"The sensation is manageable," Al stated, deciding not to dwell further in it. There was no reason of yanking the chain on something so dark and raw and sharp. Not during the day.
That particular Dementor had a habit of emerging at night, when Al's mind settled and calmed during hours of insomnia. It kept Al from reading and breathing and thinking, but there was always a page with the drawing of rosemary to trace, a blue phial of Memorestore to hold onto, glassy, deep, and calming, like the eyes of a Patronus.
Compared to the nighttime, Al's days were manageable indeed.
"Tea, please," he told dad. "With milk, no sugar. What did I miss at dinner?"