Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, Ginny Weasley would have not survived the first chapter.
Oh poor Ginny Weasley. You're in the epilogue, so stop whining. No one actually cares anyway...
-----------
17 June 1996 -- The Department of Mysteries
He had failed. He, Lucius Malfoy, right hand of the Dark Lord, had failed. The prophecy was nothing but shards of empty glass, broken by the bumbling Longbottom boy. Along with it every shard of respect he had managed to keep among his fellow Death Eaters and with the Dark Lord himself. The once flawless globe of crystal lay in pieces in his hands, no magic could fix it now.
Picking up his head, Lucius's cold grey eyes flicked about the room, wand following his gaze. Bella was gone, leading Potter away. She had better not kill him -- the Dark Lord had told them so many times to leave Potter for him. "Don't do anything stupid, Bella…" Lucius muttered as he got to his feet, letting the fragments of glass slip through his fingers. He squinted, seeing ten other Death Eaters fleeing into the Hall of Prophecies, closely pursued by the Order and several children no older than his son. "Idiots." He pulled out his wand and prepared to go to the Ministry Atrium. The floo network would make a fitting escape. "Ascendi-"
"Deprimo."
His head snapped back as Lucius found himself thrown to the ground, landing on his right knee. Broken. He felt the pain explode through it, quickly followed by the warm numbing of blood. The spell had been cast rather cruelly. Strange. The first thought that ran through his mind was, This isn't an auror.
"No. Not an auror."
And a non-verbal Legilimens. It had to be one of the Order. Feeling his nostrils flare in disgust, he whirled around and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!"
A figure darted behind a pillar.
Smart little twit, running away. Probably a filthy mudblood who didn't have the stomach to try and fight back. Glaring through green flame he growled, "Face me, mudblood!" It took a few moments before he realized that they had disapparated. They couldn't have gone far. Lucius turned and nearly stumbled over as he found himself eye to eye with the other wizard. Young, tall, with dark features, and furiously angry: all that could be deciphered before an almost-hiss like--
"Everte Statum."
His feet lifted from the rock and wind tore through his ears. The ground once more ripped through his cloak, Lucius finding himself tumbling across the harsh black stone. Bloodied fingertips caught the stone and nearly tore his joints off with the attempt. Exhaustion gripped his limbs as he attempted to rise. He had already been cursed half a dozen times before this whoever-he-was arrived and he was in no condition to attempt another battle. Had to get away… Now. A foot met the back of his head and Lucius's face plummeted to the ground. A rather disturbing crunching noise came from his nose. His mouth tasted copper.
"Stay. Down."
For a moment Malfoy considered obeying. "Get off me, mudblood, or I will rip the life from your bod--"
The foot twisted and his nose broke the other direction.
"Shut it."
Eyebrows twitched. Something different in his voice. An accent? "You have no right…" he sputtered out.
"The aurors do, I'm avraid."
A final kick left him dazed, but Lucius managed to get to his knees as he furiously glared after the wizard who was no more than a child. He knew him now. And he knew how to make him pay. "Do you think this is the end of it? Well? Think you can attack a Death Eater, leave him for Azkaban, and walk away free? No, no, no, no…" He muttered to himself, feeling consciousness slip away. Too much blood lost. Too much… Lucius's head fell back to the ground, but he stayed awake. Staring straight out, he watched as the dark boots approached him.
Crouching down next to him, silvery grey eyes met the harsh darkness inside of the younger man's countenance. "And vot exactly makes you think I'm trying to valk away from anything? Malfoy, I haff tried to escape. Vut we both know there is no escape from this." He stood up once more, kicking an elm wand from a shaking, raw hand. "Don't vorry, Malfoy. You von't be in Azkaban long. You'll be free soon. But don't expect a varm velcome home."
Darkness clouded his eyes, that voice still ringing in his ears.
… there is no escape from this.
… no escape …
-
11 September 1996 -- Flight Instructor's Office: Third Floor
Of all the sights you could see through the windows of Hogwarts, this one was by far the best view. The stone window perfectly framed the Quidditch pitch, its flags waving in the wind, so ready for the new season. Yeah, definitely his favorite view.
"Fitting, isn't it? That my office should be next to the hospital ving?" A light chuckle followed as Viktor Krum walked into the room. "And how have you veen, Harry?"
"Well, uh, professor." Harry couldn't help but grin at that. Calling Viktor Krum professor was so… Well you get the point. "I've been great."
A genuine smile. That was a good sign. "Good. That is good. Now." He walked over to his desk and took a seat, leaning back in his chair. "Vot vas it you needed? Your message seemed rather urgent this morning."
Harry sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk a bit uncomfortably, taking a deep breath before he spoke. "Quidditch tryouts are in less than a week."
Viktor half smiled. "I am sure you haff nothing to vorry about, Potter."
His mind came to a halt for a moment when he heard that familiar 'Potter'. It had always been strange, the way Viktor said his name. Not quite like the Malfoys who spat it as if it were an insult, but rather as if it were something dangerous that needed to be held at bay, to be handled with caution as something fragile and perilous. Then again it was probably just his accent. "No, professor, it's not that. It's just…" Deep breath. "Has Dumbledore talked to you yet?"
"He has."
Oh. "Then you know that this year I'm going to be out of school for a few weeks… and I may miss a Quidditch match or two. Right now Gryffindor doesn't have a second Seeker and, well…"
"You vant me to help you?"
"Yes! Exactly - someone who can train my replacement before the next round. Isn't that what you do? You know, besides teaching first years and refereeing and such?"
A sigh.
Not good.
"Listen, Potter."
There it was again. With a second's hesitation this time too.
"I'm not exactly sepposed to help you recruit."
"This isn't recruiting though! Someone will step forward we just need you to teach them the ropes."
"No, you need to teach them. You're the captain this year. That means you haff responsibilities to your team you did not haff bevore."
"But Dumbledore said that once a month each team can have a specific coaching lesson with you. Doesn't that mean we can use it for helping with our new Seeker?"
Another sigh. "Yes, well, the Headmaster meant it as more a team lesson then just von person."
"The team can help. Please, professor. I won't let my team suffer because of me."
Viktor stared at Harry for a few moments. "I velieve you."
Smiling, Harry let out a long sigh of relief.
"So. Who do you haff in mind?"
"I have absolutely no idea," Harry replied good naturedly, still smiling. "I can bring a few people and see what happens."
Viktor nodded, shaking his head slightly. "Alright. You haff the pitch tomorrow. Bring your Seeker candidates."
With an enthusiastic nod, Harry rose from his seat. "Thanks, professor." And left.
Staring off into the Quidditch pitch, Krum unclasped his hands from the armrests of his hands where he had been gripping the wood so tightly he thought he might splinter the wood. Why did he always feel so ambivalent when the subject of Harry came up? Half of him felt protective; knew that this boy was the wizarding world's last chance. But what was the "wizarding world" to him? The other half wanted nothing more than to wring his little Gryffindor neck.
Damn Potter.
-
11 September 1996 -- Great Hall
"You want me to what?"
"Try out for Seeker! Come on, Ginny, you'd be incredible!"
"Harry, I am a Chaser. Chasers don't just suddenly decide 'I'm going to be a Seeker today'. We decide what method we'll use to pound another Chaser's face in the dirt, not chasing after flying golden balls."
"At least give it a try, Ginny. He'll never shut up about it otherwise."
"If she doesn't want to do it, leave her alone about it, will you two?" Hermione exclaimed after a sip of pumpkin juice, Ginny making a relieved gesture in her direction as if to say 'Yes, thank you for not being an idiot!'. "There are a dozen other Quidditch obsessers that would be more than willing to do the job."
"Yeah well there's three dozen others who can't even get ten feet off the ground on a broom." Ron shook his head. "Just do it Ginny."
"You know what, fine. I'll try. But if I make a fool out of myself in front of the new professor, I will kill you."
"Oh, I'm sorry, hate to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend."
Harry twitched.
"Boyfriend? Oh, go snog with your owl, Ron." And without another word, Ginny rose and moved down the table.
"Now you've done it."
Hermione shook her head. He'd never learn.
"What? Oh, come on, like you haven't noticed her constant carrying on about him? She's practically obsessed."
"She's excited about Quidditch, Ron, and he happens to be an international player. That's all." Hermione rolled her eyes. "She's the same as you were."
"Yeah I seem to recall you 'carrying on' about Viktor Krum nonstop at the World Cup. What was it?" Harry put a hand over his heart and did his best to copy Ron's dreamy tone, " 'He's not just an athlete… He's an artist!' "
With a quick "Shut up, Harry", Ron returned to his food.
-
2 May 1998 -- The Chamber of Secrets
Over. It was finally over. He could hear the celebration. Feel it soaking into the earth, down, down, down, down into this cave of his fathers. His father…
The Death Eaters were dead. Dead, or they would be before long. And His death would be made into an international holiday, no doubt. A day of sheer happiness: joy that the monster was dead and gone. No one would miss the man. No one.
No one but his son.
His damned, idiotic, "head full of sawdust", tainted blooded, son! Should have let the dementors have him. Why did they have to save him; save him, use him, and throw him to the side. A weapon to be used and disposed of. They had promised him security, but all they wanted was his cold-hearted tendency to curse before asking questions. And so he remained: nothing more than a memorial to the relics of the past. The last Parseltongue. There was no family waiting for him, no reason to survive. His aunt and uncle had been killed the moment the Order had swindled him into being a part of their little rebellion, and Quidditch wouldn't be reformed for at least another year.
It wouldn't be long before the truth was out about him anyway. That sort of secret didn't stay dead. Even if the entire Order had been magically sworn to secrecy. Something would slip. Or someone would figure it out.
They were turning greener. Every time he let those vile words slip off of his lips, his eyes went a shade greener. He probably wasn't even recognizable anymore. So much paler because of how much time he spent in the dark, accent all but gone, thinner from being a prisoner, colder because of the cage that had been created around him… and those damn green eyes.
And it was all because of Him.
"Why," the word slipped off in the tongue now only he knew, directed at the lifeless body in front of him.
There was no response.
"Why her. Why my mother."
Still no response.
"WHY HER!"
The eyelids were closed, concealing the slit-like pupils, at last at peace. His wand lay tranquil at his side, barely being touched by the spider leg fingertips. Lord Voldemort was dead. And Viktor Krum close behind him.
And no one cared. No one would remember the Riddles - only the masks of monsters they wore.