Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all associated creations are not in my possession (nor will they ever be).
This is a story that I found in one of my really old notebooks. I loved the story idea, though, so I typed it up, edited it quite a bit, and decided to post it. Enjoy!! Reviews are greatly appreciated!!
Can any one species really have the right to classify another being as evil?
The wizards think so. They look upon us—the dementors—as vile, hellish beings who live only for the misfortune of others.
We are not evil; we are searching. Every day continues our quest, our pursuit for a better existence. We have only an existence, because we cannot live; we do not have a 'life' as humans do.
We hover between the corporeal and spectral worlds, living our half-life, a mockery of the existence of wizards. Only beings with souls can live life to its fullest, and that, of course, is everything that we are not.
We have no eyes, so we cannot truly see.
We have no nose, so we cannot truly smell.
We have no soul, and thus we cannot truly live.
It is horrible.
The wizards, in their supremacy, believe that all different beings are inferiors, that we, in particular, are monsters to be feared. They treat us as hideous creatures, servants of darkness who live to destroy. To the wizards—to all other creatures, really—we have no emotions, we can feel nothing.
They are wrong.
We can feel pain; faced with sunlight, we shrivel and become naught but ash. We can feel hunger; our drive for souls does not come from a search for fun, but a need to survive. However, hunger and pain are the only things that we can feel, the only things that we know how to feel—we know of nothing else. Why should we be chastised, be hated and feared, for our very natures? We cannot help how we are made, just as the wizards cannot; they, however, are happy with their place in life.
We are not.
We need souls, need the gamut of feelings and emotions that accompany them. Without them, we become nothing; even this dismal state of existence will dissolve.
Souls are our lifeblood. They sustain us; they keep us anchored to our miserable existence. Witches, wizards, muggles; we are not choosey. We take what we can get. Any soul, evil or good, is food enough for us.
We are looked upon as lesser beings by the wizards—feared, but still minute. Because we do not act like they do, because we are different, they consider us beneath them. Because our natures are opposed to everything that they believe in, we are "evil."
Shouldn't it be they who are lesser? We have the power to cause them to cease to exist. Without their souls, they wink out of existence like the flame on a candle. They're pathetic, really. They were made to be our prey, and yet they treat us as if we are the inferiors.
They know it, too; Azkaban Prison is as much of a dementor's prison as it is a wizard's. The wizards know that we need souls; why else would we remain with them? Their spells hold us at bay, but Azkaban provides us with a source of food, a source of existence. We live there, but we're also imprisoned there.
The wizards are hypocrites: they say that they hate us, and we are dark, evil creatures. What does that make them, then, who utilize our natures to meet their own needs? The Ministry, the wizard's body that represents "good" and "justice", uses us as a weapon against criminals.
Does that not make them even worse than us? We, at least, consume souls because it's our nature; we were made to do so, made to feed upon the emotions and psyche of other beings.
We cannot help it.
We yearn for souls, are compelled to seek them out. It is our curse, and yet our blessing. We were created without emotions, beings of ultimate stoicism; human essences give us an outlet with which to experience actual feeling.
We are addicted. Every soul we consume makes us hungry for more, feeds us our greed; our voracity knows no bounds. For the humans, being introduced to one of us is the worst punishment imaginable. For us, it is a gift, a prize.
Does that make us pathetic?
We are always waiting for our next repast, longing for the brief sense of completion that comes after a feast. It makes sense, then, that sometimes we feel weak, dependent.
This craving, this ache, has left us as wretched and pitiable as the unfortunate souls upon which we feast.
We will never be free.
Thanks so much for reading! Reviews are always appreciated!