This started out as a writing exercise then I read wayyyyy too many harry potter fics and this adapted document is the result. Review!!!
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The spies crouched inside the cramped air duct watched in horrified fascination as Ron slumped to his knees, dead. The man who sat on the plain gray throne was not dressed as one would expect of a dictator. He wore faded black pants and a very dull green turtleneck. He had a trench coat, the same hue as his pants, on as well. On anyone else the cloths would have been non-descript. On him they were terrifying. His expression was of contempt throughout Ron's short epitaph and his brutal death. They could easily see why they had been often warned that this job was certain death. Their already potent hatred swarmed to new heights, and so they were confused by his next action. His expression sank to one of stone-faced weariness and he called in a soft monotone to the troll-nightmare on guard, "Bury him". The thing he had created bowed and carried Ron out, slowly, as if it were afraid to move. He sighed, and it resonated deep through the very stones of the room, seemed almost a living thing coiling despair round their boots. He stood in a sharp movement that sent his coat billowing and walked with a measured pace toward the foggy courtyard. They moved through the ducts as quickly as caution allowed to a pipe that gave a view of the yard. Tendrils of mist blurred all but the figures standing in front of a fresh grave. He watched impassively as his guards filled in the packed earth. He spoke again in the gentle and weary monotone, "I will not keep you from your barracks any longer. You may go. Set free my nightmares from lab 17 before you go." At the thing's blank stare he stated, "He was not alone." The thing gave a short military bow and walked away leaving its master alone. He sighed again softly and the wind lifted his coat waving it like a banner at half-mast. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…" he paused and lifted his head to the sky. "I'm sorry," he told the gathering mist from the nearby ocean, "I was once idealistic too, so I know what you think of me. Monster. I agree, actually. But I woke up from a miserable, pointless life after I killed Voldemort and realized that without villains there would be no heroes. And heroes without a cause suffer more. I know it's too late for an apology," he swallowed and his voice caught for a moment as he went on, "And I know if you heard me you'd say it was no reason. But if you had to live day after day and struggled to find a reason to bother you would see too… I'm doing this for the heroes. And for myself, so that I won't die empty of everything. I know there had to be a better way somewhere. But I was too impatient to find it. I hope wherever you've gone there's lots of living to do. I know I'm wrong." he looked at the grave helplessly and his hands shook. "I'm sorry," he repeated softly, having run out of words. He stood for a moment staring into the fog at something only he could see. Then Harry Potter turned and strode inside, step still firm and face still stone, betrayed only by the lone tear that slid down his pale cheek. And the silent eyes watching him with confusion and maybe just a tad less fear.
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