Unofficial Portkey Archive

Life and Times

Rating: R

Ship: HHr (main emphasis)

The (unlovely) procedure: all rights go to JKR for previous plot and characters, Scholastic, Warner, and whoever else has their hands in HP.

If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? - William Shakespeare

***

Chapter Fifty-Eight - Retribution

***

Two hours after Harry's death

Trafalgar Square

The call to arms for all able-bodied Aurors in the country has taken its toll on the Death Eaters. A war zone, Trafalgar Square has seen better days. The once busy destination now lay practically in ruins with not a soul aside from a high-pitched scream or an explosion. Clung to the overcast, dark sky laid still the Dark Marks, their serpent-tongues lashing down upon London as if to mock him.

Down one lonely alley a Death Eater has surrendered, but not given his chance. The Auror, more sophisticatedly skilled and with his prowess, takes advantage of the amateur enemy. By hands only, the white cloak tosses the Death Eater as if he isn't human, but a puppet and slams him against the alley's brick wall.

The sound of bone crunching echoes, and some of the brick chips off.

"…Disgusting, repulsive…!" The Auror picks the crumpled black robe off the ground, having him dangle freely in the air by his throat.

The Death Eater, still alive, but barely, fights, struggles to find air as he's choked. His eyes bulge profusely as he claws at the invisible force, the Auror's power suppressing his pipes. The Death Eater can't yell, even if he could, and gasps once, a second time, kicking his legs as tears stream down his dirty cheeks.

"Witness our strength-have the fear crawl through your murderous veins like marching ants to feast on your cold, unforgiving heart!"

A sound is heard in the stillness, resounding, like a sharp pebble skipping along the hard cement.

The Auror turns in haste, his other hand, his palm at the ready, feeling the force of his training relinquish from his fingers when-

"…That'll be quite enough…"

The sound comes from a wobbling, though rigid and sturdy, black cane. Clad in Ministry ensemble, though out of the environ's norm with suit and tie, the crippled man hobbles unhurriedly towards the prepped Auror. The Auror, feeling the might at his finger tips, that could easily snap a man's neck with just a flick of his wrist, lowers his waited hand.

"Sir?"

The uniform wearing male leans on his crutch, the cane, silvery at its peak within his own fingers, and places a hand on the apprehensively tensed Auror. "It's all right, son. Let him go."

He nods with care towards the Auror's perplexed expression.

The Auror, looking back at his captured enemy, still fighting, still clawing at the nonexistent hands enclosed about his throat, descends the hand and drops the black robes in its heap. One can hear the Death Eater panting, spitting up, and sucking in as much air to satisfy what he lacked.

"Sir!" The Auror goes down on one knee, bowing his head with respect.

The suited man pats the Auror's hood, his head, as he hobbles forward to the once-asphyxiated Follower of Voldemort. The man walks with ease, as much as he hobbles, his right leg culprit. The man gazes down at the crumpled figure in black, and the Death Eater meets him with fright in his wide eyes.

"Have mercy!" The Death Eater throws himself at the venerated man's boots.

The man finds pity, and empathy…for the poor, misinformed, child he sees before him.

The man glances toward the sky, at the Dark Mark hovering in its fanatical, menacing stare, and then back down at the lone Death Eater. He shifts with his cane to look behind him, at the Auror watching his every lead.

"Take the boy to my office at once."

"Yes sir!" The Auror, still on bended knee, salutes the man from the Ministry by bowing, putting an arm to his chest, and then quickly moves with smoke to catch the Death Eater in his arms.

The Death Eater, seeing his last vision of the man, pleads in his distress, utmost terror, "I beg of you, don't-"

And, in a blink, the Auror and his enemy vanishes.

The man sighs, glancing back at the formidable skies, the darkness, the skull hissing at him. He puts his black, leather-gloved hand to his forehead, seeing…visions…

"…Why are they always children?"

He sighs again.

His hand instantly becomes his shield as raindrops begin to fall.

He checks his pocket watch.

The bells of Westminster Abbey ring on cue.

"If only he lived just a few hours more…"

The man, himself, vanishes…smokeless, without sound.

***

Seven hours after Harry's death

Somewhere in Britain

In a field far from civilization, no paved roads, trees abound, sits an abandoned shack. The commotion inside can be heard, felt and seen as laughter unsettles the rather calm night; calmer, as the cities of Britain are still trying to recuperate from the unsuspected attack. Music can be heard, or the sounds of music, metal-shredding noises, drowning out whenever there wasn't exceptional glee.

The occupants inside were having quite a riot. The windows, however broken they were, shed light in a variety of colour from their panes. The landscape, the trees, the grass, turned from orange, to purple, to the blue of blues in rapid succession. When drawing closer, one could smell, taste the pungent odor of alcohol…

Inside, Potter paraphernalia plasters the walls: Undesirable No.1 with Harry looking rather distressed. A colour would light up the room, and laughter, and one scroll piece would burn to ashes, to another, and another. The interior lacked much in the way of furniture, spacious, and for the dozens upon dozens of inhabitants, merry-goers, riled men and women in black robes, they needed the space to…stumble about, break things, and be incredibly obnoxious. Each Death Eater, their skull masks removed, had drinks in their hands. Wine, vodka, and rum bottles dotted the floor, or that of their shattered glass, having fallen from one of the few tables scattered around.

One such table sat in the middle, and one Death Eater, a prominent figure amongst the rest, his build, his stature, and his confidence making those who were more sober gaze up from the rave.

He whistled to gather everyone's attention, and when that didn't work shouted the Killing Curse, his wand pointed at the ceiling. The room, aware of that certain green colour, was instantly captured by the man.

He glanced around, smiling, reveling in the heightened atmosphere, his comrades of action, the believers of fate, the heroes of history.

A gentle breeze blew through the now quieted room.

"I just wanted to say…!"

The Death Eater raised his hands, palms up, a grin widening. The bit of cloak that hung from his arms wafted in another warm breeze.

"…Harry Potter is dead!"

The uproar of laughter and shouts were unbearably loud; but, for his ego, he found it flavourful. The Death Eater licked his lips, his long, black hair shifting right to left in another breath of the world around him.

"Absorb this glorious moment, my brothers-sisters! Take it in!"

The sounds of people falling over drunk, their bottles, squeals of joy and curses towards Potter began once more.

"Tonight we shall revel as one, His legion!"

The Death Eater held up a bottle of whiskey, some of its contents spilling.

"Praise be to Lord Voldemort!"

"Praise be to Lord Voldemort!" cheered the riots, engaged and slurring in their individual festivities.

A zephyr blew, bringing the Death Eater atop the table, his head tilted back, thirsting on the neck of whiskey, a shudder; something, something he hadn't felt before.

A chill ran up his spine.

He'd heard in the wind…

"Quiet!" he demanded.

The noise had grown, the gala of drugs and sexual fancy ripe.

He put his wand to his throat.

"QUIET YOU IGNORANT FOOLS!!"

The revelers all but stopped.

In the far reaches, in the shadows, still some grunts were heard as background.

"What's this then?!" screamed one from the mass, a blonde, blue-eyed female trying to kiss him, but missing.

"Yeah, what's the problem?!"

"Fuck you! We killed Potter! We're having a-"

The Death Eater had leapt from the table and gone closer to the wall.

"Shut the fuck up! All of you!" He'd turned from the peeling, faded wallpaper, the severely aged wood.

"All hail Lord Voldemort!" yelled someone else, a female, and shrilly.

The Death Eater, confused, befuddled as to what he had heard drew in closer. He held his ear to the wall, wanting to hear again…

…Sevig chur?…

The crowd began its frivolity, and the Death Eater, again, placed his wand to his throat to shout, "ONE MORE WORD AND I'LL HAVE ALL YOUR HEADS!!"

…Ve Thorthol…

The Death Eater's eyes went wide, he'd heard it…

He knew he had, inching closer, looking at the walls surrounding him…everywhere.

…Avo dheo enni…

The curses now came at the one Death Eater, verbally, for halting their fun.

He knew he hadn't gone…mad.

He'd heard it!

He went to turn…

…Maybe it had been on the other side…

…The other wall?

When something reached out, at his ear, and took him by surprised. Surprised, though wasn't enough. In one easy, agile twist, the arms that had wound about his neck swiftly popped back his skull and snapped his backbone in two. His limp form fell straight to the floor.

Lacho calad! Drego morn!

Bodies, appearing as if from thin air, came from the walls-everywhere-the Death Eaters shrieking, fleeing, unable to grasp for their wands in time before one was struck, and then another, the pointy-eared creatures pulling forth their bows and releasing one arrow, a second, multiplying quickly and with precision.

Arrows, embellished with their own hues, whistled swiftly through the air…

…hitting the carotid of one.

…stabbing the heart of another.

…shooting through an eye of a third.

Some arrows, when finding their targets, imploded upon impact, causing blood-curdling screams where an appendage would be torn off and blown back.

Others caught their target in flames, boiling not only their skin to the bone, but boiling the cloth directly to their liquidized flesh.

Some Elves dove, catching those that made it through the forest of bolts and took them out with an array of unrestricted flurry, feeling their own forms like water. One leapt on a Death Eater's backside, his knee into the back of the black robe which collided with the dirt. He pulled from his boot a knife and slit the murderer's throat. With care, with no muscle frayed nor imperfect incision, nothing but fresh blood poured. The Death Eater saw the Elven face, pure white and beautifully sculpted, as his mouth filled with his chilling fluids. The Death Eater clung to the form-fitted dark garb on the Elf. She spat her blood she suffocated on, saliva and sanguine dripping from the Elf's perfect face. The elf never once looked away, watching the Death Eater die.

Her grip loosened, her arm falling unnaturally to the dirt, her blonde now wet with red.

Screams of horror rung out, and with each, silence abruptly came. All was left was the metal-thrashing music from the radio. The smell of alcohol mixed, now, with an abundant stench. And when the batteries ran out of power all was…still.

A Muggle could have walked by without ever knowing anyone or anything was ever there.

The abandoned shack was cleared of the Followers' demise, and for the odor the winds took with them.

***

Twelve hours after Harry's death

Deep in the British Ministry's underground, The Minister's Second Office

"…How are my men, Eaton?" The lights out, Kingsley spoke to a shadow in the doorway. "Tell me their progress."

"Sir…?" Eaton went to step further in, but was brandished by a shout from Kingsley.

"That's quite enough! Do not step any closer than you are or I will dismiss you immediately!" Kingsley, clutching at his chest, withdrew further in his corner of the pitch black room. "Tell me of my men, now!"

Eaton took a backwards step, bowing. "Sir, I apologize for my insolence… Some men are wounded, some have…perished; but, London has been taken back. All Muggle cities are becoming secure."

"Ours?"

"Violet Hill took the severity of the damage…"

Kingsley, wrought with pain, felt his heart skip, his muscles tighten.

Eaton couldn't see him in the lightless room, but the Minister was hunched over, looking to vomit. He heaved a dry breath. "Go on…"

"Sir-shall I call for aid-"

"GO ON, I SAID!"

"…All other cities took minimal damage. The team sent to Hogwarts has reported in. Hogwarts wasn't targeted. The children are safe.

The darkened room filled with silence.

"…Sir?" Eaton asked after a quiet while. "Minister?"

"…Where did they move his body, Eaton?"

"A team is currently moving his body here, Sir, for investigation-"

"For what?!"

"By protocol-"

"To Hell with protocols!" Kingsley banged his fist against the wall and spat up something foul. "No investigation!"

"But, sir-"

"DO NOT TOUCH HIS BODY, EATON! TELL OUR MEDICAL TEAM THEY WILL BE TERMINATED IF THEY DEFILE HIS BODY!!"

Eaton bowed. "Yes, Minister. I apologise, again, for my words…"

The room went quiet, deathly still.

"Minister…?"

Kingsley coughed, wrenching, grasping claw-like at the rock-hard wall. "Issue an order for me, Eaton… Tell Toulson and Gregory to set up… There will be…"

"Sir-you're not yourself-I must persuade you otherwise. You had to do what you did. You had to tell her-your decision-his decision-it wasn't your fault-"

Eaton knew Kingsley's direction.

"Tell them now, Eaton." Kingsley shouted. "NOW!"

"I cannot-"

"You're either with me or against me!"

"Sir-"

"NOW!!"

"…Yes…," The older man bowed out of the entry. "…Minister. Your will is my command."

"…Thank you, Eaton," Kingsley coughed and finally released his emotion, vomiting. He breathed heavily. "You've been a good friend to me…"

"…I'll be sending a medical expert to prescribe a potion on the way…"

"…Thank you…"

Kingsley, without an ounce of self left, falls to his knees.

White robes can be seen in the corridor looking in on Kingsley's dishevelment. One of them goes in, but is stopped by another, a gloved-hand to their arm. The one who halted shakes its head, the cloak's hood concealing all who bear witness to the Minister's grovel. The Auror, his or her shoulders reacting to its sigh, steps away and down the hallway with a cohort following quickly at the white robe's heels.

***

Fourteen hours after Harry's death

From The Minister's First Office

"…My brothers and sisters, Muggle and magical…," A single camera records from a distance. Kingsley, sickened and pale, resides in the Chair, the highest position in the entire magical universe, slouched over his desk. Behind the camera, Eaton, Gregory, and the rest of his council watch the stricken man of youth having aged from mere hours ago. Harry's death, the deaths of his people, has taken a considerable price on him; a price that not even Kingsley prepared to endure.

As much as his cabinet praised his senses, his decisions, Kingsley insisted…

"…It is on this day, not but a few passing hours ago, our people were attacked. People have been…killed, murdered in our streets…and as much as we were prepared…people still died…"

"…I take full responsibility. I will carry this weight forever. Though, by assessment of my ability as your Minister of Magic, I've found that I lack…the fortitude needed to continue. I have found no solace in my actions, and have found no courage in the inaction…"

"…Our military prowess, the servicemen of my cabinet, is the best of the best. They are not to be shamed by this, of many, solutions… They are to be commended by their performance during this blackest of days. They've patched the hole of which I've left by my incompetence…"

"…As of this final moment in time, do not call me your Minister. I have chosen to leave the Chair in hopes of a new, better leader in my place; someone who will manage control and take heed where I have faltered. Someone who is attuned to the protection and well-being of you and our Muggle-kin…"

"…I am sorry for the suffering I have created…"

The camera lingers on the conquered, shriveled husk of a mortal.

"Turn the camera off…" whispers Gregory in haste to the worker. "At least let the man have what's left of his dignity!"

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