Hogwarts Castle
Date: 02/09/1991
Time: 7:00 PM
The Great Hall glowed with warm candlelight, its high ceiling awash with floating lanterns and drifting sparks of magic. Clusters of students talked over half-finished dinners—some first-years excitedly comparing notes about their upcoming classes, others already digging into dessert as if they'd lived here for years. Laughter, clatter, and soft chatter blended into a comforting hum.
At the head table, the professors were settled into their own rhythm of conversation, plates of food and goblets of pumpkin juice before them.
Professor McGonagall sat with her usual straight-backed composure, though a trace of warmth softened her gaze as she looked toward the Gryffindor table. "The first-years were understandably nervous," she said, her tone crisp yet quietly fond. She adjusted her spectacles with a practiced flick. "Though Potter showed remarkable composure during the Sorting. Gryffindor will be lively this year, I daresay."
Professor Snape let out a thin, disdainful breath that barely qualified as a laugh. "Composure?" he murmured, his voice like cool steel. "I saw arrogance. Just like his father." His dark eyes slid toward the Gryffindor table, lingering on Harry with a mixture of suspicion and something harsher—old resentment never quite settled. "I expect trouble from him sooner rather than later."
Perched atop his usual stack of cushions, Professor Flitwick leaned forward, his tiny hands folded over the table. "Oh, but he was quite polite in Charms today," he piped cheerfully. "Bright eyes, eager to learn. With proper guidance, he may do very well indeed." His optimism seemed to brighten even the candlelight around him.
Professor Sprout dabbed her mouth with a napkin, her voice warm and earthy. "The Weasley boy seems promising too. A bit clumsy, but enthusiastic." She chuckled softly. "And Neville Longbottom—timid as a dormouse, poor thing, but there's something in him. I'll be keeping an eye on that one."
At the far end, Professor Quirrell twitched in his seat, fingers worrying at his turban. "Y-yes, w-well, the students are… v-very eager," he stammered, sweat beading faintly at his temple. "D-Defense will be… ah… quite the challenge. I—I do hope they're prepared." His unease broke the steady rhythm of the conversation, drawing a sharp, evaluating glance from Snape.
Finally, Dumbledore spoke, his voice warm and unhurried, as though he'd been listening to a familiar song. "Every year brings its surprises," he mused, eyes twinkling beneath his half-moon spectacles. "Young minds are like cauldrons—sometimes they bubble over, sometimes they brew wonders. Even the smallest student may grow into greatness. And I trust each of you to guide them on their way."
A thoughtful quiet settled over the staff table. The professors lifted their goblets, sipping pumpkin juice while the lively murmur of hundreds of young witches and wizards washed through the hall around them.
Suddenly, the air above the center of the Great Hall rippled—like heat rising from stone—and every conversation faltered. A burst of brilliant silver light tore through the shimmer, coalescing into the lithe, glowing form of a magical lynx Patronus. Its paws touched the flagstones without a sound, each step leaving trails of fading light.
Gasps echoed across the hall. First-years shrank back; older students leaned forward, wide-eyed. The Patronus's eyes—sharp, almost knowing—locked directly onto Dumbledore.
When it spoke, its voice resonated through the hall, clear and urgent, impossibly loud for something made of light.
"Albus Dumbledore—your aid is required at once. A matter of grave urgency threatens the Ministry. Bring all the strength you can muster."
The message faded, but the tension it left behind clung to the air like static.
Dumbledore rose immediately, the lines of his face growing grave. "All professors, come with me," he instructed, his voice calm but edged with purpose. Then he turned to the student body. "Prefects—attend me."
The response was instant. Percy Weasley shot up from the Gryffindor table, back straight as a spear. Penelope Clearwater stood just as quickly from Ravenclaw, followed by the prefects from Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Wands in hand, they hurried toward the head table, their faces pale but set with determined focus.
Dumbledore regarded them with a steady gaze. "You will escort your houses back to their common rooms immediately. Ensure every student is accounted for. No exceptions." His voice softened just a fraction. "Go swiftly, and remain calm. Your houses will look to you."
The prefects nodded and moved with urgency, their footsteps quick and purposeful as they turned back toward their tables.
Within moments, the Great Hall was shifting into controlled chaos—students gathering their things, whispering anxiously, watching their professors sweep past them.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore signaled for the staff to follow. Cloaks swished, chairs scraped back, and the professors fell into step behind him, their expressions tightened with concern.
Together, they left the hall, heading toward the headmaster's office—toward whatever danger awaited them at the Ministry.
The headmaster's office was unusually silent. The portraits along the curved walls pretended to sleep, though several were clearly peeking from behind half-closed eyelids as every professor gathered around Dumbledore's desk. The atmosphere felt taut, as if the very air sensed trouble.
Dumbledore stood at the center, holding a two-way mirror that glowed faintly around the edges. With a practiced motion, he activated the connection—and the panicked face of Cornelius Fudge flickered into view.
"Dumbledore!" Fudge blurted before the headmaster could speak. His voice was breathless and strained. "You have to contain it—you must control that thing!"
Dumbledore's brows lifted, his tone calm despite the tension in the room. "What has happened, Cornelius?"
Fudge swallowed hard. "We—we've received intel that an Obscurial is preparing to erupt somewhere in Scotland. The reports are… credible. Very credible." His gaze darted off-screen, as if someone behind him was urging him on. "If the entity matches the signs of an Obscurial, I've already issued the containment orders."
Several professors inhaled sharply. Even Snape's expression tightened.
Fudge continued, voice cracking at the edges. "I need your help, Dumbledore. An Obscurial at full surge could devastate everything around it. The damage could be catastrophic. I cannot manage this alone."
Dumbledore exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation settling over his features. "If the eruption is anywhere near Hogwarts," he said quietly, "it could endanger the castle as well."
A ripple of unease swept through the room—fear, concern, and a deep understanding of what was at stake.
Dumbledore's expression hardened with resolve. "We're already on our way to the location," he replied firmly into the mirror. "Begin the evacuation immediately. Deploy the Aurors you have on-site—clear every civilian from the area. We will attempt to contain the Obscurial once we arrive."
Fudge nodded shakily, wiping sweat from his brow. "Right—right. Evacuation is starting now. Just… hurry, Dumbledore. Please."
Without another word, Dumbledore closed the connection, and the mirror's surface dimmed back to glass.
He turned to the gathered professors. "We must leave at once."
They exchanged tense looks. Even the usually unflappable McGonagall seemed momentarily shaken.
"Albus," she said quietly, "only you can Apparate directly out of Hogwarts."
"I'm aware," Dumbledore replied, already moving toward the center of the room. "Take hold of my arm. I'll bring us all."
The professors stepped in closer—Snape with his robes sweeping like shadows, Sprout with dirt still under her nails, Flitwick barely reaching Dumbledore's elbow, and even Quirrell trembling as he reached out. Their hands closed around the headmaster's sleeves and elbows, forming a tight ring.
Dumbledore lifted his wand, murmuring the ancient incantation that allowed him—and only him—to bypass Hogwarts' protective wards. The air around them thickened, humming with contained power.
"Brace yourselves," he said softly.
A heartbeat later, the office vanished in a rush of spinning wind and collapsing light as the entire staff Side-Along Apparated with the headmaster—hurtling toward Scotland and the raging power waiting for them there.
Outside a small Scottish city—just beyond the last ring of buildings—the land opened into a wide stretch of empty grassland. And in the middle of it stood something impossible.
A massive dome of shimmering blue energy rose from the earth, so enormous that its curvature arced high into the sky. The light pulsed in slow, terrifying waves, each thrum sending ripples of force across the ground. Even from a distance, the magic radiating from it was overwhelming—violent, unstable. No wizard dared step close. It felt like the dome could detonate at any moment.
Around the perimeter, dozens of Aurors worked in tight formation. Their wands pointed skyward, threads of magic weaving together like a giant net. They strained under the effort, trying desperately to layer powerful Disillusionment Charms so Muggles wouldn't see the phenomenon—not the light, not the dome, not the danger.
Spells crackled overhead. Sweat streaked down faces. Boots dug into the earth as they held the concealment in place.
Among them stood some of the ministry's most capable: Alastor Moody, his magical eye spinning with restless urgency; Kingsley Shacklebolt, calm but visibly tense; Nymphadora Tonks, pale despite her usual confidence; standing shoulder to shoulder, wands raised high; Gawain Robards barking synchronizing orders; and Rufus Scrimgeour himself—mane-like hair wild in the wind—as he oversaw the entire operation with a grim set to his jaw.
They were doing everything they could.
And still, all eyes kept turning toward the distant horizon.
Waiting.
Because there was only one wizard powerful enough—reliable enough—to stand a chance at stopping whatever was happening inside that dome.
They were waiting for Dumbledore.
With a sharp crack of displaced air, Dumbledore and the Hogwarts professors appeared on the far edge of the grasslands. The world settled around them—and immediately, their eyes lifted to the towering blue dome dominating the horizon.
Its glow washed over the land in eerie pulses, painting their faces in shifting shades of sapphire.
McGonagall drew in a tight breath. "Albus… what in Merlin's name is that?" Her voice was steady, but the concern beneath it was unmistakable.
Dumbledore didn't slow his stride as he began moving toward the phenomenon, the others falling in behind him. "An Obscurial surge," he answered, his tone grave. "But unlike any I've seen."
They advanced across the field, their robes snapping in the wind, the hum of the unstable magic growing louder with every step. Ahead, Aurors turned toward them—faces strained, wands still held skyward to maintain the Disillusionment field.
Dumbledore lifted his voice once they drew closer, shifting seamlessly into command.
"Severus, Minerva, Filius—stay with me. Pomona, as well."
The named professors closed ranks behind him without hesitation.
Dumbledore's gaze flicked to the last of the group. "Quirinus, assist the Aurors. Reinforce the concealment net."
Quirrell nodded quickly—too quickly—and hurried off toward the nearest formation, wand already raised.
The remaining professors tightened their grips on their wands as they marched with Dumbledore toward the blue dome. The closer they got, the more violently the energy throbbed in the air, the ground vibrating beneath their boots.
The wind whipped harder.
Magic crackled like lightning.
And the sense of something furious—and alive—beat at the walls of the dome, desperate to break free.
As the professors closed in on the dome, the air grew heavier—thicker—vibrating with violent magical pressure. The very grass around them trembled.
Dumbledore lifted his wand.
"Protego Maxima!"
A surge of brilliant golden light erupted from his wand, lashing outward and forming a second protective barrier around the team. The shimmering shield expanded in a wide arc, safeguarding the Aurors and stabilizing the space around them. The blue dome's waves slammed against it, sparks cascading in the air like falling stars.
McGonagall immediately followed his lead. Her wand cut sharp, precise lines through the air, the ground beneath the dome beginning to shift and bend to her will. She manipulated the environment—roots twisting upward, soil tightening like a net—to contain the Obscurial's violent surges.
Snape moved beside her, his expression set in grim focus. Dark green sigils flared from his wand, layering counter-hexes and stabilizing charms in rapid succession. Flitwick, small but fierce, flicked his wand with delicate precision—each movement adding reinforcement, redirecting bursts of raw force away from the professors.
The dome shuddered violently, as though something inside was thrashing for escape.
Dumbledore's voice cut through the roar of wind and energy.
"We must reach the child's mind," he called, raising his voice over the crackling magic. "Only then can the Obscurial be calmed."
He turned slightly, eyes meeting Snape's.
"Severus—come with me. We'll try to make contact."
Snape gave a curt nod, bracing himself as the ground shook beneath them.
Dumbledore glanced back at the rest of the group. "The rest of you—hold the dome steady. Control it as best you can. Every moment matters."
The professors tightened their formation, wands blazing with light as they poured everything they had into holding the Obscurial's power back. The air whipped into a frenzy, tugging at their robes, stinging their faces.
Inside the dome, the silhouette of a small figure flickered—fragile, collapsing, drowning in rage and unchecked magic.
And all of them knew:
If they failed to reach the child in time, the explosion would wipe out everything for miles.
"If we cannot reach the child in time," Dumbledore said, his voice low and heavy, "then I will have no choice but to destroy the Obscurial."
The words hit the group like a shockwave. Even the air seemed to still for a heartbeat.
His expression was grim—older, wearier—yet resolute. The blue light from the dome flickered across his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes.
He turned sharply toward Snape.
"Severus—use your Legilimency. Reach the child's mind and steady her emotions. It may be the only way to save her."
Snape's jaw tightened. "Understood," he said, though there was a rare flicker of hesitation—almost humanity—in his eyes.
Dumbledore lifted his wand closer to the dome. "I will attempt the same. If we can soothe the child, we may be able to separate her from the Obscurus before it detonates."
Both men shared a look—one of mutual dread and unspoken determination.
Then they began.
Snape stepped forward first, wand raised, eyes narrowing sharply as he focused. The magic around him seemed to darken, drawing inward like a gathering storm. "Legilimens," he whispered, voice barely audible above the roaring wind.
Dumbledore mirrored him a moment later, closing his eyes as strands of silver light spiraled from his wand toward the raging dome.
The dome reacted instantly—its surface pulsing violently, waves of unstable magic cracking like thunder. The force nearly knocked them off their feet.
The professors behind them braced themselves, reinforcing their barrier spells.
Inside that storm of blinding blue light…
inside the collapsing soul of the Obscurial…