The door handle turned slowly.
No one touched it, yet the latch clicked and the door opened on its own. For a moment nothing followed, then a pale, decayed hand gripped the edge of the frame and a tall figure in dark, tattered robes drifted into the compartment.
It glided.
The hood lowered slightly, and though there was no face, its focus settled on Harry.
The temperature dropped further, sharp enough to sting. Harry's breathing faltered as something heavier than fear pressed in on him. Ron leaned back instinctively, his grip tightening on the seat, while Hermione sat rigid, eyes fixed on the figure.
The Dementor moved closer, slow and certain.
Victor stepped forward, wand already in hand.
"Expecto Patronum."
Silver light burst from his wand, cutting straight through the cold and striking the Dementor. It recoiled at once, its form pulling back as if forced away by the contact.
The light didn't fade.
It spread.
It filled the compartment, then pushed outward into the corridor, driving back the frost that had begun to form along the glass. The darkness thinned as the light grew stronger.
Beyond the compartment, the presence of the other Dementors weakened.
The Patronus took shape.
The silver gathered and stretched, forming wings, a long body, something solid and defined. A dragon of light moved through the compartment, its form steady, not flickering like a normal Patronus.
It didn't stay contained.
It pushed outward, its light spilling through the train, visible through every window. Outside, the Dementors that had surrounded the train pulled away, their forms breaking apart as they retreated from it.
The dragon rose, and the light surged outward in a single sweep, forcing everything back from the train at once.
Then it was quiet.
The cold lifted, the air returning to normal as if something had been removed from it entirely. The train remained still, but the pressure was gone.
The Patronus lingered for a moment before fading.
Victor lowered his wand.
The Dementors were gone.
Ron stared at the space where the figure had been, still breathing harder than usual, his grip tight on the edge of the seat as if letting go might bring it back.
"What was that?" he asked, his voice not quite steady, eyes moving between the door and Victor.
Hermione took a second before answering, her mind clearly catching up to what she had just seen.
"That was a Dementor," she said, her tone serious, controlled despite the tension. "I've read about them. They're among the foul creatures in the wizarding world."
Ron turned to her sharply.
"A Dementor?" he repeated. "Aren't they supposed to be in Azkaban?"
Hermione nodded, still frowning slightly.
"Yes. They guard the prison," she said. "They're not supposed to be anywhere near Hogwarts. Or the train."
Ron let out a short, uneasy breath, glancing toward the door again.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "So the things that guard the worst prison in the wizarding world just decided to drop by for a visit."
Harry hadn't said anything yet. He was still recovering, his face pale, his gaze unfocused for a moment before he forced himself back.
"You okay, Harry?" Victor asked, watching him closely.
Harry nodded, but it wasn't convincing. His face was still pale, his breathing uneven as he tried to steady himself.
"Yeah… I think so," he said, then frowned slightly. "But why did that thing come straight at me? It felt like it was… after me."
Victor didn't answer immediately. He leaned back slightly in his seat, studying Harry for a moment before speaking, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.
"Dementors don't hunt the way you're thinking," he said. "They're drawn to the saddest and most bitter memories a person has. The worse it is, the stronger it pulls them in."
Hermione nodded faintly, clearly recognizing that from what she had read, but she didn't interrupt.
"They feed on it," Victor continued. "Not just fear—everything painful, everything you'd rather forget. That's why they guard Azkaban. The prisoners there are full of regret, guilt, and misery. The Dementors stay there because they don't need to search for anything else."
Ron shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable now.
"So they just… make people miserable all the time?" he asked.
Victor glanced at him briefly.
"They make you relive it," he said. "Your worst moments. Over and over. They pull it out of you until it's the only thing left in your mind."
Harry's hands tightened slightly against his knees.
"That's what I felt," he said quietly. "Like I was hearing things… remembering things I didn't want to."
Hermione's expression grew more serious.
"That's exactly what they do," she said. "And if they get too close—"
Ron looked at her, already uneasy.
"Don't say it like that."
Hermione didn't soften it.
"They perform the Dementor's Kiss," she said. "They suck out your soul."
Ron went still.
"That's not— that's not just a figure of speech, is it?"
Victor answered before Hermione could.
"No," he said. "After that, you're alive. You can breathe, you can move… but there's nothing left of you. No thoughts, no feelings. Just an empty shell."
The compartment fell quiet.
Harry didn't look up, but it was clear he understood why the Dementor had stopped for him, why it had focused on him more than the others.
Outside, the rain still fell, but the cold had faded.
Inside, the silence stayed a little longer than usual.
*****
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