slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. "Very wrong indeed." He looked around the silent, now deeply unsettling corridor. He felt too hollow, too drained to think, to analyze, to process the terrifying implications of a Dementor inside Hogwarts. But someone needed to know. Someone powerful.
"Peeves," Echo said, turning his blank gaze back to the poltergeist. "Can you…Can you tell someone? The Headmaster, if he's here. Or Professor Cleen. Or Hagrid. Or anyone who's still here? Tell them… tell them a Dementor was in the castle. Tell them it was here. Tell them I'm… I'm resting. I need to rest." He didn't sound tired; he just seemed absent.
Peeves hovered, his usual boisterousness replaced by a rare solemnity. He looked at the haunted emptiness in Echo's eyes, the way the boy hugged himself as if trying to conjure warmth from nothing. "Peeves… Peeves will tell them, little wizard," he promised, his voice unusually quiet. "Peeves will tell everyone. This… this is not right. Peeves will make sure someone knows."
"Peeves," Echo said, his voice flat, his eyes distant. "Can you…Can you find Madam Pomfrey? Tell her… tell her I'm cold. Not just cold, but…different. I don't think I can make it back to the dorms like this." He shivered, a deep, uncontrollable tremor that wracked his small frame. "It's too far. And I just feel… empty."
Peeves offered no response but silently nodded. Echo simply turned and walked away, his steps slow and deliberate, towards the darkest, most secluded part of the castle he could find. Peeves watched him go, then, with a frantic, desperate burst of energy, shot off down the corridor, his ghostly form blurring as he raced to alert the living. He had never seen a student like this. And he didn't like it one bit.
He stumbled through the castle, drawn by an instinct he couldn't name, a need for utter stillness, for a silence that mirrored the void within him. He passed through the dungeons, the air growing colder, heavier, until he found himself in a forgotten chamber, deep beneath the Slytherin common room. It was a place rarely used, a circular room with rough-hewn stone walls and a single, narrow slit of a window high above, letting in a sliver of pale moonlight. The only furniture was a single, ancient stone bench in the center.
Echo sank onto the bench, the cold stone seeping into his bones. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself, but no warmth came. Sniffles, sensing the profound shift in his master, remained burrowed deep in his robe, an occasional, terrified whimper the only sound. Echo stared into the darkness, his mind utterly blank. He couldn't conjure a single memory, good or bad. It was as if his entire past had been wiped clean, leaving only this pervasive, aching emptiness. He was a shell, hollowed out by the Dementor's touch. The world outside, with its bustling life, the castle, and the vibrant magic of the forest, felt distant and irrelevant. He was lost in a desolate landscape of nothingness.
Hours passed—or perhaps it was only minutes—but time had no meaning in this void. He felt no hunger, thirst, or urge to move. He was a statue carved from despair. The cold seeped deeper into his very soul, until he felt like an ice sculpture, fragile and on the verge of shattering. Suddenly, a faint, metallic clang echoed from the corridor outside. Echo didn't react. He heard hurried footsteps, then a frantic rapping on the heavy wooden door, followed by a muffled, booming voice.
"Echo? Little wizard? Are you in there? Peeves said… Peeves said you were in trouble!"
Hagrid.
Echo felt a faint, almost imperceptible tremor —a distant echo of recognition —but still no warmth, no joy. The door creaked open, admitting a sliver of light, and Hagrid's massive form filled the doorway, his face etched with worry. Behind him, the spectral form of Peeves hovered, his usual mischievous grin replaced by a look of grave concern.
"Echo! Thank Merlin! What happened? Peeves said you were… he said you were cold," Hagrid rumbled, rushing forward, his heavy footsteps thudding on the stone floor. He knelt beside Echo, his huge hand reaching out, then hesitating. He seemed to sense the chilling aura radiating from the boy, the profound emptiness in his eyes.
"I'm fine, Hagrid," Echo said, his voice still flat, lifeless. "Just cold."
Hagrid's bushy brow furrowed. "Cold? Echo, you look like you've seen a ghost. A Dementor, Peeves said? Inside Hogwarts?" His voice grew quieter, filled with disbelief and alarm. "That's… that's impossible. Dumbledore wouldn't allow it. The wards…" He trailed off, his gaze sweeping the shadowy room, as if expecting the foul creature to reappear.
Peeves, still transparent and subdued, floated closer. "It was here, Hagrid! Right here! And it took… it took all the happiness out of the little wizard! Peeves saw it! Peeves felt it!"
Hagrid looked back at Echo, then, with a determined sigh, gently wrapped his enormous hand around Echo's. The contact was startling. Hagrid's hand, usually so warm and calloused, felt like a comforting anchor against the vast, internal coldness. A faint, golden warmth, almost imperceptible, seemed to emanate from Hagrid's touch, a tiny spark trying to ignite the void.
"Madam Pomfrey's coming, Echo. She'll know what to do," Hagrid said, his voice soft but firm. "But you're not alone, little wizard. Never alone."
Echo looked at him, and for the first time, a faint flicker of something akin to feeling stirred within him. Not joy, not warmth, but a tiny, almost imperceptible ripple in the vast ocean of his despair. He had pushed away the unicorns, he had dismissed Peeves, but Hagrid… Hagrid had come. Hagrid's unwavering concern was a beacon in the oppressive darkness.
Then, the door opened wider, revealing Madam Pomfrey, her usually brisk demeanor replaced by a look of grim determination. Behind her stood Professor Cleen, his face a mask of furious concentration, his black eyes narrowed as he swept the room.
"Hagrid, is he…?" Madam Pomfrey began, her voice tight with concern. She took in Echo's blank stare, his huddled form, the palpable aura of despair emanating from him, and gasped. "Oh, dear Merlin. A Dementor. Here? How? The wards are impenetrable!" She rushed forward, pulling out her wand. "Expecto Patronum!"
A shimmering, silvery, wispy shield erupted from her wand, pushing back against the lingering cold. It wasn't a corporeal Patronus, but a powerful defensive charm. It did little to alleviate Echo's internal emptiness, but it cleared the air, making it breathable again.
Cleen, meanwhile, had stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Echo. "Echo," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, "what did you do?"
Echo felt a distant flicker of annoyance, but it was too weak to manifest. He was too drained.
"It wasn't Echo, Cleen," Hagrid rumbled, his voice strained. "It was a Dementor. Right here in the castle. Peeves saw it."
Cleen's eyes snapped to Peeves, who shivered under his intense gaze. "A Dementor?" Cleen repeated, his voice laced with venom. "Impossible. Unless… unless someone deliberately brought it here." He looked at Echo again, a calculating glint in his eyes. "Did you summon it, Echo? Did you meddle with forces beyond your comprehension?"
Echo slowly shook his head, the effort immense. "No. It… it just… came." His voice was a bare whisper.
Madam Pomfrey, meanwhile, was gently examining Echo. She touched his forehead, then his wrist, her face growing grimmer with each passing second. "He's… he's completely drained. His magical core is almost silent. This is a severe case of Dementor exposure, Cleen. Worse than I've ever seen. It's as if every ounce of joy, every memory, has been leached from him." She turned to Hagrid. "We need chocolate, and lots of it. Strong, dark chocolate. And then… I don't know. This is beyond my usual remedies."
Cleen scowled, but a flicker of something, perhaps concern, crossed his features as he truly absorbed the extent of Echo's suffering. "Chocolate is a temporary measure, Poppy. It will not restore what has been taken." He looked at Echo, his gaze piercing. "You must think of a happy memory, Echo. Focus on it. Drive the despair away."
Echo stared blankly. "I… I can't." His voice was flat. "There aren't any. They're all… gone."
Madam Pomfrey wrung her hands. "This is bad, Cleen. Very bad. His mind…it's a blank slate. He needs powerful, sustained positive magic. He needs a Patronus. A true Patronus. And I don't have one powerful enough to counter this."
Cleen's jaw tightened. He pulled out his own wand, his expression grim. "I will try. But a Dementor inside Hogwarts… this is an outrage. And the boy… he has been pushed too far." He raised his wand, his lips moving in a silent incantation. A wisp of silver smoke, faint and ethereal, emerged from his wand, but it quickly dissipated. Cleen cursed under his breath. "Too weak. My own emotions are… too conflicted." He looked at Echo, his usual disdain momentarily replaced by a look of frustrated helplessness. "You are truly a nuisance, Echo."
Hagrid, meanwhile, had returned with a large bar of chocolate, which Madam Pomfrey immediately began to break off and press into Echo's unresponsive hand. "Eat, little wizard. It'll help."
Echo made no move to take it. He simply sat there, hollow and cold.
Suddenly, a voice, clearer and more resonant than it had any right to be, echoed from the doorway. "Perhaps a different approach is needed."
Albus Dumbledore stood framed in the doorway, his long, silver beard gleaming in the faint light. His eyes, usually twinkling with amusement, were sharp and serious. He swept over the scene, taking in Echo's vacant expression, Madam Pomfrey's distress, Hagrid's worry, and Cleen's grim determination. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of power surrounded the Headmaster, a silent assertion of his presence.
"Albus!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, relief flooding her voice. "A Dementor, in the castle! And young Echo… he's been thoroughly afflicted."
Dumbledore's gaze settled on Echo, a profound sadness entering his eyes. "I see, Poppy. A grave misfortune indeed." He stepped fully into the room, and as he did, the lingering chill in the air seemed to recede further, replaced by warmth.
He looked at Cleen, a subtle, questioning glance passing between them. Cleen simply inclined his head, his expression unreadable. Dumbledore then turned his attention back to Echo, his eyes softening. He knelt beside the boy, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Echo," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and melodic, "I understand you feel... empty. That is the Dementor's curse. But I assure you, your happy memories are not gone. They are merely hidden, buried deep beneath the despair. Like stars hidden by clouds, they still exist." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "We must find them. Not for me, but for you."
Echo remained unresponsive, his gaze fixed on nothing.
"A Patronus charm requires a powerful, happy memory," Dumbledore continued, almost to himself, yet his words seemed to fill the silent chamber. "But what if the memory itself is... unreachable? What if the joy is too deeply buried?" He closed his eyes for a moment, a faint hum of magic emanating from him. When he opened them, they held a renewed light. "Then we must give you something new. Something so profoundly good, so intensely joyous, that it cannot be denied."
He looked at Hagrid. "Hagrid, the chocolate is good. Keep offering it." He then turned to Madam Pomfrey. "Poppy, prepare a strong revitalizing potion, but do not administer it yet. What we need is more... fundamental."
Dumbledore then did something unexpected. He pulled out his wand, not to cast a spell, but to tap his own temple gently. Then, with a flicker of his eyes, he directed his wand towards Echo, not touching him, but hovering inches from his forehead. A faint, golden glow, so subtle it was almost imperceptible, emanated from the tip of his wand, swirling around Echo's head like mist.
Echo felt a strange sensation, as if a cool breeze were passing through his mind. He didn't feel a memory, not exactly. Instead, he felt a pure, unadulterated feeling. A feeling of boundless acceptance. Of profound, unconditional love. Of being seen, truly seen, for who he was, without judgment or expectation. It wasn't his own memory; it was a memory, a feeling, from Dumbledore. A glimpse into the Headmaster's own vast well of compassion, projected directly into Echo's barren mind.
The void within Echo didn't vanish, but it recoiled slightly, as if struck by something alien, something fundamentally opposed to its nature. A tiny, almost imperceptible warmth sparked deep within him, a nascent ember in the desolate landscape of his soul.
Dumbledore then pulled his wand back, his eyes still fixed on Echo. "Now, Echo," he said, his voice stronger, resonating with conviction. "Remember this feeling. This pure, unburdened sense of worth. It is not a trick. It is a truth. And now, you must find your own. Something that brought you immense, undeniable joy. Think of Wick. Think of Firenze. Think of a moment when your magic, your unique self, brought something good, something truly miraculous, into the world."
Echo stared, his eyes still distant, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his lip. He felt the echo of Dumbledore's projected feeling, a warmth he hadn't thought possible. And then, spurred by that tiny spark, a fleeting image, shimmering at the edge of his awareness, broke through the gloom.
The golden glow of the baby Centaur's leg as it healed, the pure, vibrant green of Wick's eyes as they soared through the twilight, the silent, grateful nudges of the unicorn foals, the sheer exhilaration of his first flight, and the absurd, liberating laughter he had shared with Peeves—these flashes weren't full memories, not yet, but fragments, imbued with emotion.
He clenched his fists, a raw, almost physical ache of something trying to break free. It was still incredibly hard; the despair was overwhelming. But the void was no longer absolute. There was a struggle, a faint light fighting against the overwhelming darkness.
"I... I can't," Echo whispered, the words ragged. "It's too far."
Dumbledore nodded. "It is always hardest when you are alone. But you are not alone, Echo. Look around you. Hagrid is here. Poppy is here. Even Peeves, in his own way, is here." He then looked at Cleen, a silent command passing between them. Cleen, with a frustrated sigh, also raised his wand, his gaze intense. He didn't project a feeling, but a fierce, almost angry determination, a protective fury.
It was a strange symphony: Dumbledore's serene compassion, Cleen's fierce resolve, Hagrid's steady, comforting presence, Madam Pomfrey's quiet concern, and even Peeves's lingering, subdued worry. All of it focused on Echo, a collective force against the Dementor's lingering curse. Echo felt a jolt. The distinct aura of Cleen's magic, sharp and unyielding, pierced through the residue of despair. It wasn't gentle, but it was powerful, and it was undeniably there. It pushed back against the void, a harsh, unyielding wave. And then, fueled by that combined force and that tiny, newly ignited spark within him, Echo felt something shift. A memory, clearer now, surged forward. It wasn't the biggest, grandest memory, but it was pure, unadulterated joy.
He saw Wick, her head tilted, her emerald eyes sparkling with amusement and pride after their first successful "Accio" command. He felt the rush of understanding, the profound connection, and the realization that they could truly communicate and truly fly together. A wave of warmth, small but potent, spread through his chest. It was his. His own pure joy. He focused on it, clutching it like a drowning man grasping a lifeline. The warmth grew, spreading through his limbs, pushing back the lingering cold. He felt a profound sense of self-worth, of accomplishment, of purpose.
"Expecto Patronum!" Echo gasped, his voice still hoarse, but infused with a desperate, burgeoning hope.
From the tip of his wand, a wisp of silvery mist, thin and translucent, struggled to form. It pulsed faintly, then dissipated, a mere breath of light against the oppressive gloom. It wasn't the powerful, fully formed creature he knew the charm could summon, but it was enough. The pervasive cold around him lessened, the crushing despair receding like a tide. The sharp, physical wrench in his chest eased, and the distant, fading laughter in his ears seemed to pause, no longer being devoured. The absolute void in his mind filled, not with memories, but with a faint, trembling sense of his own existence. He was still profoundly cold, still felt hollowed out, but the Dementor's grip had been broken. He was no longer drowning; he was merely shivering on the shore.
Dumbledore watched, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of relief and grave concern. "Remarkable," he murmured. "Even in such a state, you found the light, Echo. It was not enough to fully repel the creature, but it was enough to break its hold. A powerful will, indeed."
Madam Pomfrey rushed forward, her wand poised. "He needs warmth, Dumbledore. And chocolate, lots of chocolate. And rest. Immediate, undisturbed rest." She began muttering a warming charm, a faint blush of heat appearing around Echo.
Hagrid, looking immensely relieved, stepped forward and carefully offered another piece of the chocolate. "Here, little wizard. Good, strong stuff. Gets the blood moving."
Echo, though still pale and shivering, reached out a trembling hand and took the chocolate. He brought it to his mouth, and the rich, dark sweetness, combined with the faint warmth from Madam Pomfrey's charm, seemed to cut through some of the lingering cold. He ate slowly, deliberately, and the simple act of consumption was a stark reminder of his returning physicality.
Cleen, however, remained rooted, his gaze intense, sweeping the chamber as if searching for an invisible foe. "This cannot stand, Albus. A Dementor, inside Hogwarts. How? The wards are supposedly unbreakable." His voice was a low growl, filled with barely suppressed fury.
Dumbledore's eyes, which had softened slightly with relief at Echo's response, now hardened. "Indeed, Cleen. A question we must answer, and quickly. This suggests a vulnerability, a breach, or perhaps… a deliberate act. Peeves, you say you saw it? Can you describe its entry?"
Peeves, still subdued, nodded vigorously. "Peeves was just… floating about, minding Peeves's own business, having a bit of fun with the little wizard, when… whoosh! Like a cold wind, but no wind! It just… appeared! Right there in the corridor! And then… whoosh! It was gone, taking all the fun with it! Peeves hates those things!" He shivered dramatically.
"It appeared," Dumbledore murmured, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "Not entered through a door or window. Not past a physical barrier." He looked at Cleen, a silent understanding passing between them. "This points to a highly skilled breach of magical security, Cleen. Or… something far more ancient and insidious. We will discuss this further, in private." His gaze flickered towards Echo, a subtle warning in his eyes.
Cleen nodded, his jaw tight. "As you wish, Albus. But I will be reviewing every ward, every protective charm, from the very foundations of this castle." He gave Echo one last, sharp glance, a hint of his usual exasperation returning. "Try not to attract any more infernal creatures, Echo. My nerves are quite frayed as it is." Despite the harsh words, there was a faint, almost imperceptible softening in his tone, a grudging acknowledgment of the boy's ordeal.
Madam Pomfrey, meanwhile, had poured a steaming, honey-colored liquid into a goblet. "Here, Echo. A strong revitalizing potion. It will help restore your magical core and bring back some of your natural warmth."
Echo took the goblet, his hand still trembling slightly, and drank the potion. It tasted faintly of ginger and sunshine, and as it went down, a profound, spreading warmth bloomed in his chest. It wasn't the fleeting warmth of a charm or chocolate; it was a deep, fundamental warmth that seemed to seep into every cell, pushing back the cold, filling the void that the Dementor had left. A faint flush returned to his cheeks, and the emptiness in his eyes slowly, miraculously, began to recede, replaced by a returning spark of awareness. He felt... real again. Still tired, still shaken, but real.
"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," he whispered, his voice gaining a little more of its usual timbre.
Dumbledore watched him, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "You are a resilient young man, Echo. More resilient than many. The ability to pull yourself back from such despair, even with aid, speaks volumes of your inner strength." He paused, his eyes twinkling slightly. "Perhaps this summer was not quite as quiet as you anticipated."
Echo managed a weak, wry smile. "No, sir. Definitely not quiet." He looked at Hagrid, then Madam Pomfrey, then even Peeves, who was hovering excitedly now that Echo seemed to be recovering. He felt a profound sense of gratitude, a warmth that had nothing to do with the potion. He truly wasn't alone.
"Now, Echo," Dumbledore said, his voice becoming more serious. We must ensure this never happens again for your safety and for the safety of the entire castle. The presence of a Dementor within these walls is a grave matter. For tonight, you will rest in the hospital wing, under Madam Pomfrey's excellent care." He turned to the matron. "Poppy, keep him warm, ensure he is well-fed, and allow no visitors until morning. He needs undisturbed rest."
Madam Pomfrey nodded briskly. "Of course, Headmaster. Come along, Echo. Let's get you into a proper bed."
Echo, feeling the last vestiges of cold despair lift, allowed her to help him up. He was still wobbly, but his own strength was returning. He looked at Dumbledore and then at Cleen, a question forming in his mind: "But… how did it get here?"
Dumbledore's eyes were grave. "That, Echo, is a question we shall endeavor to answer. And I assure you, whoever is responsible will face the full consequences of their actions. For now, rest. The school year approaches, and you will need all your strength."
With a final, reassuring nod, Dumbledore turned and, with Cleen, exited the chamber. Their voices faded as they walked down the corridor. They were clearly engaged in an urgent and serious discussion, and Hagrid lingered for a moment, patting Echo gently on the shoulder.
"You gave us a fright, little wizard," he rumbled, his eyes soft. "But you're a strong one. Always knew that." He gave Echo a final, booming smile before following Madam Pomfrey towards the hospital wing.
Peeves, now fully recovered from his mischievous glee, swooped down. "Peeves saved you, little wizard! Peeves told them! So, that favor, eh? Peeves thinks… yes! Peeves thinks you owe Peeves a week of unlimited Filch-pranking! All the booby traps, all the custard pies, all the squealing students Peeves can dream of!"
Echo, despite his exhaustion, couldn't help but crack a genuine, albeit weak, smile. "We'll see, Peeves. We'll see."
He walked, leaning heavily on Madam Pomfrey, towards the hospital wing. Though still quiet, the castle no longer felt empty or oppressive. It felt like a home, full of people who, in their own ways, cared. He had faced down despair, and he had been pulled back by the bonds he had, unknowingly, formed. The summer was nearing its end, and a new school year, with all its challenges, awaited.