A Memoir of the World

Far removed from the world of reality, there is a room. In this room there is a desk. There is a chair. A lamp. An ashtray. A small window. In this room there is a man. And in his hands lay mercy.

*****

He drew a thin cigarette to his mouth and clamped his lips around it. He looked out the window. Crows flew overhead; below lay the empty streets of London and beyond him gray clouds as far as the eye could see. Tearing his eyes away from the needless enlightening view, he gazed down at the papers before him.

They were yellowed with age and their smell reminded him of the library back in Hogwarts. Coincidentally, the contents of the papers themselves were enough to bring him back to the nine years that have passed. Nine years. He tried to chuckle at the thought but failed. It felt more like a hundred years to him.

He passed a hand through his long blond hair, and bit softly into the nicotine filter in his mouth. It was a tendency of his. Indecision... hair raking and cigarette biting. One would beget the other, it seemed.

He stared at the words at the top of the page. Alone, he couldn't care less about the words. But together... the words formed a name. His name.

Angel of Mercy.

It was unheard of. Something that wasn't even considered. But perhaps it was the novelty... the whole paradoxical inclination considering the situation that they were in. Mercy wasn't a word one heard everyday in this new world that had been created by darkness and had grown under the watchful eye of hate. It wasn't a word that was usually associated with a death eater. Or a Malfoy for that matter.

But somehow even the word 'mercy' had been distorted through the passing of time. When mercy had meant forgiveness, it was now synonymous with death. Instant death. None of the unnecessary torture... he was never one to beat around the bush. Besides, he didn't have the time. There were places he had to be, other people to... dispose of.

His father was ashamed of course. Apparently, for a son of a prominent death eater to shed mercy on his future victims was not the done thing. His father was concerned with appearances, but not for long. For the Angel of Mercy had become as widely known as "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." And perhaps even, "The-Boy-Who-Lived."

Yes, he had lived, indeed. His life was that of a hero. And he had died a hero, no doubt about that. He harbored no ill feelings. None at all. For he had anticipated this more than he had any Christmas morning.

If he would just close his eyes, he would be able to relive the moment. Yes, he could feel the damp cold of the rain on his cheek, the shrill scream echoing through the forest... his first taste for blood. It was addicting. Like a play that you would watch over and over again, but would never get tired of seeing. And it was the perfect play. Tempered with your tragic hero, your damsel in distress, the ever-loyal friend and last but not the least, the spawn of any religion's Satan. Yes, he was born and raised to play that part.

In his mind's eye, he would play it over and over again, caressing the memory like a mother would her infant. How could he not? He had dreamt of the day years before it had happened. He had hoped against hope that one day, Harry Potter wouldn't be able to save the day and that Harry Potter wouldn't be able to get away. And what he wished and hoped for had come true. And he was there, seen it with his own two eyes, seen enough to make him want more, enough to change the course of his life. And consequently, the course of history.

The last time Harry Potter saved the day...

With a low chuckle, he looked back at the papers before him. It was a summons of sorts. He grinned. It will never be enough for the old man, will it? No. His was an unquenchable thirst, a journey without end, a longing never to be fulfilled. Until now, that is.

He leaned back on his chair and took a long drag from his cigarette. Absentmindedly, he created smoke rings that immediately turned into mere wisps of nothingness. He looked out the window again. He wondered where the sun had gone. This bitch of a city could use a little goddamn light once in a while.

He stood up and as he was reaching for his jacket, the door chose to open at that precise moment.

"You're leaving, I presume."

He shrugged into his leather jacket and turned to regard the room's new inhabitant. He did so with weary distaste. "What an intelligent presumption on your part," he drawled out. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there's somewhere I have to be..."

"You're going after her?"

The question arrested him halfway to the door. He looked back. "Do I look like a have a choice?"

He watched as the man takes one of the wooden seats situated in the front of his desk. "I don't have time for this," he snapped irritably. "You don't have anything useful to say-"

"I know where she is."

In a flash, he found his hands around the infuriating man's neck. He was never one for the frivolity of having to ask nicely. "Where?" he fairly spat out the word.

A fresh spurt of anger screamed through his system as the man whose life was literally in his hands smiled up at him. "Everything has its price, Malfoy."

He released the idiot from his grip with a good amount of disgust. "You haven't changed a bit," he paused for moment. "Have you, Weasley?"

Weasley shrugged his thin shoulders. "Depends on which side of the road you're standing."

He shot Weasley a pointed look. "It looks the same either way. You've always been a greedy bastard."

"No, not really. I see it as an acquired taste, for unlike you, I wasn't born with the instinct of an asshole."

A slow and all too familiar smirk came across his face. "As much as I would like to stay and chat about the good old times." The cutting sarcasm was obvious in his voice. "I have better things to do than to act like an asinine pup being dangled fucking doggie biscuits. That or we could merely cut to chase. What is it this time? Money? How come I'm not surprised?"

Weasley ignored the blatant insult. Besides, it was a fact he could not deny. He shook his head. No. That wasn't what he wanted. "I want her, Malfoy. You may do whatever it is you want with the child, but the woman is mine."

"She will die," was the short response.

"Of course."

An exasperated sigh was expelled. "What I meant was that she will die immediately."

"Immediately?" Weasley echoed, his face that of genuine disappointment. "What about 'a little later than expected' then? How does that sound?"

"I'll see what I can do."

Weasley smiled at that. "Yes, I knew that you would." He suddenly found himself staring into gray eyes that had turned into silver ice.

"Why just now? You know how long we've been looking for them... All the needless torture... when we could have been doing something else. You were an unnecessary son of a bitch."

"Ever heard of bidding your time?" Weasley retorted, rolling his eyes. "Oh, pardon me. For a moment there, I forgot that I was talking to the Angel of Mercy.... Care to remind me why they call you that again?"

"Not if you want your throat slit. But another question for you, though. Why don't you just do it yourself?"

"Oh, yeah. That's real funny. You're a comic, you know that? A bloody comic. I'm not a bleeding death eater. Not that there's anything wrong with being a death eater, of course! But I don't need that. No need to get ahead of myself." Weasley paused as he took a moment to stroke the expensive cloth of his robe. "Besides, I don't need the glory. I'm in this for something else."

"Revenge."

Weasley gave a hearty chuckle as he stood up. "Precisely."

"She's probably forgiven you, though. I hear that that's what friends do."

"God," Weasley replied, his facing contorting into a terrible grimace. "I hope not."

Weasley found himself the recipient of another harsh glare and equally harsh words. "I believe you know where the door is."

"But I haven't even told you where..."

"I know where it is. I could read it on your face," he added before Weasley could get a word in edgewise. "It's as disgustingly readable as it normally is."

"Well, let's all hope that you can read this." With that Weasley angrily flashed his middle finger in quite an ill-mannered way.

"Of course. I'm fluent in nine languages, and that's including the Neanderthal sign language that you seem partial to." Unfazed he picked up the pieces of parchment from his desk, not bothering to look up when he heard Weasley leave the room.

As he gazed at the words in the parchment, another name reflected in his gray irises.

Hermione Granger.

*****

Far removed from the world of reality, there is a room. In this room... he who creates reality

*****

His footsteps echoed throughout the vast void of the corridors. This was the last place he would choose to be, yet here he was. Ironically, he was an asinine pup of sorts - blindly following his master's bidding. Of course another label would be "loyal death eater." Oxymoron anyone?

A chill seemed to flow from the cold stonewalls and into his bones. It was amazing. It was nauseatingly amazing. The place had changed over the years. What was then an epicenter for knowledge and learning, a refuge and shelter for many a student, was now a veritable tomb. Or would be a veritable tomb at first sight. At second sight... a den of evil.

The old man had a morbid sense of humor. He took intense pleasure in the knowledge that his hellish abode had once served as a home to his two principal enemies. Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter.

Entrance into the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was an invitation to death. Administered at the hands of its only inhabitant, for even the ghosts had chosen to leave.

He knew exactly where to find the old man. He turned on his heel at a corner and started for the courtyard.

Sure enough, there he was.

The old man was sitting his favorite stone bench positioned near the middle of the square expanse that had been littered with marble statues. The old man, clad in his favorite attire of black, was engaged in his favorite pastime. He was feeding pigeons.

He approached the old man quietly as he could manage from the back.

"That has never worked the eighty-seven times that you have tried it, boy. What makes you think you'll ever be able to surprise me?" There was no anger in the rough voice. Neither was there challenge in his tone. Just mild amusement.

The old man only ever called him by three names. Boy. Foolish bastard. Last but not the least a very sarcastic sounding, Son of a Bitch. And perhaps once in a blue moon, an equally sarcastic, Angel of Mercy. It had been a long time since he heard someone call him by his given name. He wondered if he ever would.

"Well, boy? What do you think you're doing?"

He walked over to the empty bench across the old man making the pigeons take flight and there he sat down. "You better simmer down, old man. All this excitement might do you in."

The old man had physically changed over the years. In the beginning years that the boy had become a death eater, the old man could hardly be distinguished as a man at all. Perhaps it was that part of him that instilled fear in all of his followers, that part of him that was consumed with intense yearning for death and power. But as the yearning in him was little by little assuaged by each drop of blood that had been spilled over the years, he felt the one thing that he had not felt in so many years. Satisfaction. Apparently, feeling something aside from severe hate could actually change a person physically. Now the old man was nothing but... an old man. And he actually he seemed to enjoy it. He saw it as some sort of disguise. He could walk down the streets of any city unnoticed. It was most handy for a nice killing spree.

"You have news, I gather?" It was more a statement than a question. When the man expected results, the boy never failed to deliver.

It was a relationship that had strengthened over time through dedicated service and loyalty. Peter had been a sniveling fool. But in this boy, he knew where his loyalties lay. He questioned nothing and followed everything with flawless and somewhat nonchalant ease. In one night, that one mission, he was won over by the boy. He trusted his life with the boy.

He was a priceless servant.

But he was still a boy.

He gazed at the boy who was staring at him unblinkingly. The boy had balls, too. Yes, balls enough to call him old man to his face. And he appreciated that. He was nothing like some other imbecilic morons who liked to call themselves death eaters. His hands shook in remembrance of two particularly idiotic death eaters who had accidentally killed each other during the mission. Ah, yes, Crabbe and Goyle. As mind-numbingly dumb as their fathers and their fathers before them.

"Three days," the boy finally spoke up. "Give me three days and you'll get the child."

"The child?" He watched as the boy's eyes wandered to the two marble larger-than-life statues that flanked the bench that he was occupying. He was well acquainted with the expression on the boy's face for it was an expression that he had mastered himself - guarded emotion.

"You moved them," the boy's gaze flickered back to his own. "I was wondering where they were when I didn't see them in the Great Hall."

The old man gave a slight smile. "Yes. I thought that they'd enjoy the view out here." He gestured to the bleak, gray skies overhead. "I'm more than accommodating to Masters Albus and Harry."

Yes, the boy thought immediately. They certainly look like they're enjoying the outdoors.

To the perverse delight of the old man, he had statues of his fallen enemies as well as his mutinous former comrades. From where he was sitting, he could see a few Hogwarts professors, Minister Fudge, as well as some other ministry officials and Aurors, some traitorous death eaters, one of which was a certain Peter Pettigrew.

And they all wore huge smiles. As if they were in a party instead of cold and dead.

"Foolish bastard, don't think you can change the topic that easily. What do you mean 'the child?' What of the woman? Alive, isn't she?"

"Has anyone told you that your terms of endearment are found to be a bit lacking?"

The old man chuckled. "You're not offended so don't pretend that you are. Now, tell me about the woman."

"Weasley wants her," the boy replied slowly. "In exchange for their location, she was the price."

"Weasley? He's proving to be a valuable asset."

The boy scoffed at the idea. "Valuable? More like expensive."

"Give him money," the old man said brusquely. "The woman is yours." He gave a hearty laugh when he saw the boy desperately try to cover the confusion on his face. "You know what they say, boy. 'All work and no play'..."

"Gets the work done," he retorted. "I'm involved. We might as well give her to Weasley or better yet, why don't you just keep her for yourself?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I've transcended such needs. It's up to you to decide what is to happen to the woman. But she will not go to Weasley. I don't want him thinking that he can have more than what I've already given him. He's already received ridiculous amounts of money and death eaters to kill to make him out as a hero. That's enough." There was such a forceful finality in his words that the boy knew that that was the end of the conversation.

"I'll be going back now," the boy announced standing up. "I assume that you'll be all right, old man?"

The old man waved him away, digging in his pockets. He was searching for more breadcrumbs it seemed.

The boy had turned to leave when the old man's voice suddenly rang out in the vast emptiness of the atmosphere. "By the way, I have a small gift for you. Hold out your hand, boy."

As always, the boy did as he was told and in his outstretched palm appeared a dagger. It was encased in a battered leather sheath and the hilt of which was undoubtedly pure gold and encrusted with precious gems that glinted in the pale sunlight.

"You won't disappoint me."

Never a request. Always a command.

"I never do."

On the way out of the courtyard, the boy passed another statue. His father's statue. Yes, he remembered that night well.