Author's Note:
I was struck by an idea while refurbishing a motherboard the other day to write this. To those who have read my other HP fanfiction, this is not associated with that story whatsoever. Anyways, enjoy =D
"I was there the day he died. I saw him dead in the gamekeeper's hands; broken and lifeless, our last hope vanquished by the dark," muttered the robed man sitting at the bar, his broken hands clasped together in front of him.
The air inside the old pub was musky and stale, built up over years of inadequate cleaning and drunks far too free with their time and money. It was the habitat of the unclean, the dangerous and the lost. A place where the lost came to relieve their past lives, to exchange information with acquaintances and move on. Robed folk sat on rickety stools and in dimly-lit booths as their children sat near the door, playing with whatever pieces of garbage they could find. The barkeeper didn't mind the children; they reminded him of a time when things were very different, where men and women could walk the streets safely, without fear of being attacked and murdered. But those days were long past and all that was certain now was death.
"He was supposed to stop all this, he was. The Dark Lord was to be defeated for good, his armies broken and Death Eaters locked up or similarly executed," the man continued, glancing left and right at those sitting near him, who merely ignored him and kept drinking. As far as they were concerned he was just another raving lunatic who could be safely avoided.
Such were the times now, where a man could babble all that he liked surrounded by the desolate and the doomed. The bartender had seen his type often enough; always travelling around, spreading stories of an impossible past and dreaming of an equally impossible present. The bartender knew that while he may be young compared to the man muttering on his stool, he had known no other life then that of the darkness that enveloped the earth. He couldn't remember any time when he hadn't needed to watch his back around every corner and to arm himself just to go to see a family member.
"But he died. The Boy who Lived was murdered. The Dark Lord smote him with one fel blow and that was the end of Harry Potter!"
The door blew open with such force that for a moment the bartender thought that the Death Eaters had come to check up on his establishment far too early, but instead yet another robed figure entered, a woman as far as the bartender could see.
"A bottle of firewhiskey with a clean glass." the new woman asked the bartender, sliding onto a vacant stool next to the raving drunk. "Got anywhere I can rest?"
The bartender pointed to one of the booths where a particularly ugly man rested. "He's only using that one side, so you can take the other. Watcha' got on you?"
The woman rummaged through her pockets, pulling out a small sack the size of a fist. "Salt, straight from the Malfoy Manor." She tossed it to the bartender who opened the sack, checking the contents. Satisfied, he pocketed it and nodded to the woman. Money had lost value almost thirty years ago and while some communities still liked to keep up some semblance of an economy, Wyche harboured no such illusions. Trading commodities was how one appropriated services and bartered items and a bag of premium salt could go a long way.
"It's a shame, methinks," the drunk continued, looking at the woman next to him. "If he'd succeeded, we could've been so much more."
"You're not as drunk as you want us to think, are you? Not a single quaver or slurring in your voice." The woman stared at the man in turn, thanking the bartender when he handed her a bottle of firewhiskey and a glass.
"You've no proof of anything."
The woman looked at the bottle in her hand and blinked before looking back at the man beside her. "People drink to forget, but you can't forget can you because you feel an obligation to remember."
"Maybe, maybe not. I drink when I want but I talk all the time. None of these youngsters know of the darkness you and I have seen. You were there too, weren't you? Yes, I remember your voice... Hermione."
The woman stirred in her seat, trying to make out the man's features. She thought she made out a scar by his right eye but it was too difficult to see; dark hair speckled with grey grew wildly under the cowl along with a beard, covering much of his face. "I recognise your voice, but it's been so long. You were at the castle?"
"That I was. That I was," the man repeated. "Even this many years on, unbelievable. We lost..."
Hermione Weasley slammed a gloved fist down on the bartop, disturbing a few of the occupants of the pub but otherwise was ignored too. "Samuel Flinter, by Dumbledore's beard! I knew it!"
"Yes, yes, congratulations Hermione, you've performed brilliantly. Revealed my identity, remembered me through the hazy fog of the decades. Exceeded all my expectations, the way you'd always impressed the old professors," Samuel brought his hands together in a mocking applause before pulling his cowl back. "No one ever recognises me like this; even the Death Eaters just think I'm some wandering bum."
"I'd not have either if it weren't for Hannah. She told me last month that her cousin had seen you here so I'd come to find out if it were true."
"Ah, how are the Longbottoms then? Can't say I've seen either of them for almost as long as I've seen you," Samuel asked, remembering the ditsy witch and her courageous husband. Samuel had come to their secret wedding in Acigné back when he had been evading Death Eaters in France and stayed long enough to see the birth of the first of their children.
"Neville's gone; middle of the night Hannah heard someone in their yard so Neville checked the charms; sure enough they had been tripped. No sooner had he shouted the all-clear to Hannah when a group of goblins tackled him to the ground, stabbing him with their steel swords. Neville always wore the enchanted mail that he had found before we'd all had to abandon Hogwarts but it was no match for Goblin-made weaponry," Hermione replied sadly before sipping her firewhiskey. "We're still being hunted down, even more so these days. Since Neville's death and then Seamus' murder at Greyback's hands, that makes me the last Gryffindor from my year alive. What of your people?"
Samuel noticed how Hermione said she was the last Gryffindor, but didn't want to mention what became of her husband. "Fuck, this is bringing up bad memories. What did you hear about me and the others?"
Hermione drew her cowl back as well, revealing steel-grey hair tied up into a neat bun. Her face had aged prematurely; her brow wrinkled and face heavily lined. She'd been beautiful once but the hard decades pressing down on her. Yet a flame still burned in her eyes; dim, but still burning.
"Tasia came through Nuremberg on her way back home a few years ago, stayed with me and the kids for a few nights. She said she'd been back in Britain and talked to Luna and her father. The Lovegoods never moved and the Death Eaters had never bothered them so they were safe enough but apparently old Xenophilius is sick. But while she she was there Luna had told Tasia of the last time she'd seen you and the others, almost fifteen years ago. She said that Katie Bell had been caught and tortured to death. That's all I know."
The years had armoured Samuel against such talk; countless nights spent thinking of all the deaths had left him a cold, broken man. Not a tear gathered in his eyes at the mention of Katie's death. She had been one of his best friends back in Hogwarts and a loyal companion after they'd left, but she had been killed like so many others.
"Katie, Ernie, Rebecca, Alicia, Ginny, Rolf, Laoise and just a few months ago, Taryn joined them," Samuel listed, counting off each death on his fingers. "I'm the last one left at number seven; my lucky number."
"And the children?"
"Lorcan tried to take on a giant to save his father, instead the poor lad died with him. Lysander is with his mother, looking after his grandfather. Little Anastasia was Katie's daughter with Ernie, she should be in Denmark somewhere last I heard. Ginny never found anyone after Harry's death. She wanted to 'wait', as she put it. I guess she was hoping that Harry wasn't truly dead, just biding his time."
Samuel tapped a finger on the bar and the bartender came down to refill his drink. "We lost Cairbre to the cold and snow; he was always a sick boy and our time hiding in the north didn't do him well. He was such a brave k-kid," Samuel pressed a hand to his eyes and shuddered. Hermione patted him on the shoulder awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Her own children were all still alive back in Germany with their grandmother but the death of a child, anyone's child was a horrible thing indeed.
"I'm really sorry, Samuel. So many people have lost..."
"It's fine." Samuel brought away his hand from his face, a grim look in his eyes. They both sat there in silence for a long time, sipping their drinks and staring at the bar. Each had taken terrible losses and had felt the darkness grow, both the Dark Lord's and their own darkness inside. Right and wrong were barely tangible lines any more, even more so in Samuel's case. He'd let his rage and hatred spill out now and then, landing him in prison or as the beating toy of the Dark Lord's minions who'd not recognised him. It had been a long thirty years of hiding and running, of scrambling and biting but they could both feel that things were coming to a close. One could only live so long in such a state and when all others with you were gone, there was nothing else to live for. It was to be the thirty-first year and neither of them wanted to see yet another decade of such evil.
"I'm not an idiot, Hermione. You didn't travel half of Europe hiding from the Dark Lord just to see if I'm still okay so what's your plan?"
"Nothing ever got away from you." Hermione rummaged through her pockets and pulled out a sheet of blank parchment, albeit half of it had been burnt away. "I need this to work once again. I haven't had a wand in years now and the Marauder's Map only works if you use one."
Samuel looked about the room, trying to see if anyone was paying attention. Satisfied that half the bar was already asleep and the bartender busy with a particularly drunk woman who had fallen asleep against the door, Samuel pulled out his wand. "Ginny told me about this wonder. How does it work?"
Hermione gestured for his wand and he handed it over, hesitating for only a second. Tapping the parchment with the tip of the wand, Hermione muttered the activation words under her breath. "I solemnly swear that we're up to no good."
Immediately the parchment became covered in scrawlings, merging together to form a map of a familiar castle. Half the map had been lost to fire, but Samuel could still read of many of the classrooms and most importantly the names of those within its walls. Tracing a finger down the corridors, he spotted names such as Rufion, Greyback, Hookier, Lestrange and Malfoy until finally stopping on what used to be the Headmaster's Office. There, standing in the room was a single labelled dot.
"Riddle."
"The Dark Lord himself. He took Hogwarts as his own, converting it into his own twisted version of the old castle. The wizards who do his bidding are allowed to take their children there, to be taught the darkest of magics and to hate muggles. We knew what he was using Hogwarts for but we didn't know that he actually stays there." Hermione began to study the map after handing Samuel back his wand. "It makes sense though; Hogwarts is his greatest victory and the safest place for him. We tried getting in once but Greyback found us."
"Who's we?"
Several of the robed figures in the room all turned as one, causing Samuel to jump of his stool, wand in hand. Pointing it at the nearest one, he flicked the tip. Immediately the cowl fell back, revealing a woman with equally grey hair as Hermione and while she had not as many wrinkles as her, long claw marks ran down her face, puffy and red at the edges. The other figures threw their cowls back; there were four of them in all. Hermione patted Samuel on the shoulder and gestured him to sit again as the unmasked people came and stood next to them.
"You remember Susan Bones?" Hermione asked, gesturing to the woman with the claw marks.
"This is Neville and Hannah's eldest son, Victor." A young man wearing his blonde hair long stepped forward and shook Samuel's hand with a grin. Samuel noticed scar tissue covering the left side of his face and several scars criss-crossing his throat but Samuel said nothing.
"Ted Lupin," one of the men introduced himself, shaking Samuel's hand as well. Tall and rather worn, Lupin was the spitting image of his father with his short mousy hair and thin face.
"I remember you when you were just a baby, Ted. Saw you during the Exodus in your grandmother's arms, just after the Battle. Your parents were the bravest people I know, Ted."
The memory of that day broke the surface and for a moment Samuel was back in the castle, watching the Dark Lord and his army approach the castle. Harry Potter had been killed and skinned, his corpse hanging from one of the branches of the Weeping Willow like some sort of macabre decoration. All around him were screams of agony and rage as the defenders let the gravity of the situation sink in. MacGonagall had calmed the students and ordered them to leave through one of the secret tunnels, promising to buy them time until they could all evacuate. As one the rest of the professors had pledged the same, even the walrus-like Slughorn. Against the professor's objections, both Remus and Tonks had stayed with them, holding each other one last time before the storm of dark magic hit the castle walls.
"They hadn't needed to stay to defend the castle, the professors were enough but your parents didn't want to leave; they were willing to sacrifice their lives for the sake of Hogwarts and the students that once studied there."
Ted didn't say anything but both his eyes and hair began to darken to black. He shook Samuel's hand again and stood back. It was an unbearable pain that Ted Lupin had to live with, the fact that his parents could of escaped but decided against it. Even if they had, it wasn't guaranteed that they'd still be alive right now but at least Ted could have spent some time with them. Everyone who met him who knew his parents would tell him the same story but Ted would never be satisfieHd by that. Courage means nothing in this new world any more; the word has all but ceased to exist.
The fourth member of their group was beautiful young woman with raven hair and skin like milk chocolate who she smiled sadly and waved to Samuel but said nothing, shrugging.
"Samuel, this is Roxanne Weasley; George and Angelina's daughter. Ted found her lying in a street in Cardiff, moaning like you've never heard. I didn't know who she was until she wrote her name down."
Like Victor, Roxanne had jagged scars visible on her throat. Just another of the Dark Lord's policies upon assuming power; every child he caught and every new-born baby would have there vocal cords severed by the age of eleven which he proposed as punishment. The Dark Lord wanted the children to watch his reign with fear and hatred and do nothing as he killed the innocent whenever he pleased. Only wizarding children born out of the British Isles and whom had never been in Britain or those who had been born before the Dark Lord's victory and fled early such as Ted were unmarked and still possessed a voice. It was the ultimate insult the Dark Lord could make against the wizards of old; to deprive the new generation of their magical heritage with fear and carnage. Wands and brooms, incantations and secret-passages; they were all in the past now.
"It's time something was done about it, Samuel," Hermione said, as if reading his mind. "We can do it, the five of us. He's grown weaker these past thirty years, the loss of all but one of his hocruxes. Nagini still lives, feeding off his own life-span as she lays dormant where the Basilisk once lay in Hogwarts and his soul is unable to be split any further. The Malfoys and Sparrows would have usurped him by now but Bellatrix holds a grip on their throats, making sure they stay in place. Evil will turn on itself, if we allow it to. We remove Bellatrix from the picture and the Death Eaters will kill the D-Dard Lord for us. It never gets any easier," Hermione sighed a rubbed her forehead.
"That's where you come in, Samuel," Susan continued for Hermione. "You've still got a wand, making you invaluable. No muggle weaponry can harm Nagini; we've tried already. Hermione's wand was destroyed years ago and I lost mine in our last attempt, so it's up to you."
The witches didn't even try to keep their voices down any more, as if trying to make sure everyone in the pub heard them. The bartender stopped pretending to wipe the glass in his hand and just stood, a shocked look on his face. The men and women still awake crept closer, excited by the talk of freedom and peace.
Samuel put up his hands, palms down as if to signal the women to be more discreet but Hermione pressed on. "Your wand is the last hope for us all, Samuel. Not a single witch or wizard we've bumped into has one any more. Not even those people loyal to the Dark Lord have one; only the Death Eaters can hold them. Come on Samuel, look at these people! None of them will ever see a day unmarked by suffering and poverty unless someone takes a stand." Hermione took a step closer and brought her hands up to funnel her next, quietly spoken words. "It's what Harry would have done."
Samuel rubbed his eyes and glared at Hermione, suppressing the urge to slap her across the face. Samuel wouldn't be the one to replace Harry; no one ever could replace him, but he wasn't about to dishonour his memory.
"You've got me," he finally said, eyes darting around the pub watching the people begin to chatter quietly. "Let's finish this; the Battle of Hogwarts will end finally, thirty years later."