Lock the Door, Kill the Light
Disclaimer: You know the drill. I came up with more or less nothing but the plot. Don't sue.
Summary: "There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those to weak to seek it…" Dumbledore and Voldemort have been gone for over five years. Everyone knew the quiet could only last so long. They just didn't except it to end so soon.
Prologue
His cigarette was now nothing more than a long dangling ash as it rested between his long fingers. For the past several minutes his mind had been very preoccupied, forgetting to drag the tobacco stick. Slowly it burned out, the ash finally falling to the ground, exploding into a million particles while the last red embers faded out.
Slowly he turned his head to the body lying next to him. Draco Malfoy. He should have been dead of course. Any other would have been, yet he showed mercy. This one needed be returned as a message, a message which would portray the fate of the lucky survivors. Eyes vacant, he appeared to have received the Dementor's Kiss.
The man shifted his gaze to his watch. Four minutes had passed. He need only wait one more, then they would show up. Five minutes was the limit. The Aurors would arrive, ready to fight.
The tracking spell was simply an annoyance to him. In the past it would have been unlawful to place such limits on magic. But then towards the end of Voldemort's second reign the British Wizengomt Act of 1624 was deemed void. Particular spells could now be legally traced. This allowed The Unforgivables along with a handful of other powerful spells to be detected as they were cast. If an Unforgivable was to be cast, it was now a guarantee aurors would arrive on the scene within minutes. "Safety over privacy," the militaristic minister was quoted to say as he signed the law.
The times were still dangerous, so the law was still in affect. Just as he predicted they showed up. Again, just as he had expected, Ginny Weasley and Blaise Zabini stood donned in auror gear, wands fixed on him.
"It's about time you guys showed up."
"You." The redhead mouthed, wand locked on his chest.
"Ginny, glad to see you remember me."
"Bastard."
Suddenly there was a red flash. The Weasley girl collapsed, stupefied. He had not cast the curse however. The other auror had.
"Aw, why'd you knock her out so fast Blaise? I was having a conversation."
"She's annoying, and dangerous." The man didn't respond. After a moment Zabini continued, "So eh, what'd you do to Malfoy."
"Couple Cruciatus, and a few little things to fuck up his mind. Proper care and he may think again… maybe even talk."
"That's fucked up."
"Yeah well, I knew you'd show. Now take little Draco off to Snivelus for me. Let him be warned."
"What about the girl."
"Weasley? She'll wake up with an altered memory. Simple trick, I'll take care of it."
"What's in it for me?"
"The usual."
The auror shrugged in unenthusiastic agreement.
"You are becoming very helpful Blaise. Those who help me, help themselves. Rewards do come."
"I know." Zabini grabbed Malfoy by the arm and nodded goodbye. Then with a pop they were gone.
The man turned to the fallen girl. With two strides he was next to her, kneeling down with his wand. A whispered "sorry" the only thing audible as a dark purple cloud emitted from his wand. The smoky mist swirled around before seemingly entering the Weasley girl's temples, streaming in until all was gone. A pained look passed over her face as she turned over in a troubled sleep.
Then he stood. Turning he walked several feet away. He closed his eyes and waved his hands through the air over the area. As his hands danced through the area a purple mist seemed to descend on the ground, seeping into the area as it had the girl's temple.
"Godric's Hollow, all may not be lost." He muttered to himself as he opened his eyes. A satisfied smirk appeared on his face, and then with a "pop" he too was gone.
Harry Potter had disapparated from the scene of the crime.
Tom rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again he was surprised. They were not deceiving him. He actually had a customer.
The cloaked figure approached the bar.
In an already defeated voice Tom called out "Diagon Alley, that way," while stretching his long greasy finger towards the side door.
The figure, presumably a man, sat down at the bar.
"I know Tom. Now get me a drink." His voice was raspy, and he sounded worn out.
Tom couldn't place the voice. He eyed the customer wearily. The man's robes were torn and appeared old and faded. He was slightly taller than average, though also thin. Even his dark black cloak couldn't hide that, though it hid his face quite well.
"I don't serve to those who hide their appearance." Tom replied stubbornly, agitated and slightly nervous. He had no idea who this man was, a scary realization in these times.
"Of course," The man replied, pulling the cloak down to reveal his face. "Weren't scared were you Tom?"
"Well, you never know. Not in these times, the times are troubled Remus… troubled."
"Indeed." The werewolf replied as the bartender fumbled around on the counter for a minute, finally retrieving two dusty glasses. He hesitated, "Firewhisky?" Remus nodded. He grabbed a bottle and filled both glasses. Distributing one to his long time customer and keeping the other, Tom leaned up against the bar.
"Why the cloak?"
"Like you say, the times are troubled. And being who I am, there are people who want me dead."
"Surly… surly not Him, Remus? Don't you know him?"
"No not Him, Tom. He is dangerous now, we all know that. Yet he is not at the point of wanting old friends dead."
"Have you heard from him then?"
"Far and few between," he sighed, "I believe he has nearly given up on being close to someone, much less keeping contact. It's dangerous to, anyway." Tom could tell the man was tired, more than just physically. He looked tired to the very depths of his bones.
Yet his curiosity took over. He wanted to press this most intriguing topic farther.
"You know I remember the day I met him."
"Most people do, he seems to make a memorable entrance into their lives."
"Our actual meeting wasn't all that memorable. It was later that evening when things got interesting." Remus raised an eyebrow. "Well after his shop closed that evening old Ollivander, may he rest in peace, came running over here asking for a drink. He was all excited, so of course I got him to talk. It was the boy that had him worked up. He seemed anxious to see what his latest customer would do. I'm sure if he was here now he'd simply be delighted with his customer's work."
"He makes magic an art." Remus agreed.
"Sometimes a terrible art."
"Desperate times take desperate measures. That's the rule of thumb these days, or so it seems."
Tom shook his head. "Does it not seem like times are always desperate? It's a strain to remember a time when we lived innocently."
"Those times do seem distant."
"Tell me Remus, see because you're out more than me. Or you must be, for I'm simply here at the bar all the time… and business is slow, you see. So I don't get the news like I used to." He paused.
"Tell you what?" Remus asked curiously.
Tom gulped. "Have you heard any news about… about The Others?"
Lupin looked up at his bartender and paused. Taking a gulp of his firewhisky, he shook his head.
"I'm sorry, but nothing more than the occasional rumor, Tom, nothing substantial. But they are out there, and perhaps are growing stronger."
"You think?" The toothless man seemed frightened.
"The occasional rumors and disappearances can be placed together. After all, one Dark Lord has risen to power in our lives, we should have experience placing together the occasional rumors, and we should take heed."
"Take heed, indeed."
A third voice had entered the conversation.
Hermione Granger was working her second shift in the Auror Intelligence Division at the Ministry. A file lay closed in front of her. Case 329-D9, it read on the cover. She suppressed a yawn and sipped her now cold coffee. Then she opened the file.
Like the one before it, and the one before that, it was a missing person file. They were turning up more often recently. The scary thing was nearly all the witches and wizards who had disappeared recently had been quite young, in their teens and twenties.
But that was almost all they had in common. Folks were going missing left in right, purebloods were disappearing as much as muggleborns, wizards as much as witches, and Slytherins as much as Gryffindors. It was confusing. It wasn't like during Voldemort's reign, when those who went missing were bound to be prominent and talented individuals. It even had the youngest ever Head of Intelligence at the Ministry baffled.
Yet here she was on a Saturday night, pouring over the information. If a connection could be found, perhaps a prevention could be found. Unfortunately her workload had her bogged down, leaving her little time to spend on each investigation, much less each case. She needed a Junior Assistant but the head office had yet to deliver her one.
She knew with time a connection could be found. There had to be one, and she had a good idea who it may lead to. It couldn't be proved however. It couldn't even be proved he was still in Britain. No reliable source had seen him since Dumbledore and Voldemort met their ends.
But she knew he was out there. The rumors constantly had her agents chasing leads which seemed impossible to trace or even point in a sure direction. But she knew they had some truth.
An old friend had tipped her off. An old friend whom many had lost faith in, yet, even if nobody else did, she still trusted him. He didn't trust her however, and she couldn't blame him.
The tip off was all but confirmed now anyway. He had contacted her.
She had been sitting at her desk when suddenly a hazy orange mist appeared in front of her. Then as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. There in its place was a letter. It fell slowly through the air until it came to rest on her desk, begging to be opened.
She had opened it of course, hours and hours ago, before she started her second shift. He was coming over, apparently wanting to talk to her. She had let herself smile in anticipation of seeing him again. To Hermione, Harry Potter was still Harry Potter, no matter how dangerous he was.