The weeks that followed Dumbledore's explanation brought a shift in Lily and Severus's approach to Echo. The frantic attempts to 'fix' him subsided, replaced by a quieter, more steadfast companionship. They now understood that Echo's journey was his own, and their role was simply to be present, offering the unspoken comfort of their unwavering friendship. Lily continued to sit with him at meals, sharing quiet observations about classes or the antics of other students, never pushing for a reaction, but simply being a steady, warm presence. Severus, too, would occasionally join them, his usual sharp wit softened by a subtle undercurrent of concern. He still observed Echo, but now with a quiet, analytical respect rather than a frustrated desire to prod.
Echo, in turn, began to respond in almost imperceptible ways. A slight tilt of his head when Lily made a particularly funny comment, a lingering gaze when Severus explained a complex magical theory. These were not emotions, not yet, but faint echoes of engagement, small signs that the world, through their persistence, was beginning to penetrate his internal quietude.
Meanwhile, the mystery of the Dementor's breach still gnawed at Echo. Dumbledore's reassurances felt hollow, even to his muted emotional state. He knew Lucius Malfoy was involved, and the absence of any public consequence for the wizard chafed at his logical mind. The quiet dread that he was a target, that the game had indeed begun, settled deeper into his consciousness. He moved through the castle with a newfound, almost predatory awareness, his senses subtly heightened, constantly scanning and observing.
One brisk afternoon, Echo was in the Slytherin common room, ostensibly working on a Transfiguration essay, but his mind was elsewhere. He watched the shifting shadows on the lake outside the common room window, the grey light reflecting his own internal landscape. He felt a familiar presence settle beside him.
"Still obsessed with silence, Echo?" a sneering voice drawled. Once again, it was Lucius Malfoy, finally speaking and addressing him after days of silence and long-distance smug looks, who sat down opposite him, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, who immediately blocked out most of the ambient light. "Still moping about your little… incident?"
Echo didn't look up from his parchment. "My 'incident,' as you call it, taught me valuable lessons. Lessons I doubt you, with your… inherited privilege, would ever comprehend." His voice was flat, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible edge to it.
Lucius' eyes narrowed. "Careful, half-blood. You forget who you're speaking to. My father ensures that certain… undesirables… are kept in their place." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "And my father was quite displeased to hear about your miraculous recovery. He had hoped for a… more permanent solution to your… uniqueness."
Echo finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting Lucilius. "Your father's, or whoever you're actually working for, hopes, like his influence, are often misplaced." He paused, then added, his voice gaining a chilling quietness, "Tell him I am far from finished. Tell him the game has just begun."
Lucius recoiled slightly, a flicker of genuine unease crossing his face before he masked it with a sneer. "Don't pretend to be something you're not, Echo. You're just a scared little boy. And you'll get what's coming to you." He stood up abruptly, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him. "Come on. I can't stand the smell of…depression."
Echo watched them leave, then turned back to his essay. The faint tremor of suspicion solidified into cold, hard resolve. Lucius was indeed a player in this game and served as its mouthpiece. The veiled threats, the implied knowledge of the Dementor attack – it was all confirmation. He was definitely a target. And he would not be an easy one.
His resolve strengthened, and Echo decided he needed to understand more about the school's defenses and the weaknesses Dumbledore had alluded to. He made a mental note to spend more time in the library, poring over texts on ancient wards and security charms. He also knew he needed to train—not just with Cleen but on his own, pushing his unique magic further and preparing for whatever came next.
As the days bled by, Echo settled into the rhythm of the new school year, a hollow imitation of his former self. His mornings were filled with muted lessons, his afternoons with quiet wandering, and his evenings with the unsettling quiet of his own thoughts. The returning students, a kaleidoscope of bright colors and boisterous voices, remained largely a blur, their joy a distant, foreign concept. He moved through the castle like a phantom, observed by many, understood by few.
One crisp autumn morning, a new entry appeared on his schedule: "First Flying Lesson - Second Years - South Lawn." Echo felt a faint prickle of something akin to curiosity. He had flown on Wick's back, soaring through the sky with an exhilarating sense of freedom and power. But a broomstick? That was different. It was… mundane. Still, he dutifully made his way to the vast, flat expanse of the South Lawn, where a line of brand-new, gleaming broomsticks lay neatly on the dew-kissed grass.
A small crowd of second-year students was already gathering, their faces a mix of nervous excitement and eager anticipation. Echo recognized a few, mostly from Slytherin, but he paid them little mind. His gaze drifted over the assortment of brooms, noting their uniform design. They looked nothing like the rough-hewn, magically resonant branch that had served as his first, spontaneous broom.
Standing at the head of the group was a stocky, no-nonsense witch with short, spiky grey hair and sharp, eagle-like eyes. This was Madam Hooch, the flying instructor. She held a whistle clutched in one hand and a stern expression on her face.
"Good morning, second years!" Madam Hooch barked, her voice raspy but clear. "Welcome to your first proper flying lesson! Now, I expect order, discipline, and absolute attention to detail. Flying is not a game; it is a skill that requires respect and control. Any showboating, any recklessness, and you will be out of my class faster than a Snitch!"
Echo nodded, his expression unreadable. Control was something he understood, even if he still struggled to feel the joy in it.
"Now," Madam Hooch continued, gesturing to the brooms, "everyone, stand beside a broom. Extend your dominant hand over it and say 'Up!'"
A chorus of young voices filled the air, each student attempting to summon their broom. Some brooms leaped into their hands immediately, others wobbled uncertainly, and a few remained stubbornly on the ground. Echo extended his hand, his gaze distant. He felt the phantom brush of Wick's scales, the surge of power when they soared. This was just a stick.
"Up!" he said, his voice flat, devoid of any genuine command or excitement.
The broom lay inert. Echo blinked. He tried again, a little louder. "Up." Still nothing. A faint flicker of something akin to irritation stirred within him, a feeling he hadn't experienced so strongly in weeks.
Madam Hooch, who had been scanning the group, noticed Echo's predicament. "Having trouble, Mr. Echo?" she asked, her voice surprisingly soft.
Before Echo could respond, a reedy voice piped up from a few feet away. "He probably doesn't know how to do it, Professor! He's always so… quiet."
Echo turned his head. Standing near him was a boy with round, earnest eyes and perpetually ruffled brown hair. He was clutching his broom tightly, which had successfully, if shakily, risen to his hand. Echo recognized him dimly; Frank Longbottom, a Gryffindor. Frank seemed to immediately regret his words, his face flushing a bright red.
"Frank Longbottom, less commentary, more focus!" Madam Hooch snapped, though her gaze still lingered on Echo.
Echo looked at Frank, then back at his broom. He had forgotten how easily people dismissed him, how quickly they assumed his stillness meant he was incompetent. A cold resolve settled over him. He might not feel joy, but he could still demonstrate competence. He focused, not on the broom, but on the invisible currents of magic around it, the faint hum of enchantment that held it dormant. He reached out with his hand, not projecting a command, but an intent. He channeled his unique magic, not with force, but with a subtle, almost imperceptible nudge, coaxing the broom, inviting it to obey.
The broom quivered, then, with a sharp, responsive thud, it shot into his outstretched hand, almost knocking him off balance. It felt lighter than he expected, almost eager.
Frank Longbottom's eyes widened further, and he swallowed hard. Madam Hooch raised an eyebrow, a flicker of grudging approval in her sharp gaze.
"Very good, Mr. Echo," she said, a hint of surprise in her voice. "A little unconventional, but effective. Now, everyone, once your broom is in hand, mount it. Sit comfortably, grasp the handle firmly, and lean slightly forward."
Echo mounted the broom, feeling the smooth wood beneath him. It was a far cry from Wick's leathery hide, but it was familiar in its own way. He felt a faint, distant hum of magic, a controlled surge. He knew, instinctively, that he could make this stick fly.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, kick off the ground… gently! And then hover a few feet up. Remember, brooms respond to your will. Think 'up,' not 'zoom!'" Madam Hooch instructed.
The whistle shrilled. A chaotic flurry of kicks and shouts erupted. Some students shot upwards like rockets, then plummeted back down with yelps of surprise. Others hovered erratically, wobbling in mid-air. Frank Longbottom, surprisingly, managed a relatively steady ascent, though he was still a little higher than advised.
Echo, however, remained rooted to the ground. He watched the others, observing their movements, their fear, their exhilaration. He felt none of it. He felt the faint pull of the broom, its desire to ascend, but he hesitated. He wanted to feel the lift, the simple joy of flight. But the void remained.
"Mr. Echo!" Madam Hooch called out, her voice sharper now. "What are you waiting for? Up you go!"
Frank Longbottom, hovering awkwardly, peered down. "What's he doing, Professor? Is he scared?" he muttered, clearly trying to whisper, but his voice carried.
Echo looked up at Frank, his dark eyes unnervingly blank. "No," he said, his voice flat. "I'm just… trying to feel it."
Frank blinked, clearly bewildered by the answer.
Madam Hooch sighed, walking over. "Mr. Echo, this is a practical lesson, not a philosophical debate. You must learn to fly the broom. You mastered summoning it; now master riding it. Kick off the ground, a little more force this time."
Echo nodded slowly. He didn't feel the desire to fly, not in the way he once had. But he could do it. He could simulate the action and project the intent. He remembered the feeling of Wick's powerful takeoff, the surge of wind, the dizzying height. He imagined the feeling, a cold, clinical recreation.
He kicked off the ground with a controlled, powerful push, and the broom shot upward. He adjusted his weight, leaned slightly forward, and found himself hovering perfectly, a few feet above the ground, precisely as Madam Hooch had instructed. He was still, steady, and unwavering.
Frank Longbottom, wobbling slightly, stared at Echo in disbelief. "Whoa," he murmured, his earlier teasing forgotten. "How did he do that?"
Echo simply hovered, his expression impassive. He was flying. It was an accomplishment, objectively. But the well of joy, the thrill that should have accompanied it, remained stubbornly dry. He felt a quiet, almost imperceptible sense of accomplishment, but it was a cold, distant feeling, like admiring a beautiful but lifeless statue. He had flown, but he hadn't truly felt it. And that, more than anything, was the real challenge of the summer's end. He was a wizard, more powerful than ever, but he was also a ghost of himself, relearning the very essence of what it meant to feel.
Meanwhile, on the sprawling green lawns, a crisp autumn breeze ruffled the students' robes as Madam Hooch led the second-years through their first flying lesson. Echo, mounted on a standard school broom, felt the familiar dullness, the absence of excitement that usually accompanied such activities. He held his broom correctly and followed instructions precisely, but his movements were mechanical, and his gaze was distant. Even the thrill of flight, once so exhilarating, was muted, a mere physical sensation rather than a joyful experience. Sniffles, tucked securely into his pocket, remained silent, sensing his master's pervasive emptiness.
"Alright, everyone, up!" Madam Hooch barked, her keen yellow eyes sweeping over the class. "A little higher, Longbottom! Potter, stop trying to impress Black and focus!"
Frank Longbottom, usually a bit clumsy but always eager, puffed out his chest, a mischievous glint in his eye. He was flying a little higher than the rest, trying to catch Echo's attention. "Watch this, Echo!" he called out, a triumphant grin on his face. He leaned down and whispered something to his broom, something unintelligible that sounded like a series of odd clicks and whistles.
Suddenly, Frank's broom gave a peculiar shudder, then dipped sharply to the left before jerking back up, performing an ungraceful but undeniably strange loop-the-loop. He landed awkwardly, a bit red-faced but beaming with pride. "See that? Got it to do a little jig!"
Echo, who had been watching with detached interest, felt a faint, almost imperceptible twitch in his stomach. It wasn't quite a feeling, more like a phantom echo of one. He barely had time to process it before his own broom, as if startled by Frank's antics or perhaps reacting to a stray spark of Echo's unusual magic, suddenly bucked violently.
One moment, Echo was hovering steadily. Next, he was flung forward, his body pinwheeling around the broomstick like a rag doll. The broom, no longer under his control, shot off erratically, zigzagging wildly across the training pitch. He screamed, a raw, involuntary sound that clawed its way from his throat, shockingly loud in his own ears. The ground rushed up, then spun away, the sky blurring into a terrifying kaleidoscope.
Fear. The sensation hit him like a physical blow, sharp and undeniable. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure terror. And then, as the broom dipped again, sending his stomach lurching into his throat, another feeling erupted: Nausea. A wave of bitter bile rose, hot and stinging. It was horrible, agonizing, but it was there. He felt it. He felt the cold, clammy sweat on his skin, the desperate scrabbling of his hands on the smooth wood of the broom, the dizzying disorientation. The void, for the first time in weeks, was filled, not with joy or warmth, but with visceral, overwhelming terror and sickness. He was alive. He was terrified.
Madam Hooch, reacting instantly, soared into the air, her whistle already at her lips. "Echo! Remain still! Hold tight!" she bellowed, her voice cutting through the wind. She was gaining on him, her hand outstretched, ready to snatch him from the runaway broom.
But just as her fingers grazed his ankle, the broom suddenly jettisoned forward with an unnatural burst of speed, seemingly of its own accord. It veered sharply, not towards the safety of the castle, but directly into the path of the ominous Black Lake and the dense, shadowy perimeter of the Forbidden Forest.
The students on the ground collectively gasped, their faces pale with horror. James, Sirius, and even the ever-stoic Severus watched, mouths agape. Frank Longbottom, seeing the direction of Echo's uncontrolled flight, visibly crumpled. His face turned ashen, and he looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
"Oh, Merlin, no!" Frank choked out, his voice cracking. "It's my fault! I made it do something weird! I didn't mean to, I swear!"
Madam Hooch, though concerned, immediately recognized the boy's distress. "It's not your fault, Longbottom!" she yelled back, her voice firm despite the urgency of the situation. "Everyone, off your brooms! Return to the castle immediately! I'll retrieve Echo!"
She spun her broom around, preparing to chase after the errant broom, but before she could, a frantic voice from the ground stopped her cold. "Madam Hooch! Wait! A Dementor! It's been spotted near the grounds! All students must return inside!"
The sudden, profound cold that had washed over the corridor had not been confined to that single space. It had, like a wave of pure despair, rippled through the very stones of Hogwarts, a chilling, unwelcome guest in every corner of the castle. Students and professors, drawn by an instinct they couldn't name, or perhaps by the sheer, unholy absence of warmth, began to gravitate towards the Great Hall. By the time Peeves had sped off to spread the news, a terrified throng was already coalescing within the enchanted space.
The Great Hall, usually a bastion of comforting noise, was a cacophony of panicked whispers and frayed nerves. Students huddled together, their faces pale and drawn, recounting fragmented glimpses of the chilling phenomenon. First-years clung to older siblings, while even the bravest Gryffindors looked visibly shaken. Professors moved through the crowd, their wands subtly raised, their expressions grim and concerned, as they tried to project a calm they clearly didn't feel.
"A Dementor!" a Hufflepuff shrieked, clutching her friend. "I felt it! It was so cold!"
"But how?" a Ravenclaw muttered, pacing frantically. "The wards! Dumbledore said the wards were impenetrable!"
"It stole my happy memory of last Christmas!" a distraught Gryffindor wailed. "It just... took it!"
"No, it didn't. You're still under the effect of that temporary memory loss tonic." Another Gryffindor told off the first.
The clamor rose, bordering on hysteria, until a voice, clear and resonant despite its age, cut through the din like a golden blade.
"Silence!"
Albus Dumbledore stood at the head table, his long silver beard gleaming, his eyes, usually twinkling, now sharp and unwavering. He held his wand aloft, not casting a spell, but simply commanding attention. A hush, albeit a trembling one, fell over the Great Hall.
"Students, professors," Dumbledore began, his voice calm and reassuring, though a subtle undertone of gravity laced his words. "I understand your fear. What you have experienced, what you have felt, was indeed the presence of a Dementor." A collective gasp swept through the Hall. "However," he continued, raising a hand to quell the rising panic, "I assure you, you are safe. So long as you remain within the walls of this castle, the Dementor cannot truly harm you. The ancient wards of Hogwarts, though briefly disturbed, have been restored and are now stronger than ever. These creatures cannot long endure within such powerful protections."
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the students, though many still clung to each other, their eyes wide with lingering terror. Just as a murmur of uneasy calm began to settle, another voice, breathless and distraught, shattered the fragile peace.
"Headmaster! Dumbledore! It's Echo! It's young Echo!" Madam Hooch, her usually stern face etched with a rare combination of terror and exasperation, stumbled into the Great Hall, her hands gripping a battered-looking broomstick. Her usually neat hair was disheveled, and her goggles were askew.
"I was outside on the green with the other second-year students, giving them their first lesson on broomstick riding. And his broom... it just went wild! Completely uncontrollable! Veered off between the Black Lake and the Forbidden Forest, just like a rogue bludger! I shouted, I tried to give chase, but I was suddenly told about the Dementor and had to bring the other children back inside for their safety!" She gestured wildly with the broom in her hand, nearly whacking a startled fifth-year. "He just... shot off! Right over the lake! He's still out there!"
A fresh wave of murmurs, this time of profound alarm, swept through the Hall. The Dementor was one thing, but Echo, a second-year, alone and adrift between two dangerous locations, was another entirely.
Dumbledore's brow furrowed, a faint flicker of concern in his eyes. "Between the Black Lake and the Forbidden Forest, you say, Madam Hooch?" He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Well, if he landed in the lake, he should be quite safe, at least from that particular menace. Dementors are not fond of open bodies of water. The cold, the damp, the sheer, elemental vastness of it…it repels them. Indeed, they actively avoid it."
A collective, though still anxious, breath was released. The lake, for all its mysteries, was at least free of Dementors.
Then, from the huddled mass of Gryffindor fifth-years, a voice, surprisingly quiet and laced with a terrifying edge of concern, cut through the relieved murmurs. Remus Lupin, pale and looking even more fragile than usual, his eyes wide with an unspoken dread, spoke. "But...can Echo even swim?"
The question hung in the air, a sudden, chilling silence descending upon the Great Hall. Every eye turned to Echo's housemates, to the professors, to anyone who might know. Lily and Severus, standing near the back, exchanged a horrified glance.
"No," Lily whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't think so. I've never seen him..."
"He never mentioned it," Severus added, a cold dread seeping into his tone. "He's always been so private about his life before Hogwarts."
Dumbledore's usually serene expression tightened, and even McGonagall's face paled further. The unspoken truth, stark and terrifying, settled over them. In all their efforts to help Echo, to guide him through the intricacies of magic, no one had considered something so basic, so fundamentally human. The Black Lake, a constant, majestic presence, now loomed as a silent, terrifying threat.
Madam Hooch, her face etched with grim determination, didn't wait for confirmation. "I'm going after him!" she declared, turning sharply towards the massive oak doors. Her battered broom was still clutched in her hand.
McGonagall, recovering quickly from her shock, stepped forward, blocking the way. "Poppy, wait! You can't! You don't have a Patronus! The Dementor is still out there!" Her voice was urgent, laced with fear for her colleague.
Madam Hooch met McGonagall's gaze, her sharp eyes blazing with a fierce resolve. "I don't care, Minerva! I'm not going to let a student drown on my watch! Dementor or no Dementor, that boy is out there, and he needs help! Move aside!" Her grip on the broom tightened, and she looked ready to blast through the doors herself if necessary.
The sudden shift from the terrifying chaos of uncontrolled flight to the damp, earthy stillness of the Forbidden Forest was jarring. Echo slowly became aware of his surroundings, a throbbing ache behind his eyes, and the lingering taste of bile in his mouth. He was lying on his back, the uncooperative broomstick still beneath him, gently lifting and spinning a few feet off the ground, a silent, mocking carousel. For a moment, he thought he was trapped in one of those fever dreams from his childhood, where the room spun relentlessly until he felt he would be flung from his bed. He felt the cold, hard wood against his cheek, the slow, disorienting rotation.
With a groan, he rolled off the broom, landing with a soft thud on the leaf-strewn ground. His head swam, and he pushed himself up slowly, leaning against the rough bark of a massive oak tree. He closed his eyes, taking several deep, shaky breaths to try to clear the lingering dizziness. When he opened them again, the world had mostly stabilized, but the reality of his situation crashed over him with a sudden, icy clarity.
He was in the Forbidden Forest. And there, still stubbornly floating a few feet above the ground, slowly spinning, was the broom that had nearly killed him. A wave of emotion, raw and unfamiliar, surged through him. It wasn't the distant, intellectual dread he had felt about the Dementor, nor the cold satisfaction of mastering dark magic. This was pure, unadulterated, scorching anger. Anger at the broom, at his own helplessness, at the persistent, nagging feeling of being broken, of being unable to feel anything but the most brutal of sensations. He hadn't felt this kind of hot, consuming fury in weeks, months, even. It was ugly, yet glorious in its intensity.
Without a second thought, Echo lunged forward, grabbing the still-floating broomstick with both hands. He felt its feeble magical hum, its desire to defy him, and that only fueled his rage. With a guttural cry, he swung the broomstick, slamming its slender shaft against the trunk of the oak tree. Wood splintered, a sharp crack echoing through the quiet forest. He swung again, and again, each blow accompanied by a grunt of exertion, a release of the pent-up frustration and terror he had just experienced. The broom cried out, its magic protesting. Still, Echoo ignored it, swinging with a furious, relentless rhythm until, with a final, resounding snap, the broomstick broke cleanly in half, its fragments falling uselessly to the forest floor.
He stood there, panting, the broken pieces of wood scattered around his feet. The anger, though still present, had lessened, replaced by a profound, if cold, exhaustion. He looked at the wreckage, then at his trembling hands. He had felt something. He had truly felt it. And the realization, though terrifying, brought with it a faint, unsettling echo of… power. "If it were possible to kill something that wasn't alive," he snarled at the broken wood, his voice hoarse, "I would have used Avada Kedavra on you."
He stared at the splintered wood, the residual hum of his own unique magic still thrumming beneath his skin, a stark contrast to the silence that now emanated from the dead broom. The surge of fury had been exhilarating, a raw, undeniable testament to his existence, a brutal reaffirmation of life. For a fleeting moment, he felt a strange, almost manic lightness, a dark triumph. This was better than nothing. This was something.
But as quickly as it had come, the anger began to recede, draining from him like water through a sieve. The hot, consuming fire cooled, leaving behind a familiar, oppressive hollowness. The exhilaration faded, replaced by the same pervasive grayness that had cloaked him for weeks. He was back to being numb, the brief, violent outburst a mere hiccup in his ongoing emotional drought. He sighed, a tired, empty sound, and looked up at the darkening canopy of trees. The forest, once a place of comfort, now felt indifferent, its vastness mirroring the emptiness within him. He started to turn, to make his way back towards the distant lights of the castle, the lingering chill of the Dementor's presence still a subtle reminder of the danger lurking outside Hogwarts's wards.
Just as he took a step, a faint, almost imperceptible rustle drew his gaze to a clump of withered leaves near the base of a gnarled, ancient tree. A tiny, iridescent scale shimmered in the fading light. He watched, his blank eyes devoid of curiosity, as a small, three-headed creature slowly, painfully, dragged itself into view.
It was a baby Runespoor, no bigger than his hand, its scales a dull, faded gold. All three heads were listlessly slumped, their tiny, unblinking eyes glazed over. One head twitched weakly, emitting a pathetic, reedy hiss – a sound so mournful, so utterly lost, that it pierced through Echo's emotional barrier, if only by a fraction. The Runespoor was clearly a newborn, its movements uncoordinated, its small body shivering violently despite the absence of a noticeable breeze. It was lost, alone, and clearly on the verge of death.
A vague, unfamiliar pressure stirred in Echo's chest, a dull ache that resonated with the creature's plight. It needed warmth. It needed heat. Instinct, or perhaps a long-buried fragment of his own nurturing nature, urged him forward. He knelt, extending a hesitant hand. The Runespoor, too weak to recoil, merely shivered harder.
He gently cupped the tiny snake in his palms, feeling its cold, brittle scales against his skin. It was impossibly fragile, its tiny heart fluttering weakly. He tried to draw on his magic, the dark, powerful force that had recently allowed him to endure the Cruciatus Curse and break the broom. He focused, willing warmth into his hands, picturing a gentle, radiating heat. He closed his eyes, concentrating, trying to channel his essence into the dying creature.
But when he opened his eyes and looked at the Runespoor, nothing had changed. Its scales remained deathly cold. He pressed the tiny creature closer to his chest, willing his own body heat to transfer, a desperate, silent plea. But his own skin felt as cold as stone, a constant, unnatural chill that had settled deep within him since the Dementor's attack. He was an empty vessel, radiating nothing but an absence of warmth.
He felt the last, feeble twitch of the Runespoor's three heads, a final, despairing shiver. Its tiny bodies went limp in his hands, and the faint, reedy hiss died into silence. The pressure in Echo's chest intensified, a sudden, sharp stab of… something. He didn't know what it was, but it felt like a cold, hollow echo of pain. The Runespoor was dead. And he, with all his newfound power, had been utterly unable to save it. He stared at the lifeless creature, then at his own cold, useless hands, a profound, chilling sense of impotence settling over him. The anger, the brief, glorious burst of feeling, was utterly gone, replaced by a devastating, desolate quiet.
"I'm sorry," Echo whispered, his voice cracking, a sound he hadn't heard from himself in what felt like an eternity. He looked at the tiny, still form, and then at his own empty hands. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I didn't have the warmth you needed. I'm sorry I failed again. I always… always fail."
The words were choked, ripped from a place deep within him that had long been silent. A fresh wave of something raw and sharp, something indistinguishable from profound grief, washed over him. He felt the cold tears on his cheeks, hot and stinging against his unnaturally cold skin. He clutched the tiny Runespoor to his chest, the delicate body a stark contrast to the overwhelming pain that now surged through him.
He cried for the creature, for its short, fragile life, for the warmth he couldn't give. But he also cried for himself. He cried for the boy he had been before the Dementor, before the attack, before the world had become a muted, distant hum. He cried for the vibrant emotions he had lost, for the laughter and joy that felt like ancient history. The pain was unbearable, a cold, suffocating ache that squeezed his chest, but it was real. It was a terrible, beautiful agony, a confirmation that he wasn't entirely gone, that a part of him, however broken, still existed.
He sobbed, rocking gently, the small, lifeless body an anchor in the stormy sea of his returning, negative emotions. He wanted to go back, back to a time when he could feel the sun on his face, the warmth of a friend's smile, the simple joy of flying with Wick. He wanted to feel everything again, even the small hurts, the minor annoyances, the things he had once taken for granted. He wanted anything but this cold, desolate ache, this constant reminder of what had been stolen.
The forest seemed to hold its breath around him, the silence broken only by his raw, desolate cries. He was crying for the snake, but he was also crying for the ghost of himself, for the unbearable weight of feeling everything bad and nothing good. The darkness of the forest mirrored the darkness within him, a vast, echoing emptiness filled only with the bitter taste of loss and the crushing weight of his own perceived inadequacy.