...leaving the eyeless dementors to glide amongst the Muggles who might not be able to see them, but would assuredly feel the despair they cast wherever they went.
And then he felt that stealing sense of despair, or hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him….
The dementors were gliding up and down in front of them, and the cold, and the hopelessness, and the despair of the place laid themselves upon Harry like a curse….
Xenophilius gave a wail of fear and despair.
He heard another women laughing nearby, and knew that Bellatrix gloried in McGonagall’s despair.
At the foot of the platform, a bight-silver, long-haired cat prowled up and down, up and down, and Harry realized that it was there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the dementors: That was for the accused to feel, not the accusers.
Harry was sure of it: They seemed to be coming more quickly now, taking those dragging, rattling breaths he detested, tasting despair in the air, closing in — He raised his wand: He could not, would not suffer the Dementor’s Kiss, whatever happened afterward.
Of course there are hundreds, maybe thousands by this time, seeing as they feed off fear and despair — " "All right, all right blustered," blustered Vernon Dursley.
A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward them, sucking their way closer to Harry’s despair, which was like a promise of a feast… He saw Ron’s silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione’s otter twist in midair and fade, and his own wand trembled in his hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling… And then a silver hare, a boar, and fox soared past Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s heads: the dementors…