A Dementor's Boggart
Disclaimer: I don't own dementors, boggarts, or Azkaban, and if I did, you wouldn't like it.
Author's Note: We know dementors are sentient beings. But do they fear? And if they do, what? Frankly, I'm surprised no one has done this before, but here you go: A short example of what a dementor sees when it encounters a boggart. Review?
It was nearing midnight in the Azkaban Wizard's Prison. The dementors stalked the hallways on their nightly guard, every one of them alert and silently watchful. They needed no sleep. They patrolled the corridors, all of them, day and night, giving the wearied prisoners no respite from their torture: the loss of all happiness, the slow change into a cold, empty shell.
Singly, they glided down the corridors, their long black robes trailing out behind them despite the lack of breeze. The frigid, arctic waters of the North Sea pounded away at the rock of the fortress outside, in a slow steady motion. It was always stormy here. A faint sea mist, chilling and slimy, sprayed through a window and onto the hem of the robe of the dementor that had just passed, keeping up its unceasing movement throughout the bone-cold corridor. It took no notice of the sea's intrusion.
Passing rows of cells filled with skeleton men, wizards long forgotten, it drew in breath, sucking at their lives. A few shuddered as it passed; one moaned. The dementor took strange satisfaction, if not contentment, in that moan. Drawing out fresh life from a new arrival was always so much more fulfilling than capturing the dry, dusty remnants of the life that had petered out for most inmates. Most had been there too long; their souls had withered and decayed in its presence and the presence of its fellows. Sucking out their stale happiness made the dementor feel stale as well.
It drew in another breath and the moan lapsed into a thin wail, almost inaudible. The little happiness that the dementor had drawn from the woman was heavy, almost tangible, in its tunnel-like mouth. It moved on, holding it there until it dissolved in its mouth.
The next corridor was empty. There were no cells to line the walls. The dementor glided at the same pace, the tattered edges of its black cloak trailing. Mist that clung to the walls whitened and froze as it passed, drawing the vitality even out of the water. It approached the end of the corridor.
As it rounded the corner, it heard a terrified scream. One of the prisoners in the next cell was screaming, huddling against the wall of the prison, his palm against the flesh of his face, straw-colored hair wild, shrinking from a tall wizard that leered through the bars. Sensing that the wizard was an intruder, the dementor glided swiftly over the chilled floor and drew its hands from the folds of its robe, reaching forward as if to clutch the intruder. A dangerous aura emanated from its chilling form. The man in the cell shrank back in fear of these double phantoms, and the wizard turned its gaze slowly towards the fast-approaching dementor. It grinned…
Before the dementor could clutch the wizard, there was a small pop, and the human vanished. The man in the cell breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, a shadowy orb hung in the air, emanating blackness. The two phantoms stared at each other for a moment through eyes that neither possessed—and then, with another crack, the shadowy orb disappeared altogether. In its place was a great, shimmering figure of silvery light, in the shape of a phoenix. The phoenix spread its wings, and the light increased tenfold. At the same time, the dementor was aware of a powerful reaction rising in its chest. It drew in breath, seeking to destroy the silvery Patronus that it faced, but the creature would not go away, and the feeling continued to fill it, to the point of it being unbearable. It was a foreign, impossible feeling, a feeling of—of—happiness.
It nearly tore the dementor in two. Vainly the creature tried to flee from the light, fear filling it alongside the horrible happiness. It stumbled, flailing backward as the Patronus advanced, hooked, silvery claws reaching up to drive the dementor away. The dementor could not fight back against such a powerful enemy. It could not perform any wand spells, couldn't make the boggart appear humorous—for a dementor lacks humor as much as it lacks happiness.
The dementor continued to retreat, until its dark, decaying robes flickered against the cold stone wall of the prison. And then, as the silver phoenix raised its talons, a voiced called out from behind its great light:
"Riddikulus!"
The light burst into flame and fell to the floor in silvery ashes that vanished. A wizard stepped from behind the bird, approached the spot on the wall where the dementor had been.
But now, nothing was left except a few shreds of tattered cloak. The dementor had not been able to survive the happiness and the fear. It had been destroyed.
Perturbed, Mr. Crouch pocketed his wand, shrugged, and returned to the cell to visit his son.