It's turned into a scary dementor

Harry's blood ran cold as the boggart emerged from the trunk. It was a dementor, just as she had feared. The room grew frigid, the warmth from the candles extinguished as if by an unseen ****. A familiar, suffocating chill wrapped around her, the kind that seeped into your bones and promised utter despair. Harry could feel the happiness, the very memory of it, being leeched from her mind. Her breath hitched, coming out in ragged, white puffs in the sudden cold.

The dementor glided toward her, its skeletal hands reaching, the tattered black robes rustling with a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. But Tlyer wasn't afraid. He was transfixed, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face. He moved to stand beside Harry, his arm snaking around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His body was a furnace against her frozen skin.

"Feel that, Cleo?" he murmured, his voice a hot rasp against her ear. "That's your fear. I want to feel you tremble with it."

Harry's mind was a whirlwind of screaming, but her body was pinned. She look up at the black creature. She watch the dementor sprout a long obsidian cock from its robes, a horrifying phallus that pulsed with a cold, dark energy. The sight was so unnatural, so profoundly wrong, that it short-circuited her fear, replacing it with a kind of morbid, paralyzing curiosity.

Tlyer groaned, a deep, guttural sound of satisfaction. He watch his artwork coming to like. His kinks of putting fear into his paid for slut getting him hard.

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