Full Summary
Traditionally,
the thirteenth Dementor to take shape from the mist was bestowed with
a great gift, and incredible power. It may have been faster,
stronger, harder to repel. Boorias, created during the time of
Grindelwald, is also a Thirteenth. His gift ... too shameful for his
family to even think about. After all, being able to talk and
understand human speech is hardly something you want in a
Dementor.
You
can call me Boris.
Disclaimer: Not mine, except for Boris. Or is he?
It was just another dreary day at Azkaban. I drifted past cold grey stone after cold grey stone as I patrolled the low-security cells. Who am I? Boorias – but please, just call me Boris. My occupation? Dementor at Azkaban. My diet? What kind of a question is that!? I suppose I'd better answer it though. Unlike my other depressing companions, I feed on sad memories and thoughts, and will happily munch on a crunchy bit of angst any day. Mmm, angst.
In our culture, the thirteenth Dementor to form from a batch (yes, that's what we call the mist. It just sounds so much better than spawn) is given great powers, or a special gift of some sort from Denemtro (supposedly the first Dementor, and now our High God). My batch was created during the reign of Grindelwald. I've always found that odd. Dementors feed on happiness, peace and hope, yet we thrive in decay and despair, and breed in times of war when our prey is hardly happy and peaceful. Pessimistic and sad, more like. Anyway, I was the thirteenth Dementor to take shape, and my powers are too embarrassing, too shameful for my family to even think about. I've already mentioned one of them, my alternative dietary requirements. But the other one is what really takes the cake. I can speak all the human languages. You see, we Dementors can understand most phrases – "Kiss him", "Take them away" and "Attack the one wizarding occupant of Privet Drive in Little Whinging" just to name a few – but none of us have ever been able to actually hold a two-sided conversation – in English – with humans before. There have been some humans in the past who learnt Dementish, but that was mostly so they could order us about in more detail.
Unfortunately, being able to talk to humans isn't exactly what one looks for in a proper Dementor, and my parents were horrified when they realised the full extent of my gift. They took me to the Elders to find out what to do with me. The Elders were not pleased, and were just a hair's breadth away from chucking me out of Azkaban, but Mother begged with them to let me stay.
I was raised here at Azkaban, and taught the ways of the Dementor. My instructor tried as hard as he could to "stamp the silly nonsense" out of me, but the Thirteenth's gift stays with them forever. There was one other Thirteenth in my class. His name was – and still is, come to that – Fester. Obviously Denemtro was smiling down on him when he formed, as his gift was strength, agility and speed far greater than that of a normal Dementor. His other gift, however, was not bestowed upon him as a Thirteenth, but perhaps borne of superiority and arrogance. He was very good at making me feel put down.
'Oi Bozo,' called a voice. 'Boorias,' I muttered under my breath. 'How did you manage to get that fourth question wrong? It was so easy!' the voice was much closer now, and I looked up to see Fester standing right beside me.
I'd
like to quickly interrupt my own memory to tell you about a misguided
belief you humans seem to have about us. We're not blind. Very
close to it, but not quite there. In fact, I think my eyesight is the
best of all. Our eyes are on our kneecaps (damn you, evolution!), but
we don't feel the need to hoist up our robes because
A. It
would destroy the scariness of a situation if you saw a Dementor's
eye (the irises are fuchsia),
B. Our other senses are very good,
and
C. Our eyesight is quite bad.
But back to it.
'Bozo, how can you be a real Dementor if you don't know that Azkaban has exactly 4,567 and a ½ cells? I mean, come on! You're such wimpy little nothing!' said Fester with disgust. Truth was, I knew the answer, but when the instructor had asked me, I was so frightened I said the wrong thing. This seemed to happen all the time and Fester always had a grand time teasing me about it.
'Boorias!'
I was jerked from my reverie by an Elder's voice.
'What is it sir?' I asked him in the proper respectful manner.
'I need you to guard one of the high-security cells,' he replied. I was so shocked for a moment that I almost forgot to ask him why.
'Fester,' the Elder's eyes shone pride as he mentioned him, 'has contracted influenza. Do not ask me how, as it is none of your business. As you should know, Minister Fudge,' he spoke the name as if it were mud on the hem of his robes 'Is coming for a visit in a month's time. I expect this prisoner to be kept well under control. Do you think you can actually accomplish this Boorias?'
'Boris,' I murmured, then
quickly added 'Yes sir. Which cell am I guarding sir?'
I could
sense that he was already miffed at me. Why? I'm not entirely sure.
'Cell number 3328,' he said with a hint of annoyance. I didn't want to risk getting him really irritated by asking him who I was guarding, so I merely thanked him and glided away. Having grown up in Azkaban (I don't recommend it) I knew the place like the back of my hand. I coasted down the corridor in the direction of cell 3328, and reached it about five minutes later. I held my hand up to the brass nameplate to the side of the cell, and brushed my fingers against the raised lettering. It read:
Sirius Black
Imprisoned 1981 for Mass
Murder
Life Sentence
Now I knew who I was guarding. I discreetly lifted the hem of my robes to peer through the bars of the cell. There, huddled in a corner, was a gaunt, ragged looking man with straggly black hair. He glanced around the bare room, looking at everything with indifference until he caught sight of my brilliant pink eye blinking at him from its position on my knee. Naturally, he was quite surprised – after all, it's not something you see everyday. When he started muttering something along the lines of 'I'm finally going insane,' I thought it might be a good time to show myself. Dropping the robe, I floated a bit so I was hovering in front of the door. The Black fellow noticed me quite quickly.
'Here to take away more of my happy memories are you?' he asked snidely.
'Actually, happy memories leave a bad taste in my mouth.'
If he was surprised before, he was completely shocked now.
'You – You can talk?' he stammered.
'That I can. Don't worry, you aren't going crazy. I was born like this,' I said, trying to reassure him. Needless to say, it didn't really work.
'You can't be a real Dementor then!' he said. That hurt. 'Who's heard of a Dementor that can talk? Besides, you're not making me sad.'
'I am real, I promise you! Look, I'm wearing black robes and I'm floating and everything!' I argued.
He gave my robes an appraising look.
'I dunno, I'd say they're more of a navy blue,' he said after some deliberation. Privately, I knew it was true. Every decade, the Elders order everyone one new robe each. Strangely enough, they're always all the same size, so you'll see the young Dementors in robes way to big for them. Anyway, the tailors ran out of black material and had to use navy blue for the last robe. The Elders, upon seeing this, gave the robe to…me. Figures. So now I have to wear this for another nine and a half years.
'Humph,' I humphed. 'I am a Dementor. I just – got a bad gift. It's not my fault.'
This went on for a while, but then, after he told me to snog him somewhere I'd rather not, we established that I was a Dementor, and I could talk.
'Let's start over,' Black suggested. 'I assume you already know my name, what's yours?'
It was going to be the beginning of a wonderful friendship. I could feel it in the air.
'Well, I'm Boorias, but you can call me Boris.'
A/N: Comments? Questions? Critique? Leave me a review. The name Fester is thanks to random.thoughts at the forums, and a bit of the dialogue between Sirius and Boris was inspired by Chelecooke, also at the forums.