Outskirts of Hogsmeade, about 9pm - OPEN THREAD

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"And now, we wait." Lawrence spoke at last. His hollow voice broke the odd silence between the pair of them which had manifested for ten minutes now. Willy had been strictly instructed to stay silent through the tricky process of summoning, stood three paces behind and to the left of Lawrence. An interruption the day before had sent Lawrence into a rage at his assistant, and Willy was not keen to receiving another stinging hex. His short chestnut wand was in his hand and he had his eyes half-closed, thinking as clearly as he could of his children playing. He could hear them laughing, and he wore a gentle smile on his face.

It took a minute or two, but the wind around them began to noticeably change. The temperature though already cold, but it dropped again. Lawrence glanced back over his shoulder to Willy to see if he felt it too, and his accomplice's wide blue eyes raised to the sky around them. He shuffled his feet, nodding, reapplying the grip to his short wand. Lawrence's heart beat a little quicker for the anticipation, and he too gripped his hawthorn wand a little tighter, the tip glowing dimly in the night as he raised it to see a little better. The dementors would sense them rather than see them.

Up ahead three wraith-like figures swooped and dipped, circling, twisting together beneath the clouds. Their raggedy forms dropped down to the ground where they dragged along the grass towards the pair of them. The crying and the howling in their minds began in earnest, and Lawrence motioned abruptly to Willy. With one false sputter that made him hold his breath, the familiar dragon patronus ballooned at his left side.

The dementors recoiled, headed right away from the snout that sniffed and curled towards Lawrence's outstretched arm without a hand.
"Hungry?" Lawrence cried, "Beautiful, elemental creatures, how we wizards deny you feast!" He stepped forward, wand aloft, Willy's patronus shimmering right beside him, ready to snap forward at any moment the attempt fell foul.

"Infernum creaturae, convivium in animarum." Lawrence cried about the howling voices filling the air of Azkaban prisoners, of family and friends he had left behind, "Sequere me!"

And so they set off at a run, Willy's dragon patronus lifting itself from the ground with great wings, flying beneath the dementors safely over both the wizards as their feet rattled over the rough ground down the slope into Hogsmeade where the Three Broomsticks was packed with Saturday night drinkers. Willy lagged behind with his short legs, much to Lawrence's irritation. He'd throw a charm to help only he feared Willy falling flat on his face in surprise at his feet rushing.

Smelling the joy and with great invitation, the dementors swooped over the back of the dragon patronus and into the village. Lawrence and Willy came to a rough halt between the buildings opposite, panting. Together they looked up into the night sky, counting not just three, but four more dementors following now. They were drawn out of interest at what the others were sensing perhaps, Lawrence wasn't sure.

It was an improvised attempt, still inaccurate in summoning, and the control was decidedly haphazard. But nevertheless Lawrence's delight was clear on his face as the dementors shot overhead and circled the pub, clawed hands outstretched. It was working! Each time he learned a little more, and they followed a little further. There was still a hell of a way to go, but this was progress from just being point-blank attacked late last year.

"Why are they stopping?" Willy suddenly asked, clapping his hand to Lawrence's left arm, blue eyes wide like saucers. The ex-auror quickly surveyed the dementors and their behaviour. They had surrounded the pub but weren't making any inroads. It wasn't the dragon patronus which was fading behind them, no the arrangement was telling.
 
"Wards." Lawrence hissed, annoyed to have overlooked the possibility. He raised his wand, "Battuo inflammata!"

From the tip of his wand rolled flame which grew into a rolling fireball. Across the road, the main entrance to The Three Broomsticks burst open with the impact.

"Bloody hell!" Shufflebottom exclaimed, throwing up his arms at the sudden noise. Lawrence grinned, and extended his arms in gesture to the door before drawing up his hood.

The dementors took their cue.

---

Alright chaps, it's Saturday night, who's having a drink, and are the aurors going to rock up and save them? Feel free to control the dementors now, these two will withdraw once help arrives on the scene.

Omari Warrington had been a bit surprised when the trainee had asked if he wanted to join her for drinks, but he liked Hayes. And Omari wasn’t one for turning down some drinks. So, feeling that he needed some time to wind down after the business with the missing werewolf teenager, he had quickly accepted her offer for some warming firewhiskey at the Three Broomsticks.

So here they were, the thin Auror-in-training with the boyish haircut and the large, dark-skinned Auror with golden rings dangling from his ears. The Three Broomsticks was busy, as it always as on Saturday nights, and the two had perched themselves by the bar. Omari, clutching a large glass of Blishen’s Firewhiskey, was starting to get drunk. A feeling he was all too familiar with. And a feeling he enjoyed a little bit too much.

He looked at Hayes and pointed at a couple of warlocks further down the bar, wearing robes with geometrical patterns in earthy colours woven across. They were trying to order drinks in a language that the bartender obviously didn’t spoke, and the hand gestures were getting more and more ridiculous.

“So,” Omari began, his voice even deeper than usual because of the whiskey. “Test time. Where do ye think those lads are from?”

He chuckled, and took another swig from his glass. The sensation of the firewhiskey hitting his throat was a sensation he never wanted to go away. It was his mother that had first opened his eyes for the drink, and it was also her that had taught her to only drink the real kind (which were Blishen’s, the Scottish brand). Though, travelling through North America with Lucas he had been forced to try others. The one he had had in New York had been terrible. Was it Saybrook it was called? Or was it -

BANG!

The loud noise made Omari drop his glass, and the entire bar went silent, every single head turning towards the now non-existing door and the smoke billowing from its wake.

“What in Merlin’s honkin’ skiddies was that!?”

Responding now, but will wait until more people have time to post to get in on the action before actually re-acting!

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Earlier that day...

By the grace of Merlin, Hayes didn't have to bartend this chilly Saturday night. It was rare that she had a Saturday night off. Very rare. Hayes chalked it up to an incident in scheduling that someone had bolloxed up, and she hadn't mentioned it when she left Death & Co. after her shift  had ended late last night as she had to be in the DMLE office around 9am this morning. She was tired. The past few weeks felt like a blur, what with the case of the missing werewolf and its aftermath. The mood in the office for those who were in on the surprisingly bright day had been pretty subdued, to say the least. It seemed they were all tired.

But instead of heading off to her flat after the work day had finished and collapsing into her bed the way she had initially planned, she caught site of a Blishen’s Firewhisky advert in an old copy of The Daily Prophet on her desk as she was gathering her belongings. Apparently The Three Broomsticks had some sort of offer on it this exact evening. While she preferred the Lasair Poitín brand she got in the Belfast area, beggars could not be choosers. Firewhiskey of any sort sounded like the perfect way to end what had been a long two weeks, and the advert had a bit of a Pavlovian effect on her. She swallowed hard and folded the page over to showcase the advert and held it up for those in the office to see.

"Anyone fancy a drink?" she had asked with a grin and an exaggerated twirl. "Omari?" Hayes had grown comfortable with the auror after the events on Christmas Eve/Christmas, and knew he had a penchant for the stuff.

"Feel free to join us!" she had called out as they left, slugging on her (still needed to be patched) cloak.

A few hours later, Hayes was pleased with her decision to come here. She had immediately downed a shot of Firewhiskey, chased it was a pint of beer, and was now nursing a larger glass of the warm stuff. The Three Broomsticks wasn't her favourite place to drink by any stretch of the imagination, but she wasn't going to deny that the lower prices on Firewhiskey made up for the lack of atmosphere. Her present company wasn't so bad, either. And who knew, maybe some of the others would care to join them in a bit.

“Test time. Where do ye think those lads are from?”

Hayes took a sip of her drink and contemplated, staring at the warlocks who were performing some form of interpretive dance. Her head was blissfully fuzzy and her cheeks felt warm. She didn't mind the loud din of the pub as much as she usually did, either.

"Hmm, Armenia? Why don't you go ask them. Poor bloke. He should just poor them shots and call it a day," Hayes chuckled, shaking her hair off the back of her neck.

"Should we get another, you think?" she asked, noting that their glasses were less then half-way full.

And then, just like that, the roof went up in flames. And despite the smoke and the alcohol, there was a surprising chill in the air.

“What in Merlin’s honkin’ skiddies was that!?”

"Oh, feck... I've no idea... We should..." she blinked rapidly. They should do what? Two drunk aurors (nay, one auror and one trainee) and Merlin only knew what outside...

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Modified for formatting purposes and a spelling error.

Whoosh! Through the fireplace from London. Hayes told everyone to join them. Here she was.
"Heyyy guys!" BANG. Life did not want Gamp to get a drink. What was it now? Where was the door to the pub? Andromeda held out her wand. There was trouble and she just got off duty. It was really cold in the pub. Not dementors again! Life was not fair. Andromeda's Christmas had seen a lot of dementors. Hard to be happy about your Christmas presents after a dementor. "Give it a rest! Hey, sober up I need your patroni." Andromeda smacked Hayes and Warrington on the shoulders. "Anyone who can conjure a patronus do it now!" She shouted to the pub. Andromeda thought of the day she finished auror training. How proud her mum and dad were. A big silver panther burst from her wand at the first dementor.

It had tried the very limits of his emotions: Alberic was, at the very worst, perturbed.  From what he could cobble together with conversations with Mortimer--Lawrence Musgrave, a failed Auror, had decided to stop failing at doing good and had started succeeding at doing, well, no-good.  In so doing, he had managed to not only control a Dementor, but in fact, more remarkably, managed to evade Alberic Grimm.  Alberic Grimm, who hunted spectres for a living.  Who traced the lifelines of souls, the tell-tale thudding of murdered hearts in haunted root cellars.  He cast out demons.  Could he honestly not track down an ex-con? 

Snapping to a lonely space in the heart of Hogshead, the answer was a hollow "No."  No one was there.  That is to say, six--no, seven--Dementors were there--floating without the doors of the Three Broomsticks.  But whether seven Dementors constituted as "someone" defied the finer points of the philosophy of being.

Musgrave might have evaded him, but the absence of anyone else was a convenient enough situation; as a strategic member of I.D.R.E.A.D., Alberic had fast learned that the youthful vigor of some Obliviators, coupled by the strong-armed brawn of the Aurors quickly scared away the Dementors when they were dementing at their best.  This was a behavioral pattern that no amount of studying in the dark halls of the Department of Mysteries could replicate.  Alberic fully intended to make the most of this fortuitous situation--even if it killed him, and it may as well, for he was facing death this instant.  It was his very purpose in coming.  Now, alone, he could face the death of memories and souls here and now with this Dementor and learn its very essence.

Shined boots hit cold cobblestones as Alberic crossed the street to approach the thronging, tattered forms, all filing silently and singly into the Three Broomsticks.  Hungrily, slipped in.

Somewhere overhead, the thatched roof of the Broomsticks had caught fire.  Large flecks of ash rained down.  Alberic gave no notice.  He crept towards the Dementors, all heedlessly faced away from him, all pressing forward.  They did not sense him, and just as well.  Alberic thought of nothing--no fond memory, no throbbing ambition, no fear, no exhilaration.  He had nothing by with they could sense him.  He simply moved forward and, as he reached the last Dementor in the back--the only one yet to slip into the pub--Alberic tapped it upon the shoulder, feeling nothing but empty cloth.

The great thing spun around, emitting a low, rattling noise.  Alberic examined it, carefully.  He had none of the protections of the Department of Mysteries. No patroni, no netted protections, no wards.  He didn't need them for this.  Lawrence Musgrave could summon these creatures, could comprehend some fundamental nature of their being that Alberic had yet to penetrate.  That would change.

Eyes on the hooded nothingness, Alberic waited, holding his ground as the Dementor--angered--moved towards him, sucking.  Alberic felt a queer, light-headed sensation.  He waited until the opportunity rose:

The moment the Dementor's skeletal hand stretched out from the tattered folds of its vestments, Alberic clung to it fiercely.  Mind honed and ready, he prodded and delved.  This legilimency was unlike any other--different even from his nephew's possession[1] from two years prior--for he was not harvesting the Dementor's memories, or even the memories of a living occupier, but the second-handed memories of others.  Souls, memories, fears--Alberic felt them all with a swirling, ethereal chill.  The Dementor attempted to pull away--body and mind--but Alberic held firm, fingers like a vice, mind straining to keep control in this mental tug-of-war.  He felt sweat beading upon his forehead; his knees shook, and he felt that maybe he had not taken a breath in some time.  He did so now and probed further still, coming to a distinct memory: a boy playing with a wooden horse, his mother--his own mother, Alberic felt certain it was his own mother--humming by the fire as she looked on over some mending.  Her crossed leg kicked in the air along to a rhythm she hummed.  He could see the faces. Remarkable! He could see it with such great clarity, could almost feel the emotions himself. 

He had it in his mind's eye: one memory--and with it, some fragment of some soul--once stolen from this playing boy by the Dementor, now stolen from the Dementor by Alberic Grimm himself.  It was fulfilling in a way he had never known. It was an  exhilarating feeling, a wonderous feeling.  A... well, Alberic supposed it could be considered a happy feeling.  Alberic felt like he was more than just one person.  He was something more.  Was this how it felt to be a Dementor?  He instantly wanted more.

There was a snap in his attention as the Dementor wrenched away, now revealing its terrible face.  Alberic did not know if it could see him, did not know what it could feel of him, but he looked steadfastly on as the Dementor recoiled and flitted overhead, escaping into the night.

Really, Alberic thought, he oughtn't to have let that one go.  But there were still six others.  He wondered if, with this memory, he would finally be able to summon a Patronus.

1.	For Thine Is The Kingdom, January 2008

The noise in the pub from outside changed. They could hear screaming and shouting and then a strange silence as the dementors swept in one after the other. Lawrence and Willy watched until footsteps on the cobbles drew Lawrence's attention. His face barely caught the light from the fire beneath his tattered hood, but his eyes did not leave the approaching figure. Nobody walked towards dementors like that unless they knew them or unless they were an idiot.

Feast, feast

The touch on the dementor's shoulder sent Lawrence's arm without hand to his own shoulder as if he too had felt it.
"Whossat?" Willy asked beside him but Lawrence didn't answer, he stepped forward in front of Shufflebottom, heart picking up pace as he stared in curiosity and alarm at what the other man was doing.

Across the road, the figure grasped the hand of the dementor and Lawrence looked down at his left arm, holding it out before him. He had just felt someone grab his left hand. The one he'd lost a decade ago. It was a remarkably strange feeling, especially as there was a grip on his missing limb.

Lawrence pulled back, stepping back and pushing into Shufflebottom who scrambled to get out of the way, confused.
"Mr Musgrave?" The seething, angry hatred of feeling something had been stolen from him overwhelmed Lawrence and he strode forward two steps, until Willy launched at him and dragged him back with all his strength. For once, his assistant remembered the plan, was doing his job past holding a patronus and preventing Lawrence from being the idiot.

"Not yet!" Lawrence snapped through gritted teeth, twisting his head to make near eye contact with the man grappling him. "I need to see."
"Right-o." Shufflebottom replied, though it lacked his usual gusto, and sounded altogether worried as he released his grasp, not able to apparate them both from the scene.

As well as socialising with her fellow colleagues at Hogwarts, Camille was making efforts to get to know the locals down in Hogsmeade. Saturday night was a busier one, the midweek crowd were quieter and she had begun to know a few of the faces better. Tonight she was playing dominos with a few of those faces, to the left of the door.

The Arithmancy Professor had a clear view out of the front windows of the pub and saw the fireball erupt from across the street in alarm. It hit the front door of the pub before she had a chance to yell much more than "What-"

Her hand went to her wand, the dominos scattered as her fellow players leapt to their feet and the table was upset. The pub was busy so there wasn't much room, but room suddenly was made around the door as people scattered.

The cold, evil and depressing feeling of impending dementors swept across them and Camille felt as if someone had seized her heart with a cold hand. Ice spread across the windowpanes as the cloaked figures made their way through the open doorway. Although she had her wand in hand, Camille felt unable to raise it, folding in on herself. Her mind's eye flitting from courtroom to graveside to hospital and her late husband's hollow voice invaded her mind from memories.

"Anyone who can conjure a patronus do it now!" A witch yelled.

"I can't, i can't…" Camille uttered to her new friends, wishing wholeheartedly she had asked her cousin to help her learn. She had never had need in her life to conjure one. She had never met dementors, only read about them in papers and in the Ministry-issued advice pamphlets. Oh Merlin it hurt. "How do we get out?!" She asked, trying to force herself up to look for another exit than the one the dementors were coming through.

“Hey, sober up I need your patroni.”

Omari didn’t realise who it was shouting orders at him at first, but he knew that whoever it was was right. He needed to sober up, and he needed to get into full Auror mode straight away. They were under attack, and the Three Broomsticks was filled with civilians. This is what he had been training for - surprise attacks.

“Expecto -” he slurred as he drew his wand, but he seemed to be drunker than he thought. He tried to think of the happy times with Lucas, but the Dementor’s presence only made him replay the scene of where he found Lucas’ lifeless body in a back alley. A futile silverish shimmer erupted from his wand, but disappeared as quickly, and taken aback Omari stumbled.

He lost his grip of his aspen wand, and it fell from his hands, rolling away from him. Now, with the panic somewhat building up in his head, he looked around himself. Hayes was still by his side. He hoped she was more sober than him. And he saw another familiar face, finally able to recognise who had spoken earlier.

“Andromeda,” Omari said, voice deeper than usual, and some of his words barely understandable. “What’re ye doin’ here? Are ye alone?”

"I am with you, and Hayes." Andromeda snapped. "Come on Omari. I need you." She shook his shoulder. Her wand stayed pointed at the dementors. Her patronus launched at them. It was outnumbered. She needed her colleagues to help. "If you cannot make a patronus, get help. Get people out of here."

Once the first Dementor departed, Alberic's thoughts drew inward.  He could feel his pulse racing.  His skin was clammy.  His breath caught.  But he felt stronger with the memory gained from the Dementor.  And he felt stronger with that Dementor fleeing, cowering, frightened of him. He could... he could almost persuade himself that he felt happy.

Generally Alberic tried to avoid all such feelings; they allowed you to be manipulated. Left you hungry.  Forced you into irrational, need-based decisions.  They left you subject to something other than your mind and your will.  But right now, Alberic wanted more.  And there were six other Dementors for the taking.  They were all nearly within the Broomsticks now.  Alberic was not so certain that entering that confined space would be conducive to his work. He would suddenly be harangued and sullied by the feelings, screams, and fears of its mortal occupants. 

The window panes of the pub looked twice froze-over at this point.  Through them, though, he could see the cold, silvery gleam of a Patronus within.  Alberic shook his head angrily. That would put the Dementors in a panic.  Accordingly, there seemed to be some congestion at the door--the processional halting and thrown into confusion as the innermost Dementor pushed back a moment to avoid the bright glare of the Patronus.

Inside, he heard shouts.  The panic of patrons and Dementors would ruin everything.  Gritting his teeth, Alberic moved to the stone side of the building, wand trained upon it.  He could get the people out.  Stop the people casting Patroni and, if all went well, the Dementors would still be around, and he could detain them. Try again. 

And if, during the course of emptying the Broomsticks, he could somehow be regarded as a savior... all the better.

He considered his options.  Accustomed to the fine work of mental and spiritual magic as he was, spells of brute force such as this were not his strong suit.  Murus exsumai, the surest way to remove the wall by deliver a shocking blast, would likely pepper the inside occupants with bits of glass, wood, stone. In short, it could be carnage.  Alberic would not have particularly minded, save it was more likely to create chaos.  No; the force could not be inward.  "Deprimo!" He uttered, causing the stones of the wall to shake, then rumble sonorously, then crumble to the ground in a fine dust. 

It was not the only thing to fall downward.  Scarcely had the wall crumbled than the thatched gables overhead began to drop dangerously and there was a great sound of cracking wood.  A desperate levitation spell, and Alberic bellowed with all his voice, "EXIT! QUICKLY! SINGLE FILE!"  For good measure, he added "NOW!"

One could not expect order from these fools, or, in turn, for them to follow orders.  Meanwhile, while he literally kept the roof over their heads, the six remaining Dementors remained vulnerable to further attack and all the more likely to flee while the lemmings witch and wizards within continued to panic, a hazard to their own selves and souls.

He cursed his luck.  Where the hell was I.D.R.E.A.D.?

Across the road, it appeared as if the Leaky Cauldron's fate was about to play out again at the hand of this wizard who had reached the dementors. He must be part of the Ministry - otherwise he wouldn't be there to help. Gamp would know him. Why hadn't Gamp told him? Of course he couldn't trust them, he barely trusted Glass.

The front wall came down, wood cracked, a voice shouted out command - British accent - as a wand was held aloft as flames licked down, thatch cascading and spitting from the roof onto evacuating people beneath. They spilled into the street, stumbling shrieking and shouting.

Within, amongst the confusion, the dementors were feasting, Lawrence could feel the hunger slowly diminishing, but the sting of a patronus like the landing of faint hexes on his arms.

Lawrence barely breathed, transfixed. He had to commit as much to memory as possible, but as much as he was a darker, jealous feeling came across him and he flicked his wand, casting Ventus Maxima to fan the flames.

This wasn't part of the plan, and Willy didn't much like changes of plan. They required him to use his initiative, and that was often lacking. It also brought out the worst in Mr Musgrave.

Behind Lawrence, Willy stood ready to disapparate, to escape before it was too late and the Ministry appeared to seal off the area. His heart thudded in his chest at the sight before them, peering round Musgrave's shoulder at the fire, cringing at the noise of the people in trouble.

When he saw Lawrence's right arm move, wand twisting, he raised both hands behind the taller wizard. The moment he saw the flames leap up with the rush of air he used that little initiative.

"Enough!" He snapped, as if Musgrave were one of his children who had used up their father's patience. It was enough to send dementors in to prove they could, to observe the strange man interact with them, but it was not part of the plan to burn down the Three Broomsticks.

He gripped Lawrence's left arm in a hard grasp at the elbow, and used all his might to twist them out of the night and disapparate away from Hogsmeade.

Exit William and Lawrence

It was as bad as they said and a hundred times worse, Camille thought as she fought to control the noises in her head caused by the proximity of the dementors. She knew Johann wasn't there, she knew Wolfgang was dead, this was all an illusion, she could get through this.

She forced herself back to her feet and ordered her wand arm up as a wall came down. A voice commanded them out in single file and Camille scrambled with others in the bar to take advantage of another exit.

They flooded into the street, where it was pandemonium. Once she was ten or fifteen feet away she turned back to look up at the roof and realised the whole building was coming down. Away from the immediate presence of the dementors, Camille could think more clearly, and although her hands and voice shook, she approached the figure holding aloft the side of the building.
"Suffulcio![1]" At once she could feel the weight down her arm that the building was wanting to bring down. She raised her arm to protect her face from the falling straw from above. Help had to be on the way.

1.	suffulcio - to prop up, bolstered

"Grimm!" Andromeda shouted. She was really glad to see someone else from the Ministry. Grimm was creepy. She did not know much about him. At least he was helping. Warrington and Hayes had been drinking. This was not going to paint them in a good light when they wrote their reports. She wished they were sober too. They needed to get rid of the the dementors. "Everyone out. Quickly. Do as he says!" She set her patronus at another dementor. It was in the way and people could not get past. "It will be ok!"

"Grimm!"

It registered gradually. Ministry. Gamp. (He'd taken an obvious interest in any and all Gamps the moment he started working with The Gamp, Mortimer.  It was never a bad move to be informed.) She was an Auror.  "You!" he ordered, jutting his chin out in her direction, wand still traced on the walls, keeping them open.  "Get these people out! I'll go about corralling the Dementors in," he said. The moment I.D.R.E.A.D. showed up.  But this--the fire, the trapped people--was clearly a Level Two Problem.  And Gamp was obviously beholden to address it.  His job was the Dementors themselves. 

Just then, the flames seemed to burst around them.  Windows broke open under the new heat, sending shards flying; Alberic felt them in his hands and in his hair.  Discipline kept him from dropping his wand--but only just.  He felt the stinging heat of the flames, too.  He looked down--the leg of his trousers appeared singed.   

"Suffulcio!"  Another voice chimed in which, of course, was not Ministry, but seemed to be the only other competent person in this place.  Taking three steps back to escape the flames, he gave her a curt, appreciative nod.

"I need two more! Suffulcio. Now!"  People in a panic were mere animals.  They needed to be told. With his free hand, he pointed to two who seemed less inebriated, though there was no immediate way of checking for signs of idiocy.  They had gotten themselves out of the Broomsticks and followed his orders; that at least showed a modicum of sense.

He waited until the two lemmings had joined in.  It was a simpler spell, though the weight of the Broomsticks was considerable. "One more. You," he said to a young woman who looked terrified out of her mind.

"Suh-suh-suh--f" she stammered, fidgeting with her wand.  Alberic could curse them all.  With a roll of his eyes he chose the next best thing: a balding, middle-aged man with a red nose.  This was the poorest draft ever enacted in the history of mankind. "You!"

Alberic didn't even wait to see how that played out.  He dropped his wand hand, shaking it to get the blood flowing again, and moved back around to the entrance.  Alberic wasn't even certain if Dementors were effected by fire; that was something he'd want to test as soon as he got back, hopefully with a couple of these peculiar Dementors in hand. Nevertheless, whether it be attributed to the fire or some patronus cast from within, they were starting to back out.

With a sort of... glee, he supposed, he reached out his free hand, curling long fingers around the whispy fibers of the black, tattered robe.  It was ice cold--cool to the touch, until it started to burn.  He pulled down with all his force.  The Dementor spun around to look at him, its breath coming as a death rattle in its chest.  Alberic felt a thrill, then lightheadedness.  As before, his fingers curled around the bony wrist, pulling it in.

A memory of a summer's day, hot pavement and drinking from a garden hose.  A recollection of a soft sea breeze across the cliffs of Cornwall...

A burst of silver suddenly burst between them, and Alberic broke both physical and mental connections, taking several steps back.  Also as before, the Dementor fled.

Baring his teeth, he turned to face the intruder.  "Mister Grimm!" That fresh-faced youth from I.D.R.E.A.D. had not warranted much attention before, save the knowledge that she was Primrose's ridiculous sister, but now, his full anger was turned towards her. "Are you alright?"