For several nights after the Dementor’s attack, Hermione had been haunted by nightmares. Nearly every night, she’d wake up gasping, her face pale and drenched in sweat. Hogwarts’ answer to such trauma was simple: hand the child a chocolate bar and trust that time would heal. But the scars that magic couldn’t fix—those left by terror and despair—were something altogether different.

Many nights, I found myself keeping vigil in the common room, staying close to her. She didn’t say much, but my presence seemed to help calm her, even if her nights were still plagued with restlessness. Nyx and Fidell, sensing her distress, had also taken it upon themselves to offer what comfort they could, curling up by her, purring softly as if to tell her that, in some way, she was safe.

Monday morning arrived, and as we headed to Defense Against the Dark Arts, I updated Ron.

“How is she today?” he asked in a low voice as we took our seats.

“Better,” I replied. “Still jittery but better than yesterday.”

Our conversation was cut short by Professor Trocar, who, to our surprise, announced, “Today’s lesson will be a bit more...hands-on.”

Hermione glanced up nervously. “What do you mean, Professor?”

Professor Trocar’s eyes glinted with a challenging gleam. “I believe that no one can truly defend against a Dementor without understanding the full horror of what it can do. So today, you will be confronting it through a recorded image—a memory of a Dementor feeding on its victim.”

Hermione paled, her grip tightening on her desk. “Professor, surely you don’t mean...”

“Yes,” Trocar replied, without a trace of hesitation. “Fear must be faced head-on if it is to be conquered. Courage is not the absence of fear but the will to rise above it. And if you don’t start confronting this fear now, it could settle into something far worse—something you carry with you for the rest of your life.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I shot up from my seat, frustration boiling over. “Are you mad? She’s already suffered enough!”

Trocar’s gaze met mine, steady and unyielding. “If you want to protect her, you’ll help her face this. And you’ll be there for her while she does.”

I felt Hermione’s hand slip into mine, her touch gentle but determined. She nodded up at me, showing that she was willing to try. On her other side, Ron took her other hand, and Neville placed a hand on her shoulder in silent support. Draco, off to the side, tried to look indifferent, but he lingered close.

With a flick of his wand, Professor Trocar conjured a lifelike image of a Dementor. It was startlingly real—the rotted, thin skin, the floating cloak, every horrific detail mimicked the fiend we’d seen. A shiver went through the classroom, and several students backed away in shock, instinctively drawing their wands.

“Calm yourselves!” Trocar ordered. “Remember, this is an illusion.”

But even knowing that didn’t quell the fear. We watched as the illusion of the Dementor sucked a soul from its victim—a young adult, barely in his twenties—who was left to fall to the ground, an empty shell.

Trocar’s voice was low as he explained, “This young man’s life was taken by a Dementor, but the fiend was slain, and his soul freed. Had it not been stopped, his soul would have been consumed—lost forever.”

Hermione winced, clutching my hand tighter. “Neville, your hand is hurting me,” she said, her voice strained.

“Oh—sorry,” Neville stammered, releasing his grip on her shoulder, the skin red where his fingers had been.

“Blimey, that’s what attacked you?” Ron whispered, clearly horrified.

“How on earth do you even fight something like that?” Draco’s voice had an edge of disbelief.

“Typically, you don’t,” I replied, my voice calm. “You cast a Patronus, and it flees.”

Draco frowned. “But you fought it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” I admitted. “And it was a losing battle. Had the professor not arrived when he did, I wouldn’t be here now.”

Hermione’s grip on my hand tightened as she heard those words, her fear resurfacing.

Just then, Professor Trocar called my name. “Benjamin Diggory,” he said, “if you’d stay after class, Headmaster Dumbledore and I would like to see you in his office.”

“We’d be delighted,” I replied, my tone firm.

Trocar raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“My friends will join me,” I said, leaving no room for debate. “If Dumbledore wants answers, he’ll find that they’re better shared in good company.”

Trocar sighed, resigned. “Very well. This once, he will make an exception.”