A pair of grey, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the Dementor’s robes, reaching for him. A rushing noise filled Harry’s ears.
‘Expecto patronum!’
His voice sounded dim and distant. Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand – he couldn’t do it any more, he couldn’t work the spell.
There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter … he could smell the Dementor’s putrid, death-cold breath filling his own lungs, drowning him – think … something happy …
But there was no happiness in him … the Dementor’s icy fingers were closing on his throat – the high-pitched laughter was growing louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head: ‘Bow to death, Harry … it might even be painless … I would not know … I have never died …’
He was never going to see Ron and Hermione again –
And their faces burst clearly into his mind as he fought for breath.
‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’
An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of Harry’s wand; its antlers caught the Dementor in the place where the heart should have been; it was thrown backwards, weightless as darkness, and as the stag charged, the Dementor swooped away, bat-like and defeated.
