The idea that whatever he was planning to do tonight might result in tearing his pants was — distressing. That was really the only appropriate word for it: the idea distressed him. Ford was distressed. (There had been no mention of anything like that in the pseudo-pornographic diary Elmer Macmillan had given him — what did that even entail?)

Then he turned around to show the scar on his back, and Ford's eyes widened. He took a quick step back without thinking about it, and suddenly he had his back up against the wardrobe, which wasn't a good idea at all. He'd been very deliberate before about how close he'd been getting to it, so that the dementor wouldn't be able to latch onto him too tightly. Just putting a hand on it was enough for it to lash out at him. Now it was touching his whole back, and digging into his shoulder — and as a result he didn't know if the flash of fear that went through him as he put the pieces together about the naked man in the woods with the claw-shaped scars was really genuine, or something the dementor had seized upon and amplified. They wanted emotion, any emotion, and they were good at dragging it out — so even a slight spark of fear was not good.

"You're a —" he started, but his breath caught in his throat and he didn't finish the sentence. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought, panicking. He was aware that he shouldn't panic, because the dementor would eat that up, but he couldn't help it. What the hell was he supposed to do now?