Minerva McGonagall

I vividly remember the first time I met a dementor. I was only ten years old, and I didn't carry the bad memories I do at the present time, so the experience was not what I understand it to be now. The first time, it was more like... an awakening, of sorts, instead of a reliving of my past.

I was with my mother, and we had gone to Azkaban, as we did sporadically, to visit my grandfather. He was a guard, one of only five wizards who worked at Azkaban. Because of the constant emotional drain, there was a rigorous training program and strict personality requirements for living and working among dementors. My mother, who saw it as her duty to visit her father—although she had in effect left the wizarding world years ago—began bringing me along when I turned eight, so I had visited the prison three or four times. On my previous visits, I was lucky to not meet any dementors. Unfortunately, this time was different.

We passed quickly through the front gate. The wards recognized us and allowed us to enter, then we crossed a stone courtyard before descending the endless staircases to where my grandfather, Henry Ross, worked and lived.

When we neared my grandfather's station, we discovered a dementor hovering in our path. My mother gasped and whipped out her wand, moving to block me from the creature, but I felt it nonetheless.

Everything around me vanished, and I felt as if my head would explode. I remembered things I had been told, things I had overheard from hushed voices in our kitchen, the adults discussing bad things to come, my friends' conversations, the killings, the hatred, the war going on with the muggles. Everything I had ever heard began to clog my brain. A searing pain overtook me, and my knees gave in. I hit the floor hard and cried out, and then I realized: not all wizards are good. Evil is all around. There is a Dark Lord coming. My life will be spent trying to stop him. Terrible things will happen to me. People I love will die. My world will never be the same.

I lie there on the steps, shivering, as my mother forced the dementor away with my grandfather's assistance. He then scooped me up gingerly and carried me into his office, as my mother followed worriedly. Once I recovered, he apologized profusely. The dementors rarely ventured this far into the tunnels. He had not expected us to meet any of the foul creatures.

I have only returned to Azkaban twice since that day: once with Albus on business, and once to visit my grandfather again.