Namesake

A Harry Potter Fan Fiction

*Written by Gale*

Disclaimer - This is my first attempt at a book 6 fanfic, and it's probably not a terribly good one. I like to take ideas that are overdone and try to improve on them. You tell me if I managed. Fair warning, however, I'm terrible as far as horror goes. So mind the first chapter.

Chapter #1: Mounted Executioner

The Dark Mark burned.

He pushed a layer of hair out of his sweat and rain sheened face. It hadn't stopped for hours, and in spite of his better judgment, the part of his mind that told him it would not do him any good to keep the Dark Lord waiting, there he sat, pressed into the shadows of some dark alleyway, too afraid to even move. Part of him hoped -- hoped more than anything -- that the Dark Lord might grow impatient and send some others to find him. Another half prayed that the Ministry would do their job well and hunt him down. Either way, he'd have hell to pay when they brought him back, but he felt even that would be better than --

His ears pricked up, and blood finally seeped from between his teeth from biting down on his lip in tension. He knew he'd heard something, movement somewhere nearby, and his eyes strained for anything in the very alley that might do him harm. Nothing.

Hogsmeade was definitely the wrong place to be lurking at the time, and truthfully he'd had no intention of ending up back here. Apparating was impossible, since the moment he tried he knew the Ministry would be right on top of him. So he'd been at it on foot for nearly a week now. He was starving, in desperate need of a bath, and by this point maybe even a doctor. Fate and fear were clever friends, and in his sad attempts to possibly skip the country, here he was again, crouching and whimpering like a baby in some unmarked section of darkness.

Senses drawn to the brink of insane paranoia, he gasped and curled in on himself again, eyes round and terrified. The sound was distant, but there. A resounding beating against the cobbled street, like footsteps. Slow, purposeful.

It's found me, he thought, feeling a lump of pain develop in his throat.

He knew it would do him no good to remain here. If it got near enough, it would catch him.

…But how could even a Deatheater run from Death, itself?

He'd managed for this long, hadn't he?

Closer now.

…clop clop clop clop…

Fingers clenching at the sides of his robes, he forced himself to retreat toward the other end of the alley. I can't do this anymore. If I survive the night, I'll turn myself in tomorrow. But please…whoever can hear me, please don't let it get me first…

Louder.

Clop clop clop clop.

Distinctly, one could tell they were hoof beats.

His breath caught in him again as he stumbled, barely avoiding a line of crates that'd been stacked against one of the buildings. He rounded clumsily, one boot heel sliding across the muddy walkway and taking the rest of him down. The sound of a feline screech set out his own cry of alarm, and he stared disbelievingly as a mangy and rain-soaked cat hissed and padded its way back into its shelter between the crates. His ears strained in panic to reach past the heavy beating of his near-to-failing heart.

The sound had stopped.

A bolt of lightning tore through the heavens, but he found himself to be one of the only things on earth not touched by its illumination. Its twin streaked across the skin an instant later, and what became apparent was the massive shadow he was sitting in. The notion that drew along with it made futile tears stand in his eyes. He closed them, body shifting to accommodate a second wind. He dug his fingers into the muddy earth, and at the moment the sound of a throaty whicker touched his ears, he was on his feet and running again.

A second, enraged cry flitted after him in the rain, and his heart hammered ever faster when again, the first sound returned. Only now the hoof beats ran faster, muffled but intensified with bursts of water. His bones rattled at a more drawn screeeeeeeech, blade on stone, and even on the ground he dashed upon he could see that sparks were being drawn up.

The buildings now behind him, his hand shot into his robes to draw out his wand, hoping he could cast some spell, any spell that mind ward it off. It occurred to him then that Apparating might be his one solution. The ministry would find him, and right now, he could take Azkaban over this.

His hand groped and found nothing, however…

Oh dear Merlin, how could I drop it…? Why now, why now?

His mounted pursuer drew to a halt at the mouth of the alley. A pair of blazing red eyes narrowed at him behind a well-placed cowl. Heavy robes of black hung down in wet streaks from their wearer, blending in with an equally jet steed, who stamped impatiently at its master's command to pause. In one hand, propped against the rider's side, it held a massive, glistening scythe, much in the tradition of any death depicted in ancient Muggle (and some Wizard) lore.

He gaped at the sight of his own wand in its other hand, and his instinct to run away could not actually reach past his brain until he saw the delicate instrument snap in two between his enemy's fingers.

But by then it was too late. He gave a cry as its other arm swung, and the glint of lightning cresting its blade was the last he saw.

His scream tore through the streets of Hogsmeade, and the dotting of lights in the houses began to appear in the night. Braver wizards ventured outside, wands drawn and ready. The sound of retreating hoof beats could be heard in the distance, but fell on deaf ears, as all who emerged from their homes could only bring themselves to stare in horror at the dismembered heap it left behind.

And somewhere, miles away from this atrocity, far away from the Wizarding World entire, the Boy Who Lived slept the slumber of the troubled.

TO BE CONTINUED