Chapter 1

"Good evening, Mr. Barrows."

It was late at night, and some of the chill from the ocean breeze outside had managed to work its way into the Institute. Charlie fought back a shiver as he raised his wand over Dominic Barrows's head.

"I know, I know, it's late—I should be getting to bed." He tapped his wand against Barrows's htemple, to no response. "But, you guys have to be seen to first…then it's lights out for me."

Barrows lied on the cot motionless, eyes open and staring into space. Charlie didn't mind—he was used to it. Besides, if Barrows had been awake, there would be problems.

After all, Barrows was one of the most notorious warlocks of the decade.

Fortunately for Charlie Holcomb, Healer at the Carroll Institute, Barrows had not robbed any pure-blooded families or forced any muggles into killing each other with the Imperius Curse for quite some time. The Aurors had caught up to him eventually (their numbers replenished once again after the first war with the Dark Lord finally ended) and he had not gone down easily. After taking the lives of two Aurors sent after him, it had been easy for the prosecution to obtain the right to use the Dementor's Kiss. No, Barrows hadn't killed anyone for several years. He hadn't done anything at all, besides breathe, and stare. It was Charlie's job to make sure he kept doing it.

Pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders, Charlie tapped Barrows's temple again with his wand, muttering a few words under his breath as he did so. The spells put in place to feed the patients and keep them from getting bedsores practically took care of themselves, and only needed maintenance every once in a while. He frowned as he saw his breath fog up in front of him…it was far too cold in here. He would need to see to it that the heating charms were working properly once he got back to the office by the entrance to the Wing. Having it too cold could get the inmates—Charlie was never sure whether to call them patients, inmates, or even victims—sick, and the last thing he needed was to have to fight off colds and pneumonia for dozens of bedridden vegetables.

He scratched his head as he looked down at Barrows, frowning to himself. He was never one for talking to himself, but sometimes he really couldn't help it on the night shift. The silence went on and on, it became almost deafening. It helped to say something, anything to fill the empty halls with the sound of a human voice—even your own.

Not some nights, though, thought Charlie. No, some nights, the sound of your voice was even worse. To hear it ringing off the walls, changing a bit with each echo, and knowing that—despite the dozens and dozens of living, breathing people in the Wing—yours was the only voice that would ever come back to you. Sometimes, talking only made the contrast more aggravating.

After making sure that nothing had changed about Barrows's condition, Charlie tapped his wand against the apparatus lying on the table next to his bed. It was in good order, providing all the nutrients that Barrows would need. Of course, no one could survive on conjured foods forever…every now and then, the machines needed to be restocked with real food. That time would not come for a while, though, so Charlie had nothing more to do here. With another small shiver, he walked away from the cot, pushing his cart of supplies in front of him as he went. He had never needed them, they were only in case of emergencies—or for the occasions that he came across a patient only to find that they had slipped away at some point between inspections. At that point, procedure took over, but the day would almost certainly be ruined…there was nothing worse than coming across one of those still forms, reaching out to touch the body before realizing that the eyes staring up at you are empty and cold.

The cart's wheels squeaked as Charlie pushed it down the hallway. Looking behind him, he nodded in silent approval to himself. The night's inspection was done, and now he could head off to sleep. It wouldn't be his turn to do a night shift for another few days. It was the most hated assignment of the Institute, even more so than a night shift at any other place. Working alone at night was bad enough, but with all of those eyes staring up at you, and the eerie silence…it was enough to give Charlie the shivers, if he hadn't already had them from the cold.

It was with no reluctance that he left the corridor behind, having already seen to the patients on the third and second floor. When he shut the door behind him, the lights in the East Wing of the Carroll Institute went off. The Wing's patients, all of them witches, wizards, and muggles who were victims of the Dementor's Kiss, were plunged into darkness.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

That night, as Charlie Holcomb tried to go to sleep on that lonely, unnamed island that was so far from the St. Mungo's where he had once worked, only a few clouds drifted over the Carroll Institute. The moon had been full only a few nights ago, and its waning form still shone down brightly enough on the land for any pedestrian to be able to make their way between the various Wings. Not that there were any pedestrians, of course—the island was several miles west of Holyhead, where no muggles would know about it and few wizards would care.

Its existence was not a secret. In fact, the Institute had been very briefly popular, once. More than one hundred years ago, just before the turn of the century, a little girl named Alice Carroll caught the attention of the wizarding world. No one ever determined exactly what the little witch had been doing out alone, or who her parents were…it was believed that she was some sort of orphan. No one ever found the dementor that attacked her either, though dozens were driven away in a furious retribution after Alice's story became widespread. All that is sure is that one morning the eight year old girl was found by an old witch on her morning walk, staring blankly into space as she would for the rest of her life, devoid of a soul.

Something about the case caught the eye of The Daily Prophet, which was publishing strongly even back then. Perhaps it was the appeal that such a cute victim would have to the public, and the strong response it would bring—or maybe they just wanted a chance of pace from reporting on the recent Dragon Smuggling Scandal that had dominated the headlines. Either way, the wizarding public became both enraged by what had happened to the girl, and desperate to know what would happen to her.

The rage was expressed first by some very ill advised attacks on dementors, who are not known to respond well to violence, and led to much stricter control over them by the Ministry. However, the girl's fate was still a question on the minds of many members of the public. What would happen to her?

For a long time, before the Institute, most victims of the Dementor's Kiss were simply given into the care of their families. Many of them simply rotted there, dying within months, mute and unblinking. Other families discretely put their loved one out of his or her misery. However, those without families were often dumped into St. Mungo's, which could not hold all the victims of Dementor attacks, and wasn't suited for any sort of 'long term' care. Eventually, a proposal was made in an anonymous letter sent to The Daily Prophet—a new hospital, meant for the long-term care of these soulless victims.

It meant that there would be a home for little Alice, which was exactly what the good wizarding folk of England wanted to hear. Support grew for the idea, and the Ministry of Magic—eagerly wanting to regain credibility and public support after the disastrous scandals that had befallen some of its top men—jumped onto the bandwagon. The project was given a grant, and a name, and soon the Institute grew. It grew into a collection of four Wings, with an administrative office located in the East Wing, the first and largest.

As the moon continued to climb on its slow arc over the Institute, its rays bore down on the stone paths that twisted throughout the grounds. The grass did not overgrow the stones, though that said more about the poor soil and weather of the island than about any spectacular groundskeeping. The path led from the small, dark dock on the eastern end of the island and twisted its way across the flattened landscape, weaving in through the strategically placed trees until it reached the East Wing. From there, it branched off into a collection of stony roots, tapering away from the main trunk of the path to encircle the building and take the rare visitor to one of the other three wings. The paths met in a small circle in the center of the grounds, a picturesque fountain adorning the inside of the circle, complete with elaborate and optimistic statues spewing forth water regardless of the time of day or season. It made for a very elegant picture on paper, but in reality stood in a slightly pathetic contrast to the dreary weather and utilitarian stone of the Institute's buildings. The gush of interest—and therefore, funding—that had accompanied the Institute's birth had not lasted long, and had suffered terribly during both of the wars with the Dark Lord. There was little budget for beautifying the grounds, or even keeping the place up to date.

And so, the sad little fountain stood in the center of the Institute, surrounded by the buildings full of the silently staring dead, hundreds of soulless shells that used to be human beings. Not only human beings, but many of them were some of the wizarding world's worst criminals. The trees waved nearly silently in the breeze, the slight rustling noise they made falling upon no ears save those of the stone walls around them. A few leaves shook loose of their branches, having survived the autumn season that had led them to this September night only to lose their struggle so close to winter.

The path, though its separate streams all joined together at this one point, did have one more branch leading away from the circle. It did not lead to another one of the Wings, but instead took a longer route away from the main body of the Institute. It was not a path that was as well kept as the others, or as large, for it was unlikely that any visitor was ever going to need to use it. It led to the dormitories for the Institute's staff, just behind the North Wing. At first, there had been quarters for the staff inside the Wings themselves, but eventually the Healers had objected. They didn't like sleeping in the same building as so many lifeless husks, and eventually they were given the funds to build a separate dormitory.

That dormitory stood a ways off from the North Wing, and almost all of its lights were off when Charlie began his trek across the grounds to reach it. He was not the only one working at night, but funds were tight enough that most of the people working the night shift were working in their own sections, and didn't see much of the others. As far as appearances went, it felt like he was the only person awake on the whole island.

The wind was cold as he stepped over the stones and grass that led to the dormitory. When he finally reached the door, he couldn't resist taking a look back at the Wings he had left behind. They stared back at him—a chill went down his spine as he saw the windows, windows that he knew had patients behind them whose eyes could very well be pointed right at him, this very second. He always wondered how much, if anything, those eyes could see…whether they knew or not that….

"No." The sound of his own voice nearly startled him, and he shook his head as he shivered. "No, Charlie, you are not going down that road, mate." Not if he wanted to get any sleep tonight, anyway.

He frowned. Talking to himself again. This place was not doing any favors for his mental health. With one last shiver, he stepped into the warmth and security of the dorm, closing the door on the Wings and their occupants and shutting them out of his mind—at least, for the rest of the night.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Nicholas's eyes had lost most of their reddish tinge by the time that nine o'clock rolled around the next morning. A decade ago he would have been fine, he was sure, but these days it took one of the steaming cups of tea sitting on his desk to keep him going at this time of day. Some days he even had to upgrade to coffee—a disgusting drink, in his opinion, but Merlin's beard, did it have a kick.

He grunted. Damned old age. This was no place for a man to be getting on in years, he would much rather be back in London, where the weather was at least bearable. With a sigh, he took another gulp of his tea, leaving little but dregs at the bottom of the cup. No tea leaves today, he knew what his future would hold—a lot of boring deskwork, followed by making his rounds, which would be just as tedious.

With a glance at the calendar, he noticed that it was Saturday. Out here, so far from any normal social events, it got easy to lose track of what day it was. He groaned—if it was Saturday, that meant there could be visitors. They weren't common, as most people preferred not to remember their loved ones as lifeless vegetables, but they came every so often. It made for even more hassle, as someone would have to escort the visitors to see whichever patient they had come to see.

The door opened, letting a bit of breeze in, and Nicholas sat up with a start. For a moment, he thought that some early-rising visitor had come already, before he recognized the woman who had walked in. She couldn't be much older than twenty-five, putting a considerable gap between her and Nicholas…a gap of at least thirty or forty years. He would have liked to blame her cheery expression on the energy given to her by her youth, but he knew it would have been a lie. Lenore was one of the cheeriest people he had ever met, particularly in the Healing profession. She was certainly more optimistic than anyone else who had the misfortune to be working on this island.

"Good morning, Mr. Gattabee," she said as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the rack by the door, next to Nicholas's own. "The weather doesn't seem to be getting much better…I wonder if it will keep the visitors away."

He grunted once more, shaking his head as he finished off the remnants of his tea.

"I told you to call me Nicholas. Or Nick." He sighed and leaned back in his chair, feeling a stiffness in his spine that seemed to be getting worse every morning. "'Mr. Gattabee' makes me feel old."

She giggled and strode over to the desk, fishing around in one of the folders for her own. It held her assignment for the day—which patients she was to check on, and what hours she would need to be in the East Wing for. She probably already knew, as there wasn't a whole lot of change in routine around the Institute, but it never hurt to double check.

He looked at the folder, albeit upside down, as she peered into it. There was little else to do at the desk, and he found himself wishing he had brought the book he had been reading instead of leaving it in the dormitory.

"You're on the fourth and fifth floor again?"

She nodded absent mindedly, flipping through the pages to make sure everything was in order. There wasn't a lot to it, seeing to the patients, but Nicholas knew that Lenore took it seriously. Finishing with the folder, she put it back on the desk and smiled once again, a bit more wearily this time.

"It looks like it, Nick. " She shook her head, the beginnings of a frown forming on her face. "If the weather out there gets much colder, I don't think we'll be getting any visitors today—the wind is blowing something awful."

Nicholas shrugged.

"As long as it doesn't storm, we'll be fine. They can always come another day."

As they spoke, another Healer trudged into the Wing. He was apparently a man who shared Nicholas's attitudes towards mornings, as he was barely able to manage a grunt and a nod in the general direction of the pair at the desk. He grabbed his folder and made his way through to the corridors of patients without a second look at them. Lenore continued to stand at the desk and talk to Nicholas—after all, it wasn't like the patients were good anywhere.

"Yes, I suppose they can," she said, fiddling with her quill, "But it does cheer me up to see visitors come. It reminds me that there's someone besides us who cares about these people."

Nicholas made a noncommittal sort of noise, not wanting to come out and say that he doubted that even most of the Healers on the island cared much about 'these people.' Despite the fact that many of them were criminals who had received the Kiss after committing heinous crimes, even those who were innocent victims were still empty shells, skin and flesh kept alive by magic and perseverance alone. Most of the Healers had long since come to terms with the fact that the husks they took care of were no longer people in the true sense of the word. While he supposed that some, like Lenore, were here for genuinely charitable and admirable reasons, most people were here because they wanted to be as far away from polite society as possible, or had screwed up. Speaking of which…

"Have you seen Dunkirk around today?" Nicholas asked Lenore as she began to walk towards the lift. She shook her head.

"No, I think he's in his office already, getting the paperwork ready for the visitors."

"Heh. Or maybe just sleeping late."

She laughed, and turned back towards the stairs.

"See you later, Nicholas!" She called back towards him as the door closed behind her. He waved to her with a small smile before turning back to his desk. He was in a bit of a better mood as he put his cup away, reminding himself to clean it later. Lenore was a good Healer, if a bit inexperienced, and it did him good to be reminded that some people actually had chosen to be here. Of course, he had chosen…in a way. Not that he had left himself with many other options.

A shiver that was only partially from the cold went down Nicholas's spine, and a bit of his cheeriness was lost when he sat back down in his chair. Everyone had a reason to come to a place like this—and few of them were happy. Not everyone was like Lenore.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Wesley Dunkirk scarcely looked up from his parchment as when he spoke to Charlie. He had the inflappable air of a bureaucrat—the sense that all of his actions were distinctly removed from any sort of personal level by at least three layers of paperwork. Charlie, sitting across from him, wasn't so poised.

"Are you serious?" His eyes were only slightly red from the night before, but the bags under them were still noticeable. Wesley, a man who was a little young to be sitting in the Director's chair of nearly any Institution, was perhaps five years younger than Charlie's forty. His black hair was neatly slicked back, and his robes were clearly not the kind meant to be worn while walking amongst patients—they were far too dressy. The Director, as far as Wesley concerned, should be above petty chores such as making rounds and treating patients and be more concerned with the welfare of the Institute in general—and that included keeping up appearances.

"Devons is sick, and Fillmont is heading back to the mainland. Nervous breakdown, or some such thing." He sighed, dipping his quill into the inkwell before returning to his scribbles. "The other Healers are all busy with actual duties, except for the most junior ones…and I can't trust them with this."

"Dunkirk…." Wesley looked up crossly, and Charlie corrected himself. "Director…I got maybe four hours of sleep last night. I worked the night shift three nights in a row. I'm tired."

"And after the visitors have come and you've guided them through, you'll be free to sleep." A patronizing smile crossed Westley's face as he set his paper aside, having reached the bottom with the tip of his quill. "If I recall correctly, your vacation even starts soon. Just look forward to that, instead of thinking about the work."

Charlie nearly voiced another protest, then sighed instead and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Beginning to become resigned to his fate, he looked back up at Wesley through bleary eyes. He was already counting the hours until the ferry would come to pick up the visitors and take them back to the mainland, far away from him—then, they would be someone else's problem.

"All right…how many are we going to have?"

Wesley flipped through a notebook on his desk, stopping at one of the topmost pages. His finger traced along with the print as he read it.

"Only three, it seems…one is a young man, a brother of a certain…" Another rustle of the page. "Wyatt Early, a thief and murderer who was given the Kiss in Azkaban." Charlie grunted, slightly surprised.

"Don't get many murderers who have visitors…even from family."

"From what I understand, he was more of a murderer-by-accident than by any real malevolence." Wesley had skimmed the rest of the page out of idle interest-there were notes on all of the patients, and what sort of threat they might pose if they ever woke up—an unlikely occurrence, to say the least. "He was stumbled across during a robbery, and a scuffle broke out. The homeowner wound up dead, and Mr. Early got a ticket straight to Azkaban. The brother has apparently learned from the error of his brother's ways, however. A clean record."

Charlie nodded, satisfied. Even if Early had been some sort of monster, it still was possible that he'd have some family come to visit. The bonds of blood could do some funny things—they made you tend to overlook even the deepest flaws. Charlie was suddenly reminded of his own brother back in London, and he belatedly realized that he hadn't spoken with him in more than six months. This island had a way of making you lose track of the real world…he was looking forward to his vacation more than ever. Not that going back to London would be without its flaws, of course…there were people in the city he wasn't looking forward to seeing again. Seeing Janice would be awkward—

He bit back those bittersweet memories to give his attention back to Wesley, who seemed to have become more interested in reading the notes on Early than in giving Charlie the information he had asked for. Charlie cleared his throat, causing Wesley to look back up at him across the fine wooden desk.

"What is the brother's name?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. Brian, I believe." He looked back at the original sheet of paper, and nodded to himself. "Yes, Brian. The other two visitors are a couple, here to visit their daughter…Mr. and Mrs. Melville. An old couple, come to see…oh." He made a 'tsk' noise with his tongue against his teeth, and shook his head disapprovingly. "A woman from the purges. Anna."

Charlie grimaced, and looked down at his fingers. Voldemort's rise to power had been temporary, but had had all too lasting effects. Among those were quite a few of the patients at the Carroll Institute—people who had, in some way or another, offended the Dark Lord's regime and attracted his wrath. Before his power had been wrested away, that monster had been responsible for having the Dementor's Kiss performed upon quite a few dissidents. It was one of the greatest tragedies of his reign, that those few brave souls who had the strength to resist the tyrant would be punished so horrifically. Even Wesley's bureaucratic exterior seemed to be pierced for a moment, before he cleared his throat and straightened the files in his hand until they were as perfectly aligned as everything else on his desk. He held out the files for Charlie to take.

"Keep an eye on them, be respectful and courteous…you know what to do. Give them their time with the patient they are here to see, then help them on their way. All the information on where to find the patients is in there—as well as their medical history, if they should actually request it for some reason." There would be little point in such a thing—the file for virtually every patient on the island was almost identical. There was very little change in the condition of a dementor victim, unless the shell left behind should be so unfortunate as to fall victim to some virus or other disease. It was a bit of a joke among the Healers at the Institute that all of the patient files were lost and mixed on a regular basis, but no one had noticed the difference yet. It was a black sort of humor that could only have sprouted up in the shadows of the Institutes stone walls.

"Yes, sir." Charlie took the folder from him and rose to leave. As he was on his way out, Wesley called to him.

"Oh, and if you get the chance, please send someone down to Elaine and let her know that I need to speak to her about funding. Her spells have my memos all confused, I sent them to her and they wind up in the women's washroom in the South Wing. Or do it yourself, if you have time."

Charlie sighed, but nodded as he left the office. Distractions gone, Wesley only looked after him for a moment before returning to his paperwork. His father would be convening the Board of Director's at St. Mungo's shortly after Boxing Day, and he hoped to have all of the Institute's affairs in good order by then. If he could make an impressive showing, it might look good on his resume—good enough to have him considered for a post on the mainland. Anywhere but this horrible Institute.

Of course, he had already worked in some of those other places. His success record was—spotty, at best. But, then again, that was why he had come out here in the first place. To get a fresh start, with an important but routine assignment that would help him to prove his abilities once more. At least, that was the plan he and his father had come up with. It couldn't help but occur to Wesley, however, that the plan was equally effective at removing him from his father's path as he strengthened his own position at St. Mungo's, now blessedly free of any embarrassment his failure of a son might have caused him.

With a sigh, Wesley dipped his quill into the inkwell once more—it was almost dry, he would have to replace it soon—and returned to work. Everything had to be perfect. At least, as close as humanely possible.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Elaine Winters's face was a perfect image of concentration as she leaned over the body of her patient, her own narrow face only inches away from the slack, staring visage of Thomas Narrows. A young man who had been convicted of murdering his landlady, Thomas had been a patient at the Institute for several years. Elaine's wand was pointed at his temple, and a bead of sweat rolled down her cheek as she muttered the words of her spell carefully and precisely.

The two were surrounded by strange looking equipment, made of steel and bronze and other materials that would require either guesswork or a chemistry degree to name. One of these machines had an orb suspended in the air above it, surrounded by several silver rings of increasing size. These rings were spinning quickly, though none of them on quite the same tilt, and sparks seemed to jump from the center outwards. Other machines near it were in motion as well, all of their motions and energy seeming to center in one place—the table upon which Elaine had rested her test subject.

The muggle-born witch continued for nearly five minutes before ceasing her chant and letting her wand fall to her side. The machines continued for a moment before coming to a slow halt, the low buzz of energy that had filled the room slowly fading away. For a long moment, Elaine simply stared at Thomas's empty eyes, none of the disappointment she felt showing on her pale face. Finally, she turned away and walked away from the table, taking a seat at her desk and jotting down notes on the failed experiment. She was determined to learn from her failures, if nothing else. After all, some of the greatest witches and wizards of the ages had attempted to figure out how to restore the victim of a dementor attack with no success—it was arrogant to assume that she would succeed where they failed, not without some sort of marvelous breakthrough.

Still, it was what she hoped for. She idly toyed with the cross that hung on a chain around her other neck, her other hand jotting down her notes with a quill. There were still times when she regretted the fact that pens apparently had not caught on in the wizarding world, but she had grown used to the more archaic ways of writing. As she wrote her notes, the many machines that filled the room—many of them built by Elaine herself—sat unused and still.

However, the energy that they had been using and radiating was not so still. Their activities had sent out a call, a call that had strived to pierce through layers of time and space and reality that had not been broached by mankind in all of its history save through the one natural means of doing so—by dying. The echoes of that energy bounced across the world, stirring powers that were sensitive to such things and kicking up currents that had remained long still.

And, somewhere in the depths of the magic that inhabits our world, a chord was struck. All across the world, the ripples from the machines were felt, and suddenly a great deal more attention was focused on the Carroll Institute and its lonely island than anyone had ever intended.

All across the world, the dementors stirred.

A/N: This is a bit of a departure from my normal stories…I haven't tried horror before. I welcome all of you readers to come along for the ride with me. I'm having a bit of a busy time with real-life things at the moment, so I can't say how regularly this story is going to update. However, the idea has stayed with me for more than a year without growing stale yet, so I think it might have some real potential. Let's see how deep the shadows in the Carroll Institute really go, shall we?