Prologue - Dementor Attack
Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch black and lightless — the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either side of the alley had vanished. The distant rumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them.
He turned his head this way and that, trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.
Dudley’s terrified voice broke in Harry’s ear, whining and ripping him out of his observations.
“Shut up and don’t move!” Harry stood stock still, turning his sightless eyes left and right.
The cold was so intense he was shivering all over; goosebumps had erupted up his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up — he opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing.
It was impossible… they couldn’t be here… not in Little Whinging… he strained his ears… he would hear them before he saw them…
Again Dudley whimpered and hindered his cousin in his observation.
“Will you shut up?” Harry hissed, “I’m trying to lis—“
But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had been dreading.
Something that was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing air.
“I’ll h-hit you if you d-don’t stop, I swear I will!”
“Dudley, shut—“
WHAM.
A fist made contact with the side of Harry’s head, making him dizzy enough to lose his footing and fall. Pain radiated through his head and small white lights popped in front of his eyes; the next moment, he landed on the hard ground and his wand had flown out of his hand.
“You moron, Dudley!” Harry yelled, while trying to overcome his dizziness. He heard his cousin running — running in the wrong direction. Towards the danger, not away from it. He tried to stop him; he yelled as loud as he could to tell him to stop, yelled so he could tell him to keep his mouth shut.
But he knew, it wasn’t enough. They were here, and there was no way survive without…
His hands were flying over the ground around him; searching the absolute darkness. Hard asphalt made his hands bleed but he had no time, no time…
“Where’s— wand— come on— lumos!”
He said the spell automatically, desperate for light to help him in his search — and to his disbelieving relief, light flared inches from his right hand — the wand tip had ignited. Harry snatched it up, scrambled to his feet and turned around.
His stomach turned over.
A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly towards him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came.
Stumbling backwards, Harry raised his wand.
“Expecto Patronum!”
A silvery wisp of vapour shot from the tip of the wand and the Dementor slowed, but the spell hadn’t worked properly; tripping over his own feet, Harry retreated further as the Dementor bore down upon him, panic fogging his brain — concentrate —
A pair of gray, slimy, scabbed hands slit from inside the Dementors robes, reaching for him. A rushing noice filled Harry’s ears.
Once again a rush of dizziness threatened to overcome him. His head throbbed with pain and his thoughts seemed unclear and fogged.
“Expecto patronum!”
His voice sounded dim and distant. Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last drifted from the wand — he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t work the spell.
There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter… he could smell the Dementors putrid, death-cold breath filling his own lungs, drowning him— think… something happy…
But there was no happiness in him… the Dementor’s icy fingers were closing on his throat — the high-pitched laughter was growing louder and louder, green lightnings flashed in front of his inner-eye, and the scream of a woman echoed in his mind—
His fingers went limp, his grasp loosened — concentrate —
But there was nothing, nothing but the darkness, the cold and pain filling his head. His hand was numb and it could have been empty, though it mattered not, the last chance to survive was gone.
Happy thoughts— happy thoughts— happy…
His mind went blank. There was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do anymore. No happiness, nothing but death; an onslaught of memories not his own. Of coldness and death, grieve and pain, love and loss. Shrill ringing filled his ears, getting louder and louder, threatening to overwhelm his already overwhelmed senses; until, suddenly—
All images and noises succumbed to silence and an eerie voice spoke inside of his head: “I’m sorry, Emerald… forgive me… find him…other half… restore... balance…”
A flash of emotions burst through his body and mind, leaving him breathless while the Dementor pressed his non-existent lips onto his own…
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
An enormous silver Phoenix erupted from the tip of his wand; its beak caught the Dementor in the place where the heart should have been; it was thrown backwards, weightless as darkness, and as the Phoenix charged, the Dementors swooped away, bat-like and defeated.
Moon, stars and streetlamps burst back into life. A warm breeze swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in the neighboring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again.
Harry stood quite still, all his senses vibrating — still borne down by the onslaught of the foreign memories and emotions — taking in the abrupt return in normality.
He could not believe what had just happened. Dementors here, in Little Whinging.
Dudley lay curled on the ground a few feet away from Harry, whimpering and shaking. Harry made to go over to his cousin, to see if wether he was in a fit state to stand up, but when he took the first step his knees buckled and he fell to the earth; suddenly utterly spend, unable to do anything but laying there. His limbs wouldn’t move, his head throbbed with overwhelming pain.
Harry’s vision went foggy, again showing things and people he had never seen before — never wanted to see; and yet he couldn’t do anything about it.
His hands, still bleeding, scraped at the asphalt beneath him when they started to prickle; first just his fingertips, then his fingers and hands. Slowly the feeling spread and morphed from a tickling to a stabbing and finally burning.
He was burning.
His chest ached, his head hurt.
He tried to move, tried to flee, but the pain stopped him and his limbs went limp. Even if he had tried, he could not move a muscle…
The burning sensation filled his senses and body.
He cried in pain.
His body was burning.
He could feel it.
It felt like every cell in his body, no matter how small was on fire; on fire and slowly but surely destroying his body from the inside out, and then it was over.
The pain — the burning — left as sudden as it came, and the boy — Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Dumbledore’s Golden Boy — was no more.