The Last Day

[I haven't written Karkaroff's accent phonetically because he'd be speaking in his own language, so he wouldn't have one.]

Oddly enough, part of Igor Karkaroff enjoyed those last few days. For so many years he had been terrified that The Dark Lord might return, but now it had happened his fears had been replaced with acceptance. The worst was no longer a possibility, but a certainty. They were going to find him and kill him, and that was beyond his control.

The important thing was to keep moving. To make them waste their energy and maybe even hurt a few of them along the way. He had no intention of crawling to Dumbledore and asking for his protection, seeing the superiority in his eyes. Dumbledore had been at the trial: Dumbledore knew what he had done. Igor had spent years trying not to remember the crimes he'd committed, but now, at the end of his life, he worried. What frightened him most was the prospect that Lord Voldemort would find him and tell him to commit more. Because Igor knew he hadn't the strength to refuse.

Which was why he intended to die. He would run while he could, and then he would fight, and they would be forced to kill him. That way, he'd win.

*

This far north the stars were more visible, untainted by the muggle lights. The air was cold enough to hurt, but he had his furs and, besides, the cold calmed him somehow. It focused his mind on his body, rather than worrying about the past. The nights were very short this time of of year, offering him only a couple of hours of darkness in which to travel, so he flew fast - not daring to apparate - searching for settlements to stay in. He'd been told there was a small village ahead, with a pub that might have rooms.

The sky was already beginning to pale when he saw a few lights ahead and realised he'd arrived at the town. It was very late, and the pub was closed, but Igor had a good deal of money with him and the landlord accepted his compensation for the inconvenience. Igor thanked the man and retired to his room, checking it for traps and then securing it against intruders.

He stripped to his underwear and sat on the edge of the bed, not quite ready to sleep. His temperature hadn't yet adjusted to the warmth of the inn, and right now his room felt much too hot. Besides, over the past few years he'd found it was better to wait for exhaustion to hit before trying to sleep. Anything less and he'd stay awake for hours, worrying, before nightmares took him. Physically he was tired, but he needed to wait for his thoughts to wind down.

He looked down at the Mark on his arm. Some suicidal part of him had the urge to blaze the Mark across the sky, advertise to the world where he was. From where he sat he could see the plains he'd flown across, and the dark blur on the horizon that had been the pine forest he'd stopped in briefly to adjust his boots. The sky was definitely getting brighter now, but a few stars were still visible. Automatically he found himself naming their constellations in his head, working out where the rest of the stars would be waiting, unseen in the dawn light. As he grew warmer he found himself drowsy, and finally he got into the bed and closed his eyes.

*

When he woke it was bright daylight, and he couldn't tell what the time was. He put his clothes on quickly, not liking the glimpses of his body he saw in the mirror. Even reflected, the Mark seemed to suck at his gaze. Perhaps it was for the best - the rest of his body was a wreck. For years it had been too scarred, and the last few months had left it too thin.

As he washed himself the best he could in the tiny bathroom, which only had lukewarm water, he heard activity below. Clearly the pub was open. He wandered cautiously downstairs, not expecting to see Deatheaters drinking with the locals but alert nonetheless. The landlord nodded to him as he entered the bar and waved a hand at a blackboard with specials written on it. Either they didn't serve breakfast here or he'd missed it, so he ordered stew and a pot of hot water.

As he strained his tea-leaves Igor looked around. There weren't many other people in the pub, which didn't surprise him. This looked to be a pretty poor town, and he supposed that they didn't want to waste too many hours that could be spent working. He wondered what the industry here was, and asked the waitress when she brought his stew.

'Mostly hunting and fishing,' she said. 'We get a few travellers passing through, though, so we sell them supplies and services.'

Services, he thought, looking at her. She gave him a slight smile, and he realised how long it had been since he last slept with a woman. This close to death it suddenly mattered more than it had for years. 'What kind of services?' he asked, wondering if she meant what he thought.

'Oh, any,' she said. 'Mostly personal.' She held his gaze, and he found himself wanting her. It would be hours until it was dark enough to move on, and her hints were clear enough, he thought.

'Do, er, you provide any?'

'To the right sort of customer.'

He felt self conscious, remembering his disgust at the sight of his own body, but dared to ask anyway. 'To me?'

She let him wait for a moment, then nodded sharply. 'I could come to your room after you've eaten.'

'Won't you be missed down here?'

'Landlord gets a cut.'

'Right.'

Igor stared at the dregs in the empty cup, and saw just how close death was. He nodded.

*

Upstairs he waited slightly nervously, half-hoping she wouldn't come. He was old and ugly and she was less than thirty - she'd think him ridiculous. He felt vulnerable without his wand, too. He'd tucked into his bag, not wanting her to find it in his clothes.

There was a knock at the door, and he opened it to see her waiting outside without her apron on. He held the door aside but she didn't come in. 'We should probably agree on a price first,' she said.

Igor nodded to the pile of coins on the table. It was a lot of money - but then, he wasn't expecting to be alive to spend it. For a moment she looked surprised, but she swiftly hid it and smiled, then walked into the room and sat on the bed, watching him.

Igor closed the door and sat down beside her. She was fairly pretty, he realised, with dark eyes and nice hair, and she didn't look as if she hated him. She didn't know what he'd done, or what the mark on his arm meant. She didn't know anything, and he envied her.

*

Afterwards, as they dressed themselves, he asked her what lay to the north.

'Trees, mostly,' she said. 'There's a town a fair way away, but it's too far to walk in a day.'

'That doesn't matter' he said. 'As long as there's something there.'

'When're you going?'

'Tonight.'

'You just got here,' she said. 'I thought maybe... you'd want to see me again.'

'Sorry,' he said. 'I've got to keep moving.'

'Why?'

She'd stopped buttoning her blouse, and was looking at him sharply. Suddenly he wanted to tell her the truth, wanted someone to know.

'There's someone after me.'

'Who?'

'I don't know, exactly. Some people I used to know.'

'They're going to hurt you?'

'Kill me.'

She looked slightly shocked. 'Do you think they'll catch you?'

'Yes,' he said simply.

He was surprised at how sad she looked. 'Is there anything you can do?'

'I can hurt them as much as possible before I die,' he said. 'But I can't win.'

'What about the police?'

'It's complicated.' He sighed. 'I'm ready for death. I've accepted it.' Spontaneously he reached into his bag and took out most of his money. 'Take it,' he said, holding it out to her.'I won't need it.'

She hesitated. 'I can't,' she said. 'I don't even know you.'

'I don't know you, either,' he said. 'But you're here at the end. Take it.'

She almost reached for it, and then stopped herself. He gave her a sad smile, and gently put the money on the table. 'It's yours,' he said, picking up his bag and leaving the room.

He paid his bill at the bar and left the pub before the woman came down the stairs. On the way out of town he picked up the broomstick from the hedge he'd hidden it under. He wouldn't be able to use it for hours yet, but he'd wanted to get away as quickly as possible. Dying would have been a lot harder if he'd started to care about the woman. Even finding out her name, he realised, would have hurt. Still, it was nice to think that someone would care a little about his death. Perhaps that was enough.

*

As twilight approached, Igor realised that the Northern Lights were appearing. He'd sometimes seen them at Durmstrang, but they were clearer here, and comforting. Death might be walking a pace behind him, but ahead he could see colour and warmth. He got onto the broom and flew, feeling his fingers getting cold even through his thick gloves but not caring. For years he hadn't really been living - he'd been frightened, watching for danger so hard he hadn't found pleasure in anything. Now, at the end, he found the courage he'd always thought would fail him. He was running, yes, but he was ready for them.

After an hour he was beginning to ache, and when he saw a small building he landed gently beside it. It was empty, and on inspection looked to be the type of shack that hunters might sometimes rest in. Most of the building was made of mismatching planks, supported by a single stone wall with a crumbling chimney. It certainly wasn't anyone's home.

He opened the door to find a bed, a table and a chair. It would do.

The runes told him what he already knew - they were coming. This was the place, and this was the night. They would be out there somewhere, silhouetted against the colours of the sky, exhilarated at the prospect of his death and the praise they'd get from the Dark Lord. Igor had been in their place and he'd felt the same thrills, and he was about to do his penance. His hand trembled slightly as he took out his wand and lit a fire, but as he put the wand on the table in front of him he felt calm.

Igor Karkaroff sat by the fire and waited for the end of the day.