Lobelia the adverbial (lobelia321) wrote in alohomorare,
Lobelia the adverbial

FIC: "No Soul for a Kiss" 1/1 (D/D) G

Title: No Soul for a Kiss
Author: lobelia321; lobelia40@yahoo.com
Website: http://www.geocities.com/lobelia321/
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Dementor / Dementor
Rating: G
Length: 680 words
Summary: A Dementor must Kiss somebody.
Feedback: Yes, please, I would love feedback! Anything, even if it's only one line, one word!
Archive Rights: My niche. Anyone else, please ask.
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I am not making money. I did not invent Dementors; J.K. Rowling did.
Author's Notes: childeproof wondered about experiments and rareness, and cathexys wondered why I hadn't posted anything for so long. So I felt spurred! This fic is for them, with thanks.


No Soul for a Kiss
by Lobelia

Icicles float on the wind, pinpricks of glass. Each star is crisp and still. No sound interrupts the Polar night, only the ethereal wind and the screams of the prisoner beyond.

The night is cold but the Dementor is colder. Freezing point means nothing to him. His breath crackles the air. His breath is so cold that oxygen molecules snap like crystals. And the screams? The screams are unbearable.

The screams fill the Dementor with hunger.

The Dementor has no words for the void inside him. He has no feelings, he has no speech, he has only this boundless hole at the back of his throat, and with every scream, the emptiness spreads further until the Dementor is filled with something that a human might call pain.

The Dementor gasps and rasps. He is not good at thinking or even hoping. This is why he can wait, here in the snowy wastes. This is why he has been waiting here for... how long? Time means nothing to a Dementor. Time is something you float through on your way to somewhere else.

The Dementor does not know longing or yearning. He knows only the drive and the deep dark hunger. He has been put here to guard the tower of stone with its turrets, its moats and its walls three by three. He has been put here to guard the tower of stone with its lone prisoner who is even now howling for release. The Dementor opens his mouth wide, sucks dry motes into his parched throat -- not enough. Not enough to fill the inner maw.

But he can't move, of course. Dementors have no free will. They do as they are told. If they are put, they stay put. If they are made to guard, they guard without moving or flinching or groaning, without tiring, without ever sitting down.

Ten feet to the left of the Dementor is another guard. He, too, stands stockstill in the brutal moonlight. His shadow lies crushed in the snow. He is a fellow Dementor. He is kindred.

The Dementor turns his hooded face to his left.

The other Dementor turns his other hooded face to his right.

The Dementors do not see each other so much as they sniff each other out. Cold ripples waver across the perimeter. This is how they know their mates.

Dementors cannot wonder but if they could, perhaps, perhaps -- perhaps they would wonder if the other suffered, too. If each dementorian gullet ached with a hunger of dread. If each mouth needed to gawp, needed to gulp, needed to clamp itself...

"Do not go near the prisoner! Do not touch the prisoner! Do not Kiss the prisoner!"

That had been the injunction. That had been the spell.

But a Dementor needs to Kiss. He cannot exist forever without it. There will come a point, a turning, a slight crick in the earth's revolution about its axis.

They move towards each other, scabrous hands extended. Two breath clouds collide. The atmosphere fractures into daggers.

A Dementor must Kiss somebody.

A strange thing happens that night in the Polar desert. Underground caves open out, and the northern lights play their organ music in the sky. The screams from the tower of stone stop. A tiny figure squeezes out through an embrasure, drops to the ground with a crunch of snow and darts off over the horizon.

All the Dementors stand locked in a tight two-by-two, mouth-to-mouth ring. There is no sound as they suck at each other. They cannot stop. They are never filled. They suck and suck but there is not a soul to feed on. They crave and crave but they can never be fulfilled.

At the dawn of spring, the first soft flakes fall.

The End
6 November 2004
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