Not many fleshlings knew that a Dementor's hold could be broken, but this one fought harshly, not giving in. The Dementor's lip's reached for her's. The petal pink meeting gray sent shocks through both beings. This was not supposed to happen, this feeling of being connected. The Dementor's hands encircled her head, graying lips gained a beating thump, the flow of a drumming heart. The wispy cloak now covered a man, still as dead looking as his former apperance, and the Dementor breathed without feeling THE hunger.
The other cloaked figures howled in anger, their brother would not share. He made rasping growls, the cloak surrounding him spread and shifted. His aura grew, branching out like a macabre type of tree until the clearing was covered in a spiderweb of power and claim. The prize had been won, their brother had reached fullfillment, and they were left to search for their own. With a final group scream of anger, they fled.
The thing turned to face his savior, the one that had made him full. He was not a Dementor, but he was not a human. The girl was stiff in his arms, breathing quickly and unevenly. His body began to warm itsself, the fridgedness of not-living but not-dead leaving his bones quickly. The girl's maroon and gold scarf swung lightly in the breeze, and she weakly wondered why in the world she had decided to pick herbs for her potions that night.
'Hermione Granger. You are an idiot.'
