„In the name of the British Ministry of Magic. We have summoned you here to witness an execution."
Jeremy Taylor had never taken a life. Considering the loathsome ceremony they had built around what was to be a simple execution, he did not really think he ever wanted to kill. If you're gonna do it just do it. Get it over with, for Christ's sake. He hadn't met many of his British colleagues, but the Aurors in charge of Azkaban were a grim lot, even for this line of work. Despite being regularly rotated, the evil that tainted this place still reverberated through the halls. The black walls had absorbed it, the Aurors breathed it every second they were here, at night even the stars seemed shaken in their movements through the sky above Azkaban. No wonder that gloom weighed so heavily on their minds. The man who had just read out the declaration looked particularly troubled, repeatedly putting his left hand in and out of the pocket of his long brown coat, identical to the one Jeremy himself was wearing. The uniform of an Auror.
The Excruciator's accomplices – those they managed to catch, at least – were Americans all. They had received their sentences, leaving only Greymist, an immigrant, to be dealt with by the British Ministry of Magic. As the man who captured him, Jeremy felt obligated to see his duty through to the end. So he stood there in the center of the courtyard built for these executions, and surrounding him on every side were the Aurors, lined up and waiting against the walls for the man of the hour.
„Let the prisoner be brought forward!"
Greymist entered a few moments later through the same doorway Jeremy had walked through earlier, the only way in and out of this courtyard. This was the first time he saw him in daylight, flanked but untouched by the guards, and Jeremy could now truly appreciate the terrible realization he had that night, over half a year ago; that the two of them belonged to the same generation, yet had turned out so differently.
Greymist was short where Jeremy was tall. To compensate he worked out and became somewhat muscular where Jeremy was skinny. Ghostly pale where Jeremy was tanned. He had allowed his blackish–brown hair to grow almost entirely unchecked where Jeremy kept his blond hair in a slicked back undercut. Of the two Greymist seemed to be in prime shape, while Jeremy's side ached at the sight of him, as if he had never pulled that metal shard out of his body. During his time in Azkaban Greymist had grown out a beard, and this was the first time that Jeremy, a Catholic, was unsettled by his physical appearance, for he strode forward to his execution Christlike in looks and mannerisms both, with quiet dignity and a raised head.
Jeremy knew of another dark wizard, defeated some three years before his birth, the one Greymist was most similar to. Voldemort, also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle. Like Voldemort, Greymist wished himself to have subjects and servants, and to be called Dark Lord, and to be a master over other wills. There were two crucial differences, however. Voldemort feigned to his followers that he desired to go forth and order things for the good of wizardkind, while inwardly seeking only power. Greymist however, truly believed the things he was saying. Another difference was that Voldemort was physically intimidating in his own way, tall and monstrous. Malachi Greymist was neither of those things, in fact Jeremy wagered that he looked the part of a mighty dark wizard more than Greymist ever could. Yet this massive gathering of Aurors felt uneasy around Greymist and not the other way around.
The secret was in the eyes. There, as always, dwelt Greymist's particular brand of quiet madness. Six years ago he was working as a private detective, making connections with the police force that would prove so useful later on. The cops called him Boss. A joke, of course. Greymist held no official position in the police and never tried to be one of them, but the fact that the non–wizards of all people would choose to give him that nickname... Of course, if pressed on it, those non–wizards would probably not be able to give an answer as to why this completely unimposing young man was worthy of that title. Maybe he put them under a spell of sorts? Or maybe they saw in his eyes the same thing Jeremy had seen that unsettled him so; a terrible envy and ambition, delusions of grandeur, of being divinely ordained to rule, and the will and intellect that would use every resource at its disposal to make sure those delusions became a reality.
It was a cold Thursday afternoon on December 26th, and Greymist was wearing a robe so white it might as well have been emitting its own kind of light. As he passed by Jeremy they exchanged gazes – and sure enough, there was still that madness within those grey–green eyes, for all his outward serenity. He went on past Jeremy, standing to his left, waiting for the Auror in the center of the courtyard to resume reading his sentence.
„Prisoner before us, you have been tried and condemned of crimes we could scarcely believe a young man of such intelligence to be capable of committing." Greymist remained composed, even though he knew these would be his last moments on earth. As a matter of fact, Jeremy had never seen him be anything other than serene. Whether held at wandpoint, or imprisoned with his allies scattered and defeated, the well of insanity concealed within him remained just that – concealed.
„Thousands died, by your own hand and by your command, and had it not been for the tireless efforts of our Auror comrades abroad, one of them still with us today–" the Auror looked up and nodded at Jeremy, who returned the nod „–you might have escaped justice and murdered thousands more. Your efforts to establish a totalitarian city–state, to reign in blood as a self-proclaimed dark lord, have today brought you to the end you so richly deserve. Let all who envy your thirst for power take note of your fate." At this point the Auror looked up again and to his left, to address the only man allowed to carry a wand within the premises.
„Executioner. In the name of the Ministry of Magic. Death to Malachi Greymist."
Jeremy could not recall what the spell was, what was the gesture the executioner used. He had seen enough death for a lifetime, and at this crucial moment he looked away. All he saw was Greymist standing still one moment, eyes closed – and in the next moment he was on the floor, a lifeless body already being picked up and carried off to be buried at the nearby cemetery. And though he hadn't seen the spell, hadn't been the target of it, he could still hear it echo like thunder. He thought he smelled ozone.
The body of Malachi Greymist had barely come to a rest against the icy stone floor, and already the Aurors were departing the scene of execution in an orderly line, leaving Jeremy Taylor alone to reflect on what he had just seen. Well, failed to see. He stood there for perhaps a dozen more seconds, contemplating.
As far as he knew, Jeremy was the first Auror to realize something was wrong when Seattle went dark. He tried contacting his family there to no avail. He tried entering the city physically and the next thing he knew he was laying on the side of the road with seven hours of his memory missing. It didn't take long for Malachi Greymist to show his hand – two days, in fact – and five days later Jeremy volunteered to join a task force of Aurors that would infiltrate Seattle. Of the ten, only Jeremy survived long enough to take Greymist down. The barely healed wound in his side was a constant reminder of that night for half a year now.
„For all those who died. For my friends," Jeremy whispered, staring at the spot where Greymist had stood not so long ago, trying by his will and his memory to bring the wannabe dark lord back to life just so he could get a second chance at watching him die. For all the things he had done, all the things he had planned to do, one death was too kind. But at last the young Auror gave up on this foolish fantasy, turned and walked away.
That night he dreamt he was a man with the head of a dragon, chasing a dragon with the head of a man through a never–ending series of hallways in which every door was locked except for one.