Chapter 5
Harry sat in the Hogwarts Express compartment alongside Ron and Hermione, watching the scenery blur into a succession of hills and valleys. The train’s atmosphere was filled with the usual buzz of students swapping summer stories and speculations about what awaited them at school.
As the train continued its journey, the lights outside began to grow dim. Clouds had gathered in the sky, obscuring the moon, and a sudden chill wrapped around the compartment. The red-haired one tightened his jacket around his shoulders and shivered.
«Damn, why is it so cold?» he muttered.
Hermione glanced around, noticing how everyone’s breath had become visible—as if the very air were frozen. Then a sudden jolt shook the train, and the chatter of the students in the corridors fell into an eerie silence.
It was an unnatural cold, a shiver that crawled over the skin like icy fingers. Hermione shivered further, drawing her jacket tight, while Ron cast a nervous look out the fogged-up window. The train slowed slightly, and he sensed a change in the air.
Dementors.
He had seen them before—black, floating shadows draped in tattered cloaks, whose mere presence drained every ounce of warmth from the air. Yet he felt nothing—no surge of despair, no painful memory pulling him into a vortex of agony. Nothing at all. It was as if their influence bounced off an invisible barrier. Still, he watched them intently as they moved along the train, gliding through the carriages with calculated slowness.
Then he noticed something strange. The Dementors weren’t merely patrolling the train—they were drawn to a specific point. A carriage further ahead.
He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the direction in which the creatures seemed to converge. Then a thought crept into his mind: Dementors feed on emotions, on suffering and despair. But what would happen if they encountered a soul pure and untainted by darkness? It would be the perfect feast.
He sprang to his feet.
«Harry?» asked the Ravenclaw, surprised.
«I need to check something.»
Not waiting for an answer, he stepped into the corridor. The chill grew even more intense as he advanced, though it wasn’t only the physical cold—there was something subtle, something amiss in the air. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated.
Faded pure white.
«Draco!» Pansy’s clear, ringing voice called out, and he realized they had already reached the carriage.
He quickened his pace. The chill was growing stronger, and the air vibrated with an oppressive presence. Reaching the carriage, he pushed open the door without hesitation.
Malfoy was seated by the window, his face paler than usual, his eyes wide and glassy. Pansy Parkinson stood next to him, her hands trembling on his shoulders, while Blaise Zabini and the other Slytherins appeared paralyzed by fear. The temperature had dropped drastically—everyone’s breath condensed into little white puffs.
He paused in the doorway. The Dementors had gathered around the blonde, drawn like moths to his luminous, unsuspecting aura. They weren’t merely watching him—they were savoring his essence, feeding on a purity that attracted them with an insatiable hunger.
A creeping whisper filled the air.
Harry didn’t raise his wand—he didn’t need to. He inhaled slowly and allowed his aura to expand.
An invisible wave of pressure radiated from his body, a raw, primordial power that seemed to bend the very air. The cold cracked, and the fear shattered. The Dementors—accustomed to feasting on despair and vulnerability—found themselves suddenly overwhelmed by an all-encompassing presence.
They recoiled. They hissed silently into the void, writhing as they were repelled, sliding away from the carriage like shadows broken by light. In a matter of moments, the chill dissolved.
Silence followed their retreat, broken only by the ragged breaths of the students.
Malfoy slumped against his seat, his eyes still wide, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Pansy still held his shoulders, but her grip was uncertain, trembling.
Harry stepped forward. For a moment, their eyes met.
«Are you all right?» he asked in a neutral tone, though his eyes shone with keen curiosity.
The Slytherin took a few seconds to answer.
«I…I think so.» his voice was hoarse, almost a whisper.
He looked at the dark-haired guy with a confused expression—as if he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Then he lowered his gaze, clenching his fists. He didn’t like the idea of having been prey so vulnerable.
The boy with the green eyes nodded slightly, then turned to leave.
«Potter.»
He stopped in the doorway. Draco stared at him for a moment, then looked away.
«...Thanks.»
There was no reply—just a nod from Harry before he disappeared down the corridor.
The journey continued without further incident, yet the atmosphere inside the Hogwarts Express remained taut and charged with tension. When the train slowed and the conductor announced the arrival at school, the students prepared to disembark. Outside, a light rain fell, and the torches lining the pathway to the carriages shone in the darkness.
The Golden Trio joined the other students as they moved toward the Thestrals—visible only to those who had witnessed death. Ron shivered, pulling his cloak tighter.
Harry cast a glance at Draco, who was further ahead in the group—still pale but seemingly composed. For a brief moment, their eyes met, but Malfoy quickly averted his gaze and boarded a carriage with his companions.
Upon arriving at school, the students spilled into the Great Hall, welcoming the castle’s warmth with relief. The welcome feast awaited them, but before they could begin eating, Dumbledore rose to his feet, drawing everyone’s attention.
«Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts.» his calm, powerful voice resounded throughout the hall.
«Before we begin, I must make an announcement of utmost importance.»
Silence fell among the students.
«As some of you may have already noticed, Hogwarts will be hosting Ministry guardians this year: the Dementors of Azkaban.»
A murmur of uneasy chatter rose from the tables.
Dumbledore raised a hand, and silence instantly returned.
«The Dementors have been assigned to guard the school’s borders by order of the Ministry of Magic. The reason is simple: the escape of Sirius Black from Azkaban.»
«I warn you, Dementors show no mercy.» Dumbledore continued, his gaze sweeping across the hall.
«They are not creatures to be taken lightly. I advise you not to provoke them or give them any reason to take an interest in you.»
The Gryffindor’s eyes involuntarily shifted toward the Slytherin table. Malfoy sat rigidly there, his hands clasped on his lap, his knuckles white.
The first class of the year took place in the damp dungeons of the castle, where Professor Snape awaited with his usual stern expression.
«Today you will work in pairs.» he announced with a cold little smile.
«To save time, I will assign the groups myself.»
The students tensed up; no one liked it when Snape decided the pairs.
«Malfoy and Potter.»
The dark-haired guy saw the other whip around in clear irritation, though he did not protest.
«Zabini and Weasley.» Ron let out a muffled groan while Blaise raised an eyebrow with a vaguely amused air.
«Don’t put a spoke in my wheel, Potter.» Draco hissed as he set the cauldron on the magical burner.
«This potion is complicated.»
The dark-haired guy didn’t reply immediately. He calmly pulled out his textbook, his fingers gliding confidently over its pages—even though he didn’t really need to.
«Follow my rhythm and we won’t ruin anything.» said in a neutral tone.
The blonde looked at him, arching an eyebrow, but had no time to answer: Harry had already begun measuring the ingredients with impeccable precision. With a fluid motion, he chopped the bicorn root exactly as required, his knife moving with unwavering confidence.
Draco watched him out of the corner of his eye as he went about his work—unable to tear his gaze away.
It wasn’t the first time he had done so, certainly, but this time it was different. This time, Potter was close. Far too close. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the chopping board, the way his hands moved with an almost innate grace—it all seemed hypnotic.
The flickering candlelight in the dungeons cast soft shadows on his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the clean cut of his cheekbones. His green eyes, partially hidden behind rebellious strands, shone under that light with a depth that made them almost maddening to behold.
It was irritating.
Irritating how his presence filled the space between them, as if he were perfectly at ease no matter where he was. Irritating how, without any apparent effort, he executed everything with flawless precision. Irritating that, despite everything, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
«Will you help me or would you rather just stare at me for the entire lesson?»
Draco blinked, feeling a sudden warmth rise along his neck. He clenched his jaw and gripped the pestle more forcefully, crushing the ingredients with too much strength.
«Shut up, Potter.»
The dark-haired guy offered no reply, but Draco knew he was smiling.
The pestle struck the mortar harder than necessary. Draco forced himself not to look any further, focusing on the ingredients, though it was impossible to ignore Potter’s presence beside him.
A heavy silence stretched between them, laden with something he couldn’t quite define—or perhaps didn’t want to define.
Potter continued working with fluid, perfectly measured movements, effortlessly. There was something hypnotic in his calm—the confidence with which he handled every ingredient, the intensity in which the green of his eyes shone under the flickering candlelight.
Draco realized that his pestle had come to a halt in his grasp. He was still staring at him.
Potter turned toward him, tilting his head slightly.
«Everything all right, Malfoy?»
His voice was low and calm, but his gaze was curious.
Draco hurriedly resumed the movement of his pestle, diverting his eyes with an impassive expression.
«Focus on the potion, not on me.»
«Hard to do when you’re staring at me like that.»
The blonde’s heartbeat quickened. Clenching his teeth, he shot Potter a frosty look.
«You’re incredibly irritating, you know that?»
A hint of a smile curved on the Gryffindor’s lips.
«Only with you, apparently.»
Draco lowered his gaze, trying to ignore the warmth creeping under his skin. This was going to be a long, very long lesson.
Soon enough, he noticed that Gryffindors and Slytherins were sharing many more classes than usual. Malfoy should have hated it—having to spend so much time with Potter and his merry band of red-and-gold idiots was torture. But, strangely, it wasn’t quite unbearable… only Harry at least.
Then, suddenly, he began to miss classes.
At first, no one paid much attention. One day he didn’t show up for Potions, then he skipped an entire morning of lessons. Weasley covered for him with vague excuses—“he’s not feeling well,” “he went to Madam Chips”—but Draco didn’t believe it.
He wasn’t the type to miss classes without reason. It wasn’t just mere curiosity. Or maybe it was.
Quidditch practice had begun as usual: Draco soared through the air on his broom, the cold evening wind tousling his hair. The Slytherin team moved as a compact unit, testing plays and strategies for the next match.
The light was fading rapidly, and a sensation of chill crept beneath his uniform. He focused on the game, trying to ignore the unease.
Then he realized he had climbed too high.
The green grass of the pitch was far below him now, and his teammates looked like tiny moving dots. He couldn’t even remember when he had stopped paying attention—when his broom had carried him so high, as if something had drawn him upward.
The cold struck him like a wave.
His heart pounded in his chest, his fingers tightened around the broom’s handle, yet it felt as though his strength were abandoning him. His eyelids grew heavy, his head felt light. An invisible grip tightened around his chest.
He couldn’t breathe.
The Quidditch pitch vanished. Darkness swallowed him. Draco felt a vortex dragging him away. Or perhaps he was falling?
Then he saw something. No—someone.
From the dark mist, a figure suddenly emerged. Green eyes gleamed in the shadows, and a hand reached out toward him.
Potter.
He wasn’t wearing the school uniform. Behind him, an opening into the void appeared—a hole in space.
Draco couldn’t speak. He felt his body growing heavier, his limbs numb. The void was pulling him in.
But then Harry grabbed him. A sudden tug. The world flipped upside down.
And then—
He snapped his eyes open. He was lying on the damp grass of the Quidditch pitch.
The light of torches illuminated the sky above him; the stars seemed to whirl overhead. For a moment he couldn’t understand where he was, his heart still pounding in his chest.
Then he heard voices.
«Draco! Are you all right?» called a classmate, her voice thick with anxiety.
«Shit! He passed out?» Blaise knelt beside him, scrutinizing him with a worried expression.
The Slytherin team gathered around him. Someone—namely that idiot best friend of his—gave him a few light slaps on the cheeks to rouse him.
“I need to crush Blaise.” he noted mentally.
He tried to speak, but his throat was dry. What on earth had happened? Had he really seen Potter? But then… where was he now?
Before he could get an answer, his eyes closed again. The world went black.