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Read my book When the world awoke .
drop some power stone there .
will increase the update rate if you go and boost my book .
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A scream tore through the Forbidden Forest—sharp and raw, so shrill it felt like the trees themselves recoiled. The sound didn't echo. It hung, suspended in the stillness, splitting the night like torn fabric.
Had anyone been there to hear it, they might've said: So this is what death sounds like.
But it wasn't death.
Not quite.
It was a Dementor, and it was screaming.
The creature thrashed violently inside a glowing white sphere, its decayed limbs scraping against the barrier in a frenzy of silent agony. Its tattered cloak whipped and fluttered like sails in a storm, but the light held firm—unyielding and indifferent.
The bubble quivered faintly under the strain—silver, translucent, and radiant, like moonlight frozen in glass.
And standing before it was James.
Cloaked. Silent. Wand raised. His eyes, fixed and unblinking, glinted cold beneath the shadow of his hood.
This wasn't just a Patronus—it was a shape he'd forced into being, a construct of will and purpose. Not repulsion, but containment. A new evolution of the charm, delicate in structure and lethal in intent.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, then brushed a damp leaf from his shoulder with a casual flick.
"Third one," he muttered. "That's three."
His voice was calm, but his body betrayed him. Sweat clung to his brow. His fingers twitched. The magic burned—not in pain, but in strain, as if it clawed back with every breath. Holding the sphere this long demanded more than skill; it demanded self.
He adjusted his grip on the wand and extended his other hand, palm upward. A levitation charm flared to life. The bubble rose obediently into the air, the writhing Dementor swaying gently within.
"I will succeed this time," he whispered, almost reverently.
He cast a brief glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Death standing among the trees. Watching. Waiting.
"The last two... unfortunate," he said. "But I set their souls free. Even after all these years."
A dry smile curved his lips. Wry. Bitter.
"Death owes me a thank-you."
He turned, guiding the floating sphere through the forest with a lazy sweep of his fingers. The creature drifted behind him like a macabre balloon, cloaked in ghostlight. Branches snapped underfoot. Moonlight lanced through the canopy in thin, trembling beams. The forest held its breath.
No birds. No crickets. No rustling wind.
Only the low, rasping moan of the thing in tow.
He remembered the moment of discovery—when the Room of Requirement had given him what he asked for. Not just knowledge, but forbidden truth, buried in the gaps between old magic and madness. All he'd had to do was want it enough.
And in that moment, he understood why Rowena Ravenclaw had been feared as much as she was admired. Revered not for her cleverness, but for her hunger.
A hunger he now shared.
And meant to surpass.
He reached a stone outcrop shrouded in hanging moss, barely visible in the moonlight. With a flick of his wand, a doorway shimmered into existence.
The Room of Requirement answered.
He stepped inside.
The torches lit themselves—blue flame dancing along the sconces. The walls curved inward like the belly of a cathedral, lined with shelves of ancient tomes, their spines cracked and heavy with dust. The air smelled of burnt parchment, wax, and something deeper—metallic, like spilled blood on old stone.
Above him, runes shifted across the ceiling like constellations reshaping themselves in real time.
In the center: the ritual circle.
Black marble, etched with vicious precision. Symbols drawn in ink that pulsed like veins beneath skin. The floor thrummed with quiet power, waiting.
James released the sphere.
The Patronus dissolved in a shimmer of light, and the Dementor collapsed with a wet, shrieking hiss. Its claws scraped at the circle's edge, but the runes flared—locking it in place.
He stepped forward.
James knelt at the outer ring, robes folding neatly beneath him. In one hand, his wand. In the other, a sliver of obsidian, honed like a blade.
He inhaled deeply, lips parting in a whisper. A forgotten tongue. The syllables rolled across the floor like smoke, coiling into the runes.
One by one, they ignited.
The air thickened. Heavy. Dense. As if time itself bent inward.
His voice layered—an echo not entirely his own.
"From fear, from shadow, from the unliving gate,
I summon that which magic hates.
Bound and broken, hollow and lost,
Let soul depart, no matter the cost."
The Dementor screeched, its face twisting, veil-like skin tearing as a wind exploded outward. James' cloak snapped around his legs. Candles guttered violently.
He stabbed the obsidian into the stone.
Blood trickled down the shard, seeping into the runes.
A flash—blinding and sudden—engulfed the chamber.
And then…
Change.
The Dementor spasmed. Its form convulsed, contracting violently. The ragged cloak tore away, revealing something beneath.
Something almost human.
It shrank, compressed—becoming gaunt, skeletal, malformed. A shape hunched and trembling, eyes white and blind.
An Obscurial.
Raw. Incomplete. Screaming with all the fury of a child denied a voice.
And then, for a breathless moment—a soul.
It peeled away from the Obscurial's chest like steam off water. Pure. Fragile. Free. It flickered upward like a moth to a flame, vanishing through the ceiling into whatever lay beyond.
James saw it go.
He did it.
He freed it.
But the body remained.
The Obscurial trembled, then howled—a sound that shattered the moment. The room shook. Shelves exploded into splinters. The floor cracked. Candles burst into sparks.
It lunged.
James barely raised a shield in time. The impact sent him flying, spine cracking against stone. Blood filled his mouth. He rolled to his knees, gasping, wand shaking in his hand.
Another lunge.
He dropped low, spun sideways, and roared:
"Sphera Tenebris!"
From his wand erupted a sphere—black as void, edged in light. It sucked the creature in with the force of a collapsing star.
The Obscurial screamed one last time before it vanished—
Sealed.
A single marble clattered onto the stone floor.
Smooth. Cold. Black and silver swirled within, like smoke trapped under glass.
Silence.
James stood swaying in the flickering torchlight. His arm bled freely. His ribs ached. The ritual circle was ruined. Books turned to ash. Only a single torch remained lit, barely more than a flicker.
He stepped forward and knelt, breathing hard.
Picked up the marble.
It pulsed faintly in his palm. Heavier than it should've been. Warm. Or maybe cold. It was hard to tell.
He stared at it for a long moment, expression unreadable.
Then, softly—almost to himself—
"…What the hell do I do with you?"