In the Dark Lord's Service

“Chapter Two: Lightning Strikes”

October 31, 1981

    The Potters’ cottage was situated at the edge of Godric’s Hollow and bordered a thick rush of woods. The house, with its earnest brick exterior, blue shutters and warmly lit windows, had a sweet aura of home and happiness. From his post in the woods, Pyrites could tell that James and Lily Potter were enjoying the evening. The young couple had put the baby to bed already and in between chores in the kitchen were laughing, cuddling and talking about their day. The blissful scene made Pyrites nostalgic for a happy home life that had never existed. Maybe after the war was over he could finally settle down and find happiness with a family he loved. Then again, Pyrites wasn’t the type of man who could find happiness by “settling down.” He preferred to bounce around, explore new territory and be in constant acquisition of new treasures.

    Pyrites unconsciously fingered his lovely emerald cufflinks as he ran over a list of things in his head. He had scouted the area surrounding the Potters’ house and secured it for the imminent arrival of his master. He had been surprised to discover that the intelligence supplied by Wormtail had been accurate; there were no protection charms or alarm beacons around the home. The Fidelius Charm had been the Potters’ only means of security against Voldemort. As powerful as that single charm was, Pyrites was still shocked the Potters would use only one spell to defend the life of their son. Even muggles knew that when guarding something precious, numerous security systems should be put into place to safeguard against the failure of any single one. But Pyrites also knew that the Potters, like Dumbledore, were especially trusting and naive people. Obviously they believed that the word of their friend would be enough to save them and their son. Luckily for the Death Eaters, they were mistaken. Pyrites heard a soft pop, followed by the rustling of leaves in the trees behind him. He smiled. His master had arrived. Without tearing his eyes from the cottage, Pyrites addressed him.

    “Good evening, Master. You will be pleased to know that everything is in place.”

    “Excellent,” Lord Voldemort replied. “Tonight history will be made, Pyrites. The war will be won and our fates shall be decided.”

    Pyrites replied, “We can only hope.”

    “Hoping won’t be necessary. When have I ever failed with you by my side?”

    Pyrites winced as he thought of a few times things had gone quite wrong, but he knew better than to bring those incidents up. Lord Voldemort may have been the most powerful wizard of his generation. He had cheated death, ruled legions of pure blood wizards, and inspired so much fear that people were afraid to even say his name. Nevertheless, the boss had an insecurity issue. Pyrites was smart enough to have figured out long ago how to offer help without suggesting that Voldemort needed it. To do so would be most unwise.

    “Master, I will go in with you.” He continued, “Please, it would be my honor. I wish to help you destroy the Potters.”

    Voldemort sighed and looked at his wand as though he were contemplating something that lay deep within the core. “Pyrites, I, myself, am honored by your loyalty and eagerness to serve me. However, this is something that I must do alone.” He stroked the wand with a single finger and finally looked up, not at his servant, but towards the cottage. “Fate has brought me to this point. It has delivered my enemies upon a silver platter–or at least in the false security of their hideout. No, I alone must destroy the Potter child. Hopefully, I can take the brat’s meddlesome parents to their graves, too.”

    “Very well,” Pyrites said with a nod. The servant could offer nothing more now than confidence. “Master, the coast is clear.”

    Voldemort replied, “Then let it all be done.”

    Pyrites felt an odd surge of pride as he watched Voldemort stride towards the Potters’ hideout. He was about to witness the exact moment in history that would validate the sacrifice and suffering of him and his fellow Death Eaters. Once this final threat was eliminated, Lord Voldemort would rise from infamy to become the greatest wizard in the history of the world. It had been foretold; it would now be so.

    As Lord Voldemort entered the garden, he was seen by James Potter, who promptly drew his wand and called something to his wife. Lily was not screaming or crying, but saying something resolutely to her husband. Pyrites was vexed. He could not read lips or hear what was being said. Making sure the coast was still clear, he crept out of the woods and closer to the house, to catch more of the action inside.

    Lily Potter was out of the kitchen and presumably running upstairs to her son by the time Voldemort forced his way into the house, through the locked backdoor, like a common robber. Except most robbers did their craft quietly; Lord Voldemort let loose a high-pitched laugh of triumph as entered the house. There would be a murder, now, in that same kitchen in which the two young Potters had been sharing giggles and kisses only moments ago. Pyrites’ blood surged with hot excitement at the thought of it. James Potter was no low-grade magician or defenseless muggle. He was one of the most talented pureblood wizards of the age, and appropriately, he did not cower in fear before the Dark Lord. He stood tall and carried an expression of courage and passion on his face.

    Cocky to the last, Potter cheekily called to Voldemort, “Can’t say I expected you to drop in uninvited. We’re not used to such trash here in Godric’s Hollow. Don’t you think Azkaban could show you a better time?”

    “Stop buying time with your ridiculous attempt at wit, Potter. Step aside and let me kill your son so we can finish this war once and for all.”

    Potter suddenly gritted his teeth in fury. “Don’t you dare...not Harry Expelliar...”

    But before James Potter could finish shouting the disarming spell, Voldemort had already bellowed the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra. A flurry of emerald lightning cracked from Voldemort’s wand and wrapped itself around Potter’s body. Voldemort laughed as the once proud Potter fell to the floor, tied down by the force of death. No one could escape the power of Avada Kedavra. The sight of the Killing Curse had always impressed Pyrites, but not tonight. A part of him was almost sad that James Potter had fallen so easily and so quickly. He had wanted to see a good old fashioned duel. Technically, that’s what it had been. Two opponents, bravely standing face to face, shortly exchanging insults, and then, hurling hexes at one another. However, James Potter had barely any chance to defeat the Dark Lord. It wasn’t that Pyrites had expected a fair fight–Potter was supposed to die within minutes–but Pyrites had wanted to see a fight. Now, only Lily Evans Potter stood between Voldemort and baby Harry’s execution, and Pyrites was disappointed that the remaining battle would be fought upstairs and out of sight.

    After he saw the back of Lord Voldemort’s cape disappear up the stairs and to the first floor of the Potter’s cottage, Pyrites sighed and turned to go back to his post in the woods. He heard muffled shouts from inside. Voldemort was bellowing something at Lily Potter, who was now crying like an Irish banshee in the moonlight. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but it wasn’t the first time Pyrites had heard such a bleak noise. The first time Pyrites had heard the desperate, dying screams of a woman was when he heard his own mother being killed by the Dark Lord Grindelwald. Marianna Pyrites had been able to hide little Antonio in a kitchen cupboard, but was not clever enough at the time to save herself. Since his mother’s death, Pyrites had become numb to death and the pleas of the dying. A miserable childhood as the unwanted houseguest of his aunt had left Pyrites embittered and eager to inflict similar pain on anyone who crossed his path. While at school, an older student, Tom Riddle, took young Pyrites under his wing. The boys shared a mutual understanding, both being orphans and proud Slytherins. After Hogwarts, Pyrites got caught up with the wrong crowd and ended up accessory to the murder of a disabled muggle boy. Somehow, his aunt’s family intervened and got Antonio out of any serious trouble, though he had already served a few months in dreaded wizard prison, Azkaban. The experience had made Pyrites extremely wary of ever getting caught again. Thus, he became obsessed with clean getaways and emergency plans. He later joined Lord Voldemort’s crusade as a favor to an old friend. Lord Voldemort was the transformed Tom Riddle. So, he wasn’t at all disturbed when he picked up spare words of Lily Potter’s pleas, and heard his master finally deal out the final blow of Avada Kedavra. He didn’t feel guilty that he had joined the ranks of a wizard who was committing the same crimes as the man who had killed his mother. By this time, he had forgotten all about his mother and her love. Now, all life was an odious task and the desire that Voldemort would prove successful in the end. Hopefully Harry Potter would be dead in a minute or two, and then Pyrites would be free to go celebrate the night’s success with some pretty witches at his favorite Knockturn Alley pub, The Black Spot.

    The night was silent. Pyrites could hear the wind rushing through the trees in the distance. He could also hear the voice of Voldemort from across the garden green and inside the cottage as he prepared to kill the infant Potter. He roared, “AVADA KEDAVRA ”

    Suddenly, a blast went off as loud as a bomb exploding. A high pitched scream of pain followed. Bright, neon green light rippled from a room on the top floor of the cottage. Pyrites did not know what was happening; as the light passed through and around him, he felt as though he were being knocked over by the force of a hurricane. Something had gone terribly wrong. He felt the burn of the Dark Mark, a beacon of Lord Voldemort’s bidding and a sign of a Death Eater’s loyalty, on his arm. He quickly pulled up his sleeve to examine it, but as it throbbed black, a sign that the Dark Lord needed him, it suddenly drained of color and faded from his arm. What had happened? Was his master dead?

    Frantic, Pyrites ran to the Potters’ cottage. “My lord ” he called, hoping to hear Voldemort respond. As he made it to the back door, still blasted open from his master’s intrusion, Pyrites was shocked to hear the wailing of a baby from the top floor.

    Harry Potter had survived the Killing Curse.