The Dagger of Death

Charles Eliot Mariner had never been sadder in his whole life.

He was a Muggle, living in a quaint little village in Scotland right beside a sprawling forest, through which ran the river that fed the village's fishing industry. Everyday, he went about the dreary business of sustaining life; fishing in the morning, sleeping the whole night. He had a completely normal family, and there was nothing wrong with it, and he was contented with his lot in life.

Until he got a glimpse of the great wide world beyond.

He had first heard of the many wonders in the world outside of his isolated village one dreary night, where he was drinking in the local tavern. A cloaked stranger had related his stories of far-away lands, telling of strange two-legged creatures which hopped across the landscape and boxed with each other. While the other people scoffed at the stories, Charles was enthralled by them. That fateful night, a thirst for knowledge overtook him, which changed his life forever. He was no longer contented.

He started to hang out at the tavern, listening out for interesting stories brought in by strangers from far-off lands, sometimes not returning home for days. When he did not spend his money buying rounds of drinks, he was buying whatever books he could lay his hands on. He changed, slowly but inexorably. The once- tall and handsome man had been reduced to a hunched, grimy figure skulking around the tavern, listening hungrily for news, always turning up late for work and neglecting his family. Every story, instead of cheering him up, only served to darken his spirits; yet, the thirst for knowledge was never satisfied. His reputation sank among the people in the town. His friends slowly left him, until there were no more.

His efforts paid off one day. He was returning home from the tavern, staggering from the alcohol in his veins, when he tripped over something in the bushes.

It was a dead body.

He quickly muffled his gasp of shock, and methodologically searched the dead body for any valuables. The only thing he turned up was a dagger. The handle was made of the purest silver, carved in the shape of a serpent. The pommel was carved in the shape of a skull, and the serpent looked as if it were coming out of the skull's open jaw. The hilt was made of the serpent's head coiling around itself. Strangely, there was no blade. Where the blade should have been, there was only a hollow which the serpent coiled around. On the inside, barely visible under the dim light, were the words:

Salazar Slytherin

He knew a treasure when he saw one, and this was certainly one. Running away from the dead body, he clutched the dagger to his chest as though it were his very soul. He burst into his home and fell into bed, exhausted, but truly happy for the first time.

Charles was once another villager, an average person whom people greeted in the mornings and went to church with. He was no longer any of those.

Coming home drunk more and more often, he had taken to beating his wife in fits of anger when she confronted him about his behaviour. "Can you think about the family? Do you know how hard it is to make a living?" Refusing to answer, he resorted to violence to gain silence. Exhausted, he then slumped into the bed, leaving his wife sobbing in the doorway.

Then she had committed suicide.

Leaving nothing behind, she had taken her own life, leaving him all alone in the world. He knew that the townspeople would question him about his dead wife. He did not want to answer them. Running away in the dead of the night, he flew to the edge of the forest, carrying his dagger. There, he leaned against a tree, panting.

The dagger.

The feeling of hopelessness overtook him, and he collapsed onto the ground, sobbing. It's all because of the dagger!

No! It couldn't have done this! I did not kill my wife, and it certainly did not!

You did it all! You brought this upon yourself!

A thought suddenly entered his tortured mind.

There's nothing left in this world for me. My life is nothing.

Like my wife has done; I shall kill myself.

Filled with a new sense of purpose, he got up and strode into the woods. Guided by what he did not know, he followed the river until he came to a bend. The moonlight was pouring through an open patch in the forest canopy. It fell directly on a stone altar, weathered and worn. Some way of nature had taken its toll on it heavily. It was slight at the very most, but obvious enough. The top had been broken off.

His body no longer felt like his own, even though it responded to his every command. He knelt beside the altar, facing the river.

His mouth moved on its own accord, speaking words in an strange tongue:

"Life has no meaning; it lies in Death.

Day is for the weak; strength lies in Night.

Pure must be the soul; for worthless is Taint.

My soul is dead, lord; it is Yours."

The dagger responded to the dark words; it woke up from its deep sleep. Black light extended from the end, forming a shimmering blade.

Charles plunged it into his chest.

His scream pierced the night as the dagger pierced his soul.

Slipping from his hand, the dagger fell into the river, where it was carried away by the currents.

Charles was dead.

Slowly, a dark form raised itself from the bank. It was shrouded in darkness, and it sucked the very happiness out of the air around it. The rattling of its breath did not match the fact that it was dead. The forest was still.

It was a Dementor.

The centaurs watched from a distance as the dark form wound its way through the woods.

"Another has been born."

"It was spoken of in the stars."

"However low man stoops to, he does not deserve such a fate."

And far, far away, in a dark room behind one of the doors in the Department of Mysteries, a stone block started glowing. It had been broken off from something, evidently. The edges of the stone were worn from the harsh sands of time, but the face remained as smooth as it was the day it was created.

Among the many names engraved upon the face of the stone, another appeared at the bottom:

Charles E. Mariner