The moment Styx realized how badly things had gone, he forced the Patronus back.
Black blood still stained the grass where the bone tree had stood.
It had not yet soaked fully into the earth.
He brushed imaginary dust from his robes and looked up.
Several pairs of eyes stared at him.
Madam Hooch’s flying gloves had slipped from her hands and lay forgotten on the ground.
[Ding.
Large-scale social death detected.] [Host status: Reputation compromised.] [System suggestion: Purchase a one-way ticket out of Hogwarts overnight.] Styx cursed silently.
What kind of sane person’s Patronus bled black light?
A warning next time would have been nice.
How exactly was he supposed to clean this up?
[You expected an Evil God’s Patronus to be a pink unicorn?] “…Fair point.” He cleared his throat, ready to invent something, when a sharp crack cut the air.
Dumbledore stood at the edge of the pitch.
His gaze swept the scene, lingered a second on the black blood, then settled on Styx.
“What just happened?” McGonagall moved to his side and began a low, rapid report.
Styx watched the Headmaster’s expression shift from stern to thoughtful.
When she finished, Dumbledore nodded once and walked among the gathered professors.
“It appears,” he said, voice once more mild and completely in control, “we have several matters to discuss.” His right hand never left the Elder Wand.
“Headmaster’s office.” The circular room was warm with firelight.
Portraits of former headmasters lined the walls—some pretending to sleep, others watching the door with open interest.
Fawkes perched with eyes half-closed, a faint golden-red shimmer along the edges of his feathers.
Dumbledore sat behind the desk, making a quiet note on a sheet of parchment.
The quill scratched softly.
Flitwick entered first and hesitated in the doorway for several seconds before stepping inside.
Sprout followed; the usual warmth had left her face.
Madam Hooch still clutched one flying glove and only noticed the missing partner after she was already in the room.
McGonagall came fourth.
The air from the opening door made the fire jump.
She met Dumbledore’s eyes, received a small nod, and took the chair beside Flitwick.
Styx sat by the hearth, legs stretched out, spinning a Fizzing Whizbee on the tip of his wand.
Snape arrived last.
Black robes gathered at his ankles.
He stopped near the door and fixed his gaze on Styx.
“Everyone is here.” Dumbledore set the quill aside.
“Tea will be ready shortly.” A house-elf appeared with a silver tray—cups, teapot, biscuits, sliced lemon cake.
It set everything down, bowed deeply, and vanished.
The teapot poured itself.
Amber liquid filled the cups.
Dumbledore lifted his, blew across the surface, and took a measured sip.
Flitwick spoke first, voice low, as if they were still in the library.
“Professor Styx… why is your Patronus so… unusual?
Did something unexpected occur during the casting?” The presence of the Headmaster had restored enough composure for curiosity to reassert itself.
Styx flicked the candy into his mouth and chewed once.
“Hard to describe.
There was a sensation of connection—something establishing itself.
More lasting than a ordinary Summoning Charm.
I can still feel it.” Flitwick’s eyebrows rose.
His teacup stopped turning.
He nodded and did not press.
Silence settled.
The biscuit plate moved quietly from hand to hand.
Sprout took a piece of lemon cake and ate it slowly.
Madam Hooch folded the remaining glove on her knee.
McGonagall had not touched her cup.
Her hands stayed clasped.
Finally she spoke.
“Albus, what was that?
Patronuses are living creatures.
In all my years I have never seen one that… if that even qualifies as a creature.” Dumbledore did not answer at once.
Instead he looked toward the door.
“Severus?
Any thoughts?” Snape’s eyes remained on Styx.
“Only that it does not look like any creature I know.” A log in the fireplace cracked.
Sparks leapt and died.
Fawkes shifted to the other foot and tucked his head under a wing.
The portraits watched in perfect, ancient silence.
When the weight in the room felt correct, Dumbledore spoke again.
“Styx.
I believe it is time to clear up a few misunderstandings.” Styx straightened.
The performance had begun.
“Have any of you studied the deeper history of the Patronus Charm?
We all know it is formed from positive, protective emotion and is primarily used against Dementors.
History also shows that true dark wizards cannot cast it successfully.” He offered the classic example without prompting.
“Raczidian is the most famous case.
When he attempted the spell, the magic recoiled.
Maggots of his own summoning consumed him.
Which suggests—” He spread his hands, expression carefully innocent.
“—I am not a dark wizard.
My Patronus simply happens to be… distinctive.” He took a sip of cooling tea and continued before anyone could interrupt.
“As for the aura of death… perhaps because it comes from the Underworld.
Hell, as Muggles would say.” The room went utterly still.
Even Dumbledore’s fingers tightened slightly on his cup.
“I was an ordinary Muggle.
Odd jobs.
I died of overwork.
One moment I was looking down at my own body; the next I floated in a white space that had no edges.
Something stood in front of me—constantly changing, impossible to remember clearly.
I believe it was a god.” Flitwick’s eyes were round.
Sprout’s hand had risen to her mouth.
Madam Hooch’s cup hung forgotten in mid-air.
“It watched me.
It may have spoken.
When I opened my eyes again I was alive, and new knowledge sat in my mind: I could call certain beings from that place, and they would obey without question.” Styx gave a small, almost apologetic shrug.
“That is the only explanation I have for the form my Patronus took.
It comes from Hell.” To drive the point home he snapped his fingers.
“Art.
Come say hello.” The air warped.
A figure in a sharp black-and-white suit stepped through.
Art the Clown tilted his head, pale greasepaint gleaming, mouth stretched in its permanent grin.
He bounced across the carpet, seized Flitwick’s hand, and pumped it enthusiastically.
The Charms professor’s face cycled from white to red and back again.
Art executed an exaggerated bow in front of Sprout that nearly planted his forehead in her flowerpot.
Madam Hooch scraped her chair backward with a sharp sound.
Then the clown stopped in front of Snape.
For three long seconds they regarded each other.
Art produced a black wig from nowhere, settled it on his own head, crossed his arms, lifted his chin, and flicked imaginary robes into a perfect arc—Snape’s exact posture.
Snape’s wand was against Art’s nose in an instant.
Art chuckled, flipped backward, and hid behind Styx, only half a pale face visible, sticking his tongue out at the Potions Master.
At the same time the shadows on the floor began to move.
Shadowkhan rose in silence from every dark patch in the room, forming a neat, oppressive square of black figures that looked as though they had been cut from night itself.
No one spoke.
Dumbledore broke the silence first.
His voice remained gentle, though the teacup in his hand was empty and he had not noticed.
“A most wondrous experience, Lethean.
In all the recorded history of the wizarding world there has never been a wizard who returned from death, still less one who brought… visitors from the Underworld with him.” His eyes moved across the assembled staff.
“Wizard history is ancient.
Vast portions of it have been lost.
We cannot know how many powerful charms or artifacts still wait to be rediscovered.
Today we have witnessed something new.
We should consider ourselves fortunate.” He softened the weight of the moment with a lighter observation.
“If Poppy discovers we discussed the boundary between life and death without inviting her, she will be most put out.
Her usual boundary involves broken bones and Skele-Gro, of course.” Sprout let out a small, involuntary laugh and immediately covered her mouth.
Her shoulders still shook.
Dumbledore clapped once.
“The misunderstanding is resolved.
Rest while you can.
New students arrive tomorrow; we should not let storytelling delay real work.” The professors rose.
Flitwick stared at Art for three full seconds before leaving and nearly tripped when the clown blew him a flying kiss.
The others filed out in varying states of composure.
Styx moved to follow.
Snape blocked his path.
“Professor Styx.” The words were pitched for two people only.
“What you said… is it true?” Styx met the black eyes without flinching.
“I promise, Professor Snape.” Whatever Snape heard in the answer satisfied him.
He turned and left without another word.
Black robes vanished into the corridor.
Styx followed.
Behind him Dumbledore remained seated, watching the two retreating figures.
The blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles were deep and unreadable.
“Severus,” he murmured to the empty room, “death is but the next great adventure.” On the perch, Fawkes lifted his head and gave a long, clear cry.
[Ding.
Large-scale fabrication detected.] [Host acting rating: S.] Styx kept walking.