Chapter 44
Filch’s fingers barely brushed Harry’s collar before something shifted.
The air thickened.
The torches lining the corridor dimmed, their flames flickering erratically. The shadows stretched unnaturally, twisting like living things. A suffocating cold pressed down on the students, like the breath of something ancient, something wrong.
Harry’s vision blurred.
His mind reeled—disjointed, slipping away—as something coiled deep inside him, awakening.
A presence.
Not his own.
His body stiffened. His head tilted slightly, his green eyes darkening into something void-like, swallowing the light.
Filch’s furious expression crumbled. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide with something beyond anger. Something closer to terror.
The torches flickered again.
A whisper—silent, yet deafening—curled through the hallway, clawing at the edges of reality.
The students stumbled back, some gasping, others frozen in place.
“What…” Hermione breathed, gripping Ron’s arm. “What is that?”
Then—
"Enough."
Dumbledore’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
The pressure vanished. The torches flared back to life.
Harry staggered, his body suddenly his own again. His breath came out in sharp gasps, his knees weak. His mind felt clouded, as if something had almost taken hold but was yanked back at the last second.
The silence was suffocating.
Filch scrambled backward, his face pale as parchment.
McGonagall’s sharp eyes darted between Filch, the writing on the wall, and Harry. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her grip on her wand tight.
Dumbledore, however, was looking only at Harry.
The weight of his gaze was immense. Not angry. Not fearful. But knowing.
"Mr. Potter," he said softly. "Come with me."