Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

(my personal version!)

Disclaimer:

Like many readers, I was disappointed in the final installment of the Harry Potter series.  So I wrote my own book 7!

Characters, plot elements, dialogue and excerpts from the original book by JK Rowling have been repurposed, and in some cases repeated verbatim.

This story is intended for my personal entertainment and not intended to be copied or distributed. All characters and place names, etc, are the copyright of JK Rowling, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Warner Brothers and all that other good stuff.

Chapter 1

The Dark Lord Ascending

The man appeared out of nowhere, emerging as if from the air itself. He glanced nervously at his surroundings, his wand at the ready. Satisfied that he was alone, he began walking briskly up the narrow, moonlit lane.

The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-growing brambles and on the right by a high, neatly manicured ledge. The man's long cloak flapped around his ankles as he walked on, his steps becoming quicker and livelier by the moment. It was good news, very good news indeed, that Yaxley would be bringing to the Dark Lord.

He'd surely be rewarded for this, he thought. Severus Snape may have given the Dark Lord the head of Dumbledore on a platter, but he, Janus Yaxley, would give the Dark Lord the keys to the Ministry itself. Snape, he grumbled.   Always getting the easiest jobs and the most credit. As if killing an old, weak, unarmed wizard with five other Death Eaters behind you for backup were some sort of accomplishment. Yaxley snorted aloud at the memory. 

He turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved with him, running off into the distance beyond the pair of impressive wrought-iron gates barring his way. Without breaking a step, Yaxley raised his left arm and passed straight through, as though the dark metal were smoke.

There was a rustle somewhere to the right: Yaxley stopped abruptly and pointed his wand into the darkness, but the source of the noise proved to be nothing more than a pure white peacock, strutting majestically along the top of the hedge.

"Peacocks...." Yaxley spoke the word aloud. Lucius always did put on airs. He lowered his wand and walked on, thinking to himself (with some satisfaction) that even if he did rank below Snape, he was at least well above Lucius Malfoy.

A handsome manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight drive, lights glinting in the diamond-paned windows on the lower floor. Somewhere in the dark garden beyond the hedge, a fountain was playing. Gravel crackled beneath Yaxley's feet as he sped toward the front door which swung inward at his approach, as though expecting him.

The hallway was large, dimly lit, and sumptuously decorated, with a magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the walls followed Yaxley as he strode past. He halted at a heavy wooden door leading into the next room, hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, and then turned the bronze handle.

The drawing room was full of silent people sitting at a long table with ornately turned legs and a highly polished surface. The room's usual furniture had been pushed carelessly up against the walls. Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror. Yaxley paused at the threshold, and bowed to the hooded figure at the head of the table, who gestured to the only vacant seat. Yaxley hurried to occupy this chair, noting that it was two seats closer to the head of the table than it had been at the last meeting. His work had not gone unnoticed after all, he thought, allowing a small smile to play across his harsh features. 

As he pulled back the chair, he glanced down at the table. There was a woman lying there, inside the table. He blinked and looked again. No, it was a reflection. He looked upward, transfixed. The woman - unconscious, possibly already dead - lay facedown, spreadagle, rotating slowly as if suspended by an invisible rope. Her hair was a wild, unruly mass; a pair of glasses hung precariously off one ear, and from her neck dangled ropes and ropes of sparkling beads, giving off the effect of a most repulsive chandelier.

"Sit down!" ordered a high, cold voice from beneath the hood.

Yaxley sat. He glanced nervously around the room. The other people at the table were very deliberately not looking at this extraordinary sight; all but one pale, blonde young man at the farthest end of the table, who, it seemed, could not prevent himself from peeking up every minute or so.

"You are very nearly late," said Voldemort. "So?"

"It's all but done, my Lord," Yaxley began, struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice, "Pious Thicknesse has been appointed head of the Auror office."

His statement had the effect he'd hoped it would. The table erupted in a gale of laughter. Runcorn, Rowle, and Selwyn were especially taken. Selwyn pounded the table in delight, chortling, "Oh ho - Thicknesse, he lives up to his name!" Even Lucius Malfoy looked as though he would have laughed, if the thought he might be allowed.

Voldemort silenced them all with a hand. "What has happened to Kingsley Shacklebolt?" he asked, evenly.

"Scrimgeour has assigned him to protect the Muggle Minister full-time now," Yaxley answered. "He even sleeps in the Minister's house."

Voldemort raised and eyebrow, feigning surprise. "The most talented, respected, magically powerful Auror in the Ministry has been reduced to a manservant of Muggles? You, Messemer," Voldemort clicked his fingers at a short, spectacled man seated two-thirds down the table. "I trust the Prophet will be reporting on this staffing change?"

"In tomorrow's issue," crowed Messemer, nodding at the parchment before him. A stubby purple quill danced over the parchment, writing furiously.

Voldemort nodded, and turned again to Yaxley. "This Thicknesse....is he...sympathetic to our cause?"

"He doesn't have to be sympathetic,' replied Yaxley, grinning."He's simple." Yaxley paused, squared his shoulders, and announced "I have already placed him under the Imperius Curse."

The table exploded again. There was clapping and whooping and his neighbor Dolohov, a man with a long, twisted face, thumped Yaxley on the back in congratulations.

"SILENCE," Voldemort roared, leaping to his feet. The room became instantly still. The company around the table watched apprehensively as Voldemort swept around his chair. In a flash, he was behind Yaxley's seat, those long, thin fingers gripping the man's shoulders so tightly that Yaxley actually winced from pain, not fear.

"You have done very well Yaxley," Voldemort breathed in his ear. "But this is a business meeting, yes? I would advise you to skip the theatrics next time."

Voldemort released the Death Eater with a slight shove, and strode down the length of the table, his pale hands clasped behind his back.

"I am pleased. Our plans are working even better than I had imagined. The Ministry is in complete disarray. They know we have infiltrated their ranks, but they cannot find us. They are scrambling to protect the Muggles, and each time they do, the magical community becomes more and more enraged. Scrimgeour is clearly coming undone, if he is reduced to the likes of this Thicknesse as head of his Auror office. And the Order of the Phoenix...." Voldemort paused in speech and movement. He had reached the very end of the table, where the three Malfoys sat. Lucius, his skin yellow and waxy, kept his sunken eyes downcast. He sat on the opposite side of his wife and son.

"The Order of the Phoenix has lost their leader, and they will soon lose his heir." Voldemort spoke these words softly, gazing upward at the slowly revolving figure.

"Draco," Voldemort said, almost conversationally, "do you recognize our guest?" They may have been chatting at a cocktail party. Draco nodded jerkily without looking up.

"Tell us, Draco," Voldemort urged, like a parent chiding his son to show off for company. "Tell us who this is."

Draco stared at his fingers, twisted in his lap. Narcissa Malfoy, as blonde and pale and anxious as her son, clutched his wrist and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Professor Trelawney," he whispered.

"Sybill Trelawney," Voldemort announced. "She was the Seer who made the prophecy concerning myself and Harry Potter. You will remember, will you not, that I had wasted a year's work trying to obtain that prophecy." He looked around the room, taking in each apprehensive face. No one wanted to remember this particular fiasco.

Voldemort rested his gaze on a dark-haired man at the far end of the table, but his words were for everyone. "Once again, Severus has succeeded where a Malfoy has failed. He was able to bring Professor Trelawney here to deliver the complete prophecy, personally."

Voldemort flicked his wand at the revolving woman. Her eyes remained closed, but her jaw slackened, and a harsh deep voice issued forth. "And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives."

Voldemort silenced her again. "Unfortunately the effort involved in extracting the prophecy has quite damaged her brain. Professor Trelawney is no longer fit for teaching. But that is no matter. I never much liked the subject anyway." He leaned forward and rested his white hands on the table. The skin was paper-thin.

"Do you understand what this prophecy means?" he continued. "Either I must kill Harry Potter or he must kill me, and since I cannot be killed ---" Voldemort was interrupted by a soft thud, followed by a rustling, and a long, low hiss. Several of the wizards around the table could not repress a shudder as the great snake rose, seemingly endlessly, and laid its head atop the table, directly in front of Voldemort. Its neck was the thickness of a man's thigh; it's eyes, with their vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. Voldemort reached out instinctively, stroking the creature with those long, thin fingers. He seemed to have lost his train of thought. The moment passed quickly, however and Voldemort addressed the Death Eaters again.

"Severus informs me that Harry Potter has also been told the prophecy in full, and believes it wholeheartedly.  This will save us a great deal of effort. We will not need to waste our resources searching for Potter," Voldemort allowed a terrifying smile to spread across his ghostly, snakelike face. He spoke with certainty and delight

"He will come searching for me...he believes it to be his destiny."

'Voldemort paused to let this revelation sink into the room. Then he began pacing again and spoke, now briskly. "Of course you may encounter Potter in the course of your new assignments, and that is fine. Capture him if he stumbles across your path, but do not attempt to kill him. That is my destiny. "He laughed at this last, but was quickly all business again.  "Now, Runcorn, Selwyn, and Yaxley - I expect the Ministry to be in my full control by Saturday." The three men nodded.

"Dolohov, you'll be responsible for taking control of Azkaban. You ought to know it well enough, eh? Wormtail," here Voldemort turned to a small man on his left with long dirty fingers and pink watery eyes. "Our local prisoners are getting to be too much of a burden. Dispose of them." Wormtail grimaced and began chewing his raggedy nails. As if on cue, a sudden wail sounded, a terrible drawn-out cry of misery and pain that seemed to issue from below their feet. "Perhaps you ought to begin now, Wormtail,' Voldemort said evenly. Obligingly, Wormtail scrambled down from his seat and scurried from the room, leaving nothing behind but a curious gleam of silver.

"Now, what job should I give to you, Lucius?" Voldemort had turned again toward the Malfoys. Lucius flinched at the sound of his own name, and wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip. "I'm not sure if I have any tasks that would suit your skills, I'm afraid. There are plenty of house-elves already here at Malfoy Manor, and I've no need for a valet." There was a sharp, collective gasp from the room, but no one dared speak. "You may be lacking talent, power, and intelligence Lucius, but fear not; for you are not yet completely useless. You still have money. And I will require a great deal of it." Malfoy lowered his head in a nod of submission. He did not raise it again.

"Bellatrix. At the sound of her name a tall, dark haired woman with heavy-lidded eyes leaned forward eagerly.  Voldemort glided up the left side of the table to stand beside her. She was shaking slightly, with excitement. "I understand that you have had a happy event in your family this week." Bellatrix stared at him, her lips parted, evidently confused.

"I’m afraid I don't know what you are talking about my Lord."

"I'm talking about your niece Bellatrix. And yours," he added, nodding back at the Malfoys. "She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud. What an....eclectic family you have." Voldemort looked at the other Death Eaters with an amused expression, and they understood that they were permitted to celebrate now. They did so willingly, laughing and jeering at Bellatrix's humiliation.

"She is no niece of mine, my Lord," she cried over the outpouring of mirth. I have never even set eyes on my sister since she married the Mudblood. This brat has nothing to with me, nor any beast she marries."

"Hmmmm. Of course, of course," Voldemort nodded, waving off the laughter that still echoed around the table. "This is not your fault. Clearly your family has suffered without your noble influence." Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring. "You must reach out to your wayward sister. Assure her that it is not too late to cast off these diseased parts of her body." Voldemort laid an icy hand upon Bellatrix's shoulder. Her eyes swam with tears and gratitude. Her chest heaved. "And you must offer to help her do this, Bella. Help her cleanse herself of the unclean." He squeezed her shoulder now, and Bellatrix allowed herself a little yelp of pleasure.

"Yes, my Lord. At the first chance!"

'You shall have it," replied Voldemort, "And as in your family, so in the world....we shall cut away these cankers that infect our society, until only those of the true and pure blood remain. And we shall train up new generations, whose magical knowledge will never be stolen from them by Mudbloods, whose minds will never be corrupted and polluted by the likes of that old Muggle-loving fool, Albus Dumbledore. "

Voldemort paused now and faced the dark haired man whose seat was always at the right of his own. "We will make Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry into the finest institution for the Dark Arts that Europe has ever seen. And you, Severus, will be headmaster."

All eyes at the table turned to Snape, who had been silent and impassive throughout the entire evening's proceedings. Now he showed his first signs of life. His cold black eyes glittered in the dim light of the room, and his thin lips curved into the smallest of smiles, but it was more than enough to light up his sallow face.

Voldemort smirked. He knew that nothing else would simultaneously please Snape and outrage the other Death Eaters more than this appointment. He was correct. Around the table, Snape's fellows were muttering; another plush assignment for Severus, the favorite, the favored.

Voldemort did not bother to quiet them this time. He turned on his heel and stalked toward the drawing-room door. Pausing at the doorway he turned slightly and called back.

"I think you should find a new professor of Divination, after all, Severus. Just because I don't like the subject doesn't mean it is entirely useless."

He flicked his wand carelessly, and Professor Trelawney's body crashed onto the table below with a sickening thump. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs and Draco fell out of his completely.

"Dinner, Nagini," Voldemort said softly, and the great snake swayed and slithered across the polished wood as Voldemort slid out the doorway and down the long hall.

When Voldemort was well clear of the drawing room, he finally indulged himself with his one, niggling doubt. "And the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord has not." He would not share this part of the prophecy with anyone. Not even Snape. It would be Voldemort's private assignment to find out what sort of power could possibly be lacking in himself, but present in Harry Potter.

Chapter 2

Final Flight

Miles and miles away, in the town of Little Whinging, another business meeting was taking place, in a house that could not be more different from Malfoy Manor.

Harry and the three Dursleys sat at the square, gleaming table in Petunia's always-immaculate kitchen, Petunia had a cup of tea, more for something to do than thirst. She'd been stirring it for so long the tea must've grown stone cold, Harry thought. Neither she nor Dudley had spoken a word yet.  Dudley had alternated between tugging at his blond hair, grown longer than Harry could ever remember seeing it, and staring at his fingernails.

"But I still don't see why it's us that's got to go," Vernon was saying, for the hundredth time. "It's you they're after, and as soon as you're gone for good we can put all this -- this nonsense,"  Vernon waved a pudgy hand in the air, "behind us."

Harry sighed; he'd spent the last six weeks trying to convince the Dursleys that they needed to go into hiding. His seventeenth birthday was now only days away, and there simply wasn't time to go through it all again. Arthur Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt had already visited Privet Drive, offering the Dursleys the best magical protections that the Order of the Phoenix could provide. Vernon had initially agreed, but nearly every day since that visit, had argued with Harry that it really wasn't necessary.

Summoning all his patience, Harry addressed his uncle as if he were a teacher communicating to a group of kindergartners. "As I've told you, it won't matter that I'm gone. The Death Eaters will come for you anyway." Petunia and Vernon had both made a face at the words "Death Eaters." For some reason, this angered Harry tremendously.

"You can keep denying it." Harry spat out, standing up, 'but they're coming. Death Eaters, in masks and cloaks, and their friends; vampires, werewolves, giants, goblins, Inferi - d'you know what those are? They're corpses bewitched to do a wizard's bidding. " Harry was talking faster and louder now, growing frantic with each word. He paced the room, gesturing wildly. "Dark creatures, Dementors, hundreds of them, and worse! Horrible creatures you'd never even imagine! And on my birthday, they'll all come marching down Wisteria Walk, and they won't stop just because you say you don't believe in them! They'll keep coming, and they'll knock down that door and they'll torture you with curses and hexes and....and devices. It won't matter if you don't know anything about where I've gone. They'll just take you hostage and wait for me to come rescue you!"

Harry threw his arms up into the air and fell back into his seat, his speech finished. He met Uncle Vernon's eyes for the first time in weeks. Harry was sure that in that instant they were both thinking the same thing.

Petunia had shown no reaction during Harry's outburst, but she stood up now, and took her cup and saucer to the sink. Harry saw that her hands were trembling.

But Vernon remained obstinate. "It's not fair, not fair at all," he grumbled. "All we've done is take you in and feed and clothe you, tried to give you a proper home, and in return we're supposed to leave our jobs and Dudley's school and sell our house - just when home values are sinking, mind you. That old man didn't tell us all this when he left you here 16 years ago, that's what. Dropping a baby on our doorstep, with no hint of all we'd suffer for it. Wouldn't have taken you at all if we'd known.  He ought to be here now, apologizing to us for causing all this mess. "

"Dumbledore is dead," Harry said, flatly.

There was a tinkle of breaking china. Petunia had dropped her cup and saucer on the tile floor. Her hands flew to her mouth and for the first time all evening, she spoke.

"He's dead?" It was a whisper, directed only at Harry.

"Yes," Harry replied, very confused. Why would the death of Albus Dumbledore affect Petunia at all? And to the extent that she would allow a spill to go unnoticed? The broken cup and saucer lay ignored on the floor, a rivulet of amber crawling across the pristine surface of the tile. No spill had ever survived more than two seconds in Petunia's kitchen.

Petunia quickly found her voice. "Dudley, you go upstairs to bed immediately. I have to talk to your father. You -- ", she pointed a shaking finger at Harry." You too. Upstairs now!"

Harry and Dudley were too shocked to protest. Petunia had never ordered her son anywhere. They hurried up the stairs, glancing at each other along the way. Both boys paused at the landing, with the same plan; to stay and eavesdrop.

Harry considered his cousin. They had had virtually no contact during this summer or last, as Harry had come back to Privet Drive so briefly and kept to his room so much. It was only now, that they stood just feet apart, that Harry realized Dudley hadn't punched him or tripped him or shouted rude things at him since his return in June. Just this morning, in fact, Dudley had offered Harry the rest of his breakfast bacon, a gesture that, by Dudley’s standards, was positively magnanimous.  Now they were behaving almost as allies, both eager to know what Petunia had to say to Vernon, neither wanting to risk being caught listening.

But it was a futile effort. Petunia had closed the kitchen door and they could hear only the rise and fall of her voice, her words were indistinct. Every few minutes though, she would punctuate her sentences with a particularly shrill remark. Harry thought he caught the words "Dumbledore" and "serious" and something that could have been "no one's man." Or was it "no one can?" Harry wished he had a pair of Extendable Ears right now.

The kitchen door flew open and Harry and Dudley both sprang for their rooms. Vernon came thundering up the stairs, Petunia at his heels. "You will do it, you will or we'll go without you!" she was shrieking. Harry was stunned. He would never have imagined his Aunt Petunia speaking to her husband like that. Through his shock, Harry realized the battle was finally won. Vernon might be full of bravado and bluster, but Petunia ruled the Dursley household. She always had.

Tempted as he was to go and listen at the Dursley's bedroom door, Harry pushed aside his curiosity and set about preparing for next phase of the plan. Tomorrow, the moving men would arrive to pack up all the Dursley's possessions. And the day after that, the day before his 17th birthday, Harry and the Dursleys would part company, forever.

Harry moved to his desk. He might as well start packing now, he decided. The clock, repaired by Harry years ago after Dudley smashed it with his toy tank, showed that it was only 6:00 pm.

The desk was littered with old newspapers, owl nuts, broken quills, and bits of parchment. Two letters lay on top of the debris. The first was from Hermione Granger. Ever organized, Hermione had sent him a suggested packing list for their upcoming adventure. Harry wasn't quite sure what Hermione was expecting - she'd asked him to bring as much Muggle money as he could. Perhaps they'd be staying in a series of bed and breakfasts while they searched for horcruxes.

The second letter, written in green ink, contained Harry's booklist for his 7th year at Hogwarts - if he were having a 7th year at Hogwarts, that is. Harry had been surprised when he received it; he'd assumed the school would be closing after Dumbledore's murder by one of his own teachers.

McGonnagal was acting headmistress, however, and apparently she had chosen to press on. Harry had wondered who would be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, but other than that, remained deliberately uninterested in the letter. Believing that Hogwarts would close had made Harry's decision to leave it so much easier to bear. He did not want to think about the school, his friends, Ginny; all of them carrying on with life and studying and Quidditch while he....did what exactly?

Dumbledore had left him a mission, but Harry had no idea how to complete it, or even where to start. Locate and destroy four Horcruxes, one of which was a complete mystery, and another which was personally guarded by Voldemort himself. And when he'd done all that - he had to kill Voldemort too. Not too much to ask of an unqualified teenage wizard, thought Harry sarcastically. He ought to be done by Christmas.

Harry fell back on his bed with a sigh. It had all seemed so clear the day of Dumbledore's funeral. He'd been full of resolve and confidence then, certain that he understood Dumbledore; that he was ready to carry on in his stead. As the summer wore on, however, the doubts and fears had come creeping in. Voldemort was getting stronger, Harry knew it.  Every day, the Daily Prophet arrived by owl, full of terrible, frightening news. More deaths, more disappearances of course, but lately Harry had noticed a distinct change in the newspaper's tone. Attacks on Muggles were now being highlighted on the front page, along with lengthy coverage of the Ministry's response and rescue efforts. Harry knew that there were just as many attacks on wizarding families, because Professor Lupin had been writing to him regularly with news about the Order, but these incidents were buried in the farthest pages, or completely ignored.

Sunday's issue of the Prophet had featured three pages of letters to the editor, and most of them were sharply critical of the Ministry's efforts to protect Muggles.

"Why are our scarce and valuable Magical resources being used up on people who have denied us and persecuted us for years," one letter began.

Harry was certain that if Dumbledore had still been alive, there would not be such hostility toward Muggles on display. If Dumbledore were still alive, Voldemort would be afraid to act so openly and brazenly. If Dumbledore were still alive, he, Harry, would be planning a trip to Diagon Alley to purchase books and potion-making supplies.

Harry shook his head. He mustn't fall into these bouts of self-pity. He smiled wryly.  Hermione had been writing to him almost daily, and each letter contained a variation on this theme. "You mustn't worry, Harry...You mustn't dwell on all the negatives, Harry...You have to stay confident, Harry."

Harry now announced to the room, "You must pack your things, Harry."

This declaration was answered with a reproachful hoot. He had awakened Hedwig, his snowy owl. She glared at him from her perch beside his desk. Harry rose from his bed and walked toward the owl. He'd been wondering what to do about Hedwig. He didn't know what he'd be doing for the next few months, or years, but he knew that he couldn't have a distinctive white owl delivering his mail while he did it.

"Hedwig," Harry murmured. She regarded him for a moment, then hooted again, softly now. Harry rumpled the feathers on her head and regarded her fondly. She had been his first real birthday present, his sole companion and link to the magical world during the long, stifling summers at the Dursleys. Best to get it over quickly. He looked into her amber eyes and spoke firmly.

"I can't take you with me, Hedwig. It's not safe. You need to lay low, okay? Just head off, wherever you like, and...and...keep out of trouble."

He crossed to the window and pushed it open. "Go on now. Go."

Hedwig unfurled her great wings and lit on Harry's shoulder in an instant.

"Just come looking for me again, you know, when it's safe again. Okay?"

Hedwig nipped his ear affectionately, and swooped out into the orange and yellow sky. He stood at the window, watching her grow smaller and smaller, until she finally disappeared into the setting sun.