A/N: One of the plot bunnies I couldn't get rid of in my mind. There are dementors, sure - but how about muses, something that negates them, perhaps? There's so much to explore.
*Anyway, I'll be putting this in the several or so plot bunny stories I'll upload: I'll wait for the reviews on all of them and continue on the one that has the most reviews/comments/alerts. The rest I might leave up to adoption. Enjoy!
The soul is such a guarded concept – maybe because no one really knows much about it; it has only been theorized to even exist. Even then, it seems to have been cooked up by geniuses grabbing at straws, with the verdict coming out half-baked. Still, one is always led to wonder what exactly a soul is, what exactly the misty luminescent vapor coming out of Dudley Dursley's mouth is, as he lay in the middle of the evenly asphalted road for all to see. Was it even a soul, in fact?
A wraith-like being clad in a frayed hooded cloak hovered inches away, the other end of what seemed to be Dudley's soul was being siphoned to where its head was supposed to be. Its mere presence seemed to drive the light from the streetlamps away, as did its cloak, making it difficult to place an accurate description. Somehow, that made it worse; that blackness seemed to evoke only the darkest possibilities known to the witnesses.
The-Boy-Who-Lived lay motionless a few feet away; the outright fear the dementors' presence exuded was locking him in place. Despite shivering from the chilling bite of the evening wind, he found himself sweating. Along with the rustle of the trees amidst them, the throes of his mother reverberated in his ears, the anguish in it so evident that it tore at his heart. Trademark viridian flashed in his vision, and then he saw his mother on the floor, unmoving. A man faced him, but the details were blurry, he could not see anything distinct. All he saw was a toothy grin, resplendent in all its eeriness. Whatever confidence he might have once had, whatever bravado – it was nonexistent there, being so close to these otherworldly beings. It did not help that he was somehow extra vulnerable to their aura; his wretched and pitiful past contributed greatly to this fact. In contrast to the palpable stillness in the air, Harry's mind was a frenzy of thought guided mostly by barely contained anger and a deep sense of shame.
'Do something! Do something!' his thoughts raged inside of him, frantically looking for that small push to action, 'You've fought them before – in the dozens! Happy thoughts. HAPPY THOUGHTS!'
From his prone position on the ground, he bolted upright, the incantation for a patronus was at the tip of his tongue – and stayed there. It would have been almost comical if it wasn't so frustrating. Harry Potter just stood there with his knees quaking, his arms barely brandishing his wand and pointing it to the dementor kissing Dudley. Nothing else came. No one else came. Surely they would have been spotted by now. He could even see the lights from windows of the plain-looking identical houses on both sides of the street. There were shadows behind the window panes. Were they just a spectacle to be ogled? Regardless, his mind formed the words and yet his lips wouldn't move. Was it the fear? Was it the cultivated hatred he harbored for that whale?
Then he saw it, causing his pupils to dilate, and the once vibrant green of his eyes slowly died to a sickly gray. Time seemed to crawl as the tail end of Dudley's soul came into view and slowly wafted into the void of the dementor's maw. As all traces of the soul disappeared, the dementor floating above his muggle relative stilled, and Harry could've sworn it was relishing its most recent meal, before looking straight at him. It pulled up its hood, the scabrous and sickly flesh of its jaw disappearing under the cover of shadow. And yet, he could feel that emptiness now trained at him, floating ever closer. Oddly enough, the fear, cold, and panic slowly disappeared. As Dudley's soul was completely consumed, so did the inhibitory pulses coming from the wraith in front of him. It startled him and scared him at the same time; he could not move again.
When next he looked, the dementor was in front him – close enough to touch. By then, his arms had gone limp and his hands unclenched. Near the mouth of a street drainage, his yew wand lay forgotten, teetering precariously. His knees buckled and he felt himself fall backward onto his rear like a stunned child. He did not dare look up. What brittle resolve he had was shattered as he felt a hand tilt his chin up. His eyes flew open at the touch, which was uncharacteristically warm. In front of him was a decaying face. It was disconcerting in that it was all flesh, no matter how gray and diseased-looking. There were no eyes, no nose, and no mouth. He felt himself quiver and released the breath he didn't know he was holding.
That rush of cold air from his mouth misted the zombie-like face in front of him, and that's when he heard the sound of ripping flesh. Roughly in the middle of the dementor's countenance, vertical threads of skin and sinew expanded and gave way to a vertically grilled opening. It stretched further and further until the strings holding both ends together snapped with a disgusting wet sound. The sound of chains rattling and grating together filled the air, as the dementor took in a breath. Harry felt his mouth agape and barely even felt his soul slowly part from him. His vision was glued to the vibrating green coils of vapor slowly rising from his mouth into the unnatural maw of the wraith.
'Is this it?' he managed to think, 'I've barely made up for the first ten years of my life.' Tears began to slide from the ends of his eyes, flowing steadily and dripping to the pavement. 'I don't know what's worse – that what little real life I had is coming to an end, or that I was teased with the taste of it.'
Despite the situation, his thoughts troubled him. They sounded nothing like him, and soon he was bombarded with alien thoughts and unfamiliar imagery. There was an echoing chorus of children, their voices small and mocking, taunting him. A small dilapidated room came to mind, he noted two simple beds on each side of the room, but only one was occupied. A small boy of no younger than 8, perhaps, was crying there. Slowly, the door opened and he was made to see the shadowy visages of what looked like grotesque imps. They were nothing but shadows but one could not mistake the glaring red eyes and sharp pointed teeth. Maniacal laughter shook the room and then, slowly, the scene dissolved into a white haze.
When it refocused, Harry found himself seeing through the eyes of another. Looking down, he saw his hands around the throat of a man. The gruff-looking stranger lay motionless directly under him. He realized then that he was straddling the man. The other details were literally blurry, but he could see a handle sticking out of the other's left eye. There was blood everywhere, and it painted the scene. There were no walls, no floors, no ceilings and no furniture. Throughout the din of hollow laughter that seemed to come from his throat, he felt the stickiness cling to him. It was all red, and it was slowly filling up the space, and everything in between. Soon, there was nothing but shades of crimson, and he found himself choking on it. As he gasped for air, the dream-like state shattered like glass, and he found himself vomiting on the side of the road, shocked at his righteous anger against the bullies, and the exhilarating feel of murder. They might have been vicarious, but he had no doubt that somewhere within himself, he related to those memories, and to the strong emotions they held.
A white hot sensation seared through his scar, and he felt more than saw a spurt of blood from it. Both his hands flew to the bleeding wound and, unable to open his eyes, Harry grit his teeth and bore the pain with nary a scream. The moment stretched, for how long he didn't know, but soon he found himself on his back once more, what little he could see ensured that the dementor was no longer there. Wearily, the boy who lived steadied himself on shaky legs, and ventured a peak at his surroundings. Dudley was still there, unmoving in his catatonic state. Then, he became agitated when he could no longer feel the holly wand. With that thought the wand, as if somehow summoned, went straight into his right hand from the sewer grill. Too dazed by other recent events, he paid it little mind.
What semblance of wit he had was starting to come back, and he decided he needed shelter from any other unprecedented attacks. The Dursley house was no option. Saving Dudley now would be pointless. Shaking his heads to free the cobwebs, he tried to point his wand out in front of him, a gesture that summoned the Knight Bus. Before he could finish, he heard a gasp. Turning, he saw Mrs. Fig with an utterly bewildered expression.
"My word," she started slowly, regaining control of herself, "what … just what happened here?" Her eyes left his as she looked around, fear evident in her face. Harry didn't know what to say. This was his babysitter, after all. Certain there was no way he could explain this without sounding insane, he tried to placate her, instead. That is, until followed her gaze and was stunned into silence. The street was littered with black cloth, and what looked like brain matter smeared the sidewalk directly behind where the dementor held him. He had missed the details because he looked up in search for more dementors. Feeling wetness on his back, he was certain some of that alien looking flesh was stuck to his clothes. He felt the bile rise to his throat, and he resisted the urge to retch.
His thoughts were no less pleasant than his countenance, 'Did a dementor just die? Impossible. They can't be destroyed…'
"I don't know," he whispered, unsure if the elderly woman heard him, "all I remember is the cold." He pocketed his wand, and with a panic in his voice, he continued, "Look, we shouldn't be here, Mrs. Fig, we have to-"
"Keep your wand out, boy! There's no telling what'll happen now," her eyes darted about, and then she beckoned him closer, "Well then, hurry up!"
"You know about –" he was cut off as she took quick little strides to him and gripped his arm. Shaking her head, she promised to explain at another time, and instead wanted to bring him to safety. He almost wanted to ask about Dudley, but if she did know the Wizarding World, then they both knew he was hopeless. It felt wrong to leave him there, but it was also pointless to stay and have the same happen to them. From the current street – he had forgotten during the encounter – they half-ran half-jogged to Wisteria Walk, and into Arabella Fig's house.
The aftermath of the whole situation shook Harry greatly. He had been subject to physical and verbal abuse by the Dursleys for two-thirds of his life, yet nothing prepared him for the cold, seething fury he had felt from them. True, Dumbledore was there to explain the situation, but the couple couldn't care less. After all, their son was returned to them in a permanent catatonic state. There was little else anyone could do to break parents more than to kill their child. And this, if at all possible, was worse. Vernon did not explode as he anticipated, and Petunia just looked literally dead. There were no raised voices in 4 Privet Drive that night. Unable to fend off the crushing guilt, he had fled from the house as Dumbledore tried to placate them, to no avail. In the end, the wizened wizard had to obliviate them. Upon learning this, Harry felt wretched – felt wrong. The truth of the matter was taken from them, part of their identity was simple erased. The Dursley son was simply gone. Dumbledore sent his cousin off to a ward in St. Mungo's, to at least have a relatively healthy existence – he couldn't even call it life anymore.
Deep inside, he knew that, despite their horrid treatment of him, they didn't deserve such a tragic fate. No one did. He tried to feel bitter, to resent them once more as it had been so easy to do, but couldn't find the will to. It was as if by obliviating them, the couple's forgotten grief and impotent rage was transferred directly to him. Now he felt utterly helpless, and weak. Triwizard champion, indeed.
Dumbledore, declaring Privet Drive unsafe, had transferred him to 12 Grimmauld Place, the house his godfather inherited from the Blacks. Currently, he, Sirius and the headmaster were in the drawing room. A thick silence hung in the air, and Harry could do nothing else but stare at the fireplace from his seat directly in front of it, his deadened eyes flickering with the flames. Sirius stood near the large window to the left of his godson, unsure of what to say. It was only recently that he knew of the abuse Harry suffered under those muggles, yet he was obviously in grief, if not feeling responsible for it all. Harry's heart was in the right place, but Sirius knew that a heart, no matter how golden, can only take so much before becoming jaded. The oldest wizard in the group wore a frown, as he settled into the couch at the right of Harry. The happenings of the evening were as anticipated as it was welcome, which was not at all. Brows furrowed, the wizened wizard pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sighing, he got the ball rolling.
"Harry, my boy, I know this is difficult, but could you please relate to us what happened with your cousin?" In truth, he didn't want to interrogate Harry until well after he had grieved, but loose dementors warranted their utmost attention, especially if a certain Boy-Who-Lived was the target.