In this new world, this new world of peace and tranquillity and laughter, dementors were few and far between. Without the constant pall of terror and despair that had lingered over Britain during the War – both wars, and the time in between, when the threat of the Dark Lord's reappearance was very real, at least to all those not too blinkered to read the signs, not too deaf to listen to a small boy named Harry Potter – the dementors found it hard to breed, hard even to exist, and their numbers were dwindling.
In fact, to many children, they were merely the inhabitants of bedtime stories, designed to terrify small children into going to bed on time and eating all their vegetables. To them, they were no more real than the monsters under the bed, which sent you running to your parents in the middle of the night, sobbing; and which you denied having believed in as soon as you hit double figures.
There were still dementors at Azkaban, however, and this was the one place they thrived. All the inmates were supporters of the fallen Lord Voldemort: the others had either been released, if their crime had been deemed small enough and they were not a danger to the public; or they had been moved to other gaols around the world, each as soul-crushing and overcrowded as Azkaban.
At first, the dementors had been able to feed off of the prisoners' despair at the demise of the Dark Lord, and grow fat and bloated, chilly mist folding into every corner.
But the demeanour of many of the inmates started to change. They began to seem…not happy, something far more aggressive than that. Exultant. This was not something the dementors had encountered in a victim before and, had they been human, they would have been confused.
The dementors of Azkaban began to fade.
I don't own anything that you recognise, of course.
This was originally the prologue of a multi-chapter I planned to write; but I scrapped it, because I realised I'd never have time to write it all. I loved this bit too much to let it go, though ^-^
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