"Lord Voldemort. They have entrusted their safety to me."
The Dark Lord looked up from his throne, and looked at the ratty man with what could almost be the ghost of a smile on his barely-human features. "Then I trust that their safety is gone."
"As you wish, my Lord." The man scampered closer to the throne, "Could I beg of my Lord, let me see them die?"
"Why, Wormtail?" If not for the absence of eyebrows, one would have been arched, "Have they offended you?"
"They think me weak." The narrow eyes screwed up in costernation, "But in serving you, my lord, I am great and powerful indeed."
Robes billowed around Lord Voldemort as he strode from his throne towards the double doors that marked the edge of the room reserved for private audiences. "Yes, Wormtail, yes you are." He hesitated for a second at the edge of the room, cradling his wand. "We will go tonight."
"Tonight?" There was a tone of alarm in Wormtail's voice.
"Is there a problem?"
"It's Halloween." Alarm turned to fear, almost panic, leading to a slight hesitation. "My Lord."
"Halloween is but another day."
There was an awkward silence. Wormtail's eye's flickered to the window, watching the full moon as it began to crest the horizon. "I do not wish to suggest that you are ignorant of tradition, my Lord, bu-"
"Crucio."
Wormtail spasmed on the floor, feeling pain rush through his every joint, barely managing to crack his eyes open to see the eerily silent sight of the Dark Lord stepping across the cold floors.
"Are you coming Wormtail?"
"Yes, my Lord." With another nervous glance out the window, Wormtail scuttered after his master, trying to pretend that nothing was wrong.
Halloween was a day in the wizarding world, which few, if any, forgot. Whereas many of the older inhabitants of the Wizarding World viewed birthdays as somewhat optional – who wishes to count once you've passed your first century? – there was not a single one that was not aware of the dangerous day at the end of October. Even amongst the younger generation, for whom the celebration of All Hallow's was a toast to the year passed by, there was a sense of lingering gloom over the feast day.
It was the day of passing. All Soul's Day. When the world beyond moved closest to the world within, where the barriers between life and death blurred and twisted. Wizards, especially those who tempted fate with necromancy and black magic, were wise to stay indoors. Wormtail knew the stories. The tales of those who were caught by the Stalker, or found by the Warrior, or cast into Oblivion by the Warlock. He shivered as his Master stalked through the village of Godric's Hollow, feeling the perimeter wards of the village settle around them, blocking apparition, portkeys.
The ancestral home of the Potter's, the Dumbledore's, the Bagshot's. Three strong families, three wise families, three powerful families. Godric's Hollow was only second in protection to Hogwart's and perhaps the Ministry. But with his Lord he was strong, for his Lord was powerful above all others. Wormtail's doubts began to flow away as they got closer. There can be no doubt, there can be no hesitation. There is only obedience in the name of his Lord.
Lord Voldemort turned his head and looked expectantly at the rat next to him. He spoke no words, and there was no words that needed speaking. His underlings always understood his requirements.
"The Potter's live in Godric's Hollow."
The clock began to strike midnight as the Dark Lord entered the little cottage, far from the ancestral manor that had been destroyed earlier that year.
"Run Lily!" A flash of green light the sky, and Wormtail shuddered. One less "friend", one less person to sneer at him when he thought he couldn't see. Wormtail could almost hear the footsteps as Lord Voldemort climbed the steps to the nursery.
"It's a bit cold out here isn't it?" Wormtail's awareness faded, blood dripping onto the ground around him as the figure stepped onwards, two more joining them.
"He could have been more fun than that." A feminine voice, a little annoyed. Disappointed almost.
The voice of authority, calm and collected. "We don't have the time."
"Do we ever have the time?" It was a rhetorical question and the other two knew it.
"I suspect not."
"Alas." The female sighed.
"Pity not the traitor."
The tallest of the figures scratched his head, "Are you sure this is the right place?"
The woman was almost offended, "I can see the protections.".
Wiping his sword clean the first figure flicked his head towards the spot where they knew there was a house. "Remove them."
A second green flash lit the house from inside as one of the figures raised a staff, energy burning into the sky for a second before blinding white light exploded.
"The last heir."
"Are we sure?"
"Always."
"You seem somewhat stressed." She raised an eyebrow as they walked at an unhurried pace towards the cottage. "There's no need to worry."
"Except for our imminent mortality."
"That's only a theory."
"And the death of everyone on the Island."
"That's just a theory too!" She pouted.
The tallest of them looked down at her for a second. "Do you have a better one?"
"You're the one that's supposed to understand bullshit like this."
The taller figure shrugged helplessly. It was as close as he could get to a reply without feeling his compulsions.
Lord Voldemort's voice emerged from the room ahead of them. "-thought that her love for you would protect you, that you could survive unscathed. But I am Lord Volde-" He paused, detecting the three entering the room. "Who the bloody hell are you?"
"Don't let us interrupt you."
"Blood ritual I presume?"
"Nah, this looks more like a horcrux ritual to me."
"How boring."
"Am I allowed to get rid of the trash?"
"I suppose. We're only here for the boy. Do what you like to him."
His eyes glinting red, Lord Voldemort pulled himself up to his full height, "How dare you dismiss me as garbage! I am Lord Voldemort. I alone have plumbed the deepest and darkest secrets of magi-"
The sword flashed through the air again, burying itself to the hilt in the aspiring Dark Lord's chest. "You'd best do your thing Warlock."
The staff was already raised, "How often do I let you down?"
"I'm pretty sure you've never let him down." The woman's eyebrow raised, "Besides, he's a big bad warrior boy, I'm sure he can take care of himself when you do let him down."
"Can you see any traces left?"
The woman glanced at the body, "Looks like he had multiple anchors."
"I didn't think that was possible."
"Who are you to define what is possible?"
"I honestly think you're getting better at this entire insulting people whilst asking questions thing."
"Don't encourage him."
"I don't think I could stand another hundred years with only you to talk to."
"And if this is who we think it is then you won't have to."
"Are we sure?"
"I thought you were checking"
"Would you like me to remove the remnants?"
"Who cares? Just take him back to the island." The woman's voice was almost bored now. "It's not like it changes anything either way."
"No risks. We can't afford them."
"And if there are none?"
"Then do it." The warrior shrugged, uncaring, before gathering the baby in one arm and turning on his heel, disappearing into the air, the feel of the air growing less oppressive as he smashed his way through the anti-apparition wards.
The warlock eyed the woman. "Objections?"
"Like fuck do I care." She snorted. "Do what you like."
He gestured vaguely into the air with his staff for a second, and the air whipped around him ruffling his robes silently. Glancing at the dead bodies on the floor he sighed: death was no escape for some. Turning, he placed his hand on her shoulder and turned, bringing them both to the Island, the castle. Their journey was complete. There was work to be done.
Unbeknownst to them, as the last of the Potter's fell, a bell began to ring in the depths of the Ministry. Alarms were nothing new to the Ministry, whether it be an imminent build up of magic - an approaching maelstrom that would have be defused – or an invasion from foreign parties. Even the almighty Trace that overlaid the Isle had a series of alarms, a long row of shining silver bells, each with a name inlaid in gold, chronologically from the oldest of sixteen year olds to the barest babe.
For every bell, there was a watcher. At times, there was a department, but not on Halloween. Halloween was a time for celebration, for rejoicing, or for prayer and contemplation. On Halloween, there was only the Watcher.
He put down his beer and shrugged on his cloak, hearing the bell ring deep within the rows within. For tonight, all bells were his to oversee. He was the Watchman, the Watcher of the country. He passed the four large bells, barely glancing up at them. They had not sounded for hundreds of years, and would not sound now. The death of one of the Families was an event that had long sinc-
As if spooked by his very thought, one of them began to swing, tolling a final toll, the bell blackening. His wand sprang into his hand, eyeing it carefully. He was the Watcher. As if spurred on by the ringing of it's neighbour, the second and third began to ring, and finally the fourth, creating a discordant chime of destiny, the bells melting into the darkness, shrivelling and vanishing.
Still, within the stacks, a bell rang. The Watchman waited, just in case, before turning inwards to the stacks again. He didn't recognise the chime, but that meant little. He was the Watchmen. It was not his job to know every last sound of every last bell. Another bell sounded, and a third, and around him, they began to sound.
The Watchman felt a sliver of ice pass down his spine as the world descended into a cacophony of sound around him. This was what he Watched for, this is what the Watchman waited for.
A smile crossed his lips as the sound of destiny burnt around him, cascading in peels, harmony dissolving into dissonances of microtonal destruction. Chaos reigned for a glorious moment, before the bells shattered one after another. Still, within the stacks, a bell rang. The Watchman waited, for a moment, before continuing onwards, treading amongst the broken shells of a million warnings in search of the one that would not quiet.
It was a small silver bell, labelled "Lord Potter". He eyed it, for a second, before reaching out and stilling it with one hand. He was the Watchman, his job was to watch.
Reaching inside his robe, he pulled his wand out and eyed the room around him carefully. He was the Watchman, and his job was to watch. A smile crossed his face. The Watch was over, the wait was done. He had his instructions, they had not changed in nearly eight hundred years. It was time.
His hand blurred, bells flying back together all around him as he rewove the spells that had shattered, restoring the careful links to the wards that were over the Isle. Eight hundred years of waiting for a glorified Reparo. His smile broadened.
Walking back towards his watchpost, he cupped the bell in one hand. Living proof that the dynasty of the Potter family, bastion for the Light, Godric's Guardian, had not died out. The last link the ministry had, if the Watch was now complete. He raised it to eye level for a second, admiring the fragile silver, the gold filigree, the delicate coat of arms.
Then he dropped it and crushed it beneath his foot. The Potter family was no more.
Vanishing the remains, he threw his cloak back onto the table and put his feet up and drained his drink, staring up at the giant silver bells of the Four in the distance. He felt all of his years, hundreds of years of experience pulling down on him. It was over. The Watch was complete. He could rest now. Unbidden, his spirit drifted onwards, flying through the halls and into the Veil.
There was no need for a Watchman now, the Lord of Azkaban had been found.
AN: I briefly mentioned in my blog an idea I'd had based on Rorscach's Blot's "Lord of Caer Azkaban". This is that idea. There are no promises for when the story will be next updated, especially as I want to push onwards with my other fics primarily.