Chapter 115: The Cold Defeat

Harry finished the exotic noodle soup and felt warm all over; as Wood entered the Great Hall, he confidently told him, "I don't care about this rain."

After all, Quidditch mattered far more than rain, but as they ran toward the Quidditch pitch, they all bent low against the furious wind, their umbrellas straining to fly from their hands; before entering the locker room, Harry saw the other eight members of the team, laughing as they headed toward a giant umbrella on the stands, waving at him as they went.

The players changed into their deep red robes and waited for Wood's pre-game pep talk, but he said nothing. He tried several times to speak, each time swallowing his words, then shook his head in disappointment and motioned for the team to follow him outside.

The wind on the pitch was so strong it made them stagger and stumble as they walked; if the crowd's cheers couldn't drown out the thunder, they couldn't hear anything at all. Rain severely impaired visibility, making it extremely difficult to spot the Snitch.

Hufflepuff was approaching from the other end of the pitch, clad in canary-yellow robes. The team captains stepped forward to shake hands; Cedric smiled at Wood, but Wood offered no smile in return, nodding stiffly as if suffering from tetanus. Harry saw Madam Hooch begin speaking but couldn't make out a word—he knew she was telling them to mount their brooms.

Harry quietly pulled his right foot from the mud and swung his leg over his Firebolt. Madam Hooch placed the whistle to her lips and blew a sharp note—the match began.

Harry rose quickly, but his Firebolt was slightly pushed off course by the wind. He managed to stabilize it, tilting into the rain.

Harry now wore the goggles he'd made last year to fight the Basilisk; he was certain they'd been modified from swimming goggles, and the raindrops couldn't touch his eyes, thanks to a fine waterproof charm—he could at least see clearly.

But fine, dense rain filled his vision, and he was soaked through, nearly frozen, his spirits sinking along with his body.

Harry darted back and forth across the pitch, squinting through the rain at blurred red and yellow shapes, guessing what the other players were doing since the wind drowned out the commentary. He could barely keep sight of a yellow figure he assumed was Cedric, while desperately searching for the tiny Snitch.

The crowd hid their broken umbrellas beneath a sea of cloaks. Harry came too close to the goal posts twice, nearly colliding.

The match had gone on so long that keeping the broom steady grew harder and harder. The sky had grown darker than before, as if night were imminent. Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the air with the first flash of lightning; Harry barely made out Wood's silhouette through the torrent, gesturing toward the ground. All the players plunged into the muddy water.

"I call a time-out!" Wood bellowed to his team. "Come here, gather around…"

They huddled beneath a large umbrella at the pitch's edge; Harry rubbed his nearly numb hands, trying to warm them.

"What's the score?"

"Thirty to eighty—we're ahead," Wood said. "We can afford to drag this out. Gryffindor's best in the rain."

"I'll still try to find the Snitch," Harry groaned. "I don't want to be playing until nightfall in this weather."

"Don't worry—Cedric's just as stuck," Wood said. "He's worse off than you. At least you've got your tactical goggles."

"Yeah, go on the offensive," Fred suggested. "Pressure him. Force him into duels. Make him make mistakes under stress."

"Even if you don't catch the Snitch, you can drain his energy," George added. "Don't worry about us—we've got the advantage."

"Exactly. In weather like this, no one has room to shine—it's just about willpower and courage," Wood said, clapping Harry on the shoulder.

Filled with renewed determination, Harry urged his broom through the storm, scanned the pitch once, then flew directly beneath Cedric, beginning to bait him into a duel.

As forked lightning cracked again, thunder boomed louder. The weather worsened; Harry had to ease off his maneuvers and began slowly, deliberately searching for the Snitch.

He turned and flew backward toward the center of the pitch, but in that instant, another flash of lightning illuminated the stands—and Harry saw something that completely distracted him: the half-profile of a large, shaggy black dog, clearly visible against the sky, sitting in the empty seats at the very top row.

The dog vanished instantly. Harry shook his head and swiftly scanned the surroundings again.

Maybe the black dog wasn't an omen, Harry thought with sudden hope—he spotted a tiny golden speck glinting through the rain. But beyond the Snitch, he also saw Cedric's face, equally astonished.

I've got to outmaneuver him, Harry thought. He gripped his broom tightly, watching the Snitch grow larger directly ahead.

"Let's see who's faster," he shouted, despite the rain lashing his cheeks, as he spurred his Firebolt forward. "I've got tactical goggles—I'm not afraid to go head-to-head with him."

But something unexpected happened. A strange silence fell over the entire pitch. The wind still howled as fiercely as before, as if trying to forget something. Yet suddenly, all sound was cut off. Harry felt as if he'd gone deaf… What was happening?

Then a familiar, chilling cold washed over him. In his heart, he knew something was moving beneath the pitch…

Before he could comprehend it, Harry's eyes left the Snitch and looked downward.

At least a hundred Dementors stood below him, their hooded faces tilted upward. A sensation like ice water rose from his chest, severing his thoughts. When he heard again… someone was screaming—a woman…

"No, Harry, no, Harry, please don't, Harry!"

"Get out of the way, you stupid girl… get out of the way now…"

"No, Harry, please, don't do this—take me instead, come kill me…"

A numbness filled Harry's mind with swirling white mist… What was he doing? Why was he flying? He had to help her… she was going to die… she was walking to her death…

He was falling, sinking into cold, icy mist.

"No, Harry! Please… have mercy on him… have mercy on him…"

A sharp, mocking laugh rang out, mixed with the woman's screams—then Harry lost consciousness.

"Thank goodness the ground was soft."

"I thought he was dead for sure."

"He didn't even break his glasses."

Harry could hear the murmurs, but couldn't understand a word. He had no clues, no sense of where to begin, or what he'd been doing before. The only thing he knew was that every inch of his body ached as if he'd been beaten senseless.

"That was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen."

The most terrifying thing… the black shape… the cold… the screaming…

Harry's eyes snapped open. He was in the school infirmary. Every member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, caked head to toe in mud, stood around his bed. His other friends were there too, each looking as if they'd just crawled out of a swimming pool.

"Harry!" Fred's face, buried under mud, looked deathly pale. "How do you feel?"

Harry's memories rushed back—lightning… the match… the Snitch… the Dementors…

"What happened?" he said. They all gasped in unison.

"You fell," Fred said. "About… about fifty feet?"

"We thought you were dead," Alicia whispered, trembling.

Hermione let out a small whimper, her eyes bloodshot.

"But what's the score now?" Harry asked. "We didn't lose, did we?"

No one spoke. The terrible truth settled in Harry's chest like a sinking stone.

"Cedric caught the Snitch," George said. "Right after you fell. He didn't know what happened. When he got back down and saw you, he thought we should replay. We haven't decided yet."

"Where's Wood?" Harry asked, noticing Wood standing among the crowd.

"No replay," Wood said, his voice firm. "The Dementors invading the pitch was an unforeseen event, but everyone was affected by them. Cedric won fairly."

"This isn't an excuse. Gryffindor can't afford to be mocked," he continued. "We play for honor—not just to win."

"I'm sorry, I…" Harry lay on the bed, struggling to force out the words.

"It's fine," Angelina comforted him. "The season's just begun. We've got plenty of chances. And the final score was 120 to 220—we didn't lose by much."

"We still have hundreds of ways to win the Cup—if we play well from now on. I'll speak to the professors. Next time, no Dementors will get onto the pitch," Wood said, clapping Harry on the shoulder.

"No. Next time, I'll learn the Patronus Charm. I'll learn it, no matter what." The Dementors had stirred too many terrible memories. He wouldn't endure them again.