Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling. I claim the narrator, who I created, but all other characters are creations of J. K. Rowling.

The Watcher

I stand alone on the Quidditch pitch. Why? I take no pleasure in Quidditch—I don't even come out to watch the Hufflepuff team play. Except when they play Gryffindor. Harry Potter plays on the Gryffindor team. Something always happens around Harry Potter. He's worth watching. So many people do. So many pin their hopes and dreams on their child-hero. I talked to him once, when I was a first year. His red-haired friend was mad at him—who knows what about—and shoved him. His books went flying as his friend stormed off. One book landed near my foot. I handed it to him. "Here." He looked weary, but smiled. "Thanks."

It is cold and moonless. I shiver. I am sure this night was chosen for those reasons. Someone left a school broom propped against a bench. They look odd in the darkness, like a crouching monster, ready to spring. I'm not any great shakes with a broom. I'm not much good with anything magical, to tell the truth. I really have to work for my grades. I'm worse than notoriously awful Neville Longbottom at potion-making, but Professor Snape actually teaches us instead of terrorizing us. It's not that I'm stupid, though—these things just aren't second nature to me as it is to the Ravenclaws or most of the Gryffindors.

I rub my fingers over the unassuming badger on my house emblem. The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Gryffindor. Or Slytherin. "In either house, you'd be in a good position. You could be great, and one of these power houses could help you on your way to greatness." But I have no desire to be great. I want nothing more than to watch—undisturbed—from the shadows, as life unfolds before me. Slytherins are too keen to not notice eyes in their own shadows, Gryffindors too eager to drag the watcher into the light, to force a sideliner onto the field.

I am in the center of the pitch. A little light comes from the castle behind me. My shadow stretches away before me, and a bit off to one side. It is very long. I am accustomed to shadows, but I am not accustomed to being watched. I'd felt for a few months that someone was watching me watch the world, and it was strange to me. My observations intensified until I finally identified my watcher. I approached him. He was not surprised that I knew, merely that I'd acted on my knowledge. "I'd been waiting for a good time to approach you," he said. "On whose behalf?" I demanded. "He will meet you on the Quidditch pitch when the moon is gone." And so I wait.

A lone figure approaches from the shadows on the end of the field, as if a shadow himself. As he nears me, I go down on one knee and bow my head. "Lord Voldemort." It is best to give the powerful the respect they demand: for Harry, it is nothing more than to not worship him; for Professor Dumbledore…well, I wouldn't know. I've never spoken with Professor Dumbledore.

His wand is at my throat. "Insolent child…I could kill you…for speaking my name."

I raise my head, slowly, to look at him. His eyes are red, his skin tinged green, and he has no hair on his head, but he is powerful. I shake my head once. "You could not have crossed the barriers if you'd come with death or suffering."

He laughs shortly at my audacity and withdraws his wand. I stand, brushing dirt from my knee. "You dare stand…without permission? You are bold."

"You would like someone to look out a window?" I shoot back. "I'm sure it's perfectly normal to see, in the dead of the night, two figures on the Quidditch pitch: one kneeling, the other laughing."

"Severus said you were a watcher…he didn't mention your paranoia…of other people watching you."

"Well, he is the cause of that paranoia. Or perhaps you are." I consider the man standing before me, if man he can be properly called. "Why did you ask him to look for eyes in the shadows?"

"I want you to serve me…be my eyes in the shadows."

"I'm not any good at magic," I warn. "Any child with a wand could defeat me."

"I only ask that you watch…for me."

"I'm not a pureblood."

"Did I ask if you were?" He grows angry.

I sigh, and finally come to the crux of the matter. "Many of my observations will come as unwanted. Some will be wrong. What then?"

His eyes glisten. "If you are wrong…you will suffer. If you speak…and I dislike what you say…you will suffer. If you withhold anything…you will wish you had spoken…though it had been unwanted and incorrect."

"Harsh," I comment. "What do I get in return?"

He raises an eyebrow, as though the answer is obvious. "Your life…the opportunity to be…on the winning side…the honor…of serving me."

Now it is my turn to laugh. "Fine," I say. "I hadn't planned to choose a side in this war, but one side noticed me. One side asked me to join."

"So…you agree to serve me?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then kneel."

"Yes, my lord."

Many months later, it is summer break, and I travel to my lord's unplottable castle. It is dark and stormy, like my lord's mood after loosing the prophecy, some of his best Death Eaters, and a battle to Professor Dumbledore. I set my trunk and my owl in my room, and then go straight to the War Room. Wormtail, the pathetic man, cowers outside the door. He is weak and really has nothing to offer Lord Voldemort. I almost pity him. I walk past him, into the room. The map spread out on the large table is of Hogwarts, and the tall, lithe, dark lord is bent over a particular spot where, it is said, the Headmaster's office is located.

"I shouldn't…be going after the boy. He's just a puppet. I should be…attacking the man…pulling the strings." He turns to me and demands, "Why has nobody…told me this before?"

"With respect, Master, all of your servants are terrified to mention the names of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore in your presence."

"But not you," he noted.

I bow. "That is something I have observed, and you have shown me what happens when I withhold an observation from you."

He smiles in remembrance. "Yes…but it is such a shame…you are immune…to most magic."

I bow again. "I am told that the Crucatius potion causes just as much pain as the Crucatius curse." He had been engraged when, casting the Crucatius curse on me, absolutely nothing happened. "But I was right. About Lucius Malfoy, I mean. He underestimated the strength of Harry Potter and his friends. He let the Prophecy get destroyed."

"Do you try…to provoke me?" He demands. I mutely shake my head. He sighs. "Give me your arm."

I push up my left sleeve. He grasps my wrist and turns my arm over. A network of white scars covers the underside of my arm. They were made with a cursed muggle knife even as I cried in pain under the influence of the Crucatius potion. He lays his cold hand on my arm. It glows for a moment, then the scars fade and disappear.

"Let it not be said…that I don't reward…loyal servants."

"Thank you, my lord."

It is nearing September, and my trunk is once again packed. I have grown stronger, having spent the summer in the company of young Death Eaters in training. One is Draco Malfoy. He passes my room, head high, but paler than ever. I step out into the hallway. "Draco?"

He turns, recognizes me. Or, more accurately, recognizes the disguised me. I note the tilt of his chin, the determination in his steel-gray eyes, and conclude, "You've been given a task." He won't tell me what it is, but I don't ask. I don't have to. I have seen the hours our lord spends pouring over the map of Hogwarts. I have been present at meetings where he exudes bitterness and hatred from every pore. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about." He actually believes himself. "It is a great honor. A chance for me to prove Malfoys aren't failures."

"He's not a killer," I tell my lord before I leave. "He will fail." The Dark Lord seems unconcerned with my observation. I am puzzled momentarily. "You don't want him to succeed," I accuse. He merely looks up from the map of Hogwarts and smiles.

"Tell me," he says softly, "Do you believe…I will succeed in taking Hogwarts?"

I glance at the map that he must know by memory by now. I trace the markings of the magical barriers. "The barriers have held for centuries," I reply, watching my finger on the parchment. "Do not be so vain as to believe they will break for you."

He smiles again. "I hoped…you would say that. Come…I want you to see this."

I follow him through the hallways to a room with a heavy lock. He opens the door and shows me inside. I look around the room in shock. Muggle weapons cover the walls. They glitter with curses. A cabinet is stocked with what I know are curse potions. An operating table stands alone in the center of the room. There are straps to hold a person to it. My heart races.

"I had it made…for you," he hisses in my ear. He is standing behind me. He lays his cold hands on my neck. "If you had withheld…your latest observation…you would already be strapped…to that table."

"Yes, my lord," I breathe.

"I look forward…with pleasure to next summer…when we will be…spending some time in here."

"Yes, my lord." I'm not sure my heart is still beating.

"Do you wish…to change your mind?"

I struggle to make my thoughts run straight. I rack my brain for anything I have heard, anything I have seen, that would make me believe Hogwarts' barriers would fall before the Dark Lord.

"I…I have no reason to change it," I finally say.

"Then perhaps…you should be watching…more closely, my Watcher," he hisses.

"Yes, my lord."

It is Christmas Break, and I am tired. Exhausted, even. I have scoured the library for a reason the barriers would fall. I have even reread Hogwarts, A History for the sixth time. Nothing. Draco Malfoy also seems tired. I am afraid I was right about him, but Professor Dumbledore also seem weaker, so perhaps I was not right.

"What do you…have for me…my Watcher?" Lord Voldemort demands.

"Dumbledore is weak. Morale is low. Harry Potter and his friends still seem struck by the death of Sirius Black. Draco Malfoy may yet succeed, but the barriers of Hogwarts will not fall."

"If that is…still what you think…then I look forward to the summer."

What does he know that I don't? Why can't I figure it out? Is he right, or is he just messing with my head?

It has happened. Lord Voldemort stands on the grounds of Hogwarts with an army of Death Eaters. Chaos has erupted around me, students and teachers and a few of Hogwarts' allies are fighting the servants of the Dark Lord. I raise my wand—to do what, I don't know—and am struck by a flying knife. It embeds itself in my side and I go down. A medi-witch in training drags me away from the battlefield.

"The barriers, what happened to the barriers?" She thinks I'm ranting, and tries to hush me. "How did the barriers fall?" Perhaps I am ranting. The other injured students were hit by curses. Who knew to throw a knife at me?

Albus Dumbledore is dead. Not by the hand of Draco Malfoy, but by the wand of Severus Snape. I didn't see that coming, but then again, I didn't believe the barriers would fall.

I sit in the crowd of students at the funeral. People are talking, but I feel disconnected, lost. Nobody notices. Nobody's ever noticed me. I'd always liked that, but now I feel hurt.

For the second time in my life, I take action instead of merely watching. I approach Harry Potter, standing in a knot of his friends. He grieves, but I see the strength in the way his jaw is set, the determination in his eyes, and I know he can be the killer in the same way I knew Draco Malfoy couldn't. I know Lord Voldemort thinks the Potter boy is too weak to kill, and I see the outcome of their final confrontation.

I halfheartedly hope that Harry Potter will understand that I am reaching out to him and take my hand. Everyone is whispering condolences to him. Everyone but me.

"You will destroy Lord Voldemort," I say in a low voice. He smiles blandly as though he is accepting a condolence. He doesn't seem to notice that I used the Dark Lord's name. He doesn't notice the only cry for help I will ever give, and so he doesn't reach out. He doesn't know me, the watcher in the shadows.

"You wanted…him to save you," the Dark Lord whispers, laughing softly. I close my eyes and don't respond. "You wanted…to switch sides."

"I already chose my side," I say. I had known I couldn't change my decision. But still, I'd hoped.

"You…are…mine," he hisses. My wrists chafe in their bonds. I look straight ahead, up at the ceiling. Will anybody notice when I don't come back?

"I came back," I pointed out.

"Fear," he said. "And now…you will be punished…for being wrong."

"Now you will kill me for saying Harry Potter will defeat you," I corrected, past caring what happened to me.

"Harry Potter…will not defeat me!"

"He will. That's why you're killing me now—because I'm right, and you won't be alive to punish me for—Ah!" He'd reopened the knife wound I'd received during the battle at Hogwarts. "…being wrong."

"No…" he hisses. "I'm killing you because…you are worthless…you were wrong…and I have no use…for a worthless servant."

He is right, I am worthless. I watched from the shadows and chose to serve the one who noticed me. Instead of allying myself with Freedom and Justice, I chose another shadow-watcher, a shadow-master: the Dark Lord Voldemort. But perhaps even evil can be a tool of Justice.

"You are worthless…and disloyal."

I close my eyes again.

"Yes, my lord."