The war never truly ended — not for Harry Potter.
Years passed. Statues were built. Stories told. Children born. But peace is a fragile thing, and the darkness that once wore Tom Riddle’s face never fully died.
Fragments of Voldemort’s soul — scattered, whispering, infecting.
And Harry... he heard them. Felt them. Inside him.
The final Horcrux had never been destroyed.
They told him the piece of soul was gone. That the Killing Curse had done its job. But in quiet moments, Harry felt it coiled behind his ribs — something cold, something ancient. A hunger.
He tried to resist. For years.
Until one day, he stopped.
He left Ginny with a kiss and no explanation. Gave his wand to Ron. Hugged Hermione like he knew it was goodbye.
And then he vanished into the North. To Azkaban. To the Dementors.
To become one of them.
They welcomed him — or rather, they recognized him. The hollow place in him made space for what they were. For what he would become.
Harry Potter became a Dementor.
But not like the others. He walked with purpose. With memory. With grief sharpened into resolve.
Years passed. Rumors spread. Of a new Dementor that fed not on fear, but on evil. One that spared innocents. One that hunted darkness.
They called him the Dark Hunter. The Silver Cloak.
And then, one night, the last shadow rose again.
Voldemort — or what was left of him — had clawed his way back through cursed rituals and desperate followers. Twisted, fleshless, a voice without a face. He had no body now, only presence. A wound in the world.
He smiled when he saw the figure gliding through the ruins.
“You?” Voldemort hissed. “Still playing hero, Potter?”
The Dementor said nothing.
“You’ve become one of them,” Voldemort whispered. “How poetic. How pathetic. Do you think death will save you from me?”
Still, the Dementor did not speak.
He only moved forward.
The cold that spilled from him was not just from the void — it was from heartbreak, from years of watching the world go on without him. From love lost. From peace stolen.
Voldemort laughed — until the Dementor reached him.
Then he screamed.
Because this was not a kiss of mercy. It was judgment.
The Dementor pulled in the soul not just from the thing before him — but from every piece that had ever torn the world. The Horcruxes. The echoes. The lies. All of it.
And when it was done, there was no scream. No body.
Only silence.