Written for Hogwarts' Around the World Event: Antigua and Barbuda - Character:: Albus Severus, the Magical Law Assignment: Government Task: Write a fic about Dementors outside of Azkaban, and the Haunted House Event: write about a dementor, (word) chill, write about an image in glass.
Word count: 1365
Fate Reaching Out
Albus knows the stories. How could he not? Hearing about his father's (and mother's) exploits before bed in place of a more mundane fairytale had been his favorite thing growing up—a habit he had picked up from James, and that had spread through their entire family like Fiendfyre.
So he has heard about the way his father fought and banished a hundred Dementors at age thirteen, and how when they came to attack him at fifteen, he escaped again.
He knows all about the effects brought on by a Dementor's presence—the cold, oppressive feeling of joy being drained out of you—but he's never experienced them himself.
As it turns out, it does make a difference.
.
This late at night, the streets are empty when Albus stumbles out of the bar where Scorpius and Lily, in a scarily impressive show of unity, had dragged him out to celebrate his getting accepted into the Auror academy—one day, he's going to get used to the way his sister and his best friend get on like a house on fire, but today is still not that day.
He's not quite drunk anymore. The last alcohol he ingested—a truly disgusting cocktail with an acidic blue color Albus still doesn't know the name of—has long been digested, and he's now just pleasantly buzzed, and really sleepy.
The chill of the air surprises him, causing him to shiver and draw his coat tighter around him. Uncle George always told him 'never Apparate drunk or hungover', and anyway, the Leaky Cauldron isn't very far. He can take the Floo there, and enjoy the crisp night air in the meantime, use it to clear his head.
It's either that or taking the Knight Bus, anyway, and once was more than enough for him.
He walks leisurely enough. London at night is always so much more interesting than during the day. The darkness gives it something magical, almost, like you should expect anything from the city. It's quieter, too, but even deserted it still feels alive and thrumming with life.
Albus could spend hours walking through London at night—and to his parents' dismay, he has, more than once.
He doesn't see them at first. Doesn't even realize anything's wrong. The air just gets a little colder and a pale white fog creeps at the far edges of his vision.
He notices their reflexions first, distorted images in shop windows that are starting to frost over, grotesque monsters almost right out of his childhood nightmares.
The glass makes their dark robes appear even longer than they are, and for half second Albus is frozen right where he stands, heart hammering in his chest as he watches the Dementors glide toward him inexorably.
And then his fight-or-flight instinct kicks in and he spins around, fingers fumbling at his jeans as he tries to get his wand out.
That's when he finally sees them, too: two Dementors, exactly like in the story his father told him, coming at him with a rale, their skeletal hands reaching to tug off their hoods, and oh, that terrible feeling Albus gets as his very soul seems to grow cold.
His hands shake as he struggles to keep holding onto his wand, and even though he knows how to cast the Patronus spell, right now summoning the happy memory he usually uses—he and Scorpius, graduating and laughing because the world is theirs, now—seems impossible. The joy that suffuses the memory keeps slipping through his fingers like smoke, and he feels like he's balanced on the edge of some deep, dark hole with nowhere to go but down.
"Ex-expecto P-patronum," he stutters, and silvery mist drips from his wand.
It's not enough. It's not nearly enough to chase the Dementors away. But it's a start. It has to be.
He tries the spell again, and again, but with the same result, stepping backward and away from the Dementors until his back hits the cool surface of the glass window he had first seen the Dementors in.
"Crap," he curses, and forces himself to cast the spell again. Even as weak as his results are, they're still enough to keep the Dementors at bay for a few seconds—which, at this point, counts for more than you'd think—but more importantly, it forces him to hang onto the happiness he needs to cast the spell.
Despair creeps in so easily with Dementors around—no stories could have prepared him for that feeling—and hanging onto even the slightest bit of joy is like trying to hold onto smoke. It keeps slipping through Albus' fingers, no matter how hard he tries, and every time his spell fails, his heart starts beating a little faster in his chest as terror pours through his veins.
The Dementors are so close now Albus can almost touch them. Their featureless faces, now exposed, make him want to throw up, but he swallows back the urge, bile burning bitter in his throat;
For a second, he's sure he's going to die—worse, that he's going to lose his soul, and that his body will be left there, in the street, for anyone to discover. He can picture the scene perfectly in his mind: some poor Muggle will stumble into a black-haired comatose body in the morning, and Albus' parents won't learn about this for days, possibly. His family will be left wondering what happened, and why, and the thought breaks something in Albus' chest open.
He loves his family—his parents, as overbearing as they can get sometimes (like when they punish him for getting in trouble at school when Albus knows for a fact they did much worse when they were there), his siblings, as insufferable as they can get, and Scorpius, who isn't blood but was Albus' first friend outside his immediate family and has come to be so much more since then.
He can't leave his family like this. He just' can't.
Love hurts as it courses through his veins, burning the chill away. For an instant, Albus can see clearly; but an instant is all he needs.
"Expecto Patronum!"
This time, the spell works, and the familiar stag burst out of his wand and charges at the Dementors while Albus laughs, half triumphant, half relieved.
The shining silvery stag trots back to his side, and Albus gives him a small smile. "Thanks, Prongs," he says. "You really saved my ass here."
Prongs inclines his head, circles around Albus once, and melts back into vapor, leaving Albus feeling oddly naked, and cold. He loves his Patronus—it's the same as his father, but although he also calls it Prongs, Albus is well aware it doesn't represent for him the same person as it does for his father. Or rather, it does—they both chose their father as their protector, after all.
The one good thing about all this, he reflects as he stands in the deserted street, is that he now feels a hundred percent sober—Apparating is no longer a problem. In fact, it is pretty much his best choice right now: the Dementors may be gone, but who knew how long that would last, or what other deadly monsters the oppressive darkness that surrounded him was still hiding.
Thinking of home—of his family, whom he suddenly misses like a limb—he twists around on his feet, and Apparates away with a loud crack, nearly face-planting on the familiar porch.
Thirty seconds later, he's sick in the rose bushes his grandmother insisted on giving his parents, body shivering violently as his mind finally processes how close he came to getting his soul sucked out.
He hasn't lived here in a few years now, but right now, the sight of his childhood bedroom, where he creeps to as silently as he can, is the best thing he's seen all day.
He collapses on his bed still dressed, and exhaustion pulls him under the moment his head hits his pillow.
His dreams are dark and full of shapeless shadows reaching out for him, and he wakes up feeling like he hasn't rested at all.
He has too many questions and not enough answers, but at least he's still alive.
That feels almost surprisingly good.