The Last Death Eater
By: JA_Japster
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.
Voldemort is dead, but his legacy lives on. Though his legions of followers have been either killed or captured, one dark disciple lives on, obsessed with only one thing: the death of Harry Potter.
Chapter One
Perfect World
Harry watched as the Hogwart's Express departed into the distance and with a sigh, turned to Ginny who was standing nearby, watching the same train disappear into the horizon with a look of bittersweet sorrow on her lovely face. He could not help but smile as he wrapped his arms around his wife's waist and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She glanced up at her husband and tried to smile bravely for him, but the uneasiness that lurked in her eyes was all too evident. It would fade in due time as the days melted into weeks, but the worry in Ginny's eyes would never fully disappear into their children arrived home safe during the Christmas holiday. That was just the way she was, every bit the loving mother that her own mother had been to all her children.
"Do you think Albus will be alright?" Ginny asked her husband.
"I think he'll be just fine. He has his brother to watch after him." Harry said confidently.
She sighed. "That's what I'm worried about."
He laughed and unconsciously, his hand tousled his unruly black hair, momentarily revealing the lightening bolt shaped scar on his forehead. The scar had not hurt in over nineteen years now…
Harry Potter's eyes snapped open, his body tense and alert as he was jarred from his sleep. Already his hand had gripped his wand from beneath his pillow, and it took all of his self control not to whip it out and hex whoever happened to be nearby. It took him a second to relax, to assure himself that the days of Death Eaters trying to kill him in his sleep were over, and that the paranoid, constant vigilance he had been exercising for the better portion of his life was unnecessary. Still, it was with considerable effort did his hands relax its tight hold on the pommel of his wand and extract itself from underneath his pillow.
He sat up and fumbled for his glasses. It was still dark outside, and Ron's loud snoring in the bed next to Harry's told him that it was still far too early to be waking up. Exhaling slowly, he flopped his head back onto his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. His thoughts wandered back to the dream he had left only moments ago, and as he did, a small smile crossed his lips.
It had been a wonderful dream. He was married to Ginny, they had children who would attend Hogwarts just like they had, and best of all, no one was trying to kill him anymore. It was hard to imagine a world without Voldemort -his entire life that was the only world Harry had ever known- but if the paradise Harry had envisioned was going to be anything like the future, that was perfectly fine with him.
"I'm going to marry Ginny." Harry whispered into the night. He did not know why he chose to say that, but it sounded nice in the early morning quiet. It was a silly thing to say really. He was only seventeen and Ginny was only sixteen. As Mrs. Weasley would quickly tell him if Harry was ever dim enough to ask, they were far too young to even begin contemplating marriage. Still, it was a nice fantasy, no matter how remote it might be at the time.
"What was that, Harry?" Ron mumbled, groggily opening one eye and looking at Harry. "Did you say something?"
"Nothing, Ron. Go back to sleep." Harry said. Ron was all too happy to comply, and a few seconds later, the familiar loud rumbling of Ron's snores filled the small room once again.
Ron was smart; sleep was probably a good idea if tomorrow was anything like the previous day had been. Dashing in and out of the Ministry of Magic, sitting through tediously long interrogations with Ministry officials as they vainly tried to chronicle the events that had transpired over the last two years. The war may have been over the moment Voldemort had fallen dead in the corridors of Hogwarts, but the hard part was just beginning. It was like Mr. Weasley had told them at dinner that night: creating messes was easy, but cleaning up afterwards was considerably more difficult. It seemed the adage also applied to wars as well. Fortunately, most of the adults had been through this once before when Voldemort had first fallen, but sorting through the destruction caused by Voldemort's reign of terror would take time.
Harry knew the issue of loyalty was high on the Ministry's list of things that should have been taken care of yesterday. Just like last time, innocence and guilt had to be determined. Who had been a willing follower of the Dark Lord? And who had been the victims, the poor witches and wizards unfortunate to have been tortured, tricked, blackmailed, or cursed into doing Lord Voldemort's evil bidding? And most importantly, who of the latter of really the former, the wolves hiding amongst the sheep?
For instance, just the other day, the former Minister of Magic, Pius Thicknesse, had been arrested. Formerly believed to have been under a powerful Imperius Curse, new evidence unearthed by the Ministry's Investigational Squad showed that perhaps Thicknesse had been a little too enthusiastic in his role. Perhaps Thicknesse was innocent, but it was too dangerous to accidentally release a Death Eater back into society -even Harry, who frowned upon the Ministry's strong arm tactics in the past, realized that.
Harry yawned sleepily. It felt so strange to finally be able to relax, to close hiseyes without worrying if, in his exhaustion, his warding charms may not have been cast correctly. No more Death Eaters, no more Dementors, no more Inferi, no more Voldemort. No more strife, no more death, no more war.
A world without Voldemort. A world without pain or suffering. A perfect world.
He closed his eyes, and before he knew it, he had fallen asleep again.
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Phyllis Haynes had always thought the surrounding area was haunted. There was nothing outwardly haunted about it -it bore none of the telling signs of demonic or supernatural activity like an eerie graveyard or an abundance of crows or black cats- but nonetheless she was convinced that there was indeed something amiss where she lived, something that could not be explained by natural means. It had been almost seven years now since she had left the city and moved out here. All her friends and family had thought her mad to do so, to move herself and her cats so far away from the city and into the middle of nowhere. It was not healthy they had all said, but Phyllis was determined to find the peace and quiet that the raucousness of city life simply could not provide. And she had to admit, if not for the firm conviction that her home was haunted, the spot she had found was perfect. Deep in the country side with the closest neighbors almost a mile away, Phyllis had finally found a spot where no one could bother her and she could live out the rest of her days in peace.
It was a beautiful, small, stone cottage that rested in the middle of an expansive grassy field that was normally healthy and redolent with beautiful flowers. As of late, however, the grass had faded to a peaky looking yellowish brown, and the flowers had withered. It was because of the sun, Phyllis suspected. The last several months had been unnaturally dark and chilly, odd for being almost summer, but now that the sun was shining again, it would only be a matter of time before the field reverted to its usual lush splendor.
It was a nice place, cheap too as the previous owners, an older man and his wife, had been all too glad to sell it to her. That was the first time Phyllis recalled thinking that something was not right. A cottage like this, while far from being built in prime location, was worth easily three if not four times more than what Phyllis had paid, but the owners had no interest in haggling. After the papers were signed, the couple had practically dashed for their car and before the ink on the signing papers had dried, they were already gone.
As time passed, Phyllis realized they must have known the place was haunted as well. She had never received any night time visits by ghosts -that was perhaps the only thing that kept her from selling the cottage like its previous owners had -but the noises she heard at night and the things she saw were borderline paranormal.
For instance, one time, several years ago, she remembered being out in the garden, watering the flowers, when she saw a blue car suddenly materialize in midair. That time she concluded that she had been out in the sun too long and had been hallucinating. But then, a few years ago, she could have sworn she saw two, laughing boys with red hair go soaring through the sky riding broomsticks. Broomsticks! It was like something out of a children's story! And besides, didn't only witches ride broomsticks? What business did men have riding them?
And sometimes, sometimes late at night, when she peered out the window, far, far in the distance, she could spot something that looked like a castle. Tall and gothic in design, the castle looked like something of the storybooks, complete with stone towers and even multicolored banners that billowed in the nighttime breeze. When she did see the castle, it was very faint and only was visible for a second before vanishing, but Phyllis knew it was there. She never dared to venture closer for another look -no, she was far too old for the foolish adventures of younger people -but she was certain that somewhere out there a castle lurked, a castle that was undoubtedly the source of all these abnormalities.
These last few days, however, had been by far the worst since Phyllis had moved in. At night, she heard explosions and people screaming. There was nothing indicative that this might be a celebration of some sort. No, the screams had been of terror and pain, the crying that echoed in the darkness full of sadness and mourning. Somewhere, probably in that mysterious castle, a battle was being fought. And then, only two days ago, the screams, the explosions, the crying -it all stopped.
Phyllis gave an involuntarily shudder at the thought, and hastily she sipped at her tea, hoping that the steaming liquid would help suppress the terrifying memory. Her, old, withered hands trembled as she put the porcelain saucer back on its plate. She was old, far too old to have to worry about things like castles, or wars, or even young men on broomsticks. Let the police or the military sort with those type of things. She was just an old lady who wanted to live the remainder of her life in solitude.
Crack
The sound made Phyllis jump. It sounded like branches breaking, but the soft swishing of footsteps wading through the sea of thin grass that surrounded Phyllis' home was unmistakable. Someone was outside, just outside her door. Trying to remain calm, Phyllis set aside her tea and hobbled over to where she kept her shotgun in the living room closet. She might have been mad to move out in the middle of nowhere by herself, but she was not completely stupid. More than likely it was just a rabbit out for a midnight snack in Phyllis' garden, or maybe one of the distant neighbor's hooligan children, but there was no sense in taking risks.
With practiced ease she loaded the antique weapon with shells supplied from a box in the closet. This was hardly the first time she had to ward off night time visitors, whether they were an imaginary intruder or prowling animals.
Clutching the shotgun close to her chest, she aimed it at the door and nervously yelled, "Whoever is there, go away! Leave me alone!"
At first, nothing happened. Silence and the gentle evening breeze was her only response. Whatever was out there had gone. Chuckling to herself, Phyllis lowered the gun. There was nothing to worry about. After all, who would travel all the way out here just to bother an old thing like her?
"Potter…" a voice rasped, shattering the fragile night silence.
With a shriek of alarm, Phyllis snapped the shotgun back up. "Go away!" She shouted. She glanced towards the kitchen where the phone was and thought about going for it. She could phone the neighbors, or even the police as useless as those pencil pushers were. For the first time in years Phyllis regretted living so far away from everyone else. No matter who she rang, help was still miles away. She might as well have lived on the moon.
"Go away! I'm warning you! I have a gun!" Phyllis screamed.
"Potter…" The voice said again, louder this time. It sounded like it was coming from just outside her door.
"I'll shoot you dead, I swear!" One of her cats meowed at her from where it slept on the carpet nearby, "And my friends in here have guns too!" she added.
Fearfully, Phyllis looked around the living room, searching for a place where she might be able to hide. She was under no illusion that if someone broke into her house she would be able to defend herself. Phyllis abhorred violence and guns -it was only at the insistence of her sister that she had taken the damn thing to begin with. Maybe if she hid, the intruder would be content to loot the place but leave her unharmed.
"Please," Phyllis wailed. "Just leave me alo-"
"Reducto!"
There was a blinding flash of light, and then her front door exploded inwards with the force of a jackhammer, sending the useless panel of wood slamming into the wall and showering Phyllis' home with shards of shattered wood. Phyllis screeched in terror and fell backwards on the ground. It was a bomb! Someone was attacking her with bombs! It was terrorists! Irish terrorists were in England attacking her!
Through the shattered remnants of her door, a man stepped into the house. He was not a particularly tall man, thin, and garbed in a black robe and cowl that hid his face from view. He was also covered in blood. His robes were drenched in it, and a trail of crimson dribbled on the floor after him as he staggered into Phyllis' home. In his hand was a thin, wooden object which he pointed at Phyllis like a knife.
"Where's Potter?" He demanded in the same rasping voice.
"Get out of my house!" Phyllis shouted, aiming the shotgun at the man. "I'll shoot! I swear I will!"
"Accio!" The man waved that stick of his, and Phyllis yelped in surprise as the gun was torn from her fingers and tossed aside behind the man. "Where's Potter?" He demanded, limping closer towards Phyllis.
"I-I don't know a Potter." Phyllis said. "P-please, take whatever you want. Just don't hurt me."
"Where's Potter, muggle?" The man spat.
Muggle? Had the man just called her a muggle? The way he said it, with such vehemence and distaste, it was obviously some sort of insult, but Phyllis had no idea what it meant. What had she done to this man to offend him? And who was the Potter that the man was so desperate to find?
"I don't know a Potter!" she cried. "P-please. I'm telling the truth!"
The man looked at her long and hard, his eyes burrowing into her soul as if examining the validity of her words.
"I'm telling the truth," Phyllis repeated "Please, don't hurt me."
Looking at the wooden stick in the man's hand, something struck Phyllis, and without knowing why she said it, she said, "You're from the castle, aren't you?"
Though the man did not answer, Phyllis knew the answer was yes. He was from the castle. He was one of those people that haunted Phyllis, just like the flying car and the two boys on broomsticks. He was one of them, one of the supernatural. And just like that, the last seven years of mysteries finally made themselves crystal clear. Looking back on it, recounting the unexplainable sights and the eerie noises she heard at night, it almost made sense now.
"You're a wizard." Phyllis whispered.
"Avada Kadavra!"
There was a brilliant flash of green light, and for one blissful moment, Phyllis felt at peace. And then there was nothing but darkness.
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Author's Notes:
Thanks for the enthusiastic response to chapter one -keep the reviews rolling in! As far as shipping concerns go, I
know a few were worried about the direction that the story starts off with. I hated the epilogue, and I disliked how
the book ended, but it did not seem right to do a 180 degree turn around on the story that Rowling has done such a
terrific job of creating over the years. It'll be a progressive shift in pairings, but it definitely will happen
though, so never fear.
Again, thanks for the reviews! That's what keeps me writing!