Where there is life, Dementor will be there to suck it dry.
It is not a want for Dementor. It is simply the way it has always been. Who is Dementor to question why? Dementor hungers, and so Dementor does what all Dementors do.
What makes Dementor any different?
Nothing.
Well, nothing, except the feeling that it was once different.
Dementor knows - well, no, not knows. Dementors do not know things. Dementor senses that it had once been something else. Just sometimes.
A girl. Yes, it probably was.
With a name? Perhaps. Dementor isn't sure. After all, Dementor is not sure what a name is.
Dementor doesn't have one.
With a family? Dementor doesn't know.
These feelings are all very foreign to Dementor. Dementors, after all, don't think, and don't remember. They feel hunger, and they look for ways to satisfy this hunger. They are rarely full, and they are always on the lookout for more hope to consume. This is what Dementor does. This is all that Dementor should ever do.
Then, one day, Dementor discovers something which stops it in its tracks.
Hopes and happiness like it has never sensed before.
Smiles. Laughter. Friendship.
There is no way that Dementor could understand what it is that it sees. Not only do Dementors never learn of emotions, they do not have the capacity to learn of them.
And yet, Dementor sees.
Four ... four people. Smiling and laughing together.
A baby. A baby and its caring parents.
These are not the feelings and experiences with which Dementor is acquainted with.
Greed. Lust. Vengeance. Domination.
These are the attributes that made up the dreams of its victims. Desires to beat the rest, to vanquish enemies.
Not this ... this happiness ... this contentment.
Somewhere deep inside, Dementor feels rumblings of...of memories? Were these memories? Dementor's memories?
Of a father, dancing with a young girl, twirling her around the room before bedtime.
Of holding hands with a young boy too shy to look you in the eye.
Of a heart beating fit to burst as I felt my lips press against those of the only person I wanted to spend my life with ...
But Dementors do not have memories. Dementors do not have the capacity to remember. Why should Dementor remember?
And yet somehow, inexplicably, Dementor is drawn towards these hopes day after day. Not just to consume them, but to watch them sail through the stale air that surrounds them, as light as a feather in the despair that fills the lungs of those around it. Dementor feels them, the light and life with which they filled the cell, while Dementor senses flickers of its own hope dance tantalisingly close, just beyond its fingertips. And when it finally devours these hopes in an attempt to assuage its unrelenting hunger, it always leaves a tiny glimmer of it, hiding in the far corner of the room.
As Dementor watches, it learns. It learns a little bit more each day. Its desire to learn, to understand slowly grows stronger. Dementor begins to exercise control on its hunger, craving a new type of fulfillment.
And each day it leaves a little more behind.
Dementor does not know how long this goes on for. It could be days, weeks, months, years.
Dementor doesn't care. All Dementor cares about it is its desire to understand.
And then one day, Dementor senses something at the heart of these dreams. Something hazy. Distorted. Much like Dementor itself.
A shadow. Of a human.
Is this the human having these thoughts? Dementor wonders fleetingly, but it is far more interested in the tapestry of thoughts that surround the hazy figure.
And yet, more and more, the images bring Dementor full circle right back to the outline. It comes to realise that the images and this ... being at the centre of it must be related. Once again, Dementor grows hungry. Now it wants to know how, no, why both of them share this connection. Why must they be so different and yet have so much in common?
Dementor watches the happiness that filled this shadow's life, and they help it to realise that the whispers of life which it catches from time to time are linked to its own. Soon these thoughts and images, both this being’s and Dementor's, are inexorably entangled as the outline grows stronger and stronger.
What had started out as a lone note has now become a symphony. Dementor's, and this person's, symphony. Their story.
Is it any wonder that Dementor is in love with this figure?
Love. Yes. Dementor remembers.
She remembers her family. She remembers the mother that sang songs to her at night; the father that kissed her on the forehead before bed. She remembers the brothers and sisters that made her laugh.
She remembers herself. She remembers the wind caressing her skin and the sound of waves in her ears. She remembers the touch of another.
She remembers.
Dementor
lets
go.
And in Dementor's place, She stands. She feels the air penetrating her lungs, the brown hair cascading down her shoulders, the cold concrete floor beneath her feet.
For the first time, She sees the man she has loved. He may be shrivelled and gaunt. His black hair may be shaggy and unkempt, his teeth yellowing. She sees only beauty personified. Here is the man that has saved her.
She watches the world unfolding in front of her through emerald green eyes, knowing for the first time in years what it is to be human.
Then She is gone, and Dementor stands in her place.
Dementor is hungry. Dementor feeds.
For the first time in twelve years, a prisoner looks up from his spot on the hard concrete floor, as if roused from a perpetual nightmare.
His head is clearer tonight than he has ever remembered. He wonders why this night is different.
Something out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he looks over to see the Dementor on watch outside his cell.
Funny. He could have sworn he saw a woman there a second ago.
He shivers as he raises himself up off the ground. The night is cold. His tattered robes offer no protection against the smoggy coldness that inhabits his very being.
Yet, tonight it is strangely alleviated. He is able to stand unaided. He stares down at his hands, which form easily into fists. There is more power than he had ever hoped for beneath his skin.
He has had the motive for a while now. He knows where he's going.
Now he has the means.
There are no locks or doors in this place. He strides past the waiting Dementor outside, past its unseeing eyes, stopping only to spit at the ground where its feet should be. Scum. Never again would he be denied his freedom by such a wretched, unfeeling creature.
He stares out the gaping window to the enraged sea below, licking fiercely at the prison, the salty smell and the piercing winds assaulting his senses. For the first time in years, he knows what it is to be human.
Without a second glance at his detested surroundings, he crouches down, transforming seamlessly into a great black dog, and leaps out the window into the great unknown below.