'Why is it that all good dungeons must have dim lighting, be damp, cold, and carry with it the stench of human fear and suffering?'

Looking down the standing figure of a young man in the afore-mentioned good dungeon sniffed at himself before coming to a conclusion of what he might be smelling-himself. Such was the toll of spending nine months in this dungeon without a shower, though the slow passing of the days had done more to him than simply making him malodorous. The lack of outside light that his subterranean cell in the very bowels Azkaban afforded had given him a ghostly appearance, whilst his sunken eyes were beginning to take on the glassy tint of one who only had himself for company.

His longhaired head- always messy even when well kept and short now lay plastered against him to his shoulders-now perked up at the sound of the hallway door to his wing of cells being opened. 'Do I have a visitor? Finally, after all these months do I have a visitor?'

His unvoiced question and hope was swiftly answered by the cold chill that suddenly enveloped the cells whose inhabitants thought could not get any colder. Black robed Dementors began to glide down the halls. As they carried nothing in their bony hands it obviously wasn't mealtime for the prisoners.

Instead, it was mealtime for the Dementors.

The human wardens of Azkaban cared little for the inmates the sent to the bottom of their prison. It was understood by them that those they sent there, an area they referred to as the high security section, would go mad or become physically weak the quickest so that the Dementors Kiss would not appear to be the cause of death. This then gave the Ministry the chance to meet out capital punishment to the worst criminals in wizard society without length trials and appeals that were normally required in such cases.

The prisoners in the nearby cells knew this fact as well as the young man did and started to howl, scream, and cry out for mercy to any deity that would listen. Ultimately, the prison chosen for the Kiss was one that showed the least reaction, as he would be the most physically and emotionally destroyed of the group. He, the prisoner in the cell across from the young man (with the long, lanky hair) had as his only reaction before his soul was sucked from him to call upon the divine protection of his god, which happened to be excrement.

The Dementors lingered over the corpse for a time. They were picking up on the despair being broadcast by the other prisoners around them, and appeared to be sucking it up like smokers enjoying a fine cigar after a rich dinner.

In a small corner of the young man's mind that did not quake in terror an objective observation was being made. 'Why are we wizards and witches taut in school that Dementors feast upon our joy, taking that and leaving us only with fear? It seems obvious having lived here so long that Dementors seem to like any emotion except the extreme joy used to fuel the patronus charm- the only thing that can hurt a Dementor!

With this thought, a small nugget of hope formed within the lanky-haired young man. In fact, this hope was so strong that it was able to attract the attention of the Dementors- perhaps due to its rarity amongst the prisoners of the high security ward.

While the rest of his mind shouted for the rebellious part to cease and desist all of this hope foolishness the nugget of germinated itself into a plan. This plan was enough to make the seemingly hopeful part of the young mans mind rub its insubstantial hands together in insane glee.

'But first', said the now-demented sub-mind,' I must tantalize this… thing in front of me.'

The 'afraid' section of the young man's mind was just wakening to the seeming lunacy of the sub-mind that it shared space with before realizing that it had been thrust into the command chair of the body in which it resided. As the 'dignity' section of his mind seemed to have gone with the less-than-sane part, the rest of him did what it had been wanting to do since the Dementors entered the wing. This consisted of the adding several different to colors to those rags, which originally had been his pants.

The astute Dementor that had picked up on the young man's momentary hope looked over his shoulder at his fellows, before turning back to the cell before him. Moving to the door it proceeded to unlock it and wasted little in starting his mental torture of the young man.

The youth fell to his knees while clutching at his skull because of the emotionally painful memories assaulting his mind. The Dementor whished to be thorough in its tormenting, so it decided to go in chronological order of those things which caused the youth pain.

Hunkered in the rear of the youth's hindbrain behind imagined adamantium bars it had fashioned to contain itself until the right moment sat the objective sub-mind. It viewed the torments the rest of itself was forced to endure while seeming to ignore the effects of the torture.

'Oh yes! Start with the murder of my family by a dark wizard, why don't you! I can see you're the most imaginative of your entire goddamn family! Hurry it up, I haven't got all bloody day!'

The next torture memory was of when in his second year of schooling the entire student body believed him to be a dark wizard.

'Hey!', cried his sub-mind. 'Now we're cookin'! Self-righteous anger is just the ticket! It makes more fuel for my fire'. Behind his solid bars the sub mind had conjured for itself a shovel and the outfit of a Hogwarts Express conductor before he then began shoveling newly-conjured coal into a recently imagined steam engine.

The painful memory that followed was of the death of one of the youth's competitors (both in the sporting world and for the affections of a certain young lady) at the hands of the dark wizard that killed the youth's own parents.

'Oh bugger. I had wanted to swiv that blokes woman. Rather than adding fuel to my fire this memory makes me feel guilty'. The sub-mind noticed then that his pile of fuel was depleting rapidly of its own accord rather than by being shoveled into the engine.

The next set of memories more than made up for whatever it was that the pervious ones had lacked. The wrongful trial the youth had endured for using his magic outside of school in front of muggles in order to defend he and his cousin when they were attacked in their neighborhood by a Dementor. This though, paled in comparison to when one of his less-than-impartial judges had been made a professor at his school and physically tortured him for a year.

'Yes! We are definitely getting some heat! Give me more, damn you!', cried the sub-mind-cum-conductor before tossing his imaginary shovel and conductor's garments into his imaginary fire. Once he had done this he conjured upon himself the white lab coat and rubber gloves of an average mad scientist before running over to grasp a hold of the bars of his imaginary cage and shouting, 'GIVE MY CREATION…LIFE!'

The Dementor, oblivious to what was going on in his intended victims hindbrain continued to drag the most horrible memories from the youths mind in an attempt to gorge. Feeling it was near to breaking the youth's loose grasp on sanity it pushes forward into the even more recent past. This exposed the youths memories concerning his failure to detect a trap set for him by foe, and surprisingly, his ally in the fight against the dark wizard that killed his family. This lead to his own godfather's death (a man who had already been wrongly imprisoned by the wizarding justice system), then the endangerment and wounding of his true friends, and his near defeat at the hands of the dark wizard.

Back in the hindbrain the sub-mind had ceased to be coherent as it climbed the bars of its cage, ranting all the while.

The last set of memories to be drag to the forefront of the youths mind where the clincher, plunging the youth into the depths rage and spelling the doom of all who who doubted and opposed him…