Watching

He watched.

It was his duty to watch. And he would sooner die than be remiss in his duties. He was a Major General in the Ministerial Guard and he had been given a mission; a mission he was bound and determined to carry out. He knew what people had been saying about him and he had decided long ago not to give a damn. The people who mattered respected him. The people who counted had been the ones to give him his rank, so to hell with those jealous snits in the legion he commanded; and the bloody Aurors that had been assigned to him would soon learn their place; beneath him.

Damn the Aurors. He could see the spite in their faces that they, the great Aurors of Britain, had been reduced to an elite strike force under the auspices of the Ministerial Guard. Many of them were veterans of the first war against Voldemort, and they bristled at the idea of their prestigious vocation having been absorbed by this new Military. They thought themselves better than to be commanded by someone so young and so new to the fray and not one of them had any reservations about telling him so.

But he could not have cared a smidgen less. He was in charge and he would carry out his mission. He would do it on his own. He would earn his own valor, and in turn the respect of those he commanded.

So he watched.

Day after day, night after night he watched.

Four seasons come and gone and still he watched.

He watched in winter, as the heavy velvet curtains covered the windows and the candlelight inside was just a tiny flicker to his eyes. He watched as smoke bellowed from more and more chimneys. He watched the snow fall and grow heavy on the branches. And then he watched it melt away.

He watched in springtime, as the curtains were drawn, and the House Elves emerged into the back garden to beat the winter's dirt out of the rugs and tapestries. He watched the buds form on the trees, and the flowers in the gardens burgeon with color and with life.

He watched all summer, as the windows were thrown open, one at a time, the breeze the best relief from the heat. He watched the grass get greener. He watched as the days grew longer and then shorter again.

And he watched in autumn, as the windows closed one at a time. He watched the leaves on the acres of trees turn gold and then red and then wither altogether and fall to the ground. He watched the rains return and the first snow of a new season dust the expanses of the estate.

He watched. And now he knew. And he was ready.

He knew everything he needed to. He had spent nearly a year watching the lady of the house and now he knew enough to accomplish his mission.

He knew what time of day she came down to breakfast; the fire in the dining room was lit on cold days just as she arrived. He knew she took her tea in a library on the North West corner of the house at exactly four o'clock every afternoon. Candles came to life behind those windows on days when the sun was already setting at that hour, and the windows were left open on days when it was still light. He knew which windows were within the same rooms as others. And he knew which windows were her bedroom windows. She carried a single candle there from the adjoining room every night. A single candle, she put it out, and the house remained dark until the morning.

He knew everything he needed to.

And so he watched.

For the last time, he watched.

When the final flicker of the single candle was finally out he knew it was time.

He tiptoed from his hiding place. He knew he could Apparate onto the terrace on the back corner of the house; but, fearing the sound might wake its mistress, he chose to walk. It was a longer way than he had imagined. The Major General had never had cause to approach the house before and he had to admit to being just a bit awed by its size. It was more a castle than a mansion, but really more a fortress than anything else. The high stone walls were imposing, and the mammoth front doors seemed to dwarf him as he stood.

Alohomora.

He tapped his wand on the locking mechanism. He knew it would work. He knew it was a replacement door. The Aurors had taken down the original door by force in a search of the property years before. They had replaced it with a similar model that could not be hexed so to keep out further Auror infiltration.

He knew about this and hence he knew he could walk inside whenever he so chose.

He stepped lightly into the entry hall. He reckoned by the massive size and fortress-like appointments of the manor's exterior that he would meet with similarly Spartan conditions within. That had been an incorrect assumption. He had to stifle a gasp at the grandeur that met his eyes.

The walls were hung with portraits of generation after generation of the family whose ancestral home he had just invaded and the familiar Gobelin tapestries that he had seen being cleaned in the garden festooned the visible hallway of the second floor. There were plush silk rugs beneath his shoes. Everywhere he looked he saw expensive-looking hand carved antique furniture, velvet curtains with yards and yards of fringe, cut glass and crystal chandeliers and dozens of crystal and ceramic vases overflowing with fresh flowers.

He had to steel himself against becoming impressed with the mansion. And he had to keep himself from feeling ill that someplace so posh and beautiful could belong to persons of such filth. He could neither be bothered nor thrilled by the place; he could not afford the time. He had a mission to accomplish.

He was glad that the grand staircase was directly in front of him. He practically scurried up the stairs, forcing himself not to stop to examine the intricacies of the carvings in the newel posts and banisters. He reached the second story, and then the third. The second flight of stairs had curved and he had to pause briefly to regain his bearings.

Her room would be to his left. He tiptoed down the hallway and counting the doors on his right hand side; his mental map guiding him along the path to his destination.

Three windows in the first room.

One in the second.

Two in the bedroom.

He stopped before the third door on his right. He reached out his hand and tried the handle. The door pushed open with little to no effort on his part. He slipped inside of the room.

He was where he had wanted to be.

He raised an eyebrow as he moved deftly across the carpet toward the bed on the far side of the room; he was studying the woman who lay there. As he reached her the bedside, he felt a tiny bit of wonder at what he was about to do.

The house had been wide open to him. There had been no wards, no booby traps, and not so much as a House Elf had appeared to impede his progress- much less a Death Eater or a legion of Death Eaters as he might have feared. She was a sitting duck in that house. He wondered for a moment if this wasn't by design. He wondered if she had some sort of a secret wish for death; but he thought it more likely that her own arrogance had kept her from ever imagining anyone would dare violate the sanctity of her home.

Sanctity be damned. He was on a mission.

He smiled a little as he drew brought his wand to bear on her temple. He was very pleased with himself. Azkaban was taking care of her husband, and the Aurors had neatly dispatched her son (he did not at all believe the rumors that the boy was, in fact, alive and again fighting with the Dark Lord's forces- the official line was that he was dead and that was what had been decided was true) and now it was time to finish the cleansing.

He regarded the sleeping woman before him. She was prettier than he had imagined her to be. Truth be told, he had hoped to find claws and fangs. From what he knew of her and her family she should have been a complete hag; as ugly of face as she was of soul. But alas, her slender frame and striking features cut quite a pretty picture beneath her wavy blonde tresses. She lay so peacefully against her satin encased pillows and beneath her eiderdown quilts. Her breathing was even, unlabored, relaxed. He sneered. It disgusted him that this woman could have a moment's peace when it was her kind that had caused this war to begin with.

This war had both cost him dearly and benefited him immensely. But those to whom he answered had not found the conflict so advantageous. Yes, it was a crime that this woman slept peacefully in her mansion and surrounded by all of her finery whilst the rest of the Wizarding World was embroiled in bitter conflict. Oh, he had heard rumors of Lord Voldemort's defeat, of a potential cease fire in the works; but he would not believe it. He would accomplish his mission.

He would rid the world of the filth lying before him.

He tapped his wand at her temple and spoke aloud.

Avada Kedavra.

A flash of green light and the rise and fall of her body beneath the blankets ceased.

It had been too easy.

He would have it more difficult in the coming weeks. He would have to tell the tale over and over. There might even be an inquiry.

But tonight he had more pressing obligations.

He had to find her wand. He had to make it look like it had been her own curse that backfired. He would not want to have done so well only to be sent to Azkaban for the murder of this wretched woman.

He turned his head to the wall opposite the bed. He looked first into the dying embers of the fireplace.

And then he smiled at the giant mirror that hung above it. A mirror can reflect a curse; and if he had tried to disarm her but been a little late... well, then her own unforgivable killing curse could so easily have come back on her from that enormous, gilded mirror.

He'd known it was there, of course.

After all, he had been watching.