a.n— an interesting point that no one has really made in the books—what does the Dementor's Kiss REALLY look like? (I never believed the third movie's stupid version—in fact, the whole movie is crap)
This is my take on it. And while you're reading, consider this—who IS the lesser man in this tale?
Click, click, click, click…
Anyone looking at Cornelius Oswald Fudge would guess that he was a stickler for order: hair perfectly trimmed, robes starch-straight, bowler hat perched just so on his head. And they would be right. As a matter of fact, that was why he bought his new boots—the even, staccato rhythm of his heels on stone acted like a metronome, calming frazzled nerves.
Click, click. Click…
The rhythm faltered as he glanced nervously at the figure beside him. The dementor stared—Do they have eyes to stare with, he wondered—always straight ahead, as if he knew what was coming at the end of the corridor.
Cornelius shuddered. Damn, he hated those things, but he had to endure them. The lesser of two evils, he reasoned, and at least they keep order by…
Well, he didn't exactly know how it worked, but he supposed he would find out soon enough.
Click, click, click, click, click…
There was the door. The rhythm stopped; Cornelius was rummaging around in a pocket for the key. Ah, there it is. He stuck it in the hole, but only pushed the door open enough for him to squeeze through. He didn't want the dementor getting in. Not yet.
He looked around…
Across the room sat his complete opposite. His hair was mussed and uneven-looking, and his clothes were clearly too large for him—they hung off his thin arms, bunched on the floor. He appeared to be asleep; a faint smile was on his lips, like a small boy having a nice dream.
Cornelius stared at the boy impassively. After some time, he cleared his throat and spoke in a monotone.
"Bartemius Crouch, Junior."
His head jerked; his eyes opened and found Cornelius.
"You are guilty of escape from Azkaban, assault, use of the Imperius Curse, and the murder of Bartemius Crouch, Senior."
The boy seemed to recognize him now. "Fudge?" He seemed confused.
He ignored him and continued, struggling to keep his voice flat and toneless.
"For these crimes, you have been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss."
Barty's eyes widened. There was fear in them, he noticed.
"What… this isn't right…No…"
Cornelius stared, caught off guard by this human reaction. And all at once, the ordered facts he had so carefully kept in his mind crumbled for just a second, conflicted.
He's just a boy!
It doesn't matter. The law is the law
But people can change…
It's too late for change
But he—
Killed Bart. His own father….My friend.
…
That sealed it. With one smooth movement, Cornelius Fudge turned on his heel and swung the door wide, then stepped out of the way as the dementor slid through.
Crouch's face turned stark white with terror. Stumbling, he knocked his chair over as he stood and ran. He curled up into a ragged ball in the far corner, whimpering like an animal as the dementor drew each hoarse breath. "No, no, nononono…"
Closer and closer it came…
Closer…
Closer…
Unbidden, beads of sweat formed on Cornelius' forehead, and at the back of his neck. Whether from the sudden chill, or…excitement, he didn't know. He brushed off the slickness and continued watching, fascinated.
The dementor had finally reached the corner. Slowly, so slowly, that slimy, decayed hand slid out of the robes and grabbed him. Bar—Crouch started to thrash, screaming,
"No! NO! LET…ME…GO!" His head frantically twisted around, and his rolling eyes found Cornelius.
"PLEASE!!!"
Cornelius just stared, cold. But even if he had wanted to do anything, the dementor's hood was thrown back, and he knew the stories. This was the point of no
return. No One escaped when a dementor's hood was down.
With a soft, wet sound, those rotting jaws clamped down on Barty Crouch's face.
Cornelius seemed to jump and shudder at the same time. This…this was not what he expected. However, after a few long moments, his horror was distracted by a small movement by Crouch's feet.
He looked down…
It wasn't a movement. A small spot of grey had appeared on the tips of Crouch's boots. It was small at first, but it grew quickly—soon both feet up to the ankles were grey. From there it spread up with frightening regularity; both patches spread through the legs and joined at his hips, racing up his torso and chest, trickling out of his arms. In seconds, the red face and neck of Barty Crouch was the only color not sucked out of his body. This, too, slipped away, like a hood pulling up over his face, as the dementor mad one last straining, swallowing gasp.
With a slight pop, it let of his body, which just…slumped, no longer moving.
It was over.
Bartemius Crouch was no more than a limp…greyed… empty…rag doll.
…
Cornelius had to get of the room—now. He threw the door open, but he couldn't get out in time. His stomach lurched, and he threw up on the stone floor.
Gasping and sweating with exhaustion—or nervousness—or adrenaline?—, he passed a shaking hand over his eyes. It was, he noted, a sickly grey.
"It had to be done," he gasped, more to himself than to the monster behind him. "I had to keep order…the lesser of two evils; he would have killed again. It had to be done."
Cornelius still felt sick. But he ignored it. He slowly stood at attention again, smoothed his hair out of his eyes, and straightened his robes. His hat had fallen off; he found it and placed it back upon his head.
"Come," he briskly called back to the dementor, who glided behind him slowly as he began to walk back down the hall.
Click…
click…
click…
Finis