Epilogue: The Wandering Traveller

Harry walked out of the Hospital Wing three days later, feeling that he didn't really recognise the world anymore. Peter had carried him back to the castle snug in his arms, and had delivered him straight to Madame Pomfrey, bypassing even Dumbledore. In fact, his friends had confided in him that Peter had actually threatened Dumbledore, warning him to stay away until Harry had recovered sufficiently. Harry couldn't find the words to describe how grateful he was for the solitude. It had been a struggle getting through the brief visits from his friends, so Dumbledore's questions would probably have broken him.

He had been treated for intense magical exhaustion, in addition to a fine variety of cuts, bruises and broken bones. Madame Pomfrey had told him that when Peter had brought him in, he had been in such a bad way that casting just one more spell would probably have damaged his magic permanently, such was the strain it had been under.

He thought himself lucky.

He had seen Remus.

His guardian was on round the clock surveillance. The silver poisoning had wrecked his immune system completely, and begun to work on seriously damaging his vital organs. It had been made worse by his transformation halfway through; turning into a wolf had only exacerbated the effect of the silver. He was lucky to be alive, but it would be at least a month before he was out of the Hospital Wing – he was too fragile to move to St Mungos.

His friends had also filled him in on events away from the Shack. The Carrow twins had indeed attacked the school. They had distracted Dumbledore by setting fire to the greenhouses, and then proceeded to cause havoc in other areas of the grounds. It was a miracle that they had only encountered Snape and Hagrid; one too skilled to be in danger, the other simply too thick-skinned. Truthfully, the twins had been outmatched even before Dumbledore arrived. When he had appeared, the Death Eaters had simply flitted away in gusts of smoke. It paled in comparison to the duel at the Shack, but Harry had not told the full story to anyone yet, making out that he had been in control the whole time, and had simply got lucky. Not even Ginny had picked up on this, despite knowing about his rather violent mental guest.

He hadn't heard anything from him since passing out at the lake, but he had resolved to talk to him before long. There were things to discuss.

Peter had duelled Rosier almost to a standstill, before being knocked flat by a large black dog. By the time he recovered, both the dog and Rosier had disappeared. He had seen the end of Harry's encounter with the Dementors, and had passed it on to appropriate people. This of course meant that pretty much the whole school knew within hours that Harry Potter had faced off against nearly a hundred Dementors and had come out 'unscathed'. Hearing this made Harry laugh bitterly. He was anything but unscathed. There was a hole in his heart, which had formerly been filled with love for Sirius. He could barely think the name without wanting to curse something now.

He walked through the castle aimlessly, ignoring everyone who cried out to him in greeting. Eventually, he found himself at the Fat Lady. He offered the password and walked through the common room to the dormitory. It was blessedly empty. He opened his trunk and rummaged through, searching for the photo album he always took with him. He took it out, and sat on his bed, leafing through it. Every now and then, he took a photo out. They were all of him and Sirius, sometimes with others in, but mainly just the two of them. He went through the entire album, taking every photo with Sirius in out of the wallet, and put them all in a pile.

"Incendio!"

The pile of photos ignited, sizzling flame leaping from them. Harry watched them burn away, and as he did so, tears began to run down his face. More and more, until he was curled into a little ball on the bed, sobbing into his pillow.

The man in the grey robes was going to considerable effort to avoid being seen. It wasn't as if people would have recognised him; his robes came complete with a large hood that completely obscured his face and besides, it was company policy never to go on an operation without some form of glamour altering your features. At the moment, he looked rather like a young Harrison Ford, a glamour he was rather proud of. However, the recognisable uniform, not to mention the distinctive tattoo on the back of his hand – in the shape of an eye – would certainly cause comment. And comments were bad.

His task was made easier by the reputation that lingered around his current location. The Shrieking Shack, formerly on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, had never had a brilliant reputation, and the events of the previous night had only worsened this. Hardly surprising; it had exploded, under very mysterious circumstances. All that anyone really knew was that the area around it was soaked with the taint of dark magic, and that Dementors had been seen. Rather disturbingly, they had only been witnessed fleeing the scene.

Of course, the grey-robed man – one Gabriel Faulkner – knew that Dumbledore probably knew precisely what had happened there. Certainly more than he was letting on. But Faulkner wasn't totally interested in the duel, or the presence of the Dementors, although he had certainly taken note of everything he could discover. He had more pressing issues.

It had been nearly a year since the Eye had woken, blazing like a beacon fire. It had gone cold again afterwards, but over the last couple of months, it had started to glow again. Very faintly it was true, but under the circumstances any activity was worrying. And the glow – indicating a rise in activity – was never strong enough to be tracked. Last night though… Last night the Eye had once again begun to glow as if there was a fire inside. Luckily for the company – luckily for the world – Faulkner had been on duty, had actually been noting down the latest measurements taken from the Eye when it began to glow. Sadly, there was a necessary fine-tuning period, and so his team had not been able to leave instantly. By the time they had arrived at the Shack, whatever had happened was over, and there was no sign of particularly unusual magic. Once again, they had missed their target.

But at least they had a location. That rather narrowed their field of suspects – or would, once Faulkner had confirmed his theory with his commander.

Faulkner walked back to the camp that his team had set up, deep in the Forest. The others were clad identically, grey-robes, eye tattoos, and glamours that made them look like entirely different people. He ducked into his tent, and, after casting the appropriate charms to ensure privacy, tapped his wand on the bowl of water sitting on the table. After a moment, a face appeared in it, as if on the other side of a window.

"Well? What have you to report?"

Faulkner bowed his head. "There was definitely an outbreak here. The readings we've taken suggest one initial burst, followed by a low-level sustained flow, before it dried up altogether. In addition to that, we've got a lot of dark magic soaked in around here. We haven't been able to find out why."

The man in the water, Faulkner's commander, nodded grimly. "I have. It's buzzing around here like nobody's business. Death Eater attack apparently. Rosier and a couple of others – the Carrow twins – attacked the school."

Faulkner scowled. He had a nephew in the first year at Hogwarts. He hoped nothing had happened to the lad. His commander – Silas Tulliver – had moved on though. "Any ideas on who our target might be? Please tell me we aren't thinking Dumbledore here…"

Faulkner shook his head with a grin, appreciating Tulliver's attempt at humour. His commander knew full well that it was not Dumbledore they were after. "No sir. We suspect one of the students, most likely one between first and fifth year. Any older and they would probably be too settled in their magic to achieve this."

Tulliver nodded. "Makes sense. Any specific ideas?"

"Not officially sir, but – " and here Faulkner checked over his shoulder, despite the privacy charms, " – I did wonder about Potter?"

Tulliver nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Potter. A possibility certainly."

"He's in the right age bracket sir, and we know that he's had difficulties with his magic – and which other student is likely to be attacked by a Death Eater?"

Tulliver chuckled, mirthlessly. "Fair point. Ok, I'll see what I can dig up on young Mister Potter. Good work Faulkner."

"Thank you sir. Sir…" Faulkner hesitated. Tulliver raised his eyebrow, encouraging the question. "If it is Potter… Then what do we do? I mean, there are other circumstances surrounding him, are there not?"

"You know the rules Gabriel." Tulliver's expression was cold, merciless. "If it is Potter, then he'll be subject to examination. He passes, then good luck to him. He fails… Well, then he has a little accident. There are no exceptions. None."

Faulkner bowed, acquiescing to his superior's command. And if it happened to hide the dissatisfaction in his expression, well, that was ok wasn't it?

"Yes sir. I understand."

"Good. Get back to base Faulkner. We've got work to do."

Harry approached the remnants of the Shack with a blank expression. Behind him, Peter stood, keeping watch, but allowing him his privacy. Harry began to dig through the rubble, looking for one piece in particular. It took several hours, and by the time he had finished it was getting dark, but eventually he found it. A piece of wood, with an inscription. Four names, and a declaration that had been shattered by tragedy and by lies. Harry hauled it out of the rubble, and walked back to Peter.

His guardian took the wood from him, examining it, and a pained expression crossed his face, just for a moment. Then it passed, and he looked at Harry. With a nod, he tapped the wood with his wand. A piece of it broke off – one name. Padfoot. Harry pointed his own wand at it, and muttered a spell. The wood shattered, and the word Padfoot was obliterated once and for all. Peter handed the rest of the wood back, now saying:

Moony, Wormtail and Prongs

Marauders forever!

It was an awkward shape, but Harry didn't care. He stuffed it in his pocket, and they both set off back to the castle, Peter's hand on his shoulder.

It was later. Harry had been lying awake, listening to his room-mates snore, and had finally given up on sleep. Quietly, he slipped out of the dorm, and headed to the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he stood staring into the mirror.

"Hello? I want a word with you."

As Harry watched, one of his eyes was slowly flecked with red, and he flinched.

"What's on your mind Potter? I hope we aren't going to have another argument, I really can't be bothered with that now…"

"It's not that. You said you had fairly extensive knowledge of the dark arts."

"That's true, although I don't know how. Why?"

"Teach me."

It was a cold, misty morning, on a beach near Dover. The beach was deserted, save for a few gulls. Even they flew away when four people suddenly appeared from thin air with a loud crack. They strode towards the tide-line in silence, collectively grim-faced. The man they were about to see would not be pleased with their news.

They waited in silence, and before long, they heard the sound of oars breaking the waves. Moments later, a rowing boat broke through the mist, two men inside it. The oars were rowing under their own power. The boat beached itself, and one of the men climbed out. He was tall, lanky, with a mop of dark blonde hair, and a surprisingly smart suit, somewhat incongruously matched with a leather greatcoat. His tongue randomly darted in and out of his mouth, like a snake's. He offered his arm to his travelling companion, almost reverently, helping him from the boat. The other man looked half mad with fear, and cowered from the robed strangers on the beach. One of them looked at the suited man enquiringly.

"Just some Muggle. Not a worthy vessel, but an inconspicuous one, which is preferable at the moment. Don't worry, he can take control when he needs to."

"I can indeed Bartemius…"

The second voice came from somewhere at the back of the Muggle's head. The others instantly bowed to him, sinking to their knees, and the man stiffened, suddenly twitching as if having a fit. He staggered backwards, bracing himself on the boat. When he looked up, his eyes were red. He threw his head back with a high, cold laugh.

"Home at last!"

The Lord Voldemort had returned to England.

The End of Book Three

So there we are. Three books down, four to go. I hope you've all enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thanks for sticking with me, and special thanks to everyone who has reviewed.

I'll hopefully see you before too long for book 4: The Power He Knows Not.

Remember, reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated.

Shinysavage.

P.S. Anyone confused by the second scene, with Faulkner and Tulliver, should revisit the last chapter of Book 2: The Sneaking Serpent Walks.