Author's note:

I obviously do not own the world created by J.k Rowling, nor do I own the characters she created. So, this is only the work of a fan. I'm writing this story for fun.

I am planning to write a long story and will try all my best to stick to canon even if, on the way, I'll have to add my own characters and plots because I imagine if Sirius escapes years before the third book, the entire timeline changes too (I think it's called the butterfly effect).

This story is rated M for language, violence, politics, sexual scenes... Which I will introduce later in the story if I consider it could bring something to it...

Very important: Some of my characters or ones already in the books could say racist, homophobic, sexist shit...Those statements will always be from the 'bad guys' or characters I plan to develop later, so please remember that it is not my own beliefs or political opinions.

This is a slow-building story and not one I intend to rush. Do not expect Harry to become a Dragon animagus (that won't happen whatever his age is), hear the prophecy at seven and beat Dumbledore at eleven, Although I'm planning to make him more competent and aware than he is in the books. Of course, there will be some romance if I see it could bring something to the development of the characters involved.

Also important to me: From the first chapter, you'll notice I'm not an English native speaker, and neither I am fluent in speaking it. I chose English to write this story to share it with as many people as possible and diversify my activities to something more than sports and science. So, your reviews (or PM) will be 'vital', so I can grow as a writer and improve the story's quality. A 'bad' review will push me to go back and rewrite/correct a chapter, while a 'good' review will encourage me to keep going. Silence is the worst as I would feel that I'm talking/writing to myself. So, don't worry about my ego or feelings; I'll be grateful either way.

As for the title ''The last order'', it's unrelated to Starwars.

Thank you very much for reading! Please enjoy The Last Order.


Prologue part I


31 October 1981, Godric's Hollow. 8 pm:

Criminal psychologists, law enforcement agencies and the general public have long been interested in what motivates serial killers to commit terrible crimes. Most "normal" people could never imagine doing the same thing. Another question of great interest is whether serial killers can be said to suffer from a severe mental illness that breaks their contact with reality.

But while some serial killers seem to have suffered psychotic seizures that triggered their crimes, on the whole, serial killers have rarely been recognized as legally insane. The most consistent psychological characteristic of serial killers seems rather be extreme antisocial behaviour. They tend to lack empathy, be incapable of remorse, have no respect for laws or social norms, and have a strong desire to take revenge on individuals or society in general by committing violent and terrifying crimes, only these rules didn't apply to the man who appeared a few seconds ago in Godric's Hollow.

Godric's Hollow was a small community centred on a village square with only a church, a post office, a pub, and a few retail shops. The residential streets were lined with quaint cottages, boarding a paved path leading to the church. The hooded silhouette of the man walking on that path had no interest in reaching the church, nor to confess or amend for the horrendous did he, for decades, bore the responsibility. He walked slowly in the windy night, his eyes catching sight of the window shops decorated in paper spiders and all the ridiculous muggle vision of a world in which they did not believe, a world they did not belong nor deserve to live in any way. As he walked, the hem of his cloak was slipping on the wet pavement, the closer he got to his prey, the more he felt the hunger for the goal, a feeling of power and accuracy that he always felt on these occasions. A sensation that had accompanied him and inflamed his desire since his youth, he felt no anger. Anger was for weaker souls than he, not for the Dark lord. For a year he had hoped, waited for this moment. The moment of his triumph.

"Nice costume, mister!"

He lowered his head, and his eyes fell on a disguised child, who was smiling at him. He saw the small boy's smile falter as he ran near enough to see beneath the hood of the cloak, saw the fear cloud his painted face. Then the child turned and ran away. Beneath the robe, he caressed his old wand, a simple movement and the child would never reach his mother. However, that would be utterly unnecessary as the next morning he would be in a position that would allow him to erase all of them from the surface of the globe, without meeting any important challenge. Except for Dumbledore of course, but what can an old man, all-powerful he most certainly is, do against an immortal?

He carried on along a new and darker street, he moved, and now his destination was finally in sight, as the Fidelius Charm had as expected broke, though they did not know it yet. He made less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark edge and peered over it. They had not removed the curtains; he saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room, the tall black-haired man in his glasses, making puffs of coloured smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired boy in his blue pyjamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his tiny fist.

A door opened, and the mother entered, saying words he couldn't hear, her long dark-red hair falling over her face. Now, the father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning. The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but James Potter did not hear. His pale hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the door and burst open. He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had not even picked up his wand.

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

Hold him off, without a wand in his hand?. He laughed before casting the curse.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the bannisters glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut. He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear. He climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in. She had no wand either. How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments. He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand, and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the last sight of him, she dropped the toddler into the crib and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from view she hoped to be chosen instead.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl... stand aside now!"

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead!"

"This is my last warning"

"Not Harry! Please...have mercy...have mercy...Not Harry! Not Harry! Please! I'll do anything!"

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"

He could have forced her away from the crib, but it seemed more prudent to finish them all, and the green light flashed around the room, and she dropped like her husband. The child had not cried all this time. He could stand, clutching the bars of his crib, and he looked up into the intruders face with a kind of bright interest, perhaps thinking that it was his father who hid beneath the cloak, making more pretty light, and his mother would pop up any moment, laughing, he pointed the wand very carefully into the boy's face. He wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger. The child began to cry. It had seen that he was not James. He did not like its calling; he had never been able to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage.

"Avada Kedavra!"

And then he broke; He was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped and screaming, but far away... far away from the biggest mistake of his life, a mistake that would set in motion a process that was beyond the comprehension of even the most discerning minds.


31 October 1981, Hogwarts, Scotland 8 pm

Of all the teachers, the headmaster of Hogwarts office was by far the most interesting... It was a large and beautiful circular room. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tainted wizard's hat — the Sorting hat, a hat that belonged once to one of the four founders of the school, along with another treasure, made of pure silver, its hilt set with egg-sized rubies, the gemstone commonly used to symbolize the House of Gryffindor at Hogwarts. The name "Godric Gryffindor" engraved just beneath the hilt was the sword of Godric Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat is the oldest Hogwarts artefact that magically determines which of the four schoolhouses each new student belongs most. These four Houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, for centuries he full-field his task and stayed back in the office until he was solicited again. The legend says that a Gryffindor's student could find the sword in the sorting hat if he is in need, others say that only a Gryffindor student who shows bravery could, and others claim that any student, no matter what house he belongs to, could find it if he is fit to the claim.

The headmaster's office was also the home of "Fawkes," the phoenix, a magnificent, swan-sized, scarlet bird with a long golden tail, beak, and talons. It has been proved that the phoenix lives to an immense age as it can be reborn from its ashes after bursting into flames. It is believed some specimens are bound to some families, coming to them in times of profound distress. The phoenix is a gentle creature that has never been known to kill and eats only herbs; it can also disappear and reappear at will and hold powerful healing properties in their tears; both qualities came in a big help in time of needs for the man who was holding two of one of the most respected positions of the British wizarding community, and had just refused to add a third one to the list.

For more than a decade now, a war was raging on the island; never in Britain's history were times as dark as they have been these past 10 years. Every day brought a new lot of deaths; among them, he recognized defeated the names of former students, old friends, people of all ages, men, and women who didn't know the existence of magic, collaterals to events they couldn't even measure the amplitude…

The headmaster is the most famous wizard since the great Merlin. He was adored by those he had taught and praised as a hero by the entire European and North American communities since he defeated the dark wizard Grindelwald. He was considered to be the most brilliant man in the world and the hope that could end the war bringing light again, so everybody could go back to their innocent daily preoccupations and forget if not those who died, the sadness that seems to have definitively polluted the air of this country… He knew perfectly well how people felt, how much they needed hope to still believe that life isn't over, to fight to keep the flame alive. That's why even if he knew how much he harmed the world more than a century ago, that his heroic achievement was no more than a redemption attempt. To repair what still could be, every day, he wore a mask to show the world what they needed to see…Albus Dumbledore, the most brilliant wizard of the century, Headmaster of Hogwarts, chief warlock, the only wizard that Lord Voldemort and Gellert Grindelwald have ever feared.

Tonight, was October the 31 of 1981, his attention wasn't drawled by Fawkes, the sorting hat, the sword, or the portrait of all the former headmasters that the school has known; no, his attention was on the cloak that was laying on his desk, an invisibility cloak that he borrowed the day before from a young wizard that wasn't going to need it for the time being. An object that made his mind travel to a time where he knew everything but the important. When he had everyone, but felt alone, a time when he made his biggest mistake, one mistake that would haunt him until the day he dies… To that day, shame and regret, the twins that will torment his hearth, from whom he will never get loose. An invisibility cloak is a magical garment that renders whomever or whatever it covers invisible. Invisibility cloaks are exceptionally rare and valuable within the wizarding world. Invisibility cloaks may be woven from the hair of a Demiguise, a magical creature whose coat allows it to become invisible. Invisibility cloaks can also be produced by enchanting an ordinary travelling cloak with a powerful Disillusionment Charm or Bedazzling Hex. Most invisibility cloaks wear out over time, eventually becoming visible. Besides, cloaks were vulnerable to damage from spells. But this cloak wasn't an ordinary one; this was with no doubt the one made centuries ago by Ignotus Peverell, one of the three legendary brothers; this invisibility cloak was the only known one that would not fade with age and would provide lasting protection to the wearer, something no usual invisibility cloak could provide. As such, it was the only Hallow known to have been successfully passed down from generation to generation since Ignotus' time, until it found its way through history to James Potter, who was hidden with his wife and son.

Albus rubbed his face, yawned and stood up, walked to the small balcony that gave one of the beautiful views of the lake, smiled when he saw that neither the snow nor the cold night had stopped some of the seventh students to venture outside the castle before curfew, not even the war that was raging outside the school's grounds. He stood there looking at the horizon, he noticed that more students were coming outside; some were singing, dancing, or at least it seemed like dancing. Then, he saw a terse man running in their direction. Dumbledore recognized in him the head of Ravenclaw house, professor Flitwick. It was way past curfew now, and he approved that someone was to stop these kinds of improvised festivities; a moment later, his jaw dropped open when he saw another professor, much more prominent and larger, join the charms master, bottling what looked like fire whiskey, both men jumped in the lake sending fireworks from their wands. The castle and its grounds were safe, and it was tempting to turn a blind eye; only teachers were involved. He moved away from his balcony and headed for his office door when he was startled by the door suddenly burst open.

Minerva McGonagall, the schools' deputy headmistress burst inside his office and said with a trembling voice "Professor Dummmmbldore, I ran from the great Hall…Is it true?.. the students are saying...The Potters."


31 October 1981, Chesterfield, England.

Steven Blakeley recently returned to his hometown for the week. Chesterfield, a market town in Derbyshire, England, where he gained some local notoriety after appearing on various television programs and in a variety of theatre plays, enough to be invited as a guest of honour at the football match which was due to start in almost half an hour and, as usual, he was running late. The town was very proud of its local football team, which made him very amused after getting used to the high expectations of the teams who were playing in the Premier League. Even though they had managed to get blown away in all their away games last season, they were somehow leading the national league, and playing against Grimsby at home. Steven was aware of the slight rivalry that existed between the two teams, which had intensified with several heated encounters over the years. Fans of both clubs were often used to causing disturbances during the match, which made the game become a slight grudge. So it was no surprise that all the attention was turned towards Whittington Moor's Proact Stadium, to support the local club... Walking alone on his way to the stadium, he stopped for a moment to admire the old church, which was the pride of Chesterfield. St Mary's and All Saints is the largest parish church in the Diocese of Derby and was locally and internationally famous for its twisted spire, attracting visitors worldwide. What visitors from all over the world didn't know is that the tower was also where a group of teenagers chose many years ago as HQ. Breaking the lock and climbing it was very appealing, only he was expected, so he turned his back on the building which held many memories of his teenage years and walked to the car parking lot where he had parked his car earlier in the afternoon, where he spotted a white 1959 Triumph 650 T 120 Bonneville. He approached it, inspected it for a short moment before a noise startled him. His eyes landed on a tiny man behind him, standing lower than a thirteen-year-old. He had untidy brown hair and a bald spot, something in his eyes frightened Steven. The man's eyes went from him to the motorbike, a moment of silence followed, and then the last thing he saw was a green light.

A large black German Shepherd Dog who appeared out of nowhere was running like wildfire down Beetwell Street. The dog stopped at the front door of a small house locally known to be uninhabited for several years. The dog barked twice and waited a moment before standing on his back legs and slowly took the shape of a tall, well built, darkly handsome man with fair skin, long glossy black hair, striking grey eyes, and an air of "casual elegance." This vestige of aristocratic beauty, an attribute passed on by his family.

Peter didn't follow the code they've set, and that intrigued Sirius Black. The man had been clearly instructed to stay still, hidden, and expect a visit from Sirius, as it was preplanned once a week for the last month. As usual, no matter the whereabout, Sirius showed up at a precise hour, in his dog form, and Peter would let him in. Sirius knocked again; this time, his fist didn't bother to care about discretion.

Receiving no answer, he forced the front door with his pocket knife and entered inside the house. Once inside, he began to actively search for his friend, calling him by both his name and nickname until he stood still and took out his wand. He whispered, "Homenio revelio" and a silver-blue screed expanded, unfurling in the house. A few seconds after, he was forced to conclude that he was alone inside the house. Peter wasn't there.

His eyes wandered around the living room before his hands started, instinctively, to palp every inch of his black leather jacket, searching for his two-way mirror. He finally found it in his jeans back pocket, grabbed it and faced his own reflection before calling out:

"JAMES ...JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMES ..."

James has been forced to stay confined inside his house in Godrics'Hollow for the entire last year. For a man of action such as his best friend, the situation drove him crazy. Only, his love for his wife and son overpowered his thoughts and fueled him with the strength he needed to endure the worst evil if it meant Lily and Harry would be safe. Only, even between four walls, he always found a way to stay involved and informed, so he was never far from his mirror. Until now, Sirius always made sure to contact him. Ask for his advice before making any move while conducting a mission for the order, even if he didn't need it. Before even Dumbledore. Every night, he made it his duty to say a word to his nephew before Lily tucked him in bed...James always answered. Always.

So when James Poters' face didn't appear in the mirror, he felt his blood turn cold. His grey slowly scanned the empty living room. Then, a mechanism clicked on, his brain got swamped by a wave of memories and felt as if he got suddenly struck by lightning; for the first time, he experienced a particular lucidity. The rat has played him. He had played all of them.

Sirius burst out from the house, stumbled on the entrance mat and fell on the porch stairs, earning some bruises. However, he quickly stood up on his feet and started running away from that house so fast his feet barely touched the asphalt or the sidewalk. As soon as he found himself at enough distance from the house and its wards set to prevent anyone from getting too close from it, supposing they still worked, he disapparated to the supermarket parking lot where he had left his motorbike earlier.

Sirius ignored the drunkard who had passed out in a puddle of his own urine near his bike. Instead, he jumped on the saddle, ignited the engine, and hastily flew away into the night. At that moment, Sirius couldn't care any less about the crowd coming back from the stadium, chanting the towns teams' hymn, celebrating their win on their rival, nor about the fight that broke out between two hooligan groups. All that mattered at that instant was to reach Godrics' Hollow the fastest possible before it was too late.

Sirius wouldn't bet on telling how much time it took him to arrive at his destination. However, he remembered the cold wind that sliced his face, his heart frenetically bouncing in his chest, and the violent argument he had had with one of his best friends a few months back, as the words they spat at each other had put an end to their friendship.

Even if for a little more than seven years, they stood side by side, kept each other's secrets, and shook the foundings of their time, proving how the four of them, supposed to despite other if referred to their origins and nature, ended up building a family of their own.

Sirius had been sure about the close scrutiny his small family was subjected to; everyone in the order was. Dumbledore had warned them that a traitor was lurking around, very close to them. Only Sirius refused to believe the old man. Still, when substantial evidence was brought to his ears, Sirius had been cornered to admit that someone close to them was informing the Dark Lord about his best friend's entire movement; three times they were forced to move as in the last two years, they almost die no less than three times.

He wished the old man was wrong and that the dark lord had other ways of tracking down his preys; he argued in that sense during the Aurors meetings, only Dumbledore stood his ground and dismissed all of Sirius' rants. Dumbledore stood firm; according to him, his spy had his trust and Voldemort's ear entirely. The same man informed them of the danger hanging over the Potters. He pressed continually pressed them to go underground, strongly argued that for the past two years, a close friend of the family had been spying on them, transmitting sensitive information that only a few acknowledged. Edgar Bones and his children murder were his doing, or better said, committed with his help. Both Dumbledore and Mad-eye confirmed that the same spy was the one who led the Prewett brothers to the cottage where they met a cruel end... High in the sky, above the clouds, with only his motorbike engine roar and the sound of the exhaust pipe as his companion, Sirius had just realized that the traitor who had shed the blood of his loved ones was only the one he had proudly called brother for years.

Since he could remember, he was proud to call himself the "white" sheep of the Black family. The Black family is one of the oldest and most noble families in Britain's wizarding world, "always pure" are their words and creed. A powerful and wealthy pure-blood house respected by all. Such other old families like the Malfoys, the Notts, or the Lestrange, considered themselves superior due to their "pure-blood" and regarded themselves as gods in respect to muggle-born or half-bloods. They were sure to be the only ones pure enough to practice magic.

Sirius never bought all the crap his mother managed to deeply carve into his younger brother's mind for as long as he could remember. Instead, he rebuked his family's ways. He never missed an opportunity to challenge them, whether in private or public, earning himself numerous punishments from his loving mother. Sirius found a lot of pleasure doing it; only by the age of sixteen, he finally gave in when he was forced to realize how his tattoos would never cover all the scars scattered on his skin during his life at 12 Grimmauld place.

As soon the hat sorted him in Gryffindor's house, he became increasingly rebellious and didn't bother to express his contempt for his family's pure-blooded values, driving his relationship with his mother and cousins to become particularly strained. Nevertheless, he found a particular pleasure to narrate at any opportunity the way he slammed the door after his sixteenth birthday and left the family home for good. Laughing at the way he turned his back on that same family, to describe his parents' faces when he announced his departure during an important event attended by the most important figures of the Ministry of Magic and the heirs of other pure-blooded families. And how, in the middle of the night, he found refuge at his best friend's house. In contrast, he didn't even attend his brother's funeral, how he got adopted by the Potters, infuriating his blood relatives...

Piercing the sky as fast as his motorbike could in the night, he realized how similar he was to his relatives, the same he used to spit on and how much he was only rebellious in words. After all, he didn't bother pointing his finger at someone following blindly the same old stereotypes and ideology from which he spent his whole life distancing himself from.

Now, as he finally arrived at his destination, and his reddened eyes landed on the ruins where those who accepted him as a brother and entrusted them with their souls had taken residence, he was forced to face, helplessly, the man he really was the worst way he could imagine. The consequences of his arrogance, idiocy and own cowardness... Sirius Black was the only one to blame; he was the traitor, the mastermind of the entire destruction of his world.