It had been a long time since anything truly happened at Hogwarts.
At least, anything that mattered.
Others would've scoffed at the thought. The castle was buzzing with excitement—Triwizard banners in every corridor, gossip flying faster than owl post. The first task was today. The air practically thrummed with anticipation.
But James felt none of it.
He stood alone at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, well away from the rest of the students. They'd all gathered in the stadium, waiting eagerly to see dragons and champions and spectacle.
But James wasn't here for entertainment.
He tapped the folded parchment in his palm, unfolding it with a flick of his wand. The Marauder's Map bloomed open in his hands, ink shifting into place like a living thing.
He whispered, "Show me…"
Tiny footprints scuttled across the grounds, weaving in and out of labeled corridors. All familiar. All accounted for. No foreign entries. No sudden anomalies.
Still nothing.
He'd even charmed it—his own additions layered atop the original enchantments—to detect any magically disguised entries, foreign apparitions, or wards breaking through Hogwarts' outer shell.
Not a whisper.
No trace of Bellatrix Lestrange.
No headlines. No sightings. No Ministry leaks. Not even a whisper in the black market taverns.
Total silence.
James folded the map with an irritable snap and shoved it into his coat. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he stared out across the dusky horizon. The sun hung low, casting long shadows through the trees.
"This waiting is driving me mad…" he muttered.
He ran a hand through his hair, rough and impatient, pacing a few steps beneath the tree cover. Leaves crunched beneath his boots, a soft reminder of the world still turning.
It's not like her to be this quiet.
Bellatrix was never subtle. She was chaos incarnate—blood and laughter and fire. The kind of madwoman who wanted to be seen. To remain unseen for so long was… wrong.
Strategic? No… she's not the clever type. So what is it? Hiding? Or waiting? Or... worse—planning with someone smarter than herself?
He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the trees. That was when he saw it.
A shape. Thin. Floating. Tattered.
A Dementor.
Its silhouette moved like smoke against the edge of the forest, far enough not to breach the wards—but close enough to be seen.
James didn't freeze. He'd seen enough of them not to flinch. But something twisted in his stomach nonetheless.
Dementors—foul creatures that fed on fear, despair, and memories. They despised magic, and yet served those who wielded it.
He squinted, narrowing his gaze on the figure drifting along the border of the trees. Why were they like that? why? Who had bound them to this realm ?
No one truly knew where Dementors came from.
Some theorized that they were the failed creations of ancient Dark Lords—magical abominations, bred for torment and control. Others believed they were manifestations of death itself, like boggarts for the soul.
James had a different theory.
A dark one.
One he hadn't dared speak aloud.
Obscurials.
A chill ran down his spine, but he couldn't ignore it. It made too much sense.
An Obscurus was formed when a young witch or wizard repressed their magic—when fear, shame, and hatred turned inward until the magic twisted and erupted. Most Obscurials died young, unable to survive the internal war—except, of course, Aurelius Dumbledore, the exception to every rule.
But what if…
What if they didn't all die?
What if the ones who didn't die—who passed the breaking point—didn't vanish… but changed?
What if Dementors were Obscurials who had decayed past recognition, becoming magical husks—eternal, tormented, and stripped of identity?
It would explain their hatred of magic. Their cold, ravenous hunger. The way they moved, like echoes of something that once lived.
They were children who had hated themselves for being magical.
And now they were doomed to roam the world, feeding on what they once had.
James exhaled slowly, cold mist leaving his lips.
He raised his wand . A swirl of silver burst from the tip—his Patronus, bounding forward through the trees. The Dementor recoiled immediately, retreating into the gloom.
The wolf chased it a moment longer, then dissolved in midair.
He lowered his wand, frowning.
Cruel fate, he thought. To be born with magic… and die hating it. Then to become that.
But there was more to it than just pity.
He turned his eyes back toward the horizon, his mind sharpening.
Power.
If Dementors were repressed magical beings—Obscurials that had transcended death—then they must still carry that magic. Buried deep inside them. Raw. Unrefined.
And that meant they could be used.
Harnessed.
James's fingers twitched slightly at the idea. The thought wasn't noble, but it was strategic.
Unstable or not, they're magical batteries. Forgotten ones. Reservoirs of ancient, chaotic energy just floating around waiting to be consumed.
Most would ask: What good is a Dementor?
and answer with nothing .
James had an answer.
Magic. Power. Fuel.
And he planned to find a way to use it.