Salazar

31st October, 1981

Nearly a year and a half passed, with no move from Tom. Oh, he kept up his attacks, recruiting more followers and working his way steadily towards the Ministry, but he was yet to try to kill Harry. I hoped it was because our protection was working and the Secret Keeper, whoever that might be- although it was widely presumed to be Sirius- had not betrayed us.

It was Halloween, and the Order was holding a small party in an attempt to boost morale, but it only heightened the sense of loss for those who were not present. We'd lost so many over the years, in our fight, but still we were no closer to defeating Tom. I felt awfully responsible. If only I'd managed to find Tom's horcruxes, I could've killed him long ago. But the answers to where Tom had stashed them were locked away in his mind, and he was powerful enough now that I couldn't break down his mental shields. All thanks to the training in Occlumency I'd given him so long ago.

Although even if I found and destroyed all the horcruxes, could I really bring myself to kill Tom? There was a part of me that hoped, despite everything that he'd done, that he'd repent and be reconciled with me. It was a foolish hope, and I hated myself for retaining it.

Perhaps it was fortunate, then, that my hands were tied. The locket was now a horcrux, and in order for Tom to die, it had to be destroyed. But I was certain that its destruction would also kill me. The laws of magic had already showed me all too painfully what would happen if I tried to steal time. They would not be so forgiving again.

I sat morosely in the corner under the orange bunting, too lost in thought to finish my drink. There was laughter from across the room, but it was muffled and far away. I had an odd sense of foreboding, a prickling of my skin, a tightness in my lungs. Maybe it was because last night, I had dreamt not of Harry's death, but of Tom's. He had been sprawled across a thick, woolly rug, his limbs at odd angles and his skin near-transparent. I think there had been lightning, too, but it was green, illuminating the corpse in sudden flashes.

Suddenly, the door burst open on its hinges and Alastor Moody staggered in. He was drenched from the downpour outside and the orange glow of the pumpkin lanterns cast a grotesque shadow over his scarred face. His expression was grave, and somehow, I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

"The Potters' house—" he began, gasping and out of breath "- just exploded."

Of course. He'd been one of the Order members stationed around Godric's Hollow. I felt dread pool in my stomach, but I squashed it down. Now was not a time for guilt.

I stood up. "Everyone stay here," I ordered loudly. "No one is to leave this room. I'll report back when I have more news."

Dumbledore stood to block me as I headed brusquely to the door, but I brushed past him. "Evangeline," he called out after me, but I ignored him, disapparating as soon as I was out of sight. I didn't have time to bother with his cautions.

It was raining in Godric's Hollow when I materialised there. I knew instantly that something was very wrong because I could see the Potters' house when it should have been invisible. That meant the Fidelius Charm had been broken. We had been betrayed.

The house was a smoking ruin, with most of the roof missing and the walls blackened. I passed through the open front gate carefully, my wand out, and ducked in through the splintered hole where a door should have been.

The first body I saw was James'. He was crumpled on the hallway floor, his glasses askew, and yet he looked for all the world as if he could be sleeping. He hadn't even had time to draw his wand in defence.

I crept up the crooked staircase, having to stoop under where the ceiling had caved in. Many of the walls had collapsed, and I was forced to navigate my way through a labyrinth of rubble to reach the nursery. When I finally emerged, it was into a shattered shell of a room, the roof completely blasted off and replaced by a ceiling of stars. The rain had stopped, and all was silent.

Lily was dead on the floor, her hair strewn over her face, but it was not her corpse that fixated me. Instead, I was drawn to the body resting on the thick, woollen nursery rug.

Tom looked like he had after I'd stabbed him, his expression mild and peaceful. I knelt down beside him, cradled his face gently in my hands. His skin was cold, any blood long since settled. I bowed my head, taking his stiff, lifeless body in my arms and embracing him tightly.

"You idiot," I whispered into his shoulder, my voice breaking, through shameful tears. "You stupid, arrogant, foolish idiot."

I released, a long, shaky breath before placing him reverently back onto the floor. His head lolled to one side and I noted that he was no longer wearing my locket. There was no telling where he might have hidden it to keep it from me.

I stood, swaying unsteadily, looking down at him, drinking in his appearance, however inhuman and lifeless it now was. Then I gave him a sharp kick in the ribs.

"I know you're not dead," I hissed through gritted teeth, tears still clogging up my throat. "Stop pretending to be dead."

But he did not move, did not suddenly spring back to life. Whatever shredded, mangled piece of soul that had once resided in that body had long since abandoned its mortal shell. Tom was still alive- he must be- but he now lived without a body. The corpse before me was nothing more than an empty casket.

A soft cry from behind me brought me back into the present. I turned, and saw Harry squirming in his little cot. Feeling a stab of guilt for ignoring him in favour of Tom, I went over to him and picked him up, rocking him gently and whispering meaningless words of comfort. That was when I noticed it.

The scar was horrific, a jagged tendril of lightning sprawling across one side of his forehead. It was no ordinary wound, that was for certain. There was something terrifying about it, something unnatural.

I glanced back down at the bodies on the floor. Had Lily killed Tom? But if that were the case, who had killed Lily? Or if Tom had murdered her, how was he now lying dead on the rug? I looked back at Harry, who had fallen back asleep.

And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.

Was the scar that mark? Did this tiny child really have the power to defeat Tom? Is that what had happened tonight?

There was a strangled cry from behind me, and I turned to see Severus Snape standing in the ruined doorway, a look of abject horror on his face. My wand was in my hand instantly, pointed at his head, my other arm cradling Harry protectively, but there was no need. He sank to his knees in wretched despair, his horrified gaze on Lily's corpse.

He looked at her the way I'd looked at Tom, I realised.

He attempted to crawl towards her, but I moved to block his path. Startled, he raised his gaze to mine, his eyes wide, as if noticing me for the first time.

"You did this," I spat savagely. Perhaps it wasn't entirely true, but it felt good to blame someone else. He flinched.

"Please," he whispered, tears coursing down his face.

I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt him so badly. I wanted to tear his limbs apart slowly and bleed him dry. I wanted to gouge out his heart and squeeze it until it stopped. I wanted him to feel every single second of the pain I'd felt over the last nineteen years

"I tried—" he began, sobbing. "I tried to stop him, to get him to spare her—"

"I don't care about her," I hissed, tears running down my own cheeks. "I care that he's gone. I only wanted him stopped, I- I never wanted him to die. And now, thanks to you, he might as well be dead."

I was, I realised, a decidedly terrible person. And I didn't particularly care.

My fingers curled into fists, cutting off his air supply. He gasped, choking, his hands going to his throat, and I levitated him off the floor. I watched him flail and struggle, his limbs thrashing about, and sealed his airway even tighter. His face slowly began turning purple. The house rumbled and shook around us, the walls groaning and cracks appearing in the floor. Lightning flashed from clouds that began to blacken and swirl overhead.

I was so consumed by my murderous intent, I didn't even notice Dumbledore and Sirius Black arrive, racing up the stair into the ruined nursery. Dumbledore was shouting something, but I couldn't hear him over the deafening shaking of the house and the claps of thunder. He advanced towards me, buffeted by the wind, but I paid him little heed until he stepped between me and Severus.

"Stop this, Evangeline!" he roared over the noise, his cold blue eyes simmering.

I paused, almost surprised to see him standing there. Then I glanced down at Harry, sleeping soundly in my arms.

As if emerging from a trance, I dropped Severus, relinquishing my hold on his throat. He sprawled across the floor, gasping and coughing. Sirius was upon him instantly with a look that suggested he wanted to finish the job, but one glance from Dumbledore restrained him.

"Why are you here?" I asked hoarsely.

"Give me the child," he said gently.

"No," I replied, shaking my head and clinging onto Harry a bit tighter.

"Evangeline," he began, trying to placate me, but I took a step back, shaking my head again. He sighed with a touch of sadness. "You don't trust me, do you," he said mournfully.

"Of course I don't trust you," I said, still backing away. "For all I know, you could be the traitor. Or he could," I added, gesturing towards Sirius.

Sirius looked furious at the suggestion, and opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore cut him off. "Look into our minds if you have to," he said resolutely. "Use veritaserum. But I think you already know who the real traitor is."

"Pettigrew," I breathed. So I had been right after all. Sirius blanched, his face as pale as death. He looked like he was about to be sick.

"I'm sorry I dismissed your suspicions," Dumbledore continued sadly. He held out a hand towards me, palm open. "Let me take Harry."

I looked at him, with his cunning blue eyes and devious mind. Even if he wasn't a traitor, I still didn't trust him, I realised. He was too sly, too full of secrets, too driven by ulterior motives.

He was too much like me.

I sometimes wondered where the rumour that he'd been in Gryffindor had originated from. It couldn't have been further from the truth. He was wholly and undeniably Slytherin.

"Sirius," I said quietly.

Sirius lifted his head to look at me, his face full of heart wrenching agony. "Yes?" he said, his voice hoarse.

"Come here."

He staggered dutifully towards me like a man in a trance. I wondered if the events of the night had truly hit him yet.

I held out Harry. "Take him," I said softly. "Keep him safe for me."

He took Harry into his arms, cradling him gently like a breakable piece of china. "Thank you," he whispered. Dumbledore frowned, but said nothing.

I took a deep breath, thinking, calculating.

"Albus," I began decisively. "Take Severus to the Order headquarters and lock him up. I don't care what either of you say, I want him under constant guard until I tell you otherwise. Then arrest Peter Pettigrew and hand him over to the Ministry. While you're there, tell them that Voldemort is dead. Sirius, I want you to go into hiding with Harry until the will is read. Once that happens, Harry will go to live with the Longbottoms. I'll take care of the bodies."

Surprisingly, no-one questioned my orders.

James and Lily were buried a week later in the churchyard at Godric's Hollow. The whole of the Order, as well as several ministry officials, attended the funeral. Harry was not there, however. He was kept far away from public view, for fear that vengeful Death Eaters might attempt to finish the job.

No-one asked me what I'd done with Tom's body.

I'd carried him from the wreckage of the Potters' house and taken him to a small plot of land on the edge of some woods. My father's body was somewhere amidst those trees, dumped carelessly in an unmarked grave. I'd never bothered to visit his final resting place.

Instead, I buried Tom next to my mother. Her tomb was marked simply by an ancient oak tree, its trunk gnarled with age. I laid my hand on the archaic wood, the last remnant of my mother's presence, before turning to the new grave to her left, freshly filled in. Kneeling in the dirt, I pressed my palm to the earth and allowed a tendril of magic to creep into the soil. A tiny sapling sprouted through my widespread fingers, growing until it forked into a young rowan tree, its berries as red as blood.

I pivoted and walked away, leaving the two trees swaying gracefully in the breeze behind me.

And just like that, we're at the end of part 2! Yay! At least the most depressing section is over now :)

As always, thanks for getting this far. I really appreciate it.

Amy Grace xx