Rating:: PG-13
House:: The Dark Arts
Characters:: Lord Voldemort
Genres:: Drama Angst
Era:: Multiple Eras
Spoilers:: Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Quidditch Through the Ages Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Stats:: Published: 05/05/2003

Updated: 05/05/2003

Words: 2,661

Chapters: 1

Hits: 546

Epitaphs in Ashes

Hel

Story Summary:: When there is no hope left, when the world you knew is gone forever, when everything around you is dead or dying, there is only one thing that remains to be done - the writing of the epitaph. An epitaph for what once was. An epitaph written in the ashes of the old world...

Chapter 01

Posted:: 05/05/2003

Hits:: 546

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EPITAPHS IN ASHES
I: PRELUDE TO THE BEGINNING OF THE END
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It is all over. It is ended.

A dark shadow is cast forever across the once proud land of Albion. The fountain of legends, the isle of kings that was England, is suppressed forever. And so it is with all the components of great Britannia - Scotland, Wales, and even Eire and Northern Ireland fell to it. On these islands that were once home to such multitudes of people, such beautiful plants, such intriguing animals, there is now is nothing save what the Dark Lord has allowed. The only plants that live are ones growing on ground that cannot be built on, ground that holds no metal or gems to be ripped from it. The only animals that live are the ones that are kept for food, or not deemed troublesome enough to be exterminated - they do not live in peace, though, for they are hunted for amusement. The only people that live must live out their lives in the drudgery of mines and factories, or live like rats in the disused sewers, hiding from the light and the sound of voices. Yet there are some that exist in a state of luxury, dwelling in opulent quarters while the land around them shudders in its prolonged death. Those that serve him need fear nothing but their master, and the consequences of the ruthless political games in which they seek to gain his favour. Treachery is not without its benefits, and the best players of this game are allowed to live in conditions before known only by the cream of the aristocracy.

There is no chance of help from other countries. The islands are covered with spells - not just spells to keep away Muggles, but hexes and charms and barriers that can foil the most powerful of wizards. And considering the most powerful of wizards is the one who wove these spells in the first place, none can get into the kingdom he has created for himself. There was one who might have stopped him; a wizard by the name of Albus Dumbledore. But Dumbledore is dead, and there is not a wizard living who can come close to his power. From the point of view of the Muggle world, the British Isles simply disappeared off the map, not leaving anything behind. From the point of view of the wizarding world, there is simply no way of breaking the hexes. And if anyone is trying, there is no way for the people living there to be told, and no way for them to tell if it is successful. Ten long years have not yielded any sign that the rest of the world even exists.

It is a turbulent night - not because there is any civil unrest, for the Revolution was crushed eight years previously, but it seems as though Nature herself is attacking this wretched, enslaved island. Huge black walls of water crash against the cliffs and harbours, shattering like glass before coming back in an attack more powerful than before, harrying the steadfast rocks like a pack of hunting dogs. Above, clouds swim in a frantic turmoil of black and grey, fighting with each other to send torrents of icy rain onto the empty cities, the mountains, the plains, the rich homes of the rulers; drowning the remnants of the old world and the leaders of the new alike with their freezing tears.

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Here, the dark and cold of the night seem even worse, because they attack a body that has been used to the pampered comfort of one high in Lord Voldemort's ranks. He really should have built up a resistance to the hardship of the elements, for his descent from the pinnacle of the Death Eaters has hardly been a fast one. After his father's death in the final battle that put the Revolution to rest once and for all, he had tried desperately to inherit the place at the head of the Dark Lord's enforcers, but it had been to no avail. Slowly, others had superseded him; ones who had more than simply a right of blood to claim that exalted rank, and he gradually began to slip down the ranks, until eventually he was sent away from the Voldemort's court altogether. Since then, he has been sent back and forth from project to project, but he is always pushed to another section and sent a little further down at the same time. No-one wants someone who had lost their chance at greatness in their department - they want people with potential, so they can proudly say, when the time comes 'It was me that taught His Lordship's right hand man, you know. He was one of my lot.' It is a realistic aim, too - Pettigrew and Malfoy had been the only ones to last any amount of time, and many old Ministers dream of being the one to mould the next Lucius, who is somewhat of a legend. Pity his son could never live up to it…

"Oy, Malfoy!"

The man who turns to answer is by no means an imposing figure. Although he is reasonably tall, he has developed a stoop that resembles something in between a cringe, a duck, and a position assumed before leaping. His physique is almost comically skinny, and with his lack of muscles and hunted-looking stoop, he does make people think of an archetypal drawing of Weakness. Despite his youth, his hair is noticably sparser than it should be, and were it not already a silvery colour, it would be getting a few grey hairs. His eyes are a watery grey, and his skin is unnaturally pale. His nose is somewhat beaklike in its appearance, but the overall impression he gives is of some kind of rodent. The movements he makes are not the slow, languid ones that he was born to, but those belonging to someone of a nervous disposition under constant high pressure - he moves quickly, or he does not move at all. His pointed chin, chewing on a soaked dogend of a cigarette, has rough stubble growing on it - he hasn't had time to shave, and anyway, no amount of personal hygiene will get him out of this demeaning job.

"Yes, sir?" he asks, resentment evident in his upper-class voice.

"Get your damn arse out there, you lazy git."

"Yes, sir," he mutters, dragging on a coat. He curses inwardly, contorting his face into a scowl - a scowl which he does not direct to his burly supervisor, for he knows he has been given permission to use the Cruciatus curse upon any Adder that does not obey his orders. Draco casts one last longing look at the crackling fireplace, and steps into the rainy night.

Oh, how he hates his life! To think that once he had been second to only Voldemort and his own father, that he had had power beyond measure over every other minion of the Dark Lord! But with Lucius dead, there had been none to vouch for his position… and there, his charisma had failed him, until it slowly withered away. He had once been counted as handsome! Power and wealth can soften even the harshest eyes, and he had never been ugly.. but somehow his status as a delectable bachelor had gone. What people had said was a 'sophisticated' look, an 'unconventional' appearance was now disgusting to them. Even his power, his skill with magic… how it had happened, he didn't know, but he had become clumsier and clumsier with it. And then he was demoted. And again. Constantly sent down the chain. In this new age of Voldemort's power, only the highest levels of the Death Eaters are allowed to call themselves such - the tiers of ranks below are named after different kinds of snake. The Adders are the absolute lowest; they have all the grunt chores that are just a little bit too important for slaves to do. Like policing. What is the point, he would implore within his mind, of policing a dead city? There were wizards not under the control of Lord Voldemort still alive, but he had access to every technique the old Ministry of Magic had ever employed to trace illegal magic. There had not been a sniff of it for eight years. And even if they were alive, they wouln't be able to stage any kind of magical attack without being caught - and every single Muggle weapon in the country had been destroyed. It was a completely pointless job.

Draco walks through the city, the sky above pressing down on him like a weight that nothing can remove. He kicks angrily at a rock, taking his anger out on the inanimate object as there are no people lower in rank than him to use any more. He is deluding himself about the loss of his charisma, his looks, his talent with magic, this he knows. He was never exceptional at anything - it just took the loss of his status for everyone to realise it. For someone whose drive in life was to grow powerful, whose one wish was to be notorious, at once feared and respected by everyone who lives… it is the ultimate failure. He hates himself, he hates his life, he hates everyone. Malfoy sits down on an old bench, and raises his face to the sky, his eyes screwed up tightly against the driving rain. Unmoving he sits there, letting the cold water soak through his clothes. He doesn't care anymore. The world can do what it wants to him.

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She glances over at Harry.

Yes, he's still there. He's been there for too long, been still for too long.

The curved walls of her small room seem to close in on her, laughing. But she has gotten used to it. There's not much she doesn't mind, any more. Occasionally a drop of slimy liquid drips down onto her. On a stormy night like this, they get more frequent. It's her way of contact with the outside world, the only way she can tell what is going on in the lands above her little cave. Her room is apart from the others, a small offshoot from the main part of the sewers. They used to come and visit her a lot. Not any more. They lost their hope for her. Sometimes, when they can spare it, they leave her a bowl of food at the door. She's never hungry, but she eats it anyway.

On a small slab of stone she sits, nothing but sits. She used to have a wooden chair, but it rotted away, and she didn't care enough to go and search for a new one. She doesn't really care about anything any more. Apart from Harry. No, not even Harry… it isn't caring; it is obsession. He is her obsession, she is his sole guardian in this shrine to the past. Sometimes, she goes over to the plinth on which he lies and touches him - just touches his neck or face, brushing back his black hair - as though he was simply asleep and a gentle tap would wake him. She doesn't do that often any more, though. She hates to see her old hand on his creamy-white skin, can't stand the sight of the age that she is showing against the eternal youth that he lies in.

Her 30th birthday was a few days ago. She didn't notice it, didn't celebrate it, didn't care when the day ended and nothing had happened. But she does, somewhere in the back of her mind, realise that she is indeed thirty. Oh, she is old! But so long as she lives, she will stay here keeping watch over him. He is so beautiful; in his state of living death he is the most alive-looking being in the whole of the sewers. She gets up slowly, slowly; she has not moved in a long time. The last time she ate was at least a week before; and the bowl still lay by her stone seat. She has not bothered to return it to the door, and the others have not appeared to collect it yet. Unless food is very scarce, they will arrive soon.. within the next hour… the next day… the next week or so… Time is a flexible thing in normal conditions, and in a life such as this, where there is only reason for it to exist and that reason always remains constant, the awareness of time has deserted her. It doesn't matter if they come and bring her food or not, anyway. In her mind she is certain that she does not need it. She only eats it out of habit, and politeness. She cannot see what she looks like now.

Each step slow and reverent, she approaches his body, short and slim. Soon she stands by the plinth, looking tenderly and sadly at what lies there in the same way someone might regard the coffin of a good friend. His eyelashes are thick and black; like a curtain they mask the line between eyelid and cheek. They are impossible to prise apart. His entire body cannot be moved in position; that is why he is not laid out like a fallen king, but on his side, his legs slightly bent, one arm stretched out grasping a wand. She touches his shoulder gently, whispering his name inside her head. Harry… Harry… But her hand moves back sharply as though it has been burning, for she has seen the lines on her hand and it disturbs her. Why? Her whole aspect seems to cry that word. Why? Why have I become like this? Why can't I be like you? She gazes as though held in a trance by this hero, this boy who is 19 years old and has been for the past decade. Frozen like this forever, his life put on pause a second before his death, his title of the Boy Who Lived takes on a new and much more sombre meaning.

Ohh, it's cold in here. She returns to her seat, and once again takes up her vigil. Sitting. Sitting and staring at nothing. Her skin is paper-thin, and drawn oddly about her bones - her face especially, that now looks like nothing more than a skull from which a pair of dead eyes look without ever truly seeing. Her robes, too, are thin; worn and frayed, torn and greyed, providing no real protection from the cold or damp. Brown hair that once bounced about her head in cheerful bushiness now lies lank and dry against her back, with a smattering of dust over it. There is dust everywhere in this room; it is either dust or slime that covers every surface.

There is only one light in the room, a tiny oil lamp in an alcove close to where Harry lies. There used to be more, but she didn't need them, and the others did. When the lights were still there, she used to read. The books are piled up in one of the corners, although the room is a rounded shape and the corners are just convenient names for places where the wall curves a little more than normal. Sometimes she still does read, but she hasn't done so in a very long time now. She doesn't understand the meaning of the books any more, but she does like the words. She remembers, from the old times, that words were her friends. They comfort her slightly, the silent sound of the words rolling around inside her head.

Hermione was always the cleverest of them. In a way, she still is. Because she can see the truth. The truth is this: there is no hope. It has been dead for years. It is all over. It is ended.