The footsteps outside belonged to Malfoy, of course, along with his two huge underlings.
Crabbe and Goyle seemed born to follow Malfoy's orders. Both were big and muscular—Crabbe was taller, with pudding-bowl hair and a long thick neck; Goyle was shorter, hairier, with arms like an ape.
But what they had in common was being equally stupid.
"Well, look who it is—" Malfoy drawled, opening the compartment door, "Potter and Weasley."
Goyle and Crabbe burst out laughing.
Malfoy's face then changed, as he saw Marcel looking at him coldly, with a stare that could freeze.
"Er—oh—" Malfoy quickly turned away. "Crabbe! Goyle! Remember where I put my trunk?"
"Huh?" The henchmen looked blank.
"Come on! You two idiots..." Malfoy muttered, then strode away without a backward glance.
"Looks like you still scare that jerk," Harry said eagerly. "Didn't even dare look at you!"
"That's nothing, as long as—"
Before Marcel could finish, he suddenly turned to look at the tail end of the train.
"Marcel, what's wrong?" Hermione asked.
He shook his head, gaze still fixed on the wall, as if he could see through it.
Outside, rain fell harder and harder, the windows turning a dirty gray, the carriage and luggage rack lights flickering on as it got darker.
The train rocked and the wind howled; a strange uneasiness settled in.
"We must be nearly there," Ron said, glancing at the still-sleeping Professor Lupin.
No sooner were the words out than the train began to slow.
"Good," Ron said, standing and trying to peer outside, "I'm starving, can't wait for dinner..."
"Hermione checked her watch. "We can't be there! Why are we stopping?"
Marcel walked to the door, beckoning the others inward. "Sit down—away from the door and windows. Stay in the middle."
The train slowed, the rumble fading under the downpour and wind.
Suddenly the carriage jolted, then stopped. Distant thuds were suitcases falling off the racks.
Then—all the lights went out. They were swallowed by darkness.
"What's happening?" Ron called behind Marcel.
"Ouch!" Hermione gasped. "Ron, that's my foot!"
"Stay put, don't move," Marcel instructed, "There's something outside."
Suddenly, sharp, metallic screeches sounded outside. The compartment fell silent.
Marcel quickly took out a glowing bottle—in an instant, the compartment filled with gentle, bright light.
"Here," Marcel handed the glowing bottle to Hermione, "So at least you won't get stepped on."
Suddenly, the door swung open—a figure barged in, bumping into Marcel.
"Sorry! Do you know what's happening? Ouch! Sorry—"
"Inside—" Marcel grabbed Neville and pulled him in. "Stay in the middle, don't move."
"What's happening?" Ron pressed.
Moments later, the door opened again—with a thump and two squeaks, Scabbers the rat had fallen from Ron's pocket and was stepped on twice.
"You poor thing," Marcel thought.
"Ron, is that you? Ginny, get in, sit down—"
By now, all the voices had woken Professor Lupin, though he still looked weary, there was a new alertness in his eyes.
"Stay where you are," he said, voice rough.
Lupin was about to get up when an awful figure appeared in the doorway.
In the bottle-light, everyone saw the "creature": tall as the ceiling, covered in tattered black robes, face obscured by a hood, a gray, scabbed, dead-looking hand emerging from the sleeve.
The thing seemed to sense it was being watched and drew back its hand, then, under the hood, something inhaled—a slow, rattling gasp, as though laboring to suck in more than just air.
A wave of cold swept through them all.
"Been waiting for you," Marcel muttered. "Dementor."
It took only seconds. Before Lupin could respond, they were all shocked to see Marcel step forward.
"Get back!" Lupin cried.
"It's all right, Professor." Marcel gave a reassuring wave, eyes never leaving the Dementor.
He noticed—the Dementor didn't seem to sense his presence.
"So—Dementors do detect people through emotions, indirectly."
Marcel drew his wand—without a word, he conjured a swirl of silver mist that rammed the Dementor out the door.
He followed it into the corridor.
Stunned, Lupin burst out, too—just in time to see Marcel forcibly pull back the Dementor's hood!
Silver-white mist streamed from Marcel's wand, holding the Dementor pinned to the window.
Marcel grimaced at its terrible face, shook his head, and, apparently uninterested in the Dementor's discomfort, forced open the window, shoved the scrawny creature through—and, somehow, it worked.
Lupin stared at Marcel, eyes wide in shock.
"Oh, sorry, Professor," Marcel said calmly. "I just figured, leaving that thing in here was the worse option."
Lupin wanted to say: "What you just did wasn't exactly normal either," but kept it in.
Back in the compartment, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at Marcel—what they'd seen was astonishing.
"Marcel," Hermione blurted, "do you...change personality every term?"
"No, I don't have such a strange condition," Marcel replied. "I just think the low-profile days are over. If you need anything, you can come to me anytime—"
"—I won't ignore you like last term."
In fact, the Chamber of Secrets was a self-contained event—since it was tied to the diary-Tom Riddle, Marcel could stay low-key and let things run as they should. This time, with the unpredictability unleashed by previous deviations (like Voldemort escaping in Quirrell's body in year one), playing defense for the status quo would be impossible.
"So being ready for Voldemort's return myself is the safest play."
Hermione, eyes wide, was speechless.
"Marcel, what was that thing?" Harry asked. "It was terrifying!"
"That was a Dementor," Professor Lupin said, coming in. He handed out chocolate to everyone, pausing at Marcel.
"Want some, Marcel?"
"Why not?" Marcel said, popping the chocolate in his mouth.
Harry accepted the chocolate, but didn't eat it.
"Dementor?" he repeated.
"A Dementor from Azkaban," Lupin answered, balling up the chocolate wrapper and pocketing it. "Eat up. It'll help. I need to speak to the driver. Excuse me..."
He clapped Marcel on the shoulder, then stepped out into the corridor.
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