The steady clatter of the Hogwarts Express on its tracks was usually a comforting sound to students returning to Hogwarts. The familiar rhythm, combined with the banter and laughter of classmates, filled the air with an eager sense of anticipation. But today, there was something different—a subtle tension that crept into the very walls of the train, as if the air itself held its breath.
Michael Murdock stared out the window, watching the rolling hills and deep forests blur into one continuous sweep of darkening landscape. He was seated by the window, but his attention wasn't on the countryside or even the students in his compartment. His thoughts were elsewhere—focused on the oppressive cold that had slowly, but surely, begun to seep into the atmosphere.
Across from him, Hermione Granger sat with a book open on her lap, though her gaze had long since drifted from the pages. Her fingers nervously tapped the spine of the book, a quiet rhythm that betrayed the unease she tried to mask. Beside her, Harry Potter shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes flitting toward the window as if hoping to spot something—or someone—outside the train. His jaw was set tight, tension radiating from his every movement.
Daphne Greengrass, sitting next to Michael, was more composed. She had positioned herself near the door, her posture as straight as ever, but Michael noticed the subtle flick of her eyes toward him, the way she occasionally glanced his way with quiet curiosity. Daphne wasn't one for casual conversation or idle gossip. She observed—quietly, carefully—and what she saw, she filed away for later use.
It wasn't the cold itself that had drawn Michael's attention. He had felt it long before the others noticed, long before it began to creep through the train. It was something deeper than temperature—a change in the very air, a pull that was dark, suffocating, and far too familiar.
"They're getting close," Hermione said softly, her voice a near whisper as the temperature dropped even further. Her breath fogged the air, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, as if the extra layer could ward off the unnatural cold. "The Dementors."
The name itself seemed to carry a weight, as if speaking it aloud gave the creatures more power. Michael didn't flinch, though. The chill in the air, the sinking feeling of despair that the Dementors brought with them, wasn't new to him. He had felt it before—many times. But for Harry, the effect was immediate. His breathing quickened, and his hand clenched the armrest, knuckles white as he struggled to maintain control.
The frost began to form on the windows, thin and delicate patterns spreading across the glass like a spider's web. The sound of the train's wheels against the tracks grew duller, more distant, as if the world itself was withdrawing into a heavy silence. The cold was no longer just a physical sensation. It was a presence, an entity, filling the space with its oppressive weight, pressing down on them with the force of despair.
"They'll be searching the train," Hermione continued, her eyes flicking toward the door of the compartment. "Looking for someone."
Her voice was steady, but Michael could sense the fear beneath it. Everyone in the compartment could. The cold wasn't just something to be endured. It was a warning, a prelude to something far worse.
"They're here," Hermione whispered, her breath fogging the air.
The door slid open with a slow, agonizing creak, and the temperature dropped to an unbearable level. Standing in the doorway, draped in tattered black robes, was a Dementor. The creature's face—or lack of one—was hidden beneath its hood, but its presence alone was enough to drain the room of what little warmth remained.
The air grew thick, so thick that it was hard to breathe. It felt as though every breath was being sucked out of the compartment, leaving behind only cold and silence. Frost crawled further along the windows, creeping inward, and Michael could hear the strained breathing of his companions.
Harry gasped sharply, his body tensing as the Dementor's aura wrapped around him. His face had gone pale, his eyes wide with terror as his worst memories came flooding back to him. The power of the Dementor wasn't just in its physical presence—it was in the way it dredged up the darkest parts of a person's soul, forcing them to relive their worst moments. For Harry, it was unbearable.
Hermione reached out, her hand trembling as she touched Harry's arm. "Harry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Stay with us."
But Harry was already slipping, lost to the memories the Dementor had stirred. His breathing grew ragged, and his grip on the armrest tightened as if he were clinging to reality by a thread.
Michael, however, remained still. The pull of the Dementor wasn't something that affected him in the same way. It didn't push him to the edge of despair—it called to him. The darkness the Dementor brought with it, the overwhelming sense of cold and loss, was something he had known for a long time. It was something he had lived with.
The Dementor turned its head—or what passed for a head—in Michael's direction. There was a moment of hesitation, a pause in the creature's movements as if it had sensed something. The air around Michael grew heavier, the cold biting at his skin like a thousand needles. The pull was stronger now, more insistent, as if the creature had recognized a kindred presence in him.
Michael's magic stirred, deep within him, a hum of power that he didn't need to summon. It was instinctive, automatic, a part of him that responded to the darkness without his conscious command. For a brief moment, the pull of the Dementor grew overwhelming, almost tempting. It would be easy to let go, to allow the power to flow freely, to embrace the darkness as it called to him. He had felt that temptation before—many times.
But he didn't give in. He never did.
His fingers twitched slightly, the smallest movement, but it was enough. The cold in the compartment lessened, just a fraction, as if the Dementor had stepped back without moving. The suffocating weight of despair lifted slightly, though it still clung to the air like a heavy fog.
Daphne's eyes flicked toward Michael, her gaze sharp, focused. She had noticed. Michael could feel it. The way the Dementor had paused, the way the air had shifted, had not escaped her attention. She didn't speak, but her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, as if she were trying to piece together the puzzle of what she had just witnessed.
The Dementor lingered for a moment, as if weighing its options. Then, slowly, it turned and drifted out of the compartment, its tattered robes trailing behind it like smoke. The door slid shut with a soft click, and the temperature began to rise, though the chill remained, a haunting reminder of what had just passed.
Hermione exhaled sharply, her hand still resting on Harry's arm. "Harry, are you alright?" she asked again, her voice laced with concern.
Harry nodded weakly, though his face was still pale, his breathing still shallow. He was shaking, his body trying to recover from the emotional toll the Dementor had taken on him.
Michael leaned back in his seat, his fingers relaxing their grip on the armrest. The pull of the darkness had lessened, but it hadn't disappeared. It never truly did. It was always there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness, waiting for a moment of weakness. But Michael had learned to live with it. He had no choice.
"You didn't seem affected at all," Daphne said suddenly, her voice soft but carrying an edge of curiosity. There was no accusation in her tone, but there was something probing, something sharp, as if she were testing the waters.
Michael met her gaze, his expression calm, controlled. "Guess I handle it differently," he replied, his voice measured, careful not to reveal too much.
Daphne's eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she turned her attention back to the door. She wasn't satisfied with his answer—Michael could see that. But she wasn't going to press the issue. Not yet.
The tension in the compartment had eased, but it hadn't vanished entirely. Harry was still recovering, his breathing uneven, and Hermione sat beside him, her face pale with worry. The cold had lifted, but the atmosphere remained heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of what had just happened.
Outside, the sky had grown darker, thick clouds rolling in as the train neared its destination. The familiar sound of the wheels on the tracks had returned, but it felt distant, almost hollow. Inside the compartment, the air was still thick with the remnants of the Dementor's presence, a cold that lingered just beneath the surface.
Michael allowed his gaze to drift back to the window, watching as the landscape passed by in a blur of dark greens and greys. Hogwarts was on the horizon, but for Michael, it wasn't just the beginning of another school year. It was something far more significant.