A/N: Here we go again. I've had this rattling around in my head for a while, and I had to put it to paper (or keyboard). Hopefully those who enjoyed the previous tale will enjoy this one, and hopefully I won't ruin any happy memories of my last fic by continuing the story.

I'm currently at University, but have found myself with a lot of free time...

Without further ado, I present to you:

'Extinguishing the Light', the sequel to 'Time, Mr. Potter?'

"Life is but a parting dream, but the death that follows is eternal"

Prologue – The Tomb

Rathenow, the District of Havelland, Brandenburg, Germany

Approximately two years, six months after the Fall of Voldemort

It was raining.

Rain like this didn't happen often; perhaps once a year. A cloudburst so intense that it reduced anyone outside to essentially breathing water, and ruined anything not completely waterproof. Animals fled for cover, people shut their doors and huddled around their heating. No Muggles drove anywhere, and any aircraft made sure to fly well above the ugly black storm clouds that had gathered over the small German town of Rathenow.

Rathenow was a town which was not particularly famous in of itself – it had the Protestant church of St-Marien-Andreas, and the Catholic Church of St. George as vaguely effective tourist attractions, but it boasted a meagre population of just over twenty thousand, and was hardly the place for drama or subterfuge.

However, students of Muggle history could find out something dark about this town – it was very near here, in the surrounding German countryside, that the remains of Adolf Hitler and Josef Goebbels were buried, until they were exhumed in 1970. This gave the town a relatively morbid place in the history books.

What even fewer people knew, perhaps a handful, and all purely Magical scholars, was that someone else was buried near Rathenow, and that person's remains were, as far as anyone knew, still there.

XxXx

The figure stole through the night, cursing and spitting as the endless rain slammed onto his head, drumming on his waterproof hood and rendering him barely able to see. It was midnight – a time for foul deeds.

The figure was staggering across a field, currently lying fallow, approximately two miles from Rathenow. The farmer who owned the field was holed up in his cottage, along with his family and their dogs, away from the blasted storm. No one knew the figure was there, what his purpose was, or what he was capable of.

The figure hopped over a dry stone wall, pausing to consult a worn map, which was apparently completely waterproof (unusual, seeing as it was old parchment). Holding it up to try and see in the dark, he finally cursed again and fished a small wooden stick out of his pocket, muttering something inaudible in the howling wind and rain of the storm. A small light appeared at the end of the stick, and the figure – a man in his late thirties – scrutinised it, before coming to a decision and continuing across another field, this one a mass of mud, once neatly ploughed but now ruined by the storm.

After several more minutes of walking, keeping his head down and the hood of his black cloak up against the storm, he reached a small copse of deciduous trees at the edge of the field – several dozen of them, sticking out like a sore thumb in comparison to the surrounding flat farmland, the outermost plants bent heavily in the gale. Glancing about him, the figure entered the small grove.

Curiously, as soon as he passed the outermost trees, the noise of the rain stopped, and the air heated up to a pleasant room temperature. Tentatively, the figure threw his sodden hood back and shook his head like a wet dog, spraying water everywhere. He had a relatively boyish face, with wild staring eyes and a rather hungry look about him, with straw-like blond hair currently plastered to his soaked head.

Walking past one or two more trees, he knelt and tapped his wooden stick on the leaf-strewn ground, muttering some more words, seemingly random Latin phrases. The stick flashed a bright emerald green, and the sound of breaking glass echoed around the random grove of trees, before the figure nodded in satisfaction and continued on.

Finally he reached the centre of this small copse - a very small clearing, enough for three or four people to stand together, the floor encrusted with completely dry leaf litter, despite the raging storm surrounding the trees. With a muttered word and a wave of his hand, the figure swept the leaves and dirt aside, revealing a small hatch in the ground. The hatch was made of what looked like rather old iron, with a circular handle like a submarine hatch, and was festooned with various runes and other ancient inscriptions. It looked like it concealed an opening which a man could just about fit into.

The figure paused, considering the runes, before gingerly tapping the top of the hatch with his stick, where the circular handle was, and swiftly backing up, scattering leaves with his water-saturated cloak. There was a flash of light, the smell of toasted almonds, and a jagged white bolt of lightning shot out of the centre of the handle to strike the spot where the man had stood a moment before. The runes and inscriptions glowed an ominous red, before fading back to normal.

The man rubbed his chin with his free hand, before somehow drying his robes with a wave of the stick in his hand, and reaching into the robes to pull out a small phial of amber liquid.

Flicking the cork from the phial, he knocked back the potion, before moving forward and seizing the circular handle with his free hand, turning it with apparently inhuman strength, and taking another white lightning bolt to the chest, with apparently no ill effects bar a smouldering hole in his robes.

With a squeal of rusted metal, the handle turned, and the hatch popped open, with the runes on the top apparently disarming. The figure sighed in relief, shaking his head slightly as the effects of the potion wore off.

The hatch had opened to reveal a dark circular pit, with a ladder leading downwards into the dark. Without a second thought, the figure swiftly descended the ladder...

XxXx

Twenty minutes later

The figure burst into the final chamber in this hellish complex, turning to fire a bolt of blue fire from his wand as he dived to the concrete floor, his robes burnt and a large cut on his right arm. The hem of his black robes was in tatters, and he winced as he got to his feet, grasping his hip in pain.

He muttered to himself as he kicked the metal door to the chamber shut. He had been running through a warren of tunnels underground, since descending through the hatch. He'd had to fight off crude animated golems, shaped like men and animals, and deal with a fair few traps.

His Master had trained him well, however. He had dealt with them all with ease, despite receiving a wound or two.

And it was now time for him to fulfil the final order his Master had given him before his death.

Turning, the greed and glee plainly visible on his face, the man surveyed the chamber he was now in. A relatively small place – perhaps twenty feet by thirty feet – with a low vaulted ceiling, with the walls made of smooth, unblemished concrete. It was well built, and didn't seem to have accumulated any grime or dirt despite it being more than five decades since it was constructed. It was lit by a single naked bulb hanging from the centre of the curved roof – unusual, seeing as any normal bulb would have burnt out long ago.

At the end of the room, where the man was looking, was a sarcophagus. Approximately seven feet long, it was placed on a long pedestal, also made of drab grey concrete. The coffin itself was made of a different material – it looked like some sort of low-quality marble. The man approached the sarcophagus, holding his breath, wand stuck out in front of him, a spell on his lips.

The top of the coffin had two letters inscribed upon it in bold, deeply carved writing. When he saw them, the man smiled – he had been right.

Now he could potentially get his revenge on those who had wronged his Master.

As he looked down at the letters "G.G.", he felt a rush of exhilaration.

It could now begin.

A/N: Reliable Beta desired.