It was close to three o'clock in the morning when Patrick MacLagan arrived. He parked his old jeep in the visitor space, just next to the little shop front. Normally, he'd leave that space for families or other customers, but it was three o'clock. Any customers at this hour would be around back.
Eight hours earlier, he had been watching his hometown Celts lose their one goal lead in the 83rd minute off a missed tackle and an uncalled penalty. The 1-1 tie was better than a loss, of course, but they really needed a win to stay at the top of the league table - it was the first weekend in May, and there were only a few matches remaining. His mates had been prepared to drink to an easy victory, or to drink in solidarity after a hard fought defeat.
For the tie, they just drank.
So Patrick MacLagan was not fully awake when he walked up to the shop front door, with its faded lettering and "Closed - Call Again" sign. Nor was he fully sober as he unlocked the door to MacLagen and Sons Funeral Services.
He had just turned on the lights when the door opened again. As MacLagen turned, he saw a tall, dark skinned man walk into the shop. The man wore what appeared to be an expensive suit. His tie was a deep purple, its color matching the short, rounded cap on his head. In his hands, MacLagen saw only a folder of paperwork.
MacLagen's eyes narrowed as he leaned against the counter, openly examining his visitor. "Can I help you?" he asked.
The man in the suit returned his look, and now MacLagen saw an immense fatigue in the man's eyes. It wasn't just that they were meeting in the middle of the night, no - this was something more, something existential. As if the man had run a marathon, and then found at the finish line that he had to turn around and go back the way he had come.
"I believe we spoke on the telephone, Mr. MacLagen. My name is Detective Inspector Shacklebolt." His deep voice was calm, all business.
"That was probably my Da," MacLagen replied, taking Shacklebolt's hand in a firm grip. "But I live closer, so he rousted me and sent me in."
"Of course," said the detective. "I apologize for the late hour, sir."
MacLagen waved his hand in dismissal. "It's not like Death keeps banker's hours, so why should we?" He gestured toward his office. "I'm going to put on some coffee, if you'd like some."
"Thank you," replied Shacklebolt. The pair walked back into a large room with a round table and four comfortable chairs. Shacklebolt took a seat, and watched as MacLagen started the coffee maker.
Sitting down across the table, MacLagen took a small notebook from his pocket. He reached over to the cup in the center of the table, and took a pen. "So, Detective Inspector, what can we do for you tonight?"
Shacklebolt set his folder down on the table, and opened it. MacLagen could not tell what the papers said, though the top sheet seemed to be an old style death certificate.
"Our… department has recently closed a very cold case." Shacklebolt began. MacLagen heard a note of hesitation in the detective's voice, and wondered at it. "Your funeral home is under contract with the surrounding jurisdictions, so I was directed to you."
It had been good business, and he had convinced his father that helping the local police was never a bad idea. And the area was sparsely populated, meaning that they only got maybe one or two calls from the police. But if a homeless person was found dead, and had no next of kin to make arrangements? MacLagan and Sons would handle the duties, and the Council would cover the costs.
MacLagan nodded, cautiously. "Aye. But normally, that sort of call would wait until Monday morning." He leaned back in his chair, looking at the Detective. "What happened, sir?"
Shacklebolt sighed. "In the late 1970's, my division tracked a dangerous terrorist named Tom Riddle. He and his followers repeatedly evaded capture, often maiming or killing the officers sent after them." MacLagen heard the fatigue again, mixed with anger. Of course, thought MacLagen. They were his fellow officers.
"In October of 1981, there was a gas explosion in a small village in the West Country." Shacklebolt continued. "We believe that the explosion was set deliberately, as an act of sabotage. Fourteen people died that night. Later, we learned that V… that Riddle had set the blast himself, and that it went off before he had cleared the area."
"Not much left, if it was an explosion that big." MacLagen said.
Shacklebolt regarded him. "True. It wasn't until some weeks later that we confirmed that Riddle had indeed been killed in the attack. He was officially declared dead, and that was the tale of him." Another sigh, the weariness making itself felt.
MacLagen waited a moment, then prompted. "Until?"
"Until we started hearing rumors that he had resumed his activities." Shacklebolt shook his head slightly. "Understand, we did not know whether it was actually him, or just his followers acting in his name, or something else. But then he attacked a school."
"Bloody hell," MacLagen swore. "When was that?"
Shacklebolt's eyes met his own. "Two days ago."
Now MacLagen understood. If a terrorist had attacked a school, and been successful, he would have heard about it in the news long before getting a call to assist with the victims. And certainly not two days later.
But what agency would be eager to appear respectful of a dead terrorist? Two days, in that context, would be quick work indeed, thought MacLagen.
"So you'd like us to make arrangements for Mr. Riddle's remains?" MacLagen said this softly, gently, respectfully, but the words still shook the detective.
"There was a great deal of debate on that point, honestly. One of my colleagues wanted to burn the remains immediately, on the spot. Another proposed a wooden pyre at lakeside, but no one wanted to defile the school in that way." Shacklebolt stood up, pacing slowly as he spoke. MacLagen said nothing - the meeting room was designed to give family members room to grieve in their own way, and many chose to pace.
"You must understand, Mr. MacLagen, that to us… to Mr. Riddle and his followers, rather... " He paused, not sure how to continue. "Rituals… even funeral rites, they can be very powerful."
"Of course," agreed MacLagen. "But if this man was a terrorist with followers who remained loyal for decades…"
Shacklebolt nodded. "A traditional burial is out of the question. No village would accept the remains, for one, and we would not want to build a shrine to the man."
"So."
"So," said Shacklebolt. "One of our… officers, I suppose… suggested that we follow m… more basic traditions. A simple cremation, with absolutely no ceremony or ritual of any type." He smiled, a sad, weary smile. "In fact, the suggestion came from the officer who eventually took Riddle down for good."
MacLagen said nothing. There were concerns at the back of his mind, but nothing troubled him enough to give his feelings voice. Instead, he nodded toward the papers on the table. "Two days is quick turnaround for an autopsy."
Shacklebolt shrugged. "This is true. But several factors come into play. First," He produced a death certificate and slid it across the table. "Tom Marvolo Riddle is already legally deceased."
Tom Marvolo Riddle, MacLagen read. Born 31 December 1946, died October 31, 1981, Cause of Death - Explosion (Terrorism)...
"For another," Shacklebolt continued, "We are concerned that members of his group might wish to, er, liberate his remains." Another piece of paper slid across the table. "The events that led to his death are not widely known. We believe it best to prevent any sort of conspiracy theory from taking root." He nodded toward the letter. "And Her Majesty's Government agrees."
MacLagen skimmed through the letter again, ignoring the ornate letterhead and expensive parchment. His eyes went to the bottom of the letter. Please take whatever steps are necessary to accomplish this aim. Her Majesty's government thanks you in advance for your discretion in this matter. MacLagen's eyes went back to the letterhead. The office of the Right Honourable Tony Blair, Prime Minister…
"Bloody hell." MacLagen muttered. Then he looked back at Shacklebolt. "I assume the remains are on their way?"
oOoOoOoOo
At that moment, the body of Tom Riddle, sometimes called Lord Voldemort, was laying in the back of an old Ford Anglia. Arthur Weasley was (carefully!) driving through one of the small villages that dot the Scottish countryside. The remains were wrapped in white sheets, and two ropes had been used to secure the bundle. But that was all.
The man's robes had been taken as dark artifacts - mainly to get them secured, but also against the possibility that they had been enchanted in some fashion. His wand, of course, had been dealt with by Harry, who now sat in the passenger seat.
Harry had been surprised when Arthur agreed to his plan. His reasoning, though, had sent a chill into Harry's spine. "It's simple," he had said. "I don't want any magic to be done to Voldemort, ever again. He doesn't deserve it."
The deeper meaning had been obvious - Arthur did not want to risk magical methods of transport that might be intercepted or blocked or waylaid. He would take no chances. Not with this cargo.
"Besides," he had continued, a sad smile on his face. "In the great hall, before the battle… I told Molly I would watch him burn. For Fred."
To that, Harry had no argument. If anyone had earned the right to see this task through, it was Arthur Weasley.
oOoOoOoOo
Their car arrived at MacLagen and Sons shortly before four in the morning. The lights were on in the little shop, and Harry saw Kingsley sitting inside. Arthur pulled the car around to the back of the building, where they found a small loading area. As they stepped out of the car, a metal garage door began opening.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood next to a short, red-haired muggle. Between them was a cart - something like a cross between a hospital gurney and a luggage trolley. Arthur opened the back door of the car, but the muggle waved him off.
"I can take care of this, sir, if you'd like to go inside and have some coffee. The Detective here suggested that you have had a long few days."
Arthur looked from the muggle to Kingsley, who slowly nodded. With a sigh, Arthur slowly walked into the building. MacLagen saw the detective put an arm around his… colleague?... before they walked out of sight.
The third man walked around to the driver's side of the car. His eyes met MacLagen's, and despite his obvious youth, MacLagen saw the same weariness in those green eyes as he had seen in the Detective's. More, perhaps. But there was also resolve - as if this young officer wasn't off duty until this last task was complete.
The two men came to a wordless understanding. Then they lifted the wrapped bundle from the back seat and placed it on the cart. Harry Potter followed MacLagen and the cart up a ramp and into the building.
oOoOoOoOo
Kingsley and Arthur sat quietly in the meeting room while Harry and MacLagen worked. Shacklebolt knew the look on his friend's face - and gave him the quiet that he seemed to need most. In his mind, he thought about Fred Weasley… and Tonks… and Lupin… and all of the others who had fallen before the wand of Lord Voldemort. His list was a long one indeed, and in his grief he regretted not cherishing each name, each face, as much as he felt he should.
If they did talk him into being Minister, he would design the memorials himself. If they did not, he would dare them to stop him from doing it anyway. Too many had died. They could not be forgotten.
Arthur Weasley had only one name in his mind. He slowly sipped his coffee, not caring that it was black and bitter. On any other day, he would have been drawn to the coffee maker, or to the garage door, or to any number of objects in this room alone.
Not today.
He barely noticed when Harry walked in. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up.
"It's time, Mr. Weasley."
oOoOoOoOo
The three men walked down the small staircase, and through an opened steel door. The room had a flat concrete floor and stone walls. While the upstairs offices had been designed to bring comfort and peace to the bereaved, this space was a workspace. Against the far wall, a large steel door stood closed. A metal table sat against the wall, and on that table Shacklebolt saw a plain wooden box containing the body of Voldemort.
The white sheets had been pulled away from the man's face, revealing his snake-like features. Unlike Voldemort's robes, the sheets and cords were completely mundane - any lingering magic had been removed by Professor McGonagall.
Harry noticed Kingsley watching the funeral director closely, and wondered if MacLagen would ask any questions about the "deceased terrorist". But MacLagen was busy with gauges and dials lining the far wall, and did not remark on the body. The funeral director did not notice Kingsley's wand as it scanned the box for magic.
Presently, he turned. His voice was hesitant. "I know you lads don't usually stay to watch, but…" His voice trailed off. Kingsley and Harry were both looking at Arthur. Mr. Weasley still had a hand on Shacklebolt's shoulder, and looked as if a stiff breeze would knock him over. He looked at MacLagen, and his expression changed. He stood up straighter, as if reporting for some long-deferred duty.
"Please proceed, Mr. MacLagen." Arthur said, his voice stronger but still wavering. Harry walked closer, and Arthur's other arm went to Harry's shoulder.
MacLagen took a small disc from a bin, then wrote down a series of numbers in a book. Off Kingsley's look, he walked over to the three wizards, showing them the disc. Harry saw a round piece of metal, probably steel, with five numbers etched into its surface. The numbers were meaningless to him, but then his eyes went to the book. MacLagen followed his gaze, and then nodded. "This disc stays with the remains, even after we're done. That way we can make sure we have the correct person."
Kingsley nodded in approval, and MacLagen walked back to the controls. The disc was placed in the box, alongside the body. Next, MacLagen took a heavy wooden lid and placed it on top of the box.
After another nod from Kingsley, MacLagen pulled a lever. The great steel door opened, and Harry saw the orange glow of the oven. The box began to move forward slowly, and Harry realized that the table was a conveyor of some sort. The box continued to move forward, as MacLagen worked the controls.
Arthur's eyes never left the box.
MacLagen pulled another lever, and jets of flame struck the box. The wood began to burn immediately, and the room filled with light, before the steel door closed once more.
oOoOoOoOo
The sun was just beginning to rise when MacLagen joined the three in the meeting room. In his hands he carried a small cardboard box. The box was open, and he displayed its contents to the men - a small, clear plastic bag containing what appeared to be grey ash.
Kingsley accepted the box, closing it and sealing it with a green label. MacLagen handed him a pen, and Shacklebolt looked at it questioningly, before remembering his role as a "detective". Taking the pen, he signed his name across the edge of the label, to show that the contents had not been tampered with.
Hands were shaken, thanks were offered. MacLagen waved them off - "It's my job, lad." he told Harry. Kingsley thanked him again for his time - and his discretion.
Once outside, Arthur broke his silence. "Kingsley, what do you plan to do with that?"
Kingsley looked at his friend, smiling softly. "How else? I plan to take this to the basement of the ministry and throw it into the veil."
Harry nodded. So many had died in Voldemort's quest for immortality. And after all of that pain and suffering and devastation, all that remained was a box of ash. And once that ash was sent into the veil, nothing at all of Voldemort would remain.
Except the scars, he thought, idly scratching his forehead.
A/N: Any argument that Voldemort survived the battle could be solved with 20 minutes and a pensieve, thanks to three witnesses to the final disposition of his remains (Two of them being Ministry, and the third being the Man-Who-Conquered...). Even as ash, Voldemort's remains would be a tempting target, and who knows what dark ritual might benefit from the body of a dark lord? Besides, I believe Kingsley would see some justice in sending Voldemort's body through the veil - for what else was his life, but unmitigated terror at the prospect of death?
Harry, of course, would see a muggle cremation as the ultimate insult - as would Voldemort, I suspect. (Of course, that's the point.)
Arthur, for his part, would hold it together just long enough to see the job done.
The Celts mentioned are Celtic F.C., who play out of Glasgow - and did indeed end up winning their league in 1998. (They also tied their match on May 3rd.) The village itself is not specified, though I imagine it's one of several small population centers in Southwestern Scotland. Either Harry picked the nearest funeral home to Hogwarts, or Kingsley (and his connections to 10 Downing Street) found a likelier candidate elsewhere.
Originally posted at Ao3 in April 2018.
Feedback, as always, is welcome.