The Great Hall buzzed with the usual cacophony of dinner, a symphony of clanking cutlery, boisterous laughter, and the distant murmur of conversation. Echo sat at the Slytherin table, meticulously dissecting a roasted potato, his emerald hair pulsing with quiet focus. The chaos of the room was, as always, a fascinating, if somewhat inefficient, display of human interaction. Suddenly, a shadow fell over him. Echo looked up, his gaze flat, to see a tall, sandy-haired boy with bright, earnest eyes standing beside him. It was Amos Diggory, a fifth-year Hufflepuff, and by the faded crest on his robes, a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team.
"Echo, right?" Amos asked with a friendly, if slightly nervous, smile on his face.
Echo merely blinked. "That is correct. My name is Echo. Do you require something?"
Amos chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, yeah, actually. I was wondering… would you consider joining the Hufflepuff Quidditch team?"
Echo froze, his quill, which he had been using to idly sketch a complex potion formula on a napkin, pausing mid-stroke. His emerald hair flickered with pure, unadulterated confusion, tinged with a questioning violet. "Quidditch?" he stated, his voice flat. "The game involving broomsticks and chasing spherical objects?"
Amos nodded eagerly. "That's the one! We're a bit short this year, and, well, I've heard… things about you."
Echo raised a disdainful eyebrow. "I am aware that I possess a certain… reputation. However, most of it consists of the observation that I am, to put it mildly, 'weird.' I fail to see how such a descriptor would be beneficial on a sporting team."
Amos's smile widened. "No, no, not weird in a bad way! More like… unusually capable. And interesting. I've heard you can do things with magic that… well, that are a bit out there, but always with a purpose. And Frank Longbottom talks about you a lot. Says you're one of the smartest, most decent blokes he knows."
Echo felt an uncharacteristic flicker of something akin to warmth in his chest, and the pink in his hair pulsed faintly. Frank Longbottom, the perpetually worried, kind Gryffindor, was one of the few who seemed to genuinely tolerate, if not understand, Echo's particular brand of logic.
"While I appreciate the… unexpected compliments," Echo stated, his voice still flat but now laced with a hint of genuine bewilderment, "I must confess, I am not precisely the 'sporty type.' My knowledge of Quidditch extends merely to its general nomenclature and the rudimentary objective of scoring points. Furthermore," he added, his emerald hair flaring with a logical objection, "tryouts were weeks ago. And I am a Slytherin. You are a Hufflepuff. We possess distinct, and indeed, opposing, Quidditch teams."
Amos sighed, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. "I know, I know. It's a bit of a pickle. But here's the thing, Echo. This year, across all houses, the teams are… well, they're really small. So small, in fact, that Professor Dumbledore and the Heads of Houses decided that the only way to have enough players for a fair season was to… merge the teams. Just for this year, until more students show interest. We're going to have hybrid teams."
Echo blinked, his hair flickering with a chaotic mix of violet and yellow. A hybrid team. The illogical variables were multiplying. "A hybrid team? That seems… counterintuitive to the competitive spirit of inter-house rivalry."
"It's a temporary measure," Amos insisted, rubbing his hands together. "Look, I know it's weird. But we really need players. Especially bright ones. We could teach you the rules, help you with flying… just give it a try, Echo? Please? Just come to one practice. See if you like it. No pressure, honest."
Echo stared at the remnants of his roasted potato, then at Amos's earnest, pleading face. The concept was still illogical and chaotic. But the appeal of a new, complex system to analyze, a fresh set of variables to master… and the unspoken challenge of overcoming a perceived lack of aptitude…
He sighed, a long, weary sound. "Very well, Diggory," he stated, his voice flat but tinged with a faint, almost imperceptible note of resignation. The gold in his hair pulsed with reluctant acceptance. "I will attend one 'practice,' as you call it. However, I make no promises of continued participation. And if it proves to be an inefficient allocation of my time, or if the physics of airborne spherical objects prove to be unduly arbitrary, I shall withdraw immediately."
Amos beamed, his face lighting up. "Brilliant, Echo! Just brilliant! I'll tell you when the next practice is. You won't regret it!"
Echo merely grunted, already contemplating the aerodynamic properties of a Bludger. He had a feeling he might, in fact, regret it. Profoundly.
The following Saturday, Echo, clad in his usual black robes, made his way to the Quidditch pitch. The morning air was crisp and cold, carrying the faint scent of damp grass and distant pine. He spotted Amos Diggory already there, excitedly talking to a stern-looking woman with short, grey hair and piercing yellow eyes. Madam Hooch, the flying instructor and Quidditch referee. She held a whistle in one hand and a stack of battered broomsticks in the other.
Amos waved enthusiastically as Echo approached. "Echo! You made it!"
Madam Hooch's sharp eyes landed on Echo, and she gave a small, approving nod. "Mr. Echo. Good to see you actually showed up. And I must say, it's about time we had some new blood on the pitch, especially with the… unusual circumstances this year." She gave Amos a pointed look. "Though I confess, Mr. Diggory, I'm still a bit concerned about your choice of… assistant."
Amos chuckled nervously. "Oh, Madam Hooch, Echo's brilliant! He'll pick it up in no time!"
Madam Hooch sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I'm sure he is, Mr. Diggory. But raw talent on a broomstick isn't something one 'picks up.' It requires… an innate aptitude. And, Mr. Echo, with all due respect, your file on basic broomstick riding was… quite concerning. Frankly, it detailed an alarming number of near-fatal incidents."
Echo's emerald hair flickered with a faint, amused gold. "Madam Hooch is merely articulating, in a euphemistic manner, the fact that my performance in basic broomstick handling was so profoundly inept, and my disregard for personal safety so pronounced, that she was compelled to remove me from the class. For my own protection, and indeed, for the structural integrity of the castle itself. A 'nice way' to say I almost got myself killed so often she had to pull me out of basic broomstick riding for my safety."
Madam Hooch stared at him for a long moment, then, slowly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Precisely, Mr. Echo. A succinct, if somewhat alarming, summary. Nonetheless, Mr. Diggory has convinced me to give you a chance. At the very least, your presence should provide a… unique motivational challenge for the other players."
Echo merely inclined his head. "I am pleased to be of assistance in the 'motivational' capacity, Madam Hooch. However, I must reiterate: my continued participation is contingent upon the logical utility of the exercise."
Madam Hooch snorted. "We'll see about that. Now, Mr. Diggory, Mr. Echo, gather the others. We're starting with basic flying drills. And try not to crash into anyone, Mr. Echo. It tends to disrupt the rhythm."
Echo nodded, his emerald hair already calculating vectors and trajectories. He had a feeling this was going to be an exceptionally illogical, yet undeniably intriguing, experience.
The next hour was, for Echo, a masterclass in aerial incompetence. He mounted his broomstick with painstaking precision, analyzing its balance and the subtle nuances of its wood grain. But the moment Madam Hooch blew her whistle, all logical understanding of aerodynamics seemed to abandon him. He'd kick off the ground with a burst of frantic emerald and violet hair, only to immediately veer sharply right, or plummet suddenly, or, in one particularly memorable instance, fly in a perfect, albeit uncontrolled, spiral directly into a goalpost. Each attempt ended with a thud, a shower of disturbed turf, and a muffled groan from Echo as he once again found himself intimately acquainted with the grass.
Amos, his initial enthusiasm slowly replaced by a look of growing concern, hovered nearby. After Echo's fifth spectacular face-plant, he landed his own broom, trotting over to the crumpled form.
"Echo! Are you alright?" Amos asked, his voice strained.
Echo, slowly pushing himself up, meticulously spat out a mouthful of damp earth. The gold in his hair, surprisingly, pulsed with a hint of self-deprecating amusement. "I am… adequately intact, Diggory," he stated, his voice flat, but with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "Though I confess, I haven't had this much fiber in my diet in quite some time. It is… remarkably earthy."
Madam Hooch, who had watched the entire debacle with a growing look of weary resignation, landed beside them. "Mr. Diggory," she said, her voice firm, "I appreciate your… optimism. But frankly, Mr. Echo is a menace to himself and to anyone within a fifty-foot radius. We need players, not… human bludgers. For his own safety, if nothing else, I suggest you concede. Some people are simply not meant for the air."
Echo, still brushing grass from his robes, paused. The emerald in his hair flickered, tinged with a surprising, thoughtful gold. He was a detriment, he realized. His inability to control the broom made him more of an obstacle than an asset. And yet… There was a strange, undeniable thrill that had accompanied each uncontrolled plummet, each near-miss with a teammate. The wind in his face, the brief, exhilarating sensation of flight, however clumsy… it had been, against all logical expectation, rather enjoyable.
An idea, sudden and illogical, yet undeniably compelling, sparked in his mind. The gold in his hair flared with renewed determination.
"Madam Hooch," Echo stated, his voice flat, but with a new, insistent edge. "May I attempt one more thing? A different approach, perhaps?"
Madam Hooch raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in her piercing yellow eyes. "What sort of 'thing,' Mr. Echo? If it involves another collision with a goalpost, I'm afraid my patience is wearing thin."
"No," Echo replied, his gaze unwavering. "It is… unconventional. But it might prove effective."
Echo, without another word, reached into his robes and withdrew his wand. His emerald hair pulsed with a newfound, almost predatory, focus. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, concentrating, and then, with a sharp, precise flick of his wrist, he pointed his wand at the sky and muttered a low, resonant incantation. A moment of hushed silence fell over the Quidditch pitch. Then, from the distant, towering peaks of the Forbidden Forest, a majestic, piercing shriek split the air. The sound grew rapidly, accompanied by the powerful whoosh of enormous wings. A shadow, vast and swiftly moving, fell across the sun-drenched pitch.
Suddenly, with a thunderous beat of wings, a magnificent griffin, its leonine body muscled and powerful, its eagle head fierce and alert, descended from the sky. Its golden feathers gleamed in the weak sunlight, and its sharp talons, though retracted, looked formidable. It landed with a soft thump a few yards from Echo, its intelligent, golden eyes immediately fixing on him. This was Gorick, Echo's fiercely loyal, if somewhat imposing, griffin companion.
A collective gasp rippled through the scattered students, and even Madam Hooch took an involuntary step back, her eyes wide with shock. Several students shrieked, scattering backward as if the creature itself was about to pounce. Only Amos Diggory and Frank Longbottom remained rooted to their spots, their faces a mixture of awe and utter disbelief.
"Gorick," Echo stated, his voice flat, a hint of pride in his tone, as the griffin nudged his hand affectionately. "My apologies for the abrupt summons. Urgent tactical consultation required."
Madam Hooch finally found her voice, stomped forward, her face a mask of furious indignation. "Mr. Echo! What in the name of Merlin's beard do you think you're doing? You cannot bring a dangerous magical beast onto the Quidditch pitch! And you certainly cannot expect to fly it in place of a broom! This is absolutely out of the question!"
Echo turned to her, his emerald hair flickering with exasperation. "Madam Hooch," he stated, his voice flat but firm, "I have no other choices. As you have so succinctly pointed out, my aptitude for conventional broomstick locomotion is… negligible. Furthermore, Gorick," he gestured to the majestic creature beside him, "is the smallest flying companion I possess. And I do not 'plan to play' in the traditional sense of the game. My objectives are purely tactical."
Madam Hooch narrowed her eyes. "Tactical? What details, Mr. Echo? Explain yourself."
"I shall be an obstacle, Madam Hooch," Echo clarified, his voice flat. "Gorick and I will defend, block, and attack with strategic precision. If your team can successfully navigate the complexities of maneuvering past a Griffin, they will be adequately prepared to overcome any conventional player. It is a logical, albeit unconventional, training methodology."
Amos's eyes, which had widened progressively throughout Echo's explanation, now gleamed with unadulterated excitement. "He's brilliant, Madam Hooch! A griffin as a training obstacle! Imagine the defensive drills!"
Madam Hooch, however, looked far from convinced. "Brilliant, Mr. Diggory, or utterly insane? Mr. Echo, I cannot allow a dangerous magical creature to be flown on the Quidditch pitch. There is too much risk."
"I assure you, Madam Hooch," Echo stated, his voice unwavering, as he stroked Gorick's feathered neck. "Gorick listens to my commands perfectly. He will not attack any student, nor inflict any damage beyond what is strategically necessary for the 'obstacle' dynamic. Furthermore, he has been fed recently and is therefore entirely without predatory inclination. He will not, for instance, attempt to consume Mr. Longbottom, however tempting the prospect might be."
Madam Hooch stared at the griffin, then at Echo's unyielding face, then back at the terrified students. She let out a long, shuddering sigh, clearly weighing the bizarre proposition against the desperate need for adequate training. "Very well, Mr. Echo," she finally conceded, her voice laced with extreme reluctance. "But I warn you, if things get out of hand, if so much as a single feather is misplaced on a student's head, I shall stop this immediately. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, Madam Hooch," Echo replied, a faint, triumphant smirk touching his lips. The gold in his hair pulsed with satisfaction. "I concur entirely with that stipulation. Logical and entirely appropriate."
He swung himself onto Gorick's broad back, the griffin's golden feathers surprisingly soft beneath his robes. With a powerful beat of his wings, Gorick launched them into the air. Echo, perched securely, looked down at the miniature figures below, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. This, he decided, was infinitely more logical than a broomstick. This, he could master. This, he could use. And he had a feeling that, for once, Quidditch was about to become truly interesting.
The students, initially terrified, soon found themselves exhilarated. Chasing after a Quaffle while a griffin swooped and soared, mimicking the movements of a particularly aggressive Beater, was a challenge unlike any they had ever encountered. Echo, perched on Gorick's back, was a silent, tactical force. He directed Gorick with subtle nudges and whispered commands, positioning him perfectly to intercept passes, create diversions, and occasionally, with surprising accuracy, snatch a stray Bludger from the air before it could reach a teammate. His emerald hair flared with intense concentration, and the gold pulsed with strategic triumph whenever a maneuver was executed flawlessly.
Even Madam Hooch found herself impressed, despite her initial skepticism. While she still issued stern warnings about safety, she couldn't deny the effectiveness of Echo's unconventional training method. The Hufflepuff and Gryffindor players, initially bewildered, were now faster, more agile, and far more aware of their surroundings. They were learning to anticipate, to react, and to think strategically in a way that traditional drills simply couldn't teach them.
After an hour of intense, Griffin-assisted practice, Madam Hooch blew her whistle, a long, piercing sound that signaled the end of the session. Gorick descended gracefully, landing with a soft thud. Echo dismounted, his black hair now slightly disheveled, but his eyes bright with a rare, almost joyful, satisfaction.
"Remarkably efficient, Madam Hooch," Echo stated, his voice flat but with a hint of genuine approval. "The increased cognitive load on the players, combined with the dynamic and unpredictable nature of a living obstacle, has clearly enhanced their spatial awareness and reactive capabilities. I believe this methodology could be scaled for optimal team performance."
Madam Hooch merely snorted, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Scaled or not, Mr. Echo, I've never seen this lot fly with such… enthusiasm. And fear, certainly, but enthusiasm nonetheless. Very well. I suppose we can continue this… unconventional training for now. But remember, Mr. Echo, safety first."
Echo merely nodded, his emerald hair pulsing with satisfaction. "Understood, Madam Hooch. The logical continuation of effective training protocols is paramount."
Suddenly, a frustrated shout ripped through the air. "Madam Hooch! I can't get it! It's too fast!"
Everyone looked up. High above the pitch, a tiny golden blur, the Golden Snitch, darted and weaved, utterly eluding the grasp of the Seekers attempting to catch it. Even the fastest Gryffindor Seeker, who had just shouted, was struggling, looking utterly exasperated as he chased after it in vain.
Echo's eyes narrowed, a calculating gleam entering their depths. The gold in his hair flared with renewed purpose. "Madam Hooch," he stated, his voice flat, but with a new, confident edge. "My current mount is, I believe, optimally suited for such a task."
Madam Hooch looked at him, then at the impossibly fast Snitch, then back at Gorick, who stood patiently beside Echo, his head tilted. She hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Very well, Mr. Echo. Just… be careful. The Snitch can be… unpredictable."
Echo didn't wait for further permission. He swung himself onto Gorick's back with practiced ease. "Gorick," he commanded, his voice a low, precise whisper. "The golden sphere. Retrieve it."
With a powerful beat of his wings, Gorick launched into the sky, a magnificent blur of golden feathers and powerful muscle. He soared upwards, his keen eagle eyes fixed on the elusive Snitch. The wind whistled past Echo's ears as they ascended, rapidly closing the distance to the tiny, glimmering object. Gorick was incredibly fast, his movements fluid and precise, a living arrow cutting through the air. The Snitch, sensing its pursuer, darted frantically, twisting and turning, but Gorick was relentless. He matched its every move, his powerful wings beating a steady rhythm. They climbed higher and higher, the Quidditch pitch shrinking below them until it was a distant green rectangle. The air grew colder, and the familiar Hogwarts grounds vanished beneath a thick blanket of grey. Suddenly, Gorick dipped, a swift, elegant dive, and with a soft snap, caught the Golden Snitch deftly in his beak. He ascended once more, leveling out.
Echo found himself perched high above the world, surrounded by a swirling expanse of dull, heavy clouds. The light was muted, the air thick and still. It was gloomy, oppressive even, the kind of grey, encompassing gloom that seemed to press down on the mind. It felt… eerily familiar—just like the day he'd first encountered the Dementor. The thought, cold and unwelcome, pricked at his mind. He quickly pushed it away. This was merely an atmospheric observation—nothing more.
His eyes, usually so sharp, strained to pierce the thick, swirling mist. He felt it before he saw it – a subtle shift in the air, a drop in temperature that had nothing to do with altitude, a draining sensation, cold and insidious, that began to seep into his very core. Gorick, sensing it too, let out a low, guttural growl, his powerful body tensing beneath Echo. The griffin's golden eyes, usually so fierce, held a flicker of something akin to apprehension.
"What is it, Gorick?" Echo whispered, his voice flat, but with a new, unsettling tension. The gold in his hair dimmed, replaced by a questioning, agitated violet.
Suddenly, Gorick let out a furious roar, a sound that ripped through the muffled air, and released the Golden Snitch, which plummeted rapidly into the grey abyss below. A form, impossibly tall and draped in tattered, black cloaks, drifted out of the swirling fog. It was a Dementor, its decaying hand outstretched, its presence a sucking vacuum of hope and happiness.
But Echo felt no fear. Not the soul-numbing despair that had crippled him before. Instead, a slow, building rage, cold and potent, began to fester in his chest. His violet hair flared, igniting into a furious, blazing crimson, tinged with a dangerous, predatory gold. This was his Dementor. The one he had faced. The one he had commanded.
"You!" Echo's voice, flat and dangerously low, ripped through the silent air, amplified by the sheer force of his fury. "How dare you approach the school? Did you forget who your master is? Did you forget the terms of our… previous engagement?"
As if in answer, two more spectral figures, equally cloaked and terrifying, began to emerge from the surrounding gloom, drifting silently towards them. Echo's crimson hair blazed with a murderous intensity. "Backstabbing, is it? You think you can defy me? You think I am vulnerable? You discovered I can feel emotions again, and you assume weakness?" He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "You are wrong, you insipid, unthinking parasite! I merely choose when to feel and when not to. I can turn it on and off. Do you wish to experience what pain feels like? Do you wish to truly suffer?"
His eyes, wide and unnervingly bright in the dim light, sought out the familiar void within his soul, the desolate, hollow space he had created and maintained. With a conscious, deliberate effort, he plunged into it, draining himself of every last vestige of emotion. The furious crimson and gold in his hair withered, replaced by an unsettling, lifeless grey, utterly devoid of warmth or light. His face became a cold, unfeeling mask, his eyes devoid of empathy, utterly hollow. He was a vessel, pure and unfeeling.
And then, his focus narrowed, and he targeted the Dementor directly in front of them, the presumed betrayer. He extended his wand, his grip steady, and with a voice that was flat, cold, and utterly devoid of mercy, he uttered the forbidden curse. "Crucio!"
The jet of green light that erupted from his wand was not merely bright; it was a sickening, virulent emerald, a foul, corrosive hue that seemed to leach the very color from the air. It struck the Dementor with brutal force, and the creature, for the first time, let out a horrifying, silent shriek, its ethereal form writhing as if in unimaginable torment. Echo's entire head of hair, from root to tip, turned the same evil, sick green as the curse, pulsating with the raw, malevolent power he now wielded.
The air crackled with the Dementor's silent, agonizing shriek, a sound that tore at the fabric of reality, twisting its form into grotesque contortions. It wasn't the familiar, hollow wail of the Dementor; it was a desperate, human-like scream, a sound of pure, unadulterated pain that echoed without sound. Echo's eyes, still hollow and grey, watched with detached precision as the creature convulsed. Then, with a sudden, sharp intake of breath that shattered the cold, unfeeling mask, Echo cut the spell short. The virulent green light snapped back into his wand, and his hair, still an unsettling, sick green, flickered with a sudden, horrified shock as he felt a rush of emotion flood back into him.
The Dementor, no longer held in the grip of the curse, plummeted downwards, its black cloak tearing away in the strong winds. As it fell, shedding its tattered guise, a familiar figure was revealed beneath—James Potter, disheveled and pale, his glasses askew, plummeting towards the distant ground.
"Potter!" Echo shrieked, his voice flat, but laced with a sudden, pure horror. His hair, a chaotic mix of green and terrified crimson, pulsed wildly. "Gorick! Grab him! Now!"
Gorick, reacting with the speed of instinct, folded his powerful wings and dove. He was a blur of golden feathers, streaking downwards, closing the distance to the rapidly falling James Potter. He extended his talons, grabbing James before he hit the ground. Gorick opened his wings like a giant parachute, slowing them down so they floated softly to the grass. He put James on the ground, and Madam Hooch ran over, yelling about what had just happened.
Echo got off Gorick. His hair was still green and red, showing he was upset. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. "Madam Hooch," he said, trying to sound calm, "I'm sorry about all this. I was just trying to catch the Snitch, like you told me. But then, way up high, I saw something weird. A black shape came out of the clouds. It looked a lot like a Dementor. And it seemed like it was coming right at me." He paused, looking at the shocked students, then at James, who was still dazed. "Since I've had really bad experiences with Dementors before, and this thing looked like it was attacking, I had to defend myself. I just wanted to stop the danger. I didn't realize the 'Dementor' was actually Mr. Potter, wearing a really bad and dumb costume." He didn't mention using the cruel curse, of course. His green hair gave off a sneaky, green glow.
Almost on cue, two more black cloaks, previously indistinguishable from the swirling clouds, plummeted rapidly from the sky. With flailing limbs and choked cries, they shed their tattered disguises mid-air, revealing a mud-streaked Sirius Black and a terrified Peter Pettigrew, both landing with graceless thuds a few feet from James.
"Bloody hell, James!" Sirius yelled, scrambling to his feet, his face pale beneath the mud. "What was that?"
"Echo!" James shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at him. "He… he used an Unforgivable Curse! He used Crucio on me! I felt it!"
Sirius and Peter, now standing beside James, nodded frantically, their eyes wide with genuine terror. "He did, Madam Hooch!" Peter squeaked. "It was green! A nasty green light!"
Echo, his green and red hair still pulsing with residual fury and lingering horror, merely blinked. "A most… elaborate prank, gentlemen," he stated, his voice flat, his gaze sweeping over the three disheveled Marauders. "Disappointing, truly. Attempting to exploit a previous traumatic incident for comedic effect is a rather… unintelligent tactic." He paused, his expression hardening. "And now, knowing the true nature of your 'Dementor' disguises, I confess I wish I had allowed Mr. Potter to experience the full, unadulterated trajectory of gravitational descent."
Madam Hooch, her initial shock giving way to a cold, unwavering fury, stepped forward, her voice low and dangerous. "Silence!" she snapped, her eyes, usually so sharp, now blazing with righteous indignation. "The only thing I see here are three spectacularly idiotic students who attempted to play a cruel, disgusting joke on a trauma victim!" She glared at James, Sirius, and Peter, who shifted uncomfortably, none of them directly denying her accusation. "You are lucky, Potter, that you are not currently a broken pile of bones on the ground. Lucky, Black, and Pettigrew, that Mr. Echo did not lose his balance and plummet with you. And luckiest of all, that Gorick here," she gestured to the griffin, who let out a low, menacing rumble, "did not tear you to pieces for daring to pull such a stunt!"
"But Madam Hooch!" James protested, still attempting to wipe mud from his glasses. "He used Crucio! It was definitely green!"
"Silence, Mr. Potter!" Madam Hooch roared, cutting him off. "I have seen enough! I don't care what you 'think' you saw, or what ridiculous stories you've concocted to cover your own despicable behavior! What I do see is three dim-witted boys attempting to manipulate a serious situation for a laugh! For the rest of this week, all three of you will be cleaning this entire Quidditch pitch, every single inch of it – the field, the stands, the goalposts, all the brooms, all the equipment – and you will do it the Muggle way! Without magic! Do I make myself clear?"
The Marauders gaped, their faces a mixture of disbelief and utter dread. "No magic?!" Sirius wailed.
"That is correct, Mr. Black!" Madam Hooch snapped, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Now get to it! And I expect to see every blade of grass gleaming by sundown!"
The three Marauders, looking utterly miserable, began to trudge off the pitch, muttering curses under their breath about Dementors and cleaning. Sirius cast one last, longing look at his broomstick, then sighed dramatically.
Madam Hooch watched them go, then turned to Echo, her expression softening. "Are you quite alright, Mr. Echo?" she asked, her voice surprisingly gentle. "That was… quite a fall. And a rather nasty trick they played."
Echo, still feeling the residual tremor of Crucio and the sudden influx of horror, nodded, his green and red hair flickering with a calmer, yet still agitated, violet hue. "I am… fine, Madam Hooch. A bit shaken, perhaps, but physiologically intact." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the now-empty expanse of the Quidditch pitch. "However, I must confess, this incident has severely impacted my assessment of Quidditch as a viable recreational activity. While the initial tactical engagement with Gorick proved stimulating, the subsequent exposure to… intentional human idiocy, combined with a rather precipitous descent, has reduced its overall appeal to a statistically negligible level."
Madam Hooch chuckled, a dry, weary sound. "In simpler terms, you don't want to play Quidditch anymore?"
Echo inclined his head. "Precisely. While I may, on occasion, offer my assistance, along with Gorick's, for supplementary training exercises purely for the enhancement of the team's defensive capabilities, I shall refrain from active participation as a player. The risk-to-reward ratio is, for me, no longer logically justifiable. Unless, of course, the next 'training exercise' involves the systematic dismantling of the Marauders' collective dignity. That, I might consider."
Madam Hooch actually laughed, a genuine, booming sound that echoed across the pitch. "I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Echo. Now, I suggest you go get warmed up. And perhaps consider a career in… something other than broomstick flying."
Echo nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. "An entirely logical suggestion, Madam Hooch. I shall endeavor to do so." He turned, stroking Gorick's feathered neck. "Come, Gorick. There are fewer… gravitationally inclined endeavors that await our attention."