A/N: Special thanks to the DLP crowd for inspiring me to write this story and for correcting my numerous mistakes. I'm sure that my most recent edits have created some more, so feel free to point them out to me in review so that I may improve upon my mastery of the English language. I appreciate all constructive criticism. Enjoy!

Legal Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its associated product are no property of mine. I write this for my own enjoyment and make no profit out of it.

Into The Dying Light

By Basilisk

Prologue

The evening edition of the Daily Prophet rested upon his desk, neatly folded as it had just been delivered. Harry grabbed his glass of firewhiskey and took a sip, enjoying the burn that followed. He took the newspaper, muttered a small incantation, and watched it cut itself to ribbons until the only thing left was the headline and the associated photograph.

Directing it with his wand, the newly-cut parchment float to the wall of the study where multiple cut-outs were already pinned. The new headline, "HEAD OF DEPARTMENT BARTEMIUS CROUCH MISSING", took its place beside "ATTEMPTED THEFT AT GRINGOTTS".

I wonder…

He stood suddenly, his eyes intently darting from one article to another, trying to find something he had seen a few weeks ago. There, he thought. Almost hiding behind more prominent headlines was what he was searching for. A small article, barely worth mentioning in the Prophet and certainly not worth first page. It had been written in the back, right beside the obituary section. "Ministry Intern Missing", it said. He touched them both with the tip of his wand and watched as a thin green line of light appeared between the two articles.

That's twice in two month. He's planning something.

His musings were interrupted by a small rattling sound. His reaction was immediate; he turned around and dashed to his desk where a Galleon laid vibrating beside his forgotten glass of liquor. He snatched the coin and brought it to eye level. Where should have been a serial number was a message.

48 LADBROKE GROVE LONDON - VIP EXTRACTION - URGENT HOSTILES

Harry touched the Galleon with his wand, and the letters rearranged themselves.

ACKNOWLEDGED

The coin was stuffed into his pocket and with a twirl, Harry Potter apparated away from his flat. For an instant, it was like being pushed through a really small tube. There was no light and the feeling of being constricted on all side was overwhelming the first few times. He felt himself hitting the anti-apparition charm before he could stop himself; it was like rushing head first into a wall and bouncing back. He tumbled back - not really, but that's certainly how it felt - and landed in the middle of the street known as Ladbroke Grove, with a staggering step, and the beginning of a headache.

Shaking off the feeling, he stumbled to his feet and surveyed his surroundings. Trees lined the sidewalks, a couple of cars parked in the street and no one outside. Muggle-Repelling Charm, he thought as he walked toward the house numbered forty-eight. It was easy to spot; notwithstanding the fact that it stood taller than its neighbours, the light show from its windows and the devastated entryway were a giveaway. And so Harry ran to the front door, skipping over the iron fence that bordered the property. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the sounds of battle assaulted him.

"Flank him, idiot!" screamed a voice, quickly followed by a shouted "Reducto!"

Harry came to a stop in the hallway, put his back to the wall and peeked around the entrance to the living room. He saw four men, three of which had their backs to him and were casting spells upon the fourth, who was hiding behind a Protego. The defending man was rotund and dressed in ridiculous silk lilac pyjamas, and Harry quickly recognized him as Horace Slughorn. He was clearly in bad shape; one of his hands was tightly pressed to his stomach where a deep gash had already stained his clothes crimson.

Not wasting another moment and using the element of surprise, Harry burst into the room and sent the closest enemy flying. Slughorn barely sidestepped the body that sailed past him. It hit the wall with a sickening 'CRACK' and slumped to the floor, where it laid oddly bent. The other two men whirled around and produced shield charms just in time to absorb the blasting hex that had followed.

"Get the professor, I got this one," said the closest man. Now that they stood facing him, Harry had a moment to notice their attire. They were wearing dark robes and upon their faces was a porcelain mask shaped into a skull - Death Eaters.

Spellfire resumed between the other Death Eater and Slughorn. Blasting curses and slashing hexes were thrown around and redirected into the walls with shield charms, damaging the floral wallpaper beyond repair. Harry and his opponent both kept an eye on it, if only to make sure they were not hit by a stray spell.

The two men stood facing each other for a moment, each trying to gauge the other. The Death Eater's stance was wide to provide balance and stability. His arm was extended forward and taut, ready to summon a shield with naught but a thought. In comparison, Harry's stance was much narrower and he stood on the balls of his feet, ready to dart in any direction at a moment's notice. His own wand was extended forward, his elbow slightly bent, making it easier to complete the slashing motion of most curses and hexes.

It was Harry that broke the standoff. He snapped his wand to the side and unleashed a Knockback Jinx. The Death Eater took it in stride, his shield was up instantly and redirected the spell into the couch on his left, sliding it up to the wall. His wand dropped slightly, clearly intending to cancel the shield charm and retaliate, but Harry left him no time. The holly wand became a blur of activity, and with each spell that was launched, Harry would take a step forward forcing his opponent back. Soon enough, the Death Eater's knees hit the coffee table that separated him and his companion. He spared a glance behind him, taking barely a second but it was all Harry needed to strike.

He drove his shoulder into the Death Eater's stomach and tackled him into the coffee table. They crashed noisily as the wood broke under their combined weight. His opponent floundered for a moment, gasping for breath. Harry pressed his advantage and straddled him. Rearing his arm back, he delivered an elbow strike to the man's face. The porcelain mask was left undamaged surprisingly, but the crunching noise and the spurt of blood that came from beneath it clearly indicated that the nose had been broken. Harry caught the flailing wand arm of the Death Eater with his left hand, and with his right, slashed the holly wand. Blood sprayed his white shirt as the throat was ripped opened with the motion. The Death Eater's hands flew to his throat and tried to stem the flow, but it kept seeping between his fingers as he choked with a gurgling sound.

Harry did not linger on the ground, there was another enemy after all and it wouldn't do to be caught in such a vulnerable position. The last Death Eater standing was frantically limping away from the blood covered wizard. His head and wand kept swiveling between Slughorn, the Boy-Who-Lived, and the door that was behind the latter.

Harry raised his wand, hand bloodied. "Drop the wand," he said widening his stance slightly. "Just drop the wand and we can all go home." He could see the professor swaying on his feet to his right, panting from the exertion.

His enemy staggered a few steps back, and with one last glance at the door behind Harry, turned fully toward Slughorn and unleashed a spell.

"Protego!" cried both wizards simultaneously. The shield charms were perfect, but the curse was meant to pierce through it and so it did. They burst like soap bubbles and Slughorn, weakened by his blood loss, could not move fast enough. It took his arm at the elbow and blood spurted everywhere as he let out scream of agony, collapsing.

The Death Eater did not wait for them. The curse cast, he turned toward one of the window behind him and fired a blasting hex at it. The glass shattered, showering the garden and making a ruckus, not that anyone could hear it with the silencing charm that had been layered upon the house. He was already halfway through the window when Harry strode forward and grabbed him by the back of his robe, dragging him back inside.

The man staggered and was unable to defend himself from the blasting hex that hit him in the chest. It sent him flying into the opposite wall with a mighty crash. Contrary to his compatriot, he managed to remain conscious and even retaliate before Harry could follow up. The sickly yellow light was unleashed so fast that Harry did the only thing he could; he parried it with the tip of his wand and, with another flick, sent it back whence it came.

It was hard to tell with the mask, but Harry was certain that the Death Eater's eyes had widened in surprise at the advanced manoeuver. His own wand came up too slowly to protect himself and the curse hit him squarely in the chest. For the briefest of moments nothing happened, and then his body arched back and his mouth opened in a silent scream of pain as his stomach erupted outward in a shower of gore. The smell of feces and blood was overpowering and the man passed out instantly. Harry averted his eyes, stomach queasy at the sight.

He stood in the middle of the room, his breath coming short and his heart beating wildly in his chest as he looked for the professor instead. The fat man was slumped against the wall, cradling his bleeding stump. The gash on his stomach had painted his clothes red and the drops of blood that had splattered across his face were a stark contrast to the pallor of his face. He needed medical attention, now. Sadly, if there was one area Harry did not excel at, it was the healing arts. He needed to bring him to the headquarters, but could not do so without breaking the anti-disapparition jinx that had been cast over the house.

Harry closed his eyes and raised his wand to the ceiling, gathering his will to exert his magic. "Finite Incantatem," he thought. His magic filled the room, seeking the anchor to the jinx. It found only one at the door - a simple matter to take care of, then. With the equivalent of a mental sledgehammer, Harry brought his magic to bear and shattered the anchor point. Immediately, he felt the pressure of the jinx disappeared. With a nod of satisfaction, he opened his eyes and rushed to the professor's side, taking no care to avoid the pool of blood. Harry kneeled and grasped the man's uninjured arm lightly. He was about to apparate away, when Slughorn stopped him.

"Harry," he said in a strained whisper. "The memory."

"I need to get you to a Healer, Professor."

"No…time…"

And Harry reckoned he was right; Slughorn's bloodshot eyes were already losing focus. Dumbledore had been adamant that the potion master be protected from Voldemort's followers, something about having essential intelligence that could hinder the Dark Lord greatly. He had always refused to provide it, claiming that to do so was to sign his own death warrant. Obviously, that was no longer a concern of his.

Harry pursed his lips before announcing in a strained voice, "I'm sorry professor, but this will hurt." He pointed his wand at the man and clearly intoned, "Legilimens!"

The living room faded and was replaced by images that flashed before him; Red hair and green eyes, a boy laughing at another, potions bubbling in their cauldrons, a dinner and a gift of crystallized pineapples, until finally it stopped. A teenager, no older than sixteen years of age, stood before Slughorn. He had dark hair neatly combed to the side, high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. His Hogwarts uniform sported the insignia of Slytherin. Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort.

"Murder…" he said in a whisper that echoed in Harry's mind.

"Yes, killing splits the soul apart. It's a violation of nature," answered Slughorn in the same tone.

"Could you only split the soul once? For instance, let's say seven…" asked Riddle, voice fading.

Darkness was encroaching upon the edges of the memory, eating at it without pause. Harry knew he had no time left, to be stuck inside the mind of a dying man was without doubt a bad idea. He released the hold he had on the professor's mind and watched the memory disappeared into nothingness. The only thing staring at him were the vacant eyes of Horace Slughorn. He closed them gently and with a twist, he was gone along with the body. The only signs of his passage were the three corpses strewed across the damaged living room of a muggle home.