To the reader(s)…
So allow me to give you a little introduction. I made a mounted a fairly enjoyable expedition to the wacky world of fanfiction in the past, with a series of "Teen Titans" fanfics (Comic nerd, lolol! But seriously…), and to be honest, I still feel bad for not finishing them. And lately I've been thinking I'd like to write something. Well, in the last few months, I finally got around to reading the last couple Harry Potter books (I read the first five as they came out, but stopped at the fifth, you see), and between that and my HP-nut friends, I've kind of got the subject on my brain. Some notes—I'm not what you'd call a "Hardcore" HP fan. I can't remember all the spells, I'm sure I've forgotten some of the minor characters, and I never bothered to find out what happened to the characters after the books, though I do believe JKR made up little "epilogues" of sorts for most of them. Due to this, I will be sticking with the book-events only, though this story will be mostly original—indeed, don't expect a story based around JKR's characters. Not that I have anything against these characters! I love them. But I also very much enjoy making up my own. Due to this, this story will likely be mostly original both in plot and characters, with a small mélange of various HP characters and references to the books added in every so often. That being said, if you're interested in a story that takes place in the world of Harry Potter, thought it may not necessarily be as good, or quite the same, as JKR herself's, I invite you to read on. I hope you enjoy.
PS. I'll be honest with all of you reading this. Like everything else I've ever written, I have a rough idea in mind, but I never really know what's going to happen next from moment-to-moment. I find the making-up-as-you-go approach to be the most fun anyway, to write and (hopefully!) to read.
DISCLAIMER--I in know way own, claim any ownership of or authority over, or lay any stake to the Harry Potter mythos. Every last word of it is the property of Englishwoman J.K. Rowling. This is a non-profit, entertainment oriented, unofficial work written by and for fans of Harry Potter.
THE SHADOW OF THE NECROMANCER—Chapter One
There was, at first glance, nothing unusual or deviant from mainstream society at all about the young man named Amos Boucher. At least, not beyond being a somewhat sickly young man, unmarried in an area where marriages by the age of twenty was not uncommon—he himself was twenty one—and a way with words. He lived in Louisiana, in the Southern region of the United States of America, in a small, elevated house (the sort which was commonly built in or around swamps or beside rivers) just a few miles away from the small town of Lecompte. It was in this town that he worked as a bookkeeper and general office clerk for a small real estate agency called Winchester's. He was not necessarily wealthy, but was certainly not poor, and he, having no wife or children to care for, was able to devote the majority of his earnings not spent towards upkeep, necessities, and taxes on himself. Thus, he was able to live fairly comfortably while also regularly saving away small amounts.
There was nothing glaringly remarkable about his appearance, though he was slightly striking in his complexion. He had no neighbors, per se, but had he had them, they would have lamented over his poor health even having never met him properly. Amos was about six feet tall, around 200 pounds, with thin, pale skin that seemed to scarcely cover the workings of his body underneath—though thankfully, the stark and slightly sallow pallor of his flesh was at least consistent. He was often to be seen with dark semicircles splotched in purple-gray tones around his gaunt eyes, as though he hardly slept. His cheeks were thin with high, prominent bones, and he had a strong chin that jutted down in an almost pointed fashion. Through their heavy lids and thick, prominent brows, his eyes were pale blue, and oftentimes either watery or slightly bloodshot. His hair, brows, and angular, elongated sideburns—which jutted downwards thickly from his hairline then curved in a sharp angle near his lower jaw before ending in points—were all dark brown, the shade of chocolate. He wore it long down his back, though it was somewhat haggard and unkempt looking even in its ponytail. All in all, he looked remarkably like one who was constantly battling a chronic, though apparently not terminal disease—not fatal, but certainly persistent and unpleasant.
In many ways, Amos was a model of precision and punctuality. Every morning at six thirty AM sharp, his door swung open slowly, he stepped out—always leading with his left foot—of his home, carefully turned and locked his door using the oldest and largest key on his keyring, then turned—always to his left, not his right—and stepped out and down the tall, steep flight of wooden stairs, each of which emitted a different tone of creak when stepped on almost like scaling notes on a keyboard. When he reached the bottom, always dressed in the same suit consisting of a navy-blue sport coat, matching suit pants, a white dress shirt and a red necktie, he always got into his black car—an old, but remarkably functional and well-kept Lincoln Town Car, 1989 model—and drove off. He took the same route to work every morning, always arriving within a minute and a half of the same time every time, always stopped to buy gasoline on Friday's at the same gas station—Mac's—and always getting a cup of coffee there, to go. He always left work at four PM, walking to the same parking spot he had always used, getting in, and driving off. He always arrived home within three minutes of his expected time.
But throughout the course of his lifetime, and even the course of one day, a man wears many masks. The people he regularly passed in town but who only vaguely remembered who he was saw only half—maybe a third or quarter, really—of the young man.
Everyone saw him walk up to the real estate building. Everyone out on the street of the little town, that is. This particular street was full of small business of all kinds—antique shops, a bookstore, a deli, a small lot of used cars, and a grocery to name a few. And everyone saw him walk up to the building but no one saw him once he'd walked in the front door. Also, no one saw him emerge, not from the other side of the front door, but rather, from a completely different door in the basement. None of the passerby saw that he emerged inexplicably from the different door in the basement of the building—which, incidentally, the people working upstairs were ignorant about the existence of—and thus, none of them could have known that he was wearing, no longer his navy blue suit, but a long black coat with tails, linen trousers with black and gray pinstripes held up by black suspenders over a crimson, silk shirt with a stiff collar, a black bow-tie, and thick black boots with shining silver buckles. He removed a felt top-hat from his head and hung it on a brass peg on the wood-paneled wall as he entered, next to several other top-hats, capes, and shawls. Many canes and umbrellas of various shapes, colors, and sizes stood propped against this section of wall as well.
He reached into his coat and drew out what looked like a thin, sharp-pointed wooden baton made out of ebony, just over a foot long. He pointed it lazily at his hat, now hanging, and yawned. There was a clattering noise as chains, which had no business being animate of their own will, unabashedly slithered out of nowhere, as though from the wall itself, and coiled around the hat tightly enough to prevent it from being moved, yet somehow gently enough to avoid damaging it.
Amos Boucher spoke for the first time in a voice that was part crisp Southern gentleman, part Cajun hiss. "Can't be too careful these days."
He progressed, boots lightly treading across the carpeted floor, pale green in color. He arrived at the end of the corridor, where a desk was situated next to a few different doors. He propped himself on the desk and bowed his head reverently. "Morning, Miss Arceneaux."
The woman, whose curly blonde hair cascaded in golden spirals down her back and shoulders, was currently powdering her face—somehow without touching the powder puff, which floated of its own accord. It was, however, careful not to spill any on the rather extravagant, Victorianesque dress she was wearing, green and pink in color with lace everywhere. "Mornin' yourself, Mr. B." She said in a somewhat lilting Southern drawl. "I expect you'll be wantin' your key?" She batted her magnificently overrouged eyes at this and lightly smacked her ruby-red lips, which jumped out from her pale, powdered face like blood on ivory.
He remained largely expressionless, but something like the ghost of a smirk appeared just briefly. "Why else do we ever speak?"
She threw up her nose and let out a haughty 'hmph'. "I don't know. You'd imagine after all this time you might just crave conversation."
He yawned this time, giving a fleeting glimpse of oddly elongated, thin teeth. "My dear Delphine, if I want conversation, I'll temporarily vivify my inkwell."
She had, by this time, retrieved a large, rusty key out of many from the top drawer on her desk. She reached over a pile of parchments and yellowed papers and scrolls, over several inkwells with quills and a large typewriter, and handed it to him, but not before letting out another 'hmph!" for good measure. As he walked through the farthest of the doors with this key in hand, her powderpuff followed him and wacked him once on the head as he left as though to berate him.
He was now walking, quite calmly, down a corridor that seemed to have nothing in it. No doors. Nothing but torches on the wall, which seemed to burn far brighter and cast far more shadow than any normal torch ever would. Finally, he reached a door. His door, because it was a dusty oaken door that bore the bronze template, "A. BOUCHER". The other doors had been there, of course. He knew this. He simply did not see them because unless he was seeing a coworker for a reason, he had no business knowing where their door was. It was a fairly common procedure in any place of business these days. Only if you've a genuine reason does the building reveal the way.
Amos's office was large and comfortably furnished. There was an enormous desk on the far wall with piles of ledgers and folders stacked on it, and several drawers which contained various tightly-rolled scrolls sorted alphabetically. He had a few inkwells and a large number of old-fashioned fountain pens.
He smiled for the first time, sitting down in his office and beginning to scrawl on some paperwork using a dripping pen. He wrote for a few minutes, and then he suddenly cracked a book that was on his desk, read over a certain page and frowned. He dog-eared it for later reference, and then pulled out his wooden implement—which, in the trade, was known more specifically as a magic wand—and muttered under his breath.
Instantly, his ledgers flew open and his books of numbers began turning their own pages. Fountain pens flew out of cubbies and drawers and began scratching at papers, and books from his multiple bookshelves whipped through the air with a loud whistling sound and began piling themselves on his desk.
He sighed. Just another day at work as usual.
And yet, he seemed slightly annoyed. His jaw seemed a bit too set to be entirely at-ease. Frowning, he opened a small drawer on the left side of his desk and pulled, from amongst a pile of assorted papers, a small card slightly smaller than a normal envelope. He scrawled on it rapidly, muttering aloud as he wrote.
"Mister… Winchester… Requesting… night shifts… over this… weekend." He looked mildly at the card with a smile. He finished, "… Boucher. Yes. Yes, I think that oughta do it." Pleased, he made as though to reach for an envelope, a stack of which were under an old brass paperweight. Before he could, however he was interrupted by a loud noise that stood out even amongst the scrapings of pens on paper and flapping pages of books. His door had suddenly creaked open and in peeped a man with dull, dark-green eyes and blond hair greased back against his head. He had a thin, blond moustache that scarcely covered his top lip and wore a most bored expression.
"Morning, Remy. Or should I say, Mr. Rothbell?" Amos said, greeting the dull-faced man with a wave.
The blond, very thin and extraordinarily tall man, whose full name was indeed Remy Rothbell, stepped inside revealing himself to be wearing a suit much like Amos's, except that it was bright, baby blue with white embellishments and a lace jabot. He spoke in a rather glum, dreary voice that hardly ever left the same, low pitch.
"Morning, Amos." He began expressionlessly. "Just came to tell you… Mister Winchester wants a word."
Amos, who had been in the middle of a yawn, stifled it with a surprised choking sound and stared at the card in his hand and then at Remy, who stared back hollowly. "… Does he, now? Convenient. I suppose he wants it now? I needed to see him anyway."
"Now would be good."
Amos arched an eyebrow. "Ever the faithful assistant. Keep on and you might just get yourself a raise one o' these days."
The humor seemed lost on Remy, who blinked once, very slowly, then replied, "Perhaps."
And with that, Remy gave a stiff, but respectful bow and disappeared quickly and quietly through the door again.
After he had gone, Amos dropped the smile and both baffled and a bit disgruntled. His employer rarely took employee in his office, most matters being taken care of by Remy, the rather glum—but sharp as a whip—assistant. Being asked to come to his office in-person… Amos had no idea what to make of it. This, in conjunction with the almost eerie timing considering he'd wanted to ask him about shifts had him feeling more than a bit uneasy. The various implements around the room seemed to reflect this, as one of the fountain pens that had been filling in numbers next to various names was now poking idly at the desk as though addled, and there was a book of numbers containing the names and locations of various properties and their values and prices over the last several years was currently making snapping-jaw-shaped shadow puppets on the wall next to a lamp, completely oblivious to whatever its work was meant to be. He seemed to realize this all at once and swung his long, black wand irritably, its dark surface glinting with an oily sheen in the dim lighting of the office. Immediately, there was a deafening silence as everything came to a halt. He stood, careful to push his chair back under his desk, and straightened his bow-tie. 'Whatever it is,' he thought to himself, 'it can't be that bad.'
And so it was that he found himself back out in the shadowy, seemingly endless corridor, locking his own office door with the key, which he promptly pocketed. This time, the walk dragged on even longer than before, but he eventually came to a split that opened into three small hallways and took the leftmost one. At the end of this was a large door that took up nearly the entire wall at the end of the corridor. There were two large, golden knockers attached to the front that were fashioned to resemble hounds' heads, their snouts open and fangs bared. Amos stretched out his hand and took the ring of the knocker, banging it against the door three times. When he recoiled his hand, which he did with peculiar haste, the hound he'd used to knock snapped a couple times, its metal form suddenly alive and malleable, and howled loudly and morosely, eyes shining and tongue dangling. Then, as it returned to inaction, the door swung open with no apparent touch.
Amos cleared his throat lightly, suddenly looking even paler than usual if such a thing were possible. He was clearly sweating bullets, and seemed to be uncomfortably warm as he shifted his weight and tugged hesitantly at his collar. Finally, he stepped inside.
The office was not so much as office as a gigantic study. It was round, all curved walls lined with bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, the upper portions of which were only accessible via the multi-tiered, wheeled ladders that lined them. On one half of the room, there was a collection of glass display cases on velvet-lined podiums. Amongst the exhibits were a group of strange gems of various colors that sparkled brilliantly but bore a weathered sign reading, "Cursed Mesopotamian Treasure". Next to that, there was a fully taxidermied and stuffed specimen of what looked like an enormous cricket with bulging compound eyes and scaly armor. Its bladelike arms were extended imposingly, and it was marked on its tall case as, "South African Gurogecki Mantis—Stunned and executed on Safari". There were a number of cases containing old books with nearly unreadable covers that looked as though they'd crumble to dust if touched, and lastly, there was one holding several bottles of tightly-corked liquids—"Dead Sea Extracts", if their faded moniker was to be believed.
On the other half of the room was a roped off length of wall that housed a row of portraits, all representing celebrated or infamous wizards and witches from the state of Lousiana. Amongst them was a tall, thin man with straw-like hair and watery blue eyes that wore what looked like an old fashioned labcoat. He, more specifically his portrait, yawned and checked his pocketwatch as though bored. His silver nameplate read, "Valencius Von Kiln," and in smaller print, "Inventor of the blood fortification charm to treat anemia and guard against infection." Next to him, there was also, amongst others, a rather wicked looking black woman with several gold teeth, thick dreadlocks, and a pierced nose. She was covered rather wildly in facepaint, and was apparently, "Auntie Couteau, Feared Voodoo Mistress and Dark Witch". She leered fiercely at Amos and licked her thick, cracked lips.
Finally, in the center of the room, was a grand staircase with wooden railings and a scaly, gigantic rug fashioned from what seemed to be the hide of a serpentine, Asian dragon. A Chinese Fireball or Japanese Tsunami perhaps, though its turquoise sheen and purple beard and whiskers hinted at the latter. At the top, near the open maw and staring eyes, Mr. Winchester—a portly, rather short figure dressed in attire similar to a confederate general of the Civil War although with a cape and monocle—sat at his oversized desk in a posh, partially-reclined armchair. Upon seeing Amos, who had just begun to slowly make his way up the stairs and the dragon hide rug, he stood up, though he was still slightly shorter than his tall-backed armchair. His uniform was a dark, grassy shade of green with bright red trim on the shoulders and around the sleeves and brass buttons. His cape was also a ruby-red color. His round face, underneath a receding but neatly-combed length of white hair, beamed with recognition, his cheeks flushed. "Ah, yes… Amos. Good of you to come on such short notice, Son," Old Mr. Winchester said with a thick Southern accent, his voice deep and soft. "I was afraid you'd be tied up."
Amos bowed to his employer, smiling in a rather uncomfortable, yet polite way. "Of course, Sir. Wouldn't have wasted a minute, Sir."
"Always was punctual, wasn't you, Son? Though I… well, I suppose…" The older man seemed slightly uncomfortable and appeared to be choosing his words cautiously. "Well, those of your, ah… nocturnal persuasion… usually sticklers for time and numbers anyway, unless I'm much mistaken?"
Amos gave a nod, hands clasped in front of him. "Yessir." He replied again, looking slightly more haggard than ever. "…. There… is a predisposition of that sort, yes."
"Well then. Contrary to popular opinion, it was a good choice then, wasn't it? To hire—"
Amos coughed and looked a bit frightened, but meekly interrupted. "Er, on that note, Sir… I, um… I was actually wondering… if, perhaps, when Re—Mr. Rothbell," He corrected himself quickly, "… is making out the timetables for this next week, if perhaps I could request… oh, you know, if it's convenient…"
"Say no more. I dare say we've quite interrupted your sleep cycle, eh Son?" The Boss chuckled. "Well, I'll have him set you to work nights at least four days this time around. Let it never be said that Beauregard Winchester was not mindful of his employees' needs." He drawled genially, dusting off his uniform and adjusting his monocle.
"Of course. Thank you, Sir." He replied with another bow. The relief that he felt at having his request granted so easily, however, was suddenly tempered by nervousness again. He reminded himself, with a swift, mental kick, that he wouldn't have been called up for no reason. And despite Mister Winchester's friendly nature, the pessimist in Amos couldn't help but think it had to be that he was going to get reprimanded for some lapse in protocol or some paperwork that was never properly submitted at some point. He braced himself, his long, white teeth gnashing against each other uncomfortably in his mouth.
"Oh, yes, that reminds me…" It was as though he was a mind-reader. His boss trundled back over to the large desk and began digging through one of the drawers. After a minute or two of searching, he smiled triumphantly and pulled out a small parcel. It was rectangular in shape, covered in thick, brown paper, and wrapped with several lengths of what seemed to be black string. At first, Amos stared, slightly puzzled. Then, his employer suddenly reached into his pocket and quickly produced a small jack-knife. He laid the package on the table and Amos saw that it had already been opened with a few clean cuts, but refolded and tied back up with the string. This time, he cut the string in one place and unfolded the paper, revealing the contents.
It was a stack of papers—letters, from the looks of them, all written on stiff parchment in dark blue ink—rather unusual, considering the usual business standard was black. This made him wonder for a moment—perhaps they were from an individual, in search of property?
His guess was confirmed shortly. "What we have here, Amos…" His boss began, swelling with pride like a haughty pigeon, "is a series of letters from a very interested—and very wealthy— individual. He's very interested in our company. We've been in correspondence for about six months now."
Amos nodded to himself. It was not all that unusual. They did often do business, unlike the muggles up-top, with individuals from out of the country, and had properties in-their-possession and on-sale throughout the world, as his employer's lavish office and well-travelled nature suggested.
He continued, "Now, what's somewhat strange is that he wishes to remain anonymous as far as names go, but he has sent me an address, along with all his personal information. Most of all, he wants to meet with a representative of our company. There's a property in London we got that he wants."
Amos blinked. London. England. Long ways away, and he knew from books and stories that an American in jolly old England was about as at-home as a catfish in salt-water. He certainly didn't envy whoever got chosen to…
"I really would go myself, Son, but you know my health ain't been the best lately, and this is a very important matter. I wouldn't have anyone less than one o' my best employees take care of the matter for me."
Amos's heart sank in his chest, and his already thin blood seemed to run cold. "… Me, Sir…?"
"Of course. There'll be a hefty bonus in it for you, if'n you make it back all right and managed to sell the place. Which oughta be easy, considering the man's crazy about it. And don't worry—even though he's anonymous, I've done a little background research. Can't find a name, but have found several references. Whoever he is, he seems legitimate."
A hefty bonus… and the boss really needed it done. He swallowed. "… And when do you want me to leave, Sir?"
"Well, at your earliest convenience. Say three weeks from now, maybe?"
There was a long silence, in which Amos finally forced a smile. "… Of course. How will I be getting… to London, Sir? Muggle means?"
"No airplanes this time, Amos. And the journey's too long for broomsticks, that's for certain." The boss assured, and the young man seemed to silently let out a full-body sigh of relief. "There's actually a ship here I've got you a ticket for, somewhere… it leaves in three weeks' time, and it'll take you straight there. Of course, I've spoken with the captain already via post. He'll be more than happy to… arrange for you needs." He produced a stiff, note-card sized slip of parchment rolled tightly into what looked like a miniscule scroll. It had a blue ribbon keeping it tied shut. "There! That'll get you on board. Do not lose it."
"That settles it then, Sir. I'll be off in three weeks." Said Amos, sounding resigned and shutting his eyes briefly. He wiped them with his thumbs, the dark circles seeming more intense than usual.
"Great! Knew I could count on you, Amos, knew it. People told me, I was making a mistake. But now I have absolutely no regrets about hiring you. Who says vampires make inferior employees?"
Amos opened his slightly bloodshot eyes and smiled. "Yessir. Right, Sir."
"Which reminds me… got something for you. The wife made another batch." He reached into his desk and procured a mason jar full of something sticky, gelatinous and red. He handed it to Amos.
He looked flattered. "More preserves? You're too kind, Mister Winchester."
"Aw, don't mention it, Son. No different than makin' grape or apple or pear preserves, 'cept for the whole matter of using pork blood instead of juice."
Amos smiled, thanked his employer profusely, and left for his office again. He was not much for road trips, and he preferred constancy to change… but, the boss had chosen him for this job. And it'd surely reflect poorly on him if he didn't take it.
There was a very long, silent pause.
"Well, Amos…" He muttered to himself back in his office, taking up a pen half-dazedly. "Looks like you're gonna be workin' on your 'Cheerio' and your 'Old Chap', for the next couple o' weeks."
