Epilogue
On the floor was a man. A dishevelled, crazed man. He needed a shave, a bath and some new clothes. His hair was a matted mess, his face sunken and hollow and his breath rattled in and out. On his neck was a twisting wreath of rose thorns, but no roses. His eyes were yellowing and empty. He was cold. He felt as if all the happiness in the world was gone. He felt as if he’d never be happy again.
It was a familiar feeling.
Above him was a floating, ghostly, cloaked form. It was leaning down to kiss him.
The man did not remember the tattoo on his neck. Nor did he remember the rose-quartz ring he’d once worn, or the moment when the light had left Evan’s eyes. But he remembered the name. Evan Rosier. It had been a long time since he’d heard it. An even longer time since he’d spoken it.
“Evan,” he whispered, faint wisps of blue light curling up from his wand. They faded, and so did the memory. A different blue light rose from his lips and into the air. He lay limply on the floor.
Soon after, Barty Crouch Jr was dead.