The King Atoned

Harry Potter rummaged through the garbage bins, seeking any newspapers that may have been thrown out. He found old orange peels, now yellowed and crispy with age, a sock with a hole in it, and several other unimportant and smelly items. Sighing, he stepped back, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

A scuffling noise sounded from the alleyway not far from where he stood. He flattened himself against the wall, out of sight from the source of the sound. He clutched his wand through his clothing. With every breath coming quickly, but not so that he felt dizzy, he peered down the alleyway. Then he relaxed significantly. It was only Dudley and his gang, lighting up and passing the smoking stick around them, laughing hoarsely and making crude jokes.

Dudley did this often. He lied to his mother about going out to tea with his friends and instead went to terrorize the town. It was a favorite habit of his. If Harry way caught, nearly fifteen years old, he would have been ripped apart and beaten up. Harry slid back through the alleyway, further into the looming darkness.

As he stepped back, he felt something hard under his feet and something soft greet his face. He stumbled back and looked at what—or rather who—he had stepped on.

Before him, dressed in black robes, gaunt, and nearly hidden under a sandy mop of hair, Arthur Kirkland stood. He had his wand before him, a gnarled stick scorched in several areas. Even a part of his skin was discolored.

"Mr. Kirkland," Harry breathed. He had forgotten about the teacher what with the Tournament and the rising of Voldemort. The wand was not aimed in protection but in offense. Harry eyed it uneasily, stepping back. He could have possibly defended himself against Dudley, but one of the most powerful wizards of them all would be too much. "What are you doing?" Finding his voice at last, he asked the shaky question, fumbling for his wand.

"Don't grab the wand, Harry. You know you can be expelled for misusing magic. And besides, whose word do you think the Ministry is bound to believe in more: yours or mine?"

But as Arthur spoke, his voice began to decay, as though it was an organism going through a thousand years after death. He barely kept his watery eyes fastened on Harry. They continuously slipped. Harry realized that they had the same color of eyes.

"What are you doing?" Harry responded, letting go of his wand.

The tip of Arthur's wand wavered.

"I only wanted to… I can run… I can go back through with the rings and…"

"Sir?"

"Yes, I can run." Arthur said and dropped his wand. It fell to the hard cement with a clatter. The murmurings and guffawing of Dudley's gang suddenly stopped.

"What was that?" A slow, stupid voice rose in the silence.

"Probably a cat. Now what were you saying?" Dudley responded and the chatter continued.

Arthur bent down and retrieved his wand. There, he appeared like a man enslaved. It looked as though he hadn't seen sun or water or food in decades. A scar lined his neck, like a check mark, and his hair was mangled with hardened blood.

"Sir, what are you doing here? What do you want with me?" Harry said. From this position he didn't need magic to get rid of Arthur. He could have stomped on him or kicked him in the stomach and made a mad run for it. But Arthur looked too pathetic. Harry was sick with fear and confusion, unable to move or act, and hardly able to think.

"Harry, I came here to weaken you on behalf of Voldemort." Arthur said at last, rising at last. He was taller than before, but only slightly.

Harry said nothing, his eyes widening.

In the other alleyway, the gang smothered the cigarette and continued on, deciding what to rampage next.

"I can't do it." Arthur whispered urgently, grabbing Harry's shirt and tugging him forth. The light began to fade around them, becoming a smoky shade of blue. The sun was hidden by a tight knot of clouds. Arthur only appeared more ghost-like. "Call me a coward but I cannot hurt a child. I cannot hurt your fate which connects to mine! Maybe you'll understand the agony one day, but until then forget about me."

And then Arthur ran away. That was the last Harry ever saw of Arthur. He would later receive word from him, but that is in the far future.

Roughly at the same time, some days later, as Harry's encounter in the alleyway, Feliciano was royally punished for his act.

Dirty hands grabbed him by the scruff and arms, tossing him into a damp cellar. He rolled on the floor, huffing in pain, and looked at his prosecutors. In each one he saw, in each brown eye, the same eyes of the gypsy girl who he betrayed. But his adventure is another story, one too long and brutal to detail now.

Say have you heard from Arthur lately?

No way, man, he was here and then he wasn't. Last thing he said to me was… Oh what was it?

Was it anything about where he was going?

He spoke to me over a year ago last. Do you think he's still sore over what we did? We only gave him the cold shoulder.

I think—no never mind. It's an asinine thought.

Let me hear it, Francis.

Well, I think he somehow went into a daze when we spoke to him at last. Remember?

Yeah, I remember. He passed out and next thing we knew he was screaming.

Must be some curse.

Curses aren't real.

You'd be surprised, Alfred.

I'm not into this mumbo-jumbo magic stuff, you know.

Why?

I was betrayed by it.

But the conversation soon came to an end. The two men departed, leaving the room feeling uneasy.

As the tension rose in the Wizarding World, tension rose between the nations. No one seemed to know where Arthur had gone off to. Some had conjectures but most were ascertained that he had hid himself away in his house to hide from the problems. Some even suggested he had died, but the idea was quickly shot down when they noted there hadn't been a great disturbance in England.

When Arthur did come back, a full fourteen years after he left, he looked fuller, happier, and in a way brighter than before. No one ever found out exactly where he had gone, and he refused to answer any questions. The only question he did answer was never spoken out loud. That, he wrote in a letter addressed to Harry Potter.

Dear Harry Potter,

I congratulate you on your achievement not only in the Ministry but in the battle itself. Do not forget it. Lest you find it uncomfortable to think of, speak of it. There is no greater pain than forgetting suffering of the past. I will, however, answer one question.

The answer is this: I am not a good man.

end

Thank you very much for reading.

I hope I did not bore you.

I also hope that the meaning of this does not go unnoticed.

Thank you again

-PWW