The Ravenclaws

It was odd for Harry to witness the changes within his father. Before the death
of his parents, James lived purely for whatever fun and mischief he could find in
life. The argument could be made that James Potter was often cocky and rather
arrogant in his ways, something that did not endear him to many.

That had changed almost overnight.

James became focused, and though he still partook in the revelry of the many
pranks perpetrated by him and his friends, his heart was never in them as they
had once been.

Harry wondered if he would have been like James had the man lived long
enough to raise him. Although he felt guilty for it, a part of him was glad that
he wasn’t.

He wouldn’t be where he was now, nor the person he knew he needed to be to

defeat Voldemort. He would always long for that life that could have been, but
it was not what he was destined for.

Maybe he wouldn’t have been exactly like James, but Harry chose not to dwell
too much on the possibilities he had not been granted. His lot in life had not
been much, and he’d needed to scratch and claw for everything he’d achieved,
but it had made him stronger.

“You don’t ask me out on dates anymore.”

Harry watched as his mother took a seat next to James in the Gryffindor
Common Room.

The young man frowned as he looked up from his mountain of Transfiguration

work.

“Sorry, did you say something, Evans?”

Lily smiled sadly.

“I just noticed you haven’t asked me out in months.”

James shrugged as he leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
“You can only reject someone so many times before they get the message,” he
chuckled.

There was no bitterness in his tone, it was merely spoken matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” Lily replied. “So, you’re not going to ask me again?”

“Would there be any point?”

“Maybe I was going to say yes next time.”

“And maybe I’d just add another rejection to the already long list.”

Lily grinned at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

“You don’t strike me as someone who gives up so easily. I’ve seen you play
Quidditch,” she reminded him.

“So, you were watching me,” James returned with a wink.

Lily rolled her eyes at him.

“You really are a prat,” she sighed fondly.

“Sometimes,” James agreed, “but not stupid enough to hold onto false hope. It
was fun chasing you, Evans, but we don’t have long left of school. Chances are,
we won’t see each other again.”

“What makes you say that?”

James shrugged.

“Come off it, it’s not like we mix with the same friends. We occasionally speak
like this, but that’s it. Let’s not pretend it’s anything more than it has ever
been. We talk, I make a prat of myself by asking you out, and then it starts all
over again. It is what it is, Evans. I have to think about more than Hogwarts
and going on dates that won’t go anywhere. I’m the last Potter.”

Lily frowned confusedly.

“It means that I will have to get married sooner rather than later. I will need an
heir to take my place if I’m killed in this war. When I leave here, I will have to
make a choice. I won’t join him, so he will come for me like he has everyone
else who has refused him. You’ve heard what’s happened; the Bones family
isn’t the only one who has suffered the loss of their Lord.”

“Why would he come after you?”

James chuckled as he gave her hand a squeeze.

“My family is one of the most prominent in wizarding Britain. He will either
want to add me to his supporters or make an example out of me. Like I said,
I’m the last Potter but I don’t want to be. My family has been around for
almost one thousand years. I won’t be responsible for the line ending.”

Lily nodded her understanding.

“I never knew,” she murmured. “This pureblood stuff…”

“That was one of the things I liked about you,” James chuckled. “You were
always so uncomplicated and not bound by the same bullshit as me. Do you
want my advice, Evans?”

Lily frowned questioningly.

“When you finish Hogwarts, get out of the wizarding world, and stay away.
They will try to kill you just for what you are, and they will kill me because I’m
not like them.”

“Do you think they will win?”

“They already are,” James said darkly. “Dumbledore could maybe beat him, but
he hasn’t yet. The longer this goes on, the more it favours them. People are
scared, Evans, and so they should be. He’s a monster and he won’t stop until he
is stopped by someone who can kill him. Before my father died, he firmly
believed Dumbledore didn’t have the guts to do it.”

“What do you think?”

James deflated as he shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “but I will not put my faith in anyone to
end this. I will help where I can and fight them. It just might already be too
late.”
“You’re going to fight?” Lily asked worriedly.

“I’m a Potter,” James replied as though that explained everything he needed to

say on the matter. “My family has always fought for those that can’t. For
almost a thousand years, the Potters have fought when we were needed.”

Lily worried her bottom lip and wiped an unexpected tear from her eye.

“This wasn’t how I expected this conversation to go,” she snorted

humourlessly. “I thought I could convince you to ask me out just once more. I
didn’t think of all of this.”

“The death of my parents and the war has changed things,” James sighed.

“Does it have to change everything?”

James offered her a sad smile.

“I wish it didn’t,” he said truthfully. “I suppose sometimes the choices we want

to make for ourselves are taken away from us. I just have to accept that.”

“Why?”

“Because life is rarely kind,” James answered. “If it was, my parents would still
be here, I wouldn’t be out of my depth with everything I have to do, and there
wouldn’t be a war to contend with.”

Lily nodded as she stood.

“For what it’s worth, I would have said yes,” she murmured. “Even now if you
asked me, I’d still say yes.”

“Why?”

Lily shrugged as a grin tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Maybe you wore me down enough,” she quipped. “Or maybe I realised that
I’ve missed you asking. I think it’s that I see you for who you are, James Potter.
You’re a pain in the arse in the best way, but you are the sweetest, kindest
person I’ve ever met.”

“And best looking?”

Lily quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t push it.”

James’s own eyes were alight with mirth, and since the death of his parents,
the smile he offered the girl reached his eyes.

Harry felt a sense of disappointment wash over him as he was pulled from the
vision. It was undoubtedly one of his favourites of all of them. Neither James
nor Lily had been perfect people, but he could not be any more pleased that he
was getting to know them in some way.

Even if he realised that they’d perhaps rushed everything due to the war. It
had only been around two years after this memory that James and Lily were
married with his mother already pregnant with him.

If anything, it made Harry realise what other effects the war had. Would it be
the same again?

He didn’t know, but when he pondered the relationship of his parents, their
loss only hurt all the more.

Twenty-one. They had been so young when they’d been killed; only a little
more than four years older than Harry was now.

He released a deep breath.

It truly was such a waste, and yet, neither had hesitated for a second to
sacrifice themselves for him. They had to have known there was little hope for
them to survive when they realised Voldemort had come for them.

The truth was, neither was Harry.

They’d not endured the hardships he had to be as prepared as he was for what
would inevitably come.

Nonetheless, they’d died in the hope that he would be spared.

He had been, but not by Tom Riddle.

Fate, the ever-fickle mistress had done so.

He shook his head sombrely.

Harry would not allow it all to be for naught.

With that in mind, he checked the map, finding the man he needed to speak
with in his office. The hour was late, but he didn’t care. It would do no good to
delay it any longer.

Waving his wand to conceal himself within the cloak, he took a moment to
adjust to sudden influx of magic.

In the few days that had gone by since he’d taken possession of the elder
wand, he’d been growing accustomed to the changes in his magic. At first, it
had been difficult to control it, but he was getting better at it.

It was strange to say the least though Harry was adapting, and it became easier
with each passing day.

Checking the map a final time, he left the room on the seventh floor and made
his way to the dungeons where an unsuspecting Horace Slughorn was waiting
for him.

Tonight was the night he would obtain the memory that Dumbledore believed
would be pivotal to the future success of the war, and Harry knew just how he
would get it.

From what little he knew, his mother was rather talented in the art of Potions,
and for reasons Harry did not understand, she had been rather fond of Horace
Slughorn.

If the man’s proclivity towards talented students was anything to go by, such
fondness would have been returned. With a little manipulation and emotional
blackmail, Harry was certain he could convince the man to yield what he
needed.

It was perhaps underhanded, but he had learned long ago that all was indeed
fair in love and war.

(Break)

As much as the tide of the war had turned in his favour, the Dark Lord
remained wholly unsatisfied with the progress being made. With the political
avenue all but closed to him, he was relying solely on the notion that he could
bring the country to heel through intimidation, violence, and conquest.

Unfortunately, the British people were a stubbornly steadfast bunch, and being
unable to influence the course events through diplomacy meant that only
more resistance was to come. With Black running the country, it was
inevitable.

It was frustrating to say the least, but the Dark Lord’s determination would not
waver. As impatient as he grew, he merely reminded himself that he was not
bound to the burden of time.

He had eternity to achieve his desires and enjoy the fruits of his labour, after
all.

Nonetheless, his forces were lacking the brilliance from a little more than
fifteen years prior.

Much of his time in recent months had been dedicated to reinstating that, and
he believed he was very much on the cusp of it. To have them back would be
quite the boost.

“You asked to see me, My Lord.”

Looking up from the abundance of notes he’d made, he nodded at Severus and
beckoned for the man to join him. As certain as he was in his own work,
Severus was an incredible practitioner of the Mind Arts himself.

“I would like your thoughts on this,” the Dark Lord requested, gesturing to a
sizable stack of parchment.

With a crease furrowing his brow, Severus took it before spending several
moments perusing the contents.

“I must admit, I am not entirely sure what it is I’m reading, My Lord. It seems
to be a ritual of sorts, but nothing I have ever seen before.”

“Because it is one I have devised myself,” Voldemort explained. “It is a delicate

undertaking.”

“And dangerous,” Severus murmured. “A single miscalculation…”

The Dark Lord nodded.

“What is the worst-case scenario?”

“Complete destruction of all the minds involved.”

“I thought as much,” the Dark Lord sighed. “Do you believe it will work?”

“Perhaps,” Severus replied tentatively. “I can see no flaw in the magic, but it
depends so much on so many imprecise and unpredictable elements. The
recipients must be susceptible to what is being done. Those with even a
remaining rudimentary defence in place could be a liability.”

Voldemort hummed.

“And if the defences were completely destroyed?”

“Then it would undo all the work we have been doing to restore them,”
Severus pointed out. “If that happens and this fails,” he added, holding up the
parchment, “I fear there is nothing that could be done to bring them back.”

The Dark Lord had suspected as much, but he needed to be certain.

“Then I shall need to consider taking such a risk,” he mused aloud. “Would you
be willing to partake.”

Severus only hesitated for a brief moment before nodding.

“I will, My Lord,” he agreed, though the reluctance was clear in his tone.

Not that the Dar Lord could blame him. It was indeed a risk, but his willingness
to attempt it went some way to making him believe the man was truly loyal to
him.

“Thank you, Severus. I will send for you when I have taken the risk into
consideration.”

With a bow, the Potions Master took his leave of the room and the Dark Lord
frowned.

Losing Severus’s talents would come as quite the blow to his efforts but not
trying to bring back those he relied upon for what they had to offer in their
own right was attractive enough to perhaps make the risk viable.
He truly needed to consider it.

In the meantime, however, his followers would continue on. He had enough of
them to conduct several attacks a weak, and slowly but surely, the resolve of
Britain would begin to crack.

No matter what, he would emerge victorious. There was not a thing that would
stop him.

He paused as the face of the boy glided across the forefront of his mind.

Potter…the prophecy…

The Dark Lord shook his head of the thought.

Not even Potter with the intervention of an obscure branch of magic such as
Divination would be enough.

No, it could never be.

Nonetheless, he consulted his calculations once more, and those he had not
shown Severus.

Perhaps the second option would prove to be more fruitful. He’d undoubtedly
lose his followers as they had once been, but the potential to gain much more
was rather enticing.

(Break)

Horace closed the door behind Harry Potter as he took his leave of the office,
shaking his head as he poured himself a generous measure of a particularly
fine whiskey he’d been gifted for Christmas.

It wasn’t often he would drink whilst within the walls of the castle, but what he
had relived this night called for it.

Tom Riddle.

Of course, he remembered the boy well, remembered his fascination with

magicks that should not be delved into. Horace, however, could never have
anticipated what the boy would go on to become.

He saw young Tom as his greatest failing.

If only he would have chosen to put his talents to better use.

Horace grimaced as the alcohol burned his throat, though it did not deter him
from pouring another, picking up the photo he’d been so pleased to share with
Harry.

Lily Evans had been a breath of fresh air for him; an incredibly talented girl in
the art of potions who had not had the benefit of a magical upbringing. Such
raw ability was rare indeed, and Horace had done his utmost to nurture it.

Her death had changed something within him.

The desire he’d always possessed to pass on his learning to the young had
evaporated, and Horace knew his time at Hogwarts was done. He’d intended
to see out the rest of his years in peace, and perhaps write a book or two.

With the war resuming and Lord Voldemort resurfacing, the very memory he’d
just shared with Harry had come back to haunt him.

Tom had done it.

He’d truly gone to such lengths to ensure he could not be killed, and Horace
bore the shame for it. Albus had questioned him shortly after he’d returned to
the castle, but Horace could not bring himself to share the truth.

Now, however, he had finally unburdened himself of it.

He couldn’t say that he felt better for it. With the knowledge that Harry Potter
possessed, the boy would truly understand the monumental task ahead of
him.

“Seven,” Horace sighed.

Despite how talented the boy was, the challenge would likely prove to be too
much, and though Horace knew he was in the safest place he could be; he
could not help but think that Tom Riddle would one day come for him.

He knew too much, and the Dark Lord would leave no loose ends, especially
when he inevitably figured out it had been him to pass on such vital
information.
Horace could not escape the feeling that his days were numbered, but as he
took in the visage of the young, vibrant Lily Evans, he felt a sense of pride wash
over him.

He’d done the right thing by helping her son, even if it would prove to be to his
own detriment.

(Break)

“It is as we feared,” Dumbledore said quietly as they exited the pensieve,

looking every one of the many years he’d lived.

“Seven,” Harry reiterated. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance he didn’t

manage it?”

The headmaster frowned as he retrieved the ones that had already been
gathered from within the locked door of his desk.

“The diary, the cup, the ring,” he reeled off.

“And me,” Harry added.

“You?”

“There was a part of his soul in me,” he explained, pointing to where the faded
lightning bolt scar remained on his head.

“Truly?”

Harry nodded.

“The night I was ambushed at the World Cup Final. Malfoy and his lot killed
me. Instead of taking my soul, the fragment of Tom’s was deemed worthy
enough. That’s four we have with three remaining.”

Dumbledore simply stared at him dumbly for a moment before shaking his
head.

“I cannot even begin…”

Harry cut him off with a wave of his hand. He had come to terms with what
had happened to him, though he hadn’t been able to let it go. Those who had
carried out such a cowardly would atone for that sin.
Death was already anticipating the harvesting of their souls.

“Four,” Dumbledore repeated. “The diary was found by you in the castle.”

“It was not left here intentionally, not by Tom. It was brought into the castle by
someone else.”

“Do you know who?”

Harry nodded.

“They were a victim of circumstance,” he assured the man. “They certainly do

not support him.”

“Then how did it come into their possession?”

“It was planted on them, and there is only one person I can think of who would
be of high enough status to be entrusted with it, who interacted with that
person.”

“Lucius,” Dumbledore sighed.

“Not a difficult deduction to make,” Harry snorted. “Is it possible he trusted

anyone else with one?”

“Bellatrix had the cup,” the headmaster mused aloud. “I do not believe he
would have trusted any other so much. Bellatrix was unwaveringly loyal to
Tom and Lucius had the means to hide such a thing well enough that it would
not be found even if the Malfoy home was searched.”

“So, where could the others be?” Harry asked. “The ring was in the Gaunt
house. If it wasn’t for my ability in the Mind Arts and Parseltongue, it would
have been very difficult to retrieve.”

“Then we are fortunate it was you to discover the location,” Dumbledore said
soberly before humming to himself. “Perhaps there are other locations of
significant meaning to him he would have hidden the others.”

“Here,” Harry offered. “Nowhere meant more to him than Hogwarts. It was his
first home and a connection to his ancestry. If there was anywhere he would
hide one, it would be in the castle.”
Dumbledore had paled at the very thought.

“The Chamber of Secrets,” he whispered.

Harry shook his head.

“I’ve already searched it. There is nothing there.”

The headmaster chuckled.

“I should have suspected as much,” he replied amusedly. “Was there nothing

there?”

“Tom had taken it all,” he revealed with a shrug. “Salazar was furious, but he
left behind something else important,” he added with a grin.

“I do not suppose you wish to share what that was?”

“A thousand-year-old basilisk.”

“A b-basilisk!” Dumbledore scoffed. “A live basilisk?”

Harry nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he held up a hand.

“She is perfectly safe,” he assured the spluttering man. “I am taking care of her
and she is actually very sweet. She likes to swim in her pool, eat, and sleep in
her den. That is all.”

Dumbledore shook his head in disbelief.

“How big is such an old creature?” he whispered.

“Close to seventy feet.”

Somehow, the man grew paler and Harry laughed.

“Even if Tom was to return to her, she would not be swayed by him. Her job is
to protect the castle. When I am finished, I will see if she wishes to come and
live with me. She is no threat to anyone here.”

Dumbledore nodded reticently.

“I must say, you have an ability to surprise me more than anyone else I have
met, Harry,” he murmured. “I am undecided if that is a good thing.”
“Maybe a bit of both,” Harry returned. “Can you think of anywhere else he
may have hidden one?”

“Not off the top of my head,” Dumbledore answered. “I will ponder it.”

“What about other places?”

“I suppose checking the orphanage he grew up in would be as good a place as

any,” the headmaster mused. “Other than that, I am at a loss, I’m afraid. It is
something I will look into with haste. Perhaps there is something I have missed
from some of the memories I have been gathering. I shall revisit them.”

“I will begin searching the castle floor by floor,” Harry decided. “If he hid one
here, I will find it. Maybe it would help if we knew what we were looking for.”

Dumbledore nodded.

“Well, the cup once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. Maybe he sought out other
items belonging to the founders,” he offered.

“Do we know of any of these items?” Harry questioned. “Tom wouldn’t waste
him time chasing things that he wasn’t certain existed.”

“He would not,” Dumbledore agreed. “Well, we have the sorting hat to begin
with. It was Gryffindor’s own. He would not have been able to obtain it.”

It was Harry’s turn to be surprised. He had not known that snippet of

information.

“Is there anything else of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw he may have known of.”

Dumbledore scratched his beard.

“There is a sword that belonged to Gryffindor. It is featured in every known

portrait of the man, but it has not been seen since Godric died.”

“He does not possess the sword, headmaster,” the hat suddenly spoke.

Dumbledore turned towards the hat.

“You are certain?”

“Completely.”
“You know where it is,” Harry said accusingly.

“I do, and I will not share that information,” the hat replied stubbornly. “Only a
true Gryffindor in need can retrieve it.”

It fell silent once more and Dumbledore turned back towards Harry, a glint of
amusement in his eyes.

“Well, it appears we can rule out the sword,” he chuckled. “I can think of
nothing else belonging to Godric that is documented.”

“What of Ravenclaw?”

Dumbledore frowned as he shook his head.

“Only her diadem, a tiara of sorts, but it too has been lost for close to one
thousand years.”

“We could always ask her,” Harry suggested. “We could sit here for hours
speculating, why not just ask them ourselves?”

“I almost forgot of that advantage you possess, Harry. If you would, I expect it
will save us considerable effort.”

With a nod, Harry took hold of the stone and turned it thrice in his hand, his
thoughts focused on only the second founder he wished to summon.

The woman that appeared was middle-aged, her eyes marred by the first sign
of crow’s feet and her hair showing the first signs of greying at the temple. She
looked around in confusion before her grey eyes settled on Harry.

“You summoned me, young man?” she asked curiously. “Are you the one who
sends for Salazar?”

“I am,” Harry confirmed. “I have a question regarding your diadem.”

Rowena Ravenclaw’s expression darkened before it became one of abject

sadness.

“I do not blame her,” she sighed. “I was a terrible mother, but she should not
have done it.”

“Done what?”
“My darling Helena,” Rowena explained. “I never truly loved her as a mother
should. My work always came first, and when I was on my deathbed, she did
something unspeakable. I expect she cannot bring herself to face me. That is
why she remains amongst you.”

“Your daughter?”

“Stole my diadem,” Rowena informed him. “She took it and fled the castle. I
died before learning what happened to her or it. She is in the castle. I can feel
her presence.”

Harry looked towards the frowning Dumbledore.

“The Grey Lady,” he whispered. “She is one of the many ghosts here. It must
be her.”

Harry swallowed deeply.

“If Tom somehow discovered who she was…”

“It would not have been so difficult for him to manipulate her. He always was
rather gifted in the art.”

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

“No! I would speak with her,” Rowen interjected. “It is time she was allowed to
pass on. She will listen to me, I hope.”

Harry nodded.

“There’s no time like the present,” he pointed out. “Do you know where she
is?”

“In the Astronomy Tower,” Rowena answered. “She always did like it there.”

With Harry and Dumbledore in tow, Rowena led them towards the part of the
castle in question.

“I must say, I do not believe I have ever had such a profound experience,” the
headmaster murmured.

“It’s something I’m still getting used to,” Harry offered comfortingly. “No one
would ever believe it unless they saw it for themselves.”
“And you would not be so inclined to show them.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry agreed. “For now, you are an exception.”

“Something I am grateful for.”

They arrived in the tower to find a ghostly figure that closely resembled
Rowena, peering towards the moon longingly. She did not acknowledge them
until the founder joined her and Helena recoiled in shock.

“Mother” she gasped. “How?”

Rowena merely smiled as she continued to look towards the moon for a
moment.

“Do I deserve to be addressed as such?”

Helena was fixated on the apparition in a state of disbelief.

“How?” she repeated.

“I was summoned,” Rowena answered, nodding towards Harry. “The young

man requires our assistance.”

“Our assistance?”

Rowena nodded.

“If you help him, he will help you pass on.”

“He can do that?”

“I can,” Harry answered.

“You just need to tell him what you did with the diadem. I am not angry with
you, Helena. This is of the utmost importance.”

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” Helena asked bitterly.

“Tom Riddle.”

The mask of fury that adorned the ghost was an unpleasant expression, the
loathing she felt towards Voldemort apparent for all to see.
“He promised he would return it to the castle. I told him where he could find it,
and he perverted it!”

“He turned it into a Horcrux,” Dumbledore interjected.

Helena nodded.

“I trusted him. He was so nice and he wanted to help me. I thought he wanted
to help me,” she added angrily.

“He took advantage of you,” Rowena comforted. “He manipulated you and
used your guilt. It is not your fault.”

Helena smiled sadly as she shook her head.

“I never did inherit your wisdom,” she chuckled humourlessly.

“And I never learned to be what you needed,” Rowena sadly. “Did he bring it
back?”

Helena nodded.

“He did,” she confirmed, “but not until after he’d already left the castle. He
came back once and he showed it to me, showed me what he’d done with it. I
do not know where he took it after.”

Harry looked towards Dumbledore questioningly.

“The interview,” he whispered. “Tom applied for the Defence Against the
Darks Arts post a few years after he’d graduated. I had no intention of hiring
him, and I suspect he knew that.”

“He just wanted to get in the castle,” Harry deduced. “Did he leave straight
away or arrive early?”

“He was escorted to my office,” Dumbledore said with certainty. “I cannot be

certain he left immediately. He became rather adept at navigating the castle
without being detected. Was it here he showed it to you?” he asked Helena.

“Yes,” the ghost confirmed. “He was not here long. At first, I was too upset to
follow him, and when I found him a short while later, he was leaving the
castle.”
“Could you say how long that was?”

“No more than fifteen minutes.”

“He could have gotten anywhere in that time,” Harry pointed out, “if he knew
exactly where he intended to hide it.”

“No,” Dumbledore disagreed. “Any magic he cast would have been detected,
and it would have been discovered if he left it somewhere so easily accessible.
The castle is thoroughly searched every summer. A Horcrux would not be
missed unless it was hidden somewhere unknown.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully.

“There could be dozens of places like that,” he sighed. “Luckily, we can just ask
the people that built the castle,” he added with a grin.

“There are many hidden places,” Rowen broke in. “All of us created our own
sanctuaries and means of getting around the castle. He could have discovered
any number of them during his time here.”

“Then I suppose we best get star…”

Dumbledore broke off and fished within his robes, deflating at the glowing
phoenix pendant he held.

“An attack in the centre of Lincoln,” he said gravely, looking towards the full
moon.

“How long before you can get there?” Harry asked.

“Around five minutes at best.”

“We will address this later,” Harry assured Helena and Rowena as he took hold
of Dumbledore’s sleeve. “This will be very unpleasant,” he said apologetically
as he allowed the cold magic he kept at bay wash over him, willing himself far
south through the very shadows.

(Break)

It wasn’t often Barry was selected to lead an attack. For the most part, he
much preferred to remain within the confines of the home the Dark Lord was
making use off. There, he wasn’t subjected to the appearances of the cloaked
figure that he had yet to convince himself wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

Tonight, however, with the werewolves being let loose, he had been chosen as
one of several Death Eaters to accompany them, mostly to shepherd the feral
creatures away when the inevitable cavalry arrived in the form of the aurors
and Dumbledore’s pathetic group.

It was at a casual pace that Barty ambled down the high street, breathing in
the fresh air, and listening to the cacophony of agonised screams, snarling, and
other sounds of the ensuing chaos.

It truly was music to his ears, and it had been so long since he’d been able to
enjoy it.

A smirk tugged at Barty’s lips as he spotted a woman cradling a child, sprinting

away from one of the werewolves that was toying with her. She was crying,
whimpering as she fell and shielded the child with her body beneath the Dark
Mark that had been conjured.

Barty watched as the wolf slowed to a walk, licking its chops hungrily as it too
seem to enjoy the fear emanating from his fallen prey, only for it to stop
suddenly as it sniffed the air.

Barty felt it too and he stiffened as he raised his wand; the cold, that damned
cold had followed him here, and yet, he was not the only one aware of it.

An eerie silence fell over the streets as the intensity of the cold increased until
Barty began to shudder uncontrollably.

“AURORS!” a shout sounded in the distance, but it was barely heard over the
din.

Barty was too distracted by the sudden appearance of Harry Potter only a few
dozen feet away and how, with a single spell, he ripped the lower jaw of the
werewolf away from its face.

The screeching of the beast was bloodcurdling, though it fell silent as another
spell tore through it, leaving behind only a few blackened limbs.
From every side-street and alleyway, werewolves answered the frantic wailing
of their packmate, pausing briefly as they took in its scattered remains strewn
around them.

Almost as one, they took in the sight of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore,
and Barty took the opportunity to retreat behind some nearby shrubbery to
watch the impending confrontation.

When transformed, werewolves seldom understood the threat before them,

their bestial nature overriding any common sense they may possess. As
expected, they charged, and Barty looked on in horror as Potter reacted, a
thick cloud of black fog spewing from the tip of his wand.

For a moment, he could see nothing, but when it cleared, he could only scoff at
the sight that greeted him. The werewolves were gasping for breath, doing
their utmost to crawl away from the boy who was stalking them.

Barty looked on as a gout of equally black flame cascaded over most, but the
wolves did not burn as he’d anticipated. What did remain was a morbid
collection desiccated skeletons.

The wolves that had escaped such a fate began howling fearfully as they
continued to crawl away.

Barty balked at what was unfolding before him.

He’d never seen anything like it. Not even the Dark Lord…

He shook his head of the disloyal thought that threatened to enter his mind as
he watched Potter banish one of the wolves into a nearby building before
summoning the disorientated creature back towards him.

He seized it by the throat, and Barty froze as Potter’s eyes came to rest on him,
bringing an even more intense coldness to settle in his very core.

What shook him from his stupor was the pathetic whimpering of the wolf
Potter was holding, and try as he might, Barty could not tear his gaze away.

He grimaced as Potter’s gaze continued to burn into his own as the werewolf
fell silent.
With a violent, sweeping gesture of his wand, the still werewolf was flung
towards Barty, and it skidded to a halt barely a few feet away.

It was dead, it’s expression one of abject fear and Barty could only gape
dumbly at the beast.

Potter had killed it with his bare hands, had seemingly sucked the life out of
the werewolf as though it was nothing.

Tearing his eyes away, Barty caught sight of the boy walking towards him, his
wand a blur as he continued his onslaught against anything that attempted to
hinder him.

Judging by the plethora of colours of flashing lights he could see, other

reinforcements had indeed arrived for Potter and Dumbledore, and Barty
decided it would be best to take his leave.

He needed to report what he’d witnessed to the Dark Lord, and if truth be told,
every instinct in his body was urging him to flee for all he was worth.

His intention all along whilst stationed at Hogwarts was to turn Potter into a
monster. He’d achieved that, but now, it seemed the monster was determined
to hunt him down along with any other who followed the Dark Lord.

Barty could not help but think that his plan had severely gone awry, and as he
activated his portkey to take his leave, he got the impression that it would be
foolish to hope this would be the last he’d see of Harry Potter.

The boy would come for him, and for the first time in his life, Barty truly felt
something akin to the fear he’d experienced when he’d first witnessed what
the Dark Lord was capable a little over two decades ago.