When Harry awoke, he found that he was clean, wearing clean pyjamas, and had fresh clean sheets on the bed. The right leg of his pyjamas was rolled up above the knee, revealing that his injured leg had a thick bandage wrapped around it. Apparently his leg had not been one hundred percent aligned when he healed it. It was regrettable, to be sure, but under the circumstances it was the best he could do, especially considering that he was not in a position to be able to trust going to St Mungo's. There was no doubt whatsoever that if he checked in there he would check out only in the custody of either the DMLE or one of Dumbledore's sycophants.
Fortunately, he was in the devoted care of Dobby. And Freki too, come to think of it. While there was obviously little the massive wolf could do as far as helping him recover his health was concerned, there was no doubt that the magnificent animal had made all the difference in his fight with Greyback's feral pack. Even with his understanding of the ancient Nordic runes, their numbers and ferocity would have likely overwhelmed him.
Dobby appeared with a faint pop, a tray containing a bowl of beef stew and dumplings and a plate of toast in his hands. "Master Harry be's eating it all," he said sternly. "You's being sleepy-bye for two days now."
"Every drop," Harry agreed as he sat up and scooted back against the headboard, adjusting his pillow to cushion his back.
Dobby levitated the tray over his lap and locked it in place with a stationary hovering charm. Another snap of his fingers made a steaming mug of tea appear on the nearest side table. "Master Harry's goodly healthy tea be's Earl Grey with ginger-root, honey, and slice of lemony. You's being drinky-drinky all of it, and you's mug be's refilling when you's all finished. You's being drinking all of that one too." The little elf stood glaring at Harry with his hands on his hips, almost daring the young wizard to protest.
"Thanks, Dobs," he said. "I appreciate all your help."
He considered sending Dobby out to collect some Skele-grow potion but decided to wait. His leg was healed enough to move around now, and he would likely feel even better after some rest and good food. Most importantly, he didn't feel comfortable with the idea of vanishing his bones while he had to be prepared to react to any potential threat at any time. While somewhat of an inconvenience, his injury would not keep him from doing what he needed to, and he could perhaps see to getting it restored properly after he finished his work.
Of course, if he wound up getting killed it wouldn't matter anymore.
***EoD***
The mysterious disappearance of Fenrir Greyback was a significant point of concern for Voldemort, though he could not acknowledge to his Death Eaters as he truly felt. First, none of them trusted werewolves at all, despite his assertions as to their value. Second, and more important, he was unwilling to show anything resembling sentimentality to them as it could be perceived as a weakness. Acknowledging Greyback's value from a practical point was one thing, as a friend was something else entirely.
It was unlike the old werewolf to just up and disappear. Voldemort knew that he made his lair in Sherwood Forest, though, and so one afternoon he journeyed to the ancient woodland to try to find his friend.
He was astounded and concerned when he found that the forest no longer held the taint of desecration. Quite the opposite, in fact – the aura had regained its purity to a level that was almost holy, enough so that it caused him pain. The reminder that his physical form was little more than a cursed, undead golem was as unwelcome as it was uncomfortable.
Even worse, Greyback was nowhere to be found.
Upset and more than a little angry, he returned to Riddle Manor. Where the hell was Greyback?
***EoD***
Once Harry had recovered from his injuries, at least as much as he was able, he had to decide his next course of action. Voldemort was acting bolder – not surprising since the Ministry finally concurred that he had been resurrected after all and therefore removed any reason to keep hiding – and smarter as well. According to what Dobby had uncovered, he had gathered his remaining inner circle members to his father's manor house in Little Hangleton.
The problem was, as he saw it, Voldemort wasn't the real problem, only a symptom. Tom Riddle was the son of an inbred witch who barely had more magical strength than a squib and a nonmagical man who was enthralled for a time with what was laughingly called a "love" potion – as if something so pure and righteous could ever be decanted into a substance designed to bend someone to another's will. If the typical pureblood belief that they were superior due to their parentage was valid, then Riddle should have been weaker than his mother. The very fact that he was handsome, intelligent, and powerful revealed that belief to be an utter fiction.
Harry still remembered speaking with the parasitical dark lord attached to the back of Professor Quirrel's head. "There is no good or evil, only power and those too weak to seek it" – or words to that effect. He didn't really care what the grotesque wraith-thing had said exactly – it was bullshit then, and still was now. But it did reveal that Riddle was interested solely in power, nothing else. From that understanding, it was easy to see that he had recognised the fact that the old pureblood families held the bulk of the wealth and political power in magical Britain, and from there he had wormed his way into a position of influence over many of those same families by playing on their prejudices and pretending to be their champion. In reality, Riddle was an amoral demagogue, an expert at manipulation, who successfully conned a significant portion of upper-class society into branding themselves as his slaves. If it had been the halfbloods or first-generation magic users with the wealth and power, there was no doubt that Riddle would have ingratiated himself with them instead.
Frankly, at this point Harry would have been content to let them degrade themselves kissing Riddle's arse if the dark lord would have agreed to leave him and his alone.
That, unfortunately, was not in the cards. Even without that goddamn prophecy at play, Voldemort and his merry band of rabid psychos had inflicted too much personal damage to Harry for him to let it go.
The murder of Hermione alone would see him destroying every single one of the fuckers – or die trying.
So many of those old pureblood families had their financial bases in Knockturn Alley – at least those families that were the immediate problems. They would have to be dealt with at some point, considering that it was their greed and influence that created the environment for dark lords like Riddle to grow and thrive unchecked.
The only question was whether Knockturn Alley should be dealt with sooner or later. Taking care of it now would be a serious financial blow to Riddle's effort, but at the same time would send out the message that he wasn't just targeting Death Eaters anymore. On the other hand, his executions of Fudge and Umbridge had already made that fact abundantly clear.
After thinking about it for a few more minutes, he decided to go ahead and hit Knockturn Alley. With any luck he'd be able to take out more Death Eaters as well.
***EoD***
It was late at night – or more accurately very early in the morning – when Harry appeared in Diagon Alley, right in front of Gringotts. The bank was closed and the armoured guards that flanked the entrance during the day were gone now that it was night.
Keeping to the shadows, Harry climbed the steps to the large double doors leading into the bank and lightly rapped his knuckles on the entry. A few seconds later a panel slid open, eye-height to a goblin. He crouched down without complaint.
"The bank is closed, moron," the goblin on the other side of the door growled.
"I know," Harry replied. "I just wanted to give Gringotts fair warning because you were the only people who helped me when I really needed it."
"Oh?" The goblin's tone was still gruff but more respectful. "You must be Lord Potter then."
"That's right. I will be eradicating Knockturn Alley in a few minutes, and there may be some spill-over into Diagon Alley. I wanted to make sure that you were aware so you could take appropriate measures, just in case."
"And just what should Gringotts defend against?"
Harry shared his plan, and the goblin bared his teeth in a terrifying smile. It was always a pleasure to watch wizards stick it sideways to each other, especially to those particularly deserving. "Gringotts thanks you for your concern, Lord Potter. We will be ready."
The young man nodded and turned away, making his way down the narrow cobblestone street until he passed Eelops Owl Emporium. Across the street, between two shabby storefronts, lay the entrance to Knockturn Alley. The offshoot of the main alley was even narrower, much more grimy and disrepaired, and oppressively darker even without magesight. The broken cobblestone street sloped down at an angle that was just barely able to be navigated without stumbling, and random bits of garbage and unidentifiable muck littered the pavers and gutters. The decrepit shopfronts loomed overhead, appearing even taller due to the narrow street, barely wide enough to accommodate a small car. Barrels and crates containing trash or random goods were scattered and piled, occasionally stacked next to the grungy unpainted shops. Rats and doxies could be seen scurrying through the refuse, ducking out of sight when someone got too close. Harry was even sure that he saw a dire rat back up under a filthy tarpaulin, bony growths protruding from its enormous head.
He passed several shops with grimy windows, specialising in all manner of dark items, including the infamous Borgin and Burkes. There was a shop that focused on poisons, another that sold bones for necromantic purposes, even one that sold shrunken heads from the jungles of South America.
The alley took a sharp turn to the right, still going down though at a somewhat gentler slope, before turning left again at the same grade. A steep stairway went up at the apex of the angle with several shops on either side and a seedy pub at the top.
Harry followed the crooked alley down past another turn to the right, to the very end of the alley. Unlike Diagon Alley, there was a little activity, even at this hour. Mostly in the spaces between the buildings – technically alleys themselves, but few wide enough for a person to walk down and not have at least one shoulder brushing against the brick or wood exteriors of the buildings.
He knew there were a few hags that nested in some of these alleys – witches who had made pacts with unholy denizens, granting them more power but rendering them wrinkled, hunchbacked old crones with lank hair, yellowed teeth, elongated claw-tipped fingers, and cannibalistic tendencies. Fortunately, they tended to be so selfish and greedy that they would never submit to anyone, such as a dark lord intent on ruling the magical world. It was good that Riddle was denied followers of their power, but as much as he was obsessed with power, even he wasn't foolish enough to recruit followers who were just as likely to eat the rest of his followers as to fight his enemies.
He had no idea what happened when wizards attempted those same pacts, or if it was even possible. Nor did he have any desire to find out.
There were a few other unsavoury types out and about, each one cloaked and hooded the same as Harry. The one good thing about Knockturn Alley was that everyone minded their own business, so long as certain appearances were maintained. No one poked their nose into the affairs of others, mostly because they didn't want their own business exposed.
As he approached the final turn, he stopped in the middle of the narrow street, looking down the slope to where it ended at the foot of the steps leading up to a shady-looking apothecary shop. A single cloaked figure disappeared into one of the other shops, leaving the street empty for the moment.
Harry closed his eyes and visualised the rune he wanted, burning in darkness with an unquenchable flame. As he focused more and more on the rune it became more clearly defined until he could see a host of animals inside its burning radiance, both mundane and magical, all struggling to burst forth from the confines of the rune and consume everything in their path.
"Fehu," he whispered.
A moment later the apothecary shop exploded.
All manner of creatures made of fire, predators all, surged from the billowing fireball, up the street, diving into the neighbouring buildings and turning them into instant conflagrations. The growing roar of the flames, combined with the crackling of burning wood and the snaps of shattering glass almost drowned out the occasional screams, all of which were cut off in short order.
Harry glazed at the inferno engulfing the end of Knockturn Alley with a cold expression on his face, barely concealing the satisfaction he felt at witnessing the destruction of so much of the criminal underworld of the magical world. He couldn't help shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the situation.
Magical Britain historically had a continuing issue with dark witches and wizards, many rising to the levels of dark lords and ladies. Yet in spite of this irrefutable fact, the premier shopping district of the entire realm held a known offshoot that publicly catered to the practitioners of the dark arts – and not once in its history did the Ministry of Magic attempt to regulate it, much less shut it down.
Harry wondered how differently history might have unfolded had the Ministry taken a harder stance against Knockturn Alley. He doubted that it would have completely eliminated the trafficking of dark artefacts or the practicing of the dark arts, but by making it less accessible to the general public it would have had to slow the trade down, not to mention making it a lot harder and more expensive for an aspiring dark magic user to become a credible threat.
Even with the full destruction of Knockturn Alley he doubted that the trade would be eliminated, but at the very least there would be a serious economic impact. The fire he unleashed consumed not only the material, but also magical energy. Everything in its path would be utterly destroyed without appropriate measures, such as what the goblins of Gringotts had enacted, and from everything he'd seen the magical world had no concept of such mundane practices as the fire brigade or property insurance.
The flames were close enough for the heat to be uncomfortable, and he knew he had mere seconds in which to escape. He disappeared from the alley moments before the magical inferno swept across the broken cobblestones where he'd maintained his vigil.
***EoD***
The morning sun dawned over multiple plumes of thick grey smoke rising over a single block in central London. A mysterious fire had broken out somewhere in the centre of the block, catching several buildings along Great Newport Street and St Martin's Lane on fire as well. Even more strange was the rubble and charred timbers that had burst forth from the block's centre with enough force to surge out into the streets, toppling many of the structures that lined the sidewalks and cramming the roadways with burnt debris. The piles of rubble created further obstacles for the responding fire brigades, but fortunately that same street corner was also intersected with Cranbourn, Garrick, and Long Acre, thus providing four other avenues of approach along with the south branch of St Martin's. The intersection was filled with red and yellow fire engines with flashing blue strobe lights, a virtual spaghetti-like mess of firehoses running from the yellow-marked underground hydrants, and scores of black and tan uniformed firefighters. It had been a desperate battle against raging flames that just would not go out, and even took on the eerie shapes of animals. The fire was finally pushed back and ultimately subsided in the early dawn, leaving the streets awash in ash-choked water.
What the London Fire Brigade didn't know was that the fire had originated behind some extremely powerful space-expansion charms and wards designed to deflect attention away from said expanded space. The runically-enhanced fiendfyre cast by Potter had not only burned Knockturn Alley and half of Diagon Alley to the ground, but also obliterated the charms and wards in the affected areas, causing everything built in the expanded spaces to be forcibly ejected with catastrophic results.
On the magical side, the Ministry of Magic was in a state of panic. With the focus being on containing the fire (an effort that left scores of magic users suffering extreme magical exhaustion) it was hours before anyone thought to send out obliviators. Since all Ministry personnel had been called out to battle the fire, it was still longer before the first obliviators had recovered enough to start trying to contain the incident.
They were horrified to find out that they were much too late.
The spillover into the muggle world was much too large and catastrophic to fully contain, especially when they found dozens of reporters on scene broadcasting the disaster all over the world. The one saving grace was that the surviving portion of Diagon Alley (including Gringotts), along with Carkitt Market and Horizont Alley, were still behind the expansion and concealment wards, keeping them from being discovered by the muggles.
Minister Runcorn had a very uncomfortable discussion with Prime Minister John Major about the incident. The minister had no information to offer, but after having his hindquarters chewed off by his superior (though he'd never willingly acknowledge that fact), the PM agreed that it would be best to keep the truth behind the incident contained as much as possible. To that end, Major would contact the chief of each fire brigade involved and swear them to secrecy under the blanket of national security.
Director Thicknesse almost had a tantrum when the arson investigation was unable to determine anything beyond the fact that the fire started in Knockturn Alley. There was no spell residue recovered, no magical signatures, nothing. Given the utter destruction of all the magical items and wards, it was theorised that the fire wiped out all the evidence.
If the goblins seemed a trifle more smug than usual, no one appeared to notice.
Auror Tonks had her own suspicions, given what they'd uncovered so far from the other investigations, but since Thicknesse had declined to swear the oath Scrimgeour had required she could not trust him and so kept her suspicions to herself. She wouldn't dare breathe a word in the auror headquarters, not even in the secured conference room. It appeared that her two partners were of similar mindsets.
She and Shacklebolt also refused to voice their suspicions at the next meeting of the Order of the Phoenix.
Gathering his Order in a meeting room at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade because Dumbledore did not want his students anywhere around, and because his brother Aberforth would have broken his nose yet again if he asked to use the Hog's Head for a meeting place, the headmaster inwardly cursed Harry once more for denying them access to their former headquarters at… confound it, he still couldn't remember! Not that he displayed anything more than a cool, unruffled exterior to his underlings.
After opening the meeting, he informed them that from all appearances, Mundungus Fletcher seemed to have perished in the mysterious fire in Knockturn Alley. None of the Order members seemed particularly distressed about the probable death of the odious thief, but he called for a brief moment of silence anyway.
The headmaster then went straight to the subject of Harry Potter, adopting the mien of a sorrowful grandfather, speaking in a mournful tone of how far the lad had fallen. He eventually got around to asking if anyone had any new information on his whereabouts or activities of late, but no one had.
Auror Tonks was growing more and more disgruntled by the minute. When Dumbledore asked if there were any questions, she raised her hand. "I've go' one," she said.
"Yes?"
"I joined the Ordah ta read the Death Eatahs from the book," she said, tension in her voice. "So fah the only fing the Ordah's done is ta stan' watch ovah somethin in the Depa'men' of Myst'ries an' ta keep a school-kid in stir. We've 'ad exac'ly one ruck wif the enemy, an' tha' was s'posed ta be a bloomin rescue mission, but we lost sev'ral kids as well as me cousin Sirius. All the scrotes go' kilt, but it was still a fuckin disastah any way ya look a' it. Me question is, ah we evah gonna fight the wankahs or we just gonna keep sittin on our Germans?"
The old man sighed. "Nymphadora…"
"Aurah Tonks, if ya don' mind." Her tone suggested that he ought to address her according to her preference, whether he minded or not.
"…Auror Tonks, you have to understand that we have limited resources, which means limited intelligence. We have to be careful how we use that intelligence so as to not compromise those sources, especially those who operate outside the law or even within the enemy's camp."
"But all the intel in the world's no bloody good if ya don' use it!" she shot back as her hair shifted to an alarming shade of red. "Blimey, I didn' sign on ta be a bloody screw or a minder, I joined ta read the bastahds an' make a fuckin diff'rence! But this is all gravel an' grit! Specially wif ya not lettin us read em propah!" She stood up, shoving her chair back so hard it tipped over. "Fuck this, I'm done wif ya. Waste o' me bloody time." She turned and stalked out the door, leaving a stunned Dumbledore and Order of the Phoenix in her wake.
Except for Shacklebolt. He smiled inwardly as he too slid his chair back and stood, though he was calmer than his junior partner. "She's not wrong, Albus," he said. "We cannot hold those monsters back if we're forced to use nothing stronger than a stunner. All you're doing is ensuring our eventual deaths."
The old man shook his head. "No, Kingsley," he insisted. "We cannot stoop to their level, no matter the cost. They must be allowed to repent and change their ways."
"In other words, the possibility of a single one of those murdering terrorists seeing the error of his ways is worth all of our lives here. It's good to see how much value you place on us, Albus. Consider this my resignation as well. It seems you will lead us nowhere but the grave." Shacklebolt left the room as Dumbledore spluttered behind him. He hurried through the taproom and caught up with Tonks outside on the cobblestone street. If he had stayed just a little longer he would have seen both Hestia Jones and Sturgis Podmore, the other two aurors in the Order, also stand and tender their resignations.
"Sorry 'bout tha', boss," Tonks said, hunching her shoulders into the light evening breeze. "Jus' a bit cheesed off tha' the ol tossah keeps talkin a load o' cobblahs 'bout me cousin."
"I understand," came the reply. "Relax, you did the right thing. I turned in my resignation too. I fear that Albus will only lead us to destruction like he did fifteen years ago."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "So what'cha suggestin?" she asked. "The bleedin Ministry's not gonna give us the green light, not wif Runcorn an' Thicknesse runnin the circus."
"Our oath is to the people, and we will do all in our power to keep them safe. And Dumbledore is no longer Chief Warlock, so he cannot keep us from putting criminals down hard. Runcorn and Thicknesse are both puppets, and neither have sworn Scrimgeour's oath. We can use that – we can tell them that we do not recognise their authority so long as they are unsworn. If they want us to follow their lead, they must swear."
"They're liable ta get done up by the dark wankah if they do, an' so ah we."
"It's a possibility," he allowed, "but we'll still be in a better position to defend ourselves and the people if it comes to that. Just make sure you do everything by the book, record everything, and remember your rules of engagement. If wands come out, you may assume they will use lethal spells and you may defend yourself and others accordingly. Kill them if you can, maim them if you can't, and don't hesitate. They certainly won't."
***EoD***
A few days after his attack on Knockturn Alley, Harry sat down for a hot breakfast, courtesy of Winky and Bipsy, when an enormous eagle owl flew in through the owl wards. As the wards were restricted to Hedwig and Gringotts correspondence, it was no stretch to figure out that the goblins wished to speak with him. After accepting the letter, he directed Winky to provide an appropriate snack for the regal bird while he read the message.
Gringotts informed him that using the items already collected, they were able to triangulate on other items from the same source. At no time in the missive was anything said about horcruces specifically, though Harry had no doubt as to what it was talking about. It went on to report that another item had been recovered from a decrepit shack just outside Little Hangleton, and that there were two other items (including, it was believed, the actual source, or at least the remnants thereof) within five miles of the shack, but neither one was stationary like the others. A final item appeared to be in north Scotland, at a location that seemed to correspond with the location of Hogwarts, but it was hazy, for lack of a better term, as if it were not entirely on this plane of existence. The letter concluded by advising that Dumbledore would never allow goblins to access Hogwarts to search for anything, and asked if he had any ideas. A refund for that particular item would be issued, minus a nominal fee for actually finding it, and if Harry was able to recover it they would be happy to cleanse it (for a discount).
From what the goblins described, Harry actually did have an idea. Calling for Dobby, he showed the house elf the letter.
"Do you remember the bad magic in the diary Lucius Malfoy gave to Ginny Weasley?"
The little elf nodded vigorously, his ears flapping.
"Good. I think there be's… shit. I think there is another item in the come-and-go room with the same kind of bad magic. Are you still keyed in to Hogwarts' wards?"
Dobby laughed. "Master Harry be's spending much-much time with elvsies, yes?" he teased. "Dobby can be's finding this easy-peasy. Bad old master's nasty book had same bad magic as Master Harry's ouchie on his head. Dobby be's extry careful!"
Harry gave his little friend a tired smile. "Please," he said. "You're too important to lose, Dobs."
Dobby stood up straight and saluted. "Master Harry can be's counting on Dobby!" he said before popping away.
A couple of hours later Dobby reappeared looking quite dishevelled but wearing a triumphant grin. "Dobby be's getting it!" he announced, hefting a drawstring mokeskin bag.
"Excellent!" Harry exclaimed. "Are you alright?"
"Dobby be's feeling good," came the reply.
"Glad to hear it. What was the item?"
"Bad magic be's in pretty blue rock in Raven Lady's crown," he said. "Nice goblinsies can be's cleaning bad magic from pretty crown and not be's hurting it?"
"That's right," Harry confirmed. "We'll send Gringotts a message letting them know that you found it, and with their permission we'll send it over with you rather than risk an owl getting intercepted. In the meantime, I want you to get some food from Winky and Bipsy and then relax so you can rebuild your energy."
The reply from Gringotts was immediate, and so less than an hour after he arrived back at 12 Grimmauld Place with Ravenclaw's diadem, Dobby popped over to the bank to have it cleansed.
Based on the goblins' description of the last two remnants of Tom Riddle's fractured soul, Harry suspected that they were Riddle himself along with his familiar, the cursed serpent Nagini. That was fine with him. With the rest of the horcruces now cleansed, it was time to plan his raid on Riddle's home.
***EoD***
Tom Riddle sat before a roll-top desk illuminated by a single gas lamp that did little to dispel the late afternoon gloom. Dusty sheets were draped over other pieces of furniture in the study, as no one else was allowed inside and he wasn't one to waste time cleaning unnecessary items. A few weak rays of sunlight managed to filter in through the smudged, grimy windows covered only by dry-rotted, tattered draperies. As with the rest of Riddle Manor, he was unwilling to spend money on fripperies, as he considered them. Once his control over magical Britain was consolidated and the resistance was crushed, then perhaps he'd be willing to buy certain luxuries. In the meantime, the only gold he was willing to spend was on basic necessities and his campaign.
The destruction of Knockturn Alley made his frugality even more critical.
He'd already been hampered by the dual loss of access to both the Malfoy and Lestrange fortunes. The deaths of all male heirs had resulted in Gringotts sealing the vaults until next-of-kin could be identified. Much to his chagrin, both vaults were folded into the Black family vault due to the stipulations of the betrothal contracts between them and the Black daughters, Narcissa and Bellatrix. And the new Lord Black was none other than his nemesis, Harry Potter.
The subsequent murders of still more of his Death Eaters left him without access to many of the vaults he was normally accustomed to. Of those left, the Parkinsons were the wealthiest, though their fortune was a mere fraction of either the Malfoys or Lestranges.
The biggest problem was that of those followers remaining who were considered wealthy, few had sufficient liquid assets available to contribute significantly to his campaign. Their assets were tied up in various investments, such as real estate, businesses, commodities, and the like. While that guaranteed an income sufficient to maintain their lifestyles, it was not enough to fund a coup of the government.
Unfortunately, many of the businesses were in Knockturn Alley and dealt with various questionable items. Rare artefacts, potion ingredients, spell and ritual components… entire fortunes were lost in that disastrous fire.
The loss of Borgin and Burkes was an especially devastating blow. While neither of the proprietors were counted amongst the active ranks of the Death Eaters, both were sympathisers to the cause. In addition to donating a significant amount of gold to Riddle's war chest, they were shrewd if ruthless businessmen with a reputation of being able to get their hands on any magical artefact, no matter how rare or how dark – for an appropriate fee. While the shop looked dingy and run down from the outside, inside held millions of galleons worth of irreplaceable artefacts. Every last one was burnt to ash. Even the magic itself was consumed in the fire. Worse, Caractacus Burke perished. Old man Borgin (Riddle wasn't sure if the old shopkeeper even remembered his own given name) was over a hundred sixty years old, and while he was just as sharp as ever, he couldn't possibly have much longer to live. On top of that, his entire fortune (as well as Burke's) had been sunk into the shop. There was no way he would be able to start again in the time he had left, let alone properly train up a new partner.
Despite the losses, the fact that the Minister, the Director of the DMLE, and the Chief Warlock were all under his thumb helped. He would have been happier with a controlling percentage of the Wizengamot as well, but with the loss of the Malfoys (who had previously held the proxy votes for House Black, House Lestrange, House Dolohov, and House Rookwood – none of whom now had any surviving members), Crabbe, Nott, and Yaxley, the dark faction had lost much of its sway. The only members still left were Richard Parkinson, Normert Goyle, Cuthbert Selwyn, Tav Travers, and Eugenie Crabbe, who was standing in as regent for House Crabbe until such time as Vincent Junior was old enough to take the seat. Since Dolohov and Rookwood had no immediate next of kin, their vaults, along with those of many of the others killed by Potter in the Department of Mysteries, were still sealed, pending the discovery of the nearest heir. Only the vaults of House Crabbe and House Nott remained open from that terrible night, though young Theodore Nott had disappeared without a trace a few months back. The Yaxley seat still existed, though it was now held by Corban's oldest son Mycroft, who declared for the neutral faction, rebutting all attempts by the dark and the light to court him. Just as the Yaxley vote was now lost to Riddle, so to was their fortune. When Mycroft discovered the contracts for future Death Eater support, he immediately disowned his deceased father for treason and declared all previous contracts invalid for cause. Voldemort was livid when he heard that news, but there was nothing he could do about it.
In short, the votes of the dark faction were currently insufficient to make any changes he wanted; he did not have access to enough gold to bribe enough people in the Wizengamot to make those same changes, let alone to properly fill his war chest; nor did he have enough active Death Eaters to do much more than periodic raids. Granted, those raids had netted some gains, but his losses far outstripped his wins. He lacked the resources to mount an effective recruitment drive, and just forget about recruiting creatures like giants, vampires, and werewolves. The loss of his oldest friend Greyback was a devastating blow. All in all, a bleak picture.
Fortunately, some of his biggest enemies were gone and three of the most powerful seats in the Ministry and Wizengamot were his. It was still enough for him to keep chipping away at the foundation of magical Britain, but it would require the long game. That did not bother him, as he was the patient sort.
***EoD***
While Harry was not certain where exactly Voldemort was hiding, at least not specifically enough to apparate, the goblins had given him enough information that he should have little difficulty finding it. He didn't want to shift as that would likely put him right on top of the location, and arriving there without scouting it out first seemed foolish. The overgrown cemetery where he had been the unwilling guest of honour at the ritual resurrecting the mad bastard was undoubtedly in or near Little Hangleton, given the presence of the Riddle family graves. The graveyard was etched indelibly upon his memory – travelling there would present no issues at all.
He donned his usual armour before heading to Little Hangleton to explore, his axe hanging from his belt, his staff in hand, and his invisibility cloak around his shoulders. Freki looked at him expectantly as he collected his gear, and he nodded his agreement. His first thought was to go by himself as tonight's purpose was to merely reconnoitre, but remembering that the dire wolf could not be seen unless he chose to be seen saw him changing his mind.
Dobby had no desire to go, even though he asked to be allowed, so Harry bade him stay at Grimmauld Place and be alert to provide evacuation services if needed. The relieved elf agreed, and Harry shifted with Freki to the graveyard.
The early spring night was still gripped by the last vestiges of winter's chill, enough to leave a wet frost on the granite tombstones. The air was clammy and miserable with a hint of fog hugging the ground.
"Yeah, this is bollocks," he muttered, scowling as he looked around. He looked at Freki and shook his head. The massive wolf appeared to be laughing at him.
He scanned the area, getting his bearings. There was the grave of Tom Riddle Senior, the ground still disturbed from where his femur was torn from the earth; over there was the old decaying church that likely hadn't seen a service in decades; and right there lay the long-dead remnants of the fire that heated the cauldron from which rose the resurrected Voldemort. The cauldron itself, rusted over from a year and half's exposure to the elements, lay on its side several yards away.
A shiver passed down his spine in spite of himself, one that he couldn't fully attribute to the weather. The last time he'd been here was one of the most terrifying nights of his life. Alone, a friend just murdered before his eyes, tired and worn out from the third task, pain from that fucking scar burning through his head, helpless to stop the piece of shit who betrayed his parents from forcefully cutting his arm and stealing his blood to resurrect the monster who actually murdered his parents, then to be surrounded by enemies and tortured by that same murderer for their own twisted amusement before having to fight for his very life… well, it was enough to send anyone round the twist.
He quickly but quietly wove a path through the rough old tombstones, overgrown with tall weeds, browned and faded from the winter's icy grip. A hard-packed dirt path let to a wrought-iron gate in a stone wall, the black paint chipped and cracking at many of the edges, allowing the bare iron underneath to rust. Dried-out leafless vines entwined through the gate's metal bars and fastened to the crumbling stone and mortar of the wall. The seldom-used gate took a bit of force to push open and squealed from disuse when it finally relented.
Once he and Freki left the cemetery, the foreboding feeling that had threatened to suffocate them was almost gone. The path leading through the gate joined the main path that led from the lane right up to the derelict chapel. Further down the lane, nestled in a vale in the gently-rolling Yorkshire hills, lay the twinkling lights of Little Hangleton. Another faded path curved around the little church and behind the cemetery to a small, dilapidated shack. Across the draw from the shack on the next ridge over, Harry could see some of the most comprehensive wards he'd ever encountered. Even at this distance he could tell that they would be all but impossible for the average wardbreaker to get through. There was no doubt that Riddle was hiding under them.
The only question was what else was in there with him.
Harry set out across the moor, lit only by the half-moon that occasionally peeked out from behind the leaden clouds overhead. It was no time at all before his jeans were soaked from his knees down with the frigid condensation on the tall grass. The wolf padded along at his side, seemingly impervious to the damp chill.
A thin crust of rotten ice hugged each side of the stream at the bottom of the draw, and a slick sheen coated the few rocks that broke the surface. There was no way he'd attempt to use them to try to step across the stream. As treacherous as they appeared, he'd be surprised if he made it halfway across without breaking his neck should he attempt to do so. Especially with his gimpy leg.
He simply shifted to the other side and began the arduous climb through the trees lining the stream towards the wards. He was joined a moment later by Freki, who had leapt across the stream without effort and quickly closed the gap. Together they approached the crown, careful to stay well outside the wards.
The ridge was sparsely wooded – most of the trees grew in the draw alongside the rivulet – with little more than small, bare copses scattered about. The young man and the wolf drew near to just such a thicket near the wrought-iron fence and eased to the ground, ignoring the damp and chill.
The once-grand manor house was immediately visible thanks to his enhanced magesight. He could see no less than a dozen auras gathered around in a single room, suggesting that a meeting was underway. The taint of the Dark Mark was visible on each aura besides the one in front of the others. Another aura held an even darker cloud around it, though it held a much different flavour than the others, and hugged the ground. He suspected that this was Riddle's familiar, the snake Nagini. It suggested a worst-case scenario of what he might be up against when he conducted his raid.
There were another three auras in the manor that were untainted by Riddle's dark magic. They were on the upper level and moved little. They may very well be prisoners, which if true would add another layer of complexity to the situation.
There was something else, though – the wards were impressive, but he doubted Riddle would rely solely upon them. He looked around carefully outside the manor house but still within the wards. The answer hit him as he saw a pattern of distortions against the far inner surface of the wards.
Dementors.
Scores if not hundreds of them.
If it had been a warmer night, he would have noticed them right off. The bone-numbing chill that soaked deep even through warming charm hid the debilitating frigidity of the foul creatures, but now that he knew they were there it was impossible not to see them. Thankfully, he wasn't close enough for the demons to trigger the terrible memory of the night his parents were killed.
There were at least as many as he'd faced that terrible night back in third year, and likely many more.
Fortunately, he knew the patronus charm, but the problem was a distinct lack of happy memories lately.
Oh, Harry, he heard his favourite voice say in his mind. Haven't you figured it out by now? Happy works, but love is the true driving force behind the patronus. Think about third year – it was your love for Sirius, as new and uncertain as it was, and…
"My love for you," he whispered, letting it all fall into place. "Even though I didn't even know what it was."
The smile in her voice was undeniable. And if you could get a patronus that powerful back then without even understanding love…
"Then those dementors don't stand a fucking chance," he completed.
Language, but correct, she laughed.
***EoD***
A few days later, Harry felt he was prepared for his assault on Riddle Manor. He had a selection of potions made up for defensive purposes such as healing, energy, physical enhancement, as well as for offensive purposes such as explosives, flash-bangs, debilitating gas, and physical debuffs. He also took the time to carve a set of wardstones that would block all forms of magical transportation. He made sure to get a good night's sleep (a dreamless sleep potion helped), followed by a breakfast with extra protein and carbohydrates for energy that evening. He spent the rest of the day making sure his equipment was cleaned and ready, indulging only in a light lunch, and finally getting ready to head out as the sun began to set.
It was dark when he shifted to the draw below Riddle Manor, with just a thin band of pink and purple on the western horizon where the last rays of the setting sun lingered on the distant clouds. It was less humid than the other night, though still cold, and the waxing moon was still high in the eastern sky.
Using his magesight, he peered through the wards once more. This time he saw only five tainted auras, including the smaller one that must be Nagini, as well as the three untainted ones. The dementors were as thick as he'd seen the other night.
He drew the invisibility cloak tightly around him and primed a wardstone, anchored it in the ground outside the fence, and disillusioned it. He shifted to another edge of the property, outside the wards but in direct line of sight with the first wardstone, where he primed and anchored the next one. He repeated the process two more times, forming a box around the existing wards, and activated the fourth wardstone, careful to stay on the inside. The arcane barriers burst forth and connected to the primed stones on either side before flowing through and contacting the first stone. Curving up and inwards, the new wards created an impenetrable barrier above and around Riddle's wards.
Though the wards surrounding the manor were among the most comprehensive he'd yet seen, he could identify no less than thirty-two flaws that one such as himself could exploit. Without a moment's hesitation, he slipped through the nearest gap and emerged on the other side, the manor's occupants none the wiser.
Once inside his enemy's wards he could see the dementors clearly, floating overhead like a multitude of grim reapers. Shrouded as he was within the folds of the cloak that not even Death's cold gaze could penetrate, certain tracking charms applied by certain meddlesome headmasters notwithstanding, none of the demonic monstrosities could pinpoint his location. They collectively grew more agitated as they could sense some kind of presence but could not locate or identify whatever it was.
A grim smile was pasted on Harry's face as he remembered the flow of magical energy that accompanied each manifestation of his patronus. He concentrated on that feeling, recalling the draw from his very soul and the fizzy sensation as the energy pulsated down his arm and through his wand, materialising in a ghostly, blue-white stag. As he felt the building energy thrumming in his chest, he closed his eye and focused on his love for Hermione. The heartache of her loss leapt forward in his consciousness, but rather try to deflect it he grabbed hold of it and pulled it close, revelling in the sense of her, accepting the bitter sting of her loss along with the wondrous immortal life of her soul – the warmth of her touch, the acuity of her prodigious intellect, the care in her gorgeous brown eyes, the love and adoration in her smile and in her kiss. The love he bore for her fused with the desolation of her loss and the synthesis of the conflicting emotions poured into the buildup of arcane energy flowing from his core that he yet held at bay. Raising his hands before him, he could see them beginning to glow an eerie pale green even as the hairs on his arms stood up, tiny arcs of static electricity crackling across their tips.
And then, almost sighing with relief, he released the raw power.
Between his outstretched palms grew a pale green-white singularity of energy. From the sphere lunged an enormous stag, at least twelve feet at the shoulder. Flesh hung from its skeletal frame in tattered strips, exposing bones underneath. Its feet appeared wreathed in flames and feral eldritch light burned in its cavernous eye sockets. The stag threw back its mighty head and bugled a terrifying challenge in a tone that seemed to echo through unseen long, marbled corridors.
Even the dementors froze at the sound.
Then, lowering its head and thrusting its impressive rack of antlers forward, the stag pawed the ground and charged.
The ghostly apparition lunged forward, leaving the ground, and flew through the air, impaling the first dementor on its antlers. The foul demon shrieked in agony as the stag viciously shook its head, savaging the creature with its horns until it disintegrated into dust. As the rotten cloak it wore fell to pieces and scattered to the ground like flakes of ash, scores of tiny golden motes of light escaped the disintegrating corpse. Most ascended into the clouds before drifting away and disappearing, but a small handful floated off in the direction of London.
As the dementor fell to pieces around it, the stag lunged towards its next target and repeated the process, with similar results. Constrained by the wards, the dementors wailed in vain as Harry's patronus tore through them like tissue.
As his stag lay waste to the dementors, Harry continued his way around back behind the manor, limping as he leaned on his staff. He neared the back door as one of the auras inside quickly moved in his direction. He moved to the side of the stoop and readied his staff, waiting for whoever it was to appear.
The screaming and wailing of the dementors awaiting their impending slaughter, helpless to flee before their doom, almost drowned out the creak of the back door opening. A dark-haired main peered out and up into the sky, not comprehending what he was seeing. "What the he…"
His statement would remain forever unsaid as Harry's staff whipped around and smashed the man (Dirk Gibbon, he recognised from the memories he'd taken from other Death Eaters) across the face, knocking out his front teeth, crushing his maxilla under his nose, and knocking him unconscious. Harry stepped over the body as he entered the shadowy interior, giving the stunned Death Eater a cursory glance as he did so. "Uruz," he whispered as he passed by. Gibbon's head immediately flattened in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter, as if it had been crushed under the massive hoof of an unseen beast.
He didn't bother ripping the names of Gibbon's cell from his mind. After tonight it wouldn't really matter so much anymore, and the next stage of his campaign would wrap it up for good.
There was a sudden movement in the doorway in front of him and he stepped to the side just in time to avoid a sickly green killing curse. "Isa!"he yelled in response.
As he continued forward, there was no further activity. Even the aura had turned dark blue, almost black. He went into the hall and saw Tav Travers standing there frozen.
Literally.
The Death Eater's skin was pale blue-grey and an expression of shocked disbelief was pasted upon his face. Every cell in his body was frozen at the exact same moment, preventing large ice crystals from forming in his muscle tissue, similar to if he had been flash-frozen, and thus eliminating the normal cracking associated with frostbite. Lungs unable to breathe, heart unable to pump, blood and lymph unable to flow, with even the aqueous and vitreous humours in his eyes frozen solid, Travers' perception was blurry and quickly fading out. The last thing he saw was a dark shadow move in front of his face as the butt of Harry's staff struck him in between the eyes, shattering his head into a thousand frozen pieces. The force of the blow toppled the headless body over, where it too smashed into countless fragments as it hit the floor.
Greyish-pink chunks of ice crunched under Harry's boots as he limped through, the thump of his staff marking time. The last three tainted auras were in the next room. Even as he watched, one of the two shrunk to be even smaller than the one he assumed to be Nagini's. The shrunken aura darted towards the doorway in front of him.
He suspected that this was that bastard Pettigrew in his rat form, most likely in an attempt to sneak past and attack from the rear like the fucking coward he was. As the aura slunk past, he thrust out with his staff and smashed it right behind where he figured the head was. Sure enough, it turned out to be a very familiar rat with a left front paw made of silver. The rat lay twitching and squealing with wide, frantic eyes and blood spraying from its mouth with every strained breath. Broken ribs tore through its fur while the bones of its forelegs were splintered from the force of the blow. The indentation from the impact had obviously shattered its spine between its shoulders.
Harry's smile was cold as he saw the state of the critically-wounded rat animagus. Even if Pettigrew could change back into his human form, the injuries he'd sustained would prevent him from doing anything that needed to be worried about.
Two auras left: Riddle and Nagini.
He stepped around the doorway, dodging a brace of killing curses. At the same time, a series of loud gongs echoed through the manor. Harry's smile turned feral. "Tried to summon help, did you, Tom?" he growled. "Sorry, they just got bounced into the next county." He raised his hand at the next barrage of spells and caused them to curve away through sheer force of will.
Even as he did so, Nagini slithered around through shadows in an attempt to flank him. Voldemort kept flinging spell after spell at him, not trying to score a hit so much as distract him from his familiar's movement.
"They'll be awhile responding, assuming any are left alive," Harry continued.
"Who are you?" the dark lord asked between spells.
Harry smirked at his enemy's lack of recognition. His hair had grown out a bit, there was a patch over one eye, no glasses, and he hadn't shaved in weeks, allowing a thick stubble to grow. Even if the hood of his invisibility cloak hadn't been raised, Voldemort still wouldn't have recognised him. In fact, he realised belatedly, he didn't look all that dissimilar from the main character in a movie he remembered watching from between the slats in the door of his cupboard years ago, about a guy trying to escape from New York or something.
He dodged another spell, swinging his staff out and in an arc that partially curved behind him. It looked for a moment that he'd lost his balance and was flailing about in order to maintain it, up until the moment the end of the staff intercepted the snake's strike from behind. Her mouth caught on the staff, she was helpless to move as Harry followed the momentum. He twisted his body as he twirled the staff just enough to keep it in the snake's mouth before slamming it to the ground, crushing her skull and brains from the inside as he did so.
A demonic howl accompanied by a rush of wind filled the room as a black cloud burst forth from the snake's mouth. The cloud took on a vaguely humanoid shape with burning red eyes before evaporating into the aether. The howling continued, and as Harry turned back to face his adversary he saw that it was coming from Voldemort.
The dark lord had staggered back against his chair and was now leaning heavily against a side table, clutching his head in pain. Riddle's cry subsided to a groan as he looked across the room at his enemy, eyes filled with hate.
"I am the one with the power to vanquish the dark lord," Harry said, answering Riddle's earlier question. "I'm not even sure if you're the dark lord of the prophecy, to be honest, but you are the more immediate threat. So, here we are."
"Do you… realise… what you've done?" Voldemort panted as he lurched back to his feet.
"What? Oh, the snake? Yeah, figured she was one of your anchors. Wanted to complete the set before dealing with you."
A chill of fear shot down Voldemort's spine but he brutally pushed it down. "Look at me!" he demanded.
Harry lifted his face while dropping the hood of his cloak. A frown marred Riddle's countenance as he stared at the unfamiliar man – at least until he saw the man's remaining eye. Only one person he knew of had eyes of that brilliant green. "Potter?"
"Right in one, Tom. Congratulations."
In spite of himself, the barest smirk played across Riddle's lips. Severus had come through with the information he needed, despite Dumbledore's reluctance. Truename magic required a level of power and focus that few modern witches and wizards possessed, plus required a blood sacrifice with each usage – a true sacrifice. Only the caster's blood would allow him or her to complete the spell.
As Harry stepped forward while loosening his axe, Voldemort drew a serrated dagger from the sheath on his belt and sliced his palm open. "Henry James Potter, son of James Charlus Potter and Lily Jade Potter née Evans," he invoked, his voice echoing as if in a sepulchre. "Hearken unto me." He held his clenched fist before him, blood dripping onto the warped floorboards.
Harry felt the compulsion lightly wash over him and curious, decided to play along for the moment. He stopped and allowed his visage to go slack, as if he were under total control.
The smile on Voldemort's face could not be hidden. "Kneel before me," he commanded, his voice returned to normal.
Harry mechanically knelt on one knee, staring blankly ahead.
This time Riddle actually laughed, a thoroughly unpleasant sound. "So, Potter," he taunted, "maybe you did destroy all my anchors. But in the end, you are my slave. I have your truename, and you will follow my commands. Oh, don't worry, you are too dangerous to allow to live for long, but I think a public execution of their precious saviour will solidify my rule over the masses. Until then, you will stay as you are."
The dark lord strode forward. Finally, it was practically over!
As he stepped up to pass his kneeling adversary, the staff whipped up and slammed into his throat, striking hard enough to crush his larynx. A flash of white light exploded before his eyes from the force of the blow and he found himself on his back, a stone-faced Harry Potter standing over him, staff pressed against his sternum. The boy's axe was in his hand, and before the fallen man could so much as recover his breath he felt a slab of fire pass through one wrist, then the other. Struggling to breathe through his ruined throat, he raised his hands only to find a pair of bloody stumps where they used to be. Turning his horrified eyes up to Potter found no remorse on the boy's face. "H… how?" he croaked.
"Dumbledore does not know my truename," Harry said, leaning his weight on the staff. He looked away for a moment, fixing his eye on a comfortable chair across the room. "Fehu," he whispered.
He did not want the raging inferno that he'd unleashed upon Knockturn Alley, and his invocation followed his intent. A single tongue of flame leapt up from the middle of the seat, quickly spreading to the chair's carven frame. In no time at all the wooden chair was engulfed in flame and the floorboards were starting to catch.
"What are you doing?" Riddle could just see the flames if he rolled his eyes back, and could definitely smell the smoke and feel the heat.
"We're going to enjoy watching your world burn down around you," came the reply.
The dark lord struggled to get up but the force pressing down on his chest was relentless. "You're going to burn up too, you fool!" he shouted.
"Am I?" The reflection of the firelight on the boy's face made him look positively demonic. He leaned in further, putting more of his weight on the staff.
The fallen dark lord could only wait in terrified apprehension. Flailing his bloody arms against the staff and against Harry's shins was an exercise in futility. He might as well have been beating against a Gringotts vault door for all the good it did. Trying to twist out from under the staff pinning him to the floor was equally useless.
Riddle could see smoke begin collecting on the antique lath ceiling, and the crackle of the flames was joined by hissing and sizzling as the fire melted the decades-old varnish on the floorboards. The heat inched ever closer, and then the flames met the faded and peeling wallpaper glued to the plaster walls.
At that point the flames blazed into a furious conflagration and Voldemort no longer had to strain his eyes to see it. The dull floral print of the wallpaper blackened in great spreading patches, the leading edges a jagged line of bright orange that writhed and curled as it danced across the wall, leaving the translucent rippling sheets of burning orange and yellow in its wake.
Sparks flew into the air as his chair collapsed in on itself with a crackling thump. The dusty old table was a sea of flame from where the vintage cotton tablecloth had ignited almost at once. Overhead, the ceiling varnish began melting and feeding the blaze as it dripped fiery globules on everything underneath. Strange ovoid flames crawled across the ceiling in a sheet as it spread, looking and sounding as if it was a living creature, roaring its fury as it devoured the room.
And through it all Harry stood silent, unwavering, as if he were an ancient god of vengeance. A strange eldritch spark in his eye caused it to almost glow with an eerie green luminescence – or was it just a trick of the unnatural firelight?
The fallen dark lord tried to curl in on himself to avoid the flames' inexorable march across the floor, to no avail. The force of the staff pinning him in place was relentless, barely allowing him to breathe, let alone move. He could still kick, though, and tried to flail his feet around to hopefully force Harry to ease up on the staff. The young wizard responded by stomping his boot down on Riddle's nearest leg with enough force to break the femur with an audible snap. The dark lord cried out as a lance of red-hot agony shot up from his thigh, tore through his groin, and stabbed through his core.
Still Harry said nothing.
The heat increased to unbearable levels and then the flames began licking against his bare scalp. He screamed as he jerked his head to the side, but it was no use. His tattered black robes caught on fire at the shoulders a moment later. The heat and pain grew more intense as Voldemort screamed and wept. As the flames ravaged his body with an unrelenting pain worse than the cruciatus, the last thing he saw before his vision faded forever was the visage of Harry Potter, surrounded by the spreading inferno, a stony judgmental glare on his face.
Harry thought he'd feel elation or at least relief as he watched Voldemort burn, but instead he felt… nothing. So many people had needlessly died for this bastard's pride and ambition, all of which amounted to nothing. So much intelligence, cleverness, and power wasted. The man who had once terrorised a nation died virtually alone in the burning ruins of what had once been a lovely country manor. Dust and ashes, nothing more.
He watched the corpse burn for a few moments. No longer twitching, the flesh blackened into charcoal and flaked away, the fats and oils in the skin sizzling and popping as they dripped onto the burning floor. No black wraith appeared this time, nor did any glowing red eyes.
Tom Riddle, self-styled dark lord Voldemort, was finally, utterly vanquished.
***EoD***
The shock of having his back broken caused Peter Pettigrew to lose his grasp upon his animagus transformation. The injuries and resulting suffering carried over to his natural human form, giving him no relief. His arms were both shattered in multiple places, three of the worst fractures actually tearing through the flesh of his forearms. He couldn't push himself up from his facedown prone position, nor could he roll over due to his broken back. The silver hand he'd received after cutting off his own in order to bring his master back to life seemed to have a mind of its own, twitching and wriggling as if to flee but unable to work itself free.
The paralyzed rat animagus panicked as the acrid stench of the smoke wafted into his nostrils. A flickering orange glow came from the next room like a harbinger of the world to come, at least as far as he could expect. It was about the same time that he could first see actual flames spreading across the walls that the screams began. The silver hand spasmed more frantically, and it took a few moments for his panicked mind to connect the dots. When he realised that the screams were from his master he would likely have pissed himself except that his paralysis had already relaxed all his muscles, causing both his bladder and bowels to empty.
He lay there in his mess, whimpering and unable to move as the inferno engulfed the other room with a roar and began spreading into the hallway. He could only watch helplessly as the fire consumed the end of the hall, a sheet of flame replacing the space where the doorway used to be. The screams ceased, leaving only the dull roar of the fire. A moment later the silver hand that he'd been so proud of as a token of his master's appreciation of his sacrifice melted away, leaving only a stump of red, raw flesh in its place. A moment after that, new screaming sounded out from the depths of the manor house, but where his master's screams were born of fear and anger, these could only have come from a soul in spiritual torment.
Peter saw a shadow move within the flame, something not flame. It was to his bewildered amazement that he saw a figure take shape and then step out of the conflagration, seemingly without a care in the world. He moaned in fear as recognised the same man who had broken his back. There was something familiar about him, something he couldn't quite place.
The stranger walked towards him at a slow to moderate pace that minimised his limp but still held a relentless sense of purpose. The man stepped to the other side of the hall as he walked past, not pausing or slowing down. As he passed by, Pettigrew absently noted that not even the odour of smoke lingered upon him. But where did he ;know him from? The shoulder-length black hair falling down and framing either side of his face, the stubbly beard darkening his jaw, the patch over one eye… It still eluded him. "Who are you?" he croaked.
The man paused and looked down at the paralyzed rat with his one good eye. A brilliant green eye. Pettigrew gasped as the man's eye colour registered, along with his hair colour and the strange cloak draped across his shoulders. "Har… Harry?"
The young man gazed at the filthy wretch who had betrayed his parents to Voldemort. A thousand scathing responses passed through his mind, but in the end he rejected them all. "So long, Peter." His voice was the very embodiment of bored indifference. Without another word he resumed his unhurried pace.
Behind him, Peter Pettigrew screamed as the flames stalked ever closer. "Don't leave me here, Harry!" he begged.
Harry ignored him. He continued down the hall, turning into a side corridor that led to the foyer where twin curved staircases led up to the first floor. The screaming from upstairs had been replaced by soul-wrenching weeping. His magesight told him that the three people were on the opposite side of the house from where the fire raged. He strode up the stairs, not changing his stride, knowing that he and those he chose would not be harmed by the flames.
Pettigrew's screams, on the other hand, grew more frantic and terrified until with one final agonising screech of pain they stilled forever.
Harry's stride did not falter once.
Upstairs, he followed the sound of weeping to a closed door. Opening it revealed a bedroom with out-of-date furnishings that were nonetheless clean and in somewhat decent repair. A distraught blonde girl was collapsed on the floor, sobbing her heart out. It took him a moment to recognise Daphne Greengrass, one of his Slytherin classmates. He'd never really spoken to her before, nor she to him, but she'd also never been one of his tormentors.
Nor mine, he heard Hermione say.
"Daphne," he said, his voice gentle.
The stricken girl looked up, a look of desolation on her face. She didn't speak, but the expression on her face told him most of what he needed to know.
"Don't speak," he continued as he stretched out his hand to her. "You're safe now. Let me look into your memories and see what happened, okay? No one will hurt you anymore."
She still said nothing, but neither did she look away. He could see recognition reflected in her brilliant blue eyes and even a measure of pleading acceptance – as if she was desperate to have someone know her story.
Cupping her cheek with a tender hand, he stared into her eyes and allowed his consciousness to slip inside her memories.
She had been held captive for months, kidnapped from Diagon Alley by Corban Yaxley and brought to this hellhole where her ceaseless nightmare began. He watched as she stood before the dark lord and threw off his imperius curse, only to succumb to the invocation of truename magic. His heart went out to her as he bore silent witness to the horrific memories as she was forced to brutally murder her best friend, bring her younger sister to be imprisoned in this wicked den, and endure slaving away for the dark lord and his minions. She was also tasked with caring for the prisoners – her sister Astoria as well as Garrick Ollivander, the wandcrafter. The one sliver of good fortune was that neither she nor Astoria were forced to service their captors physically – despite their captivity both girls still maintained their virtue.
Harry came back to himself and pulled her close as she collapsed weeping into his arms. "Yaxley is dead," he murmured. "I took his head myself. Voldemort's corpse is burning to ash right now as we speak."
Her arms tightened around him as she heard his words, and then she took him by surprise by rising up and pressing her lips to his. There was nothing lustful or flirtatious about her kiss, just pure gratitude and desperate need for human connection after months of living in hell. "Thank you," she finally whispered.
"You're welcome," he responded in kind. He held her for a moment longer before easing his embrace. "Let's get your sister and Ollivander, and then get the hell out of here."
She nodded her agreement and grabbed his hand, refusing to let go. She led him to the rooms where the other two were imprisoned, and after setting them free the quartet descended to the ground floor. Astoria had simply been locked up in her assigned bedroom and fed twice a day, but Ollivander had been interrogated on multiple occasions as to the incident that had occurred between Voldemort's wand and Harry's on the night of the dark lord's resurrection. Voldemort had not appreciated what he had been told, especially as it meant that Harry's will was stronger than his own, but he had refrained from torturing the old wandcrafter. Nevertheless, the months of almost solitary confinement and barely-adequate food had taken their toll.
Downstairs was almost completely engulfed in flame by this time, and the upstairs areas were catching. With nought but a thought, though, Harry opened up a bubble of clear air that passed through the flames with them, even decreasing the surrounding heat. The three prisoners, after initial reluctance, followed close behind. They passed the remains of the other two Death Eaters he'd killed and out the back door, where his patronus was finishing off the last of the dementors. He stood there outside the manor house leaning on his staff at a safe distance, along with the three released prisoners, and listened to the unearthly howls of the doomed dementors. He waited for the spectral deer to finish its annihilation of the soul-devouring monsters and return to his side before turning back to the blazing manor house.
The fire had spread to the peaked roof by this time, launching great sheets of crackling flame far into the night sky, contained only by the wards Harry had erected. The quartet could hear the creaks and pops of the timbers as the frame contracted and expanded, accompanied by the occasional shattering of the glass windows. A loud groaning filled the air followed by a whumph as a large piece of the upper floor collapsed somewhere inside the inferno. Some of the walls began to bow out as their structural support weakened, adding their own cracking and groaning to the cacophony. One wall gave way in a shower of broken stone and burning timber, followed by the roof slowly collapsing, sending a million sparks into the air like an enormous swarm of fireflies. Other walls collapsed, adding to the noise and devastation, until there was nothing left except a pile of burning rubble punctuated by broken corners of mortared stone and still-flaming spires of shattered timber beams anchored in the debris.
The original wards set up by Voldemort were long gone, leaving only the ones generated by Harry's runic wardstones. Now that the fire started to die down, he felt that his work here was done. Leaving the uneven mossy bricks of the path that meandered through the overgrown back garden, the young man returned to the nearest wardstone and dropped the barriers. He deactivated each stone, returning them to his mokeskin bag of holding, and dismissed his patronus.
During this time, Daphne did not let go of his hand once, clutching it tightly as if it was the only thing keeping her sane. She breathed much easier once she saw the collapse of the manor, but she would need many months of meeting with a mind-healer before she would be able to fully move past her ordeal. The knowledge that her sister had not been tortured or abused in any way beyond the kidnapping and imprisonment was also a tremendous help.
After one last look around at the pile of smouldering rubble, the monument of destruction to one of his oldest enemies, Harry instructed Astoria to take Daphne's free hand and Ollivander to take the younger girl's. When they were all joined together, he shifted to St Mungo's and left them there with instructions to owl him the bills.
***EoD***
Orson Flint groaned as he slowly opened his eyes to see a grey early morning sky overhead. Every bone in his body ached, and the slightest movement sent new jolts of agony through him. He slowly sat up, ignoring his pounding head, and looked around in an attempt to get his bearings.
He was on a grassy slope overlooking an odd rectangular pond with a narrow wood-line and fields further down the hill. An unknown city lay in the distance on the other side of the nearest field. A dirt path to his right led up to a small octagonal tower, built in a medieval style with a colonnade around the base, but in surprisingly good overall repair. There was a hole towards the top of the colonnade and a scattering of bricks on the ground between that part of the tower and were he'd awoken in a crumpled heap. It looked for all the world like he'd hit the tower a glancing blow after being flung an unknown distance through the air. As bad as he hurt all over, he could well believe it. Behind the tower, the hilltop stretched out into rolling, empty moors for as far as he could see.
He had no idea whatsoever just where he might be.
A wave of nausea swept over him as he gained his feet, causing him to double over, hands on his knees. He dry-heaved a couple of times but did not otherwise sick up. Involuntary shivers swept through him, not immediately cause by the chilly, dewy morning, as he regained his composure. He slowly turned his aching body towards the damaged section of the tower as if it held the answers he was looking for.
It didn't, of course.
The last thing he remembered before awakening here was the burning sensation in the skull tattooed on his left forearm, Lord Voldemort's universal signal to attend him at once. He'd thrown on a cloak, grabbed his wand, and apparated to his master's location – only to slam unexpectedly into an energy barrier that might as well have been steel. He'd blacked out during the rebound, amplified by the backlash of his own expended energy as it impacted and reacted to the strange wards.
Perhaps it was just as well that he'd blacked out. He'd heard stories of people who'd retained consciousness through a ward impact rebound and wound up shattering a substantial percentage of the bones in their bodies. Few had ever survived. Unconscious people tended to survive much more often, even if they were still banged up a bit. If those stories were true, anyway.
Given the circumstances, he was inclined to believe them.
His robe and cloak were both ripped, frayed, and tattered, not to mention wet and muddy. To make matters worse, his wand was missing as well. He staggered towards the tower along the trail of broken debris, hoping against hope to find it in the grass. His initial exultation when he did find it was immediately crushed when he saw that it was broken into no less than three splintered pieces. He was not powerful enough of a wizard to perform any kind of wandless magic, let alone wandless apparation.
Sighing dejectedly, Flint rolled up his left sleeve. Maybe he could signal his master that he needed help. Sure, the dark lord would likely be upset with him, but he had no other choice. He didn't even know where in Britain his own house was, since portkeys, apparation, and the floo made it unnecessary to know.
That would be something he'd change, though.
He froze as he looked down at the unblemished flesh of his forearm. The Dark Mark tattoo had completely, utterly disappeared. Even the faded remnant that had yet remained after the dark lord disappeared in 1981 was gone. What could that mean?
A sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, he sank down into the wet grass in the shadow of the tower. He was lost and alone, and with his wand broken beyond repair he had no way to return home.
The rising sun in the east did nothing to brighten his prospects.
***AN***
Knockturn's End: The Beginning is the End is the Beginning by Smashing Pumpkins
Patronus of Desolation: Kvit Hjort by Wardruna
Voldemort's Demise: The Same by The Hu