The wind whipped around them as Duncan and the five dementors waited beside the train tracks. Duncan flipped the collar of his dragonhide cloak up. The cold didn’t bother him as much, but the already gloomy Scottish winds turned to wintery gusts from the effect the dementors had on the atmosphere. Sometimes the temperature plummeted so far down, Duncan estimated that even a Yeti couldn’t stand the cold. Normally, he would just pace around, keep moving to keep blood pumping through him. But, he had his orders to be here and wait, and pacing around wouldn’t look professional. He didn’t even have the solace of a patronus to keep him at least comfortably warm. Any other person in his department would have cast a patronus and stood some ways away from the black wraiths, but Duncan knew better. It cost less to buy a thicker cloak and bundle up in a few extra layers than the risk of losing the trust he had with the creatures.
“About time,” Duncan said under his breath as he saw the train’s headlamp as it came around a large hilly bend. It was about two miles away when Duncan pointed his wand up and sent a shower of red sparks in the air. The screech of the train’s brakes echoed in the windy, empty hills. He spoke with the largest dementor as the train got closer. They didn’t have names, at least not anymore, but they had some kind of chain of command. In military terms, this dementor seemed to be the general of their ranks. The General nodded slightly. When the train stopped, nearly at the exact spot they were waiting, Duncan said, “You know what to do.” The General nodded again and gestured to the other four dementors. They flew off - two to the rear and two up front. They were to patrol the outside while Duncan and The General searched the train cars. They approached the first car’s door as it slid open.
“Evening,” Duncan said to the man at the door. The bald wizard nodded and waved him in. “I’m Duncan Jensen from the Department of Mysteries. I’m here to search the train for Sirius Black.” The wizard put on his conductor’s hat and held out a hand.
“Department of Mysteries, eh?” he said in a gruff voice, “thought it’d be Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” Duncan nodded and shook his hand.
“If this were a regular case, yes. But given the circumstances –,” he stopped as the compartment door beside them was thrown open and a hunched old witch stepped in.
“What is the meaning of this?” she said, angrily. “Who in the name of Merlin are you?”
“Duncan Jones, Department of Mysteries,” he repeated, trying hard to mask his impatience.”Here to search the train for Sirius Black. If you’ll go back to your own compartment, we will be done shortly.” The old witch huffed and shook her head. The pink witch’s hat she wore jostled slightly on her grey curls. Duncan couldn’t hardly believe she was still pushing the candy trolley on this train.
“We? Who is ‘we’? What –?” she started then looked over Duncan’s shoulder. The General waited just outside the train car door. Her face paled and she shook her head even more defiantly. “No! No, no, no, no! That thing is not coming on this train. We have students aboard. That thing –.”
“He,” Duncan interrupted, “is here to do a job. He is here to search for an escaped prisoner, who I shouldn’t have to remind you of who that is. Now, stand aside so we can –.”
“Do you think we would get this far if Sirius Black were on board? Do you think we would have left the station if he were on board? For Godric’s sake, I’ve been up and down this train twice now and I can assure you Sirius Black is not. On. This. Train.” Duncan raised an eyebrow.
“And whom can I say is making this assurance?” Duncan said.
“Meredith Honey. I manage the food trolley and have been since before even you were a first year, Mr. Jensen.” She straightened up proudly. Duncan smiled and sighed.
“Miss Honey. I trust your judgment. If we could go off your word, I would. But the Ministry has orders and we have a job to do. Now, please, stand aside and let us do it.” She looked at the conductor who gave a nod then dejectedly, she went back into the adjoining compartment. Duncan turned to the conductor. “I suggest you join her. We will be done shortly. But there are to be no patronuses cast while we are here. Understood?” The wizard nodded and joined the witch, sliding the door shut behind him. “Alright,” Duncan said over his shoulder. The air got colder and his breath rose in bigger clouds of fog as the dementor came aboard. “Let’s get it on with.”
They went down the train, the dementor in front with Duncan behind. It was in confined spaces like this that Duncan remembered how truly enormous these creatures were. They were nearly twice the size of a person, the billowing, tattered hems of their cloaks added to the illusion that they were even larger. It reminded him of how butterflies or certain birds will make displays to ward off predators. Except, dementors were the predators.
At each compartment, the dementor stopped, waved a grisly, rotten-looking hand, and the door slid open. He then leaned in slightly and looked around. Dementors were blind, and its hood covered its face, but it looked around, searching. Duncan’s department had spent decades theorizing how dementors saw and got around. Some thought echo-location, or sonar, like bats, but when it came to tracking “prey” they tracked energy signals or magical signals instead. They could sense the emotional energy and magical energy of souls around them. Souls and happiness, in short, is what they fed on. Left unchecked and feral, they would consume and destroy everything around them.
When the dementor was satisfied with his search, it moved on, gliding to the next compartment. Duncan followed, but stopped at each door and stepped in.
“Is everyone okay?” he asked. The half dozen terrified faces looked back at him with wide eyes and conveyed only one thought: fear. When no one responded, Duncan grunted and dug in his inner cloak pocket. “Right. This is official Ministry of Magic business. You are all safe. We will be gone shortly. Here, take this and make sure everyone gets a piece.” He took out a large bar of Honeydukes chocolate and handed it to the oldest looking student. Then, he left, sliding the door shut behind him. He repeated this at each compartment. By the time he was halfway down the train car, the dementor had already gone on to the next one. Duncan wished it had waited, but it was too late now. In the last compartment of the car, Duncan stepped in and nearly on the student that was on the floor.
“Is…is he alright?” Duncan asked. The boy looked like a third year, with bright blonde hair, a thin face that looked more terrified than the rest put together.
“No he bloody well isn’t,” snapped a dark haired girl next to him. “What the hell are you playing at? How dare you bring that…that…thing on board.” Duncan took out another chocolate bar from his pocket and handed it to one of the rather larger students.
“Make sure everyone gets a piece,” Duncan said, paused and glanced at the blonde boy again, “and make sure he gets an extra piece or two.”
“My…my…” the blonde boy stammered finally, “my f…father will hear about this.” He got up off the floor and stood with a scowl. Duncan took out his wand and gave it a wave. A small card appeared in midair and he handed it to the boy.
“Feel free,” he said and turned away, “he can make an appointment with the minister if he had any concerns.” Before anyone else could respond, Duncan left and went to the next train car. Before looking into the next compartment, Duncan saw The General was halfway down the traincar and leaning a little more into the compartment than usual. Must be empty, Duncan thought and turned to check on the next group of students. This one was full of first years. None of them had house robes and all looked on the verge of tears. Duncan sighed. He hated this job just for this reason. He knelt down and tried for a comforting smile.
“It’s alright, lads,” he said, “no need to panic. I’m here from the Ministry. Now, who likes chocolate?” He was just taking another bar from his pocket when a terrible shriek came from behind him. He stood quickly and turned in time to see The General hurtling down the train walkway towards him. He instinctively put out his arms to block the children behind him, but the dementor rushed past him and smashed through a window. Pursuing it was a large, wolf made of bright blue-ish, white light. The patronus ran on its hind legs and jumped out of the window after the dementor. Duncan’s worry turned into anger as he stepped out and stomped back to where the dementor and patronus had come from.
“Who in the name of Merlin cast that patronus?” he bellowed. From the last open compartment stepped a tall man. He held his wand out and stepped towards Duncan.
“That would be me,” he said. He was tall, thin, and wore old, scuffed robes. His light brown hair was a tostled mess as if he’d just woken up, and a patchwork of scars covered part of his face.
“And who exactly are you?” Duncan huffed as he reached the man. “I have no record of any adults being on this train aside from those up front.”
“I’m Professor Remus J. Lupin. I had to make a last minute change to my traveling arrangements due to…certain circumstances. But I assure you I have more right to be on this train than that,” he gestured with his wand to the broken window. With another wave of his wand, the broken glass flew into the frame and the window repaired itself. The freezing air from the dementors and the wind went away and the train was as warm as ever again.
“This is Ministry business,” Duncan said, regaining his professional composure. “And we have orders to search the train for Sirius Black.”
“And do you also have orders to attack innocent students as well?” Lupin said calmly. Duncan frowned.
“What? Of course not. Why? What? Who got…?” Lupin stepped aside and allowed Duncan to see into the compartment. A group of students were gathered around one boy laid on the floor. The red headed girl shook violently on the bench in the corner as the others tried to wake the boy up. He was pale like the blonde boy but still unconscious.
“I’d like to see the papers,” Lupin said, stepping in front of Duncan again, “for the search. And I’m sure Dumbledore would be very interested in hearing about this as well.” Duncan straightened up. He had every thought to excuse the man away and take care of the situation himself, but the look in Lupin’s pale eyes made it clear he wouldn’t back down.
“Right,” Duncan said and took out two bars of chocolate. “Give these to the students. The boy should have a whole bar to himself.” Lupin took it and Duncan nodded again. “Come with me. The conductor has a copy of the itinerary. Lupin smiled and nodded.
“I’ll be up there in a moment.” Duncan turned and checked on the rest of the students before leaving to the front of the train.
As they watched the train pull away, Duncan looked over the itinerary parchment. He jotted notes and checked a few boxes with a quill until he got to the bottom. On the line labeled “problems encountered” he wrote:
Interference by professor on board. Credentials verified. Half of inspection abandoned.
At the end, he signed the form, attached the slip of parchment with Lupin’s signature and reference details. Duncan rolled it up and let out a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he looked up, he was nearly startled by the dementor looming in front of him. The creatures could move so damned silently. He looked at the hooded face and sighed.
“I’m sorry. This was supposed to be simple. How was I supposed to account for an unexpected thing like that?” The General just stared. “I’ve got his credentials and will be verifying it by the morning. You’ll be properly compensated, I promise.” Duncan put the scroll of parchment in his cloak. “What went on there, anyway?”
The General didn’t move. Duncan waited, knowing the dementors couldn’t talk, but still waited for an explanation. The dementor raised his hands and made a motion - two fingers and thumb hooked and then pulled down. Duncan frowned.
“Soul yes. That boy has a soul. But what happened?” The dementor made the sign again but with both hands. “Okay, souls, then. What about the boy? What –?” The General made the sign again, only moving one hand away from the other as it pulled its hands down and then brought them together again. Duncan sighed. He felt like someone trying to communicate with a dog or a troll. Their basic sign language wasn’t complex enough to make themselves understood half of the time. They communicated wordlessly with each other, but from what his department knew, not with humans. They couldn’t write as all ink froze with their presence and any other writing implements got covered in frost or froze solid by their touch. “Okay,” Duncan said, making a mental note to send a memo to Barty Crouch later. The man knew every language in the magical world, maybe he had a clue. “I’ll handle it.” With that, he disapparated and left the dementors to find their own way back to the Ministry.
______________
A month later, Duncan was going over the latest reports around the search for Sirius Black when a knock came at his office door.
“Come in,” he said but didn’t look up from his paperwork until the door shut. It was Marcus Prewitt, his assistant. The young, bespectacled man had a pair of scrolls of parchment under his arm. “What is it?”
“Reports from…Hogwarts,” Prewitt said, “its…um…the dementors, sir,” Duncan put down his parchment and took off his own glasses.
“Lad, this is the Department of Dementor Affairs. If those aren’t about them, then I don’t care. Hand them over.” Prewitt did with a slight tremble and Duncan cocked an eyebrow. “No need to look so terrified.”
“Its…its from Dumbeldore, sir,” Prewitt whispered the name. Duncan smiled bemusedly and looked at the thin slanted writing as he unrolled the first scroll. He’d known that handwriting even without the monogrammed phoenix wax seal. Most of the summer was spent going back and forth with the stubborn old wizard, fighting to allow the dementors to patrol the school.
“Go on, Prewitt,” Duncan said and waved a hand, “you have that follow up meeting with Shacklebolt and Hopkurk in twenty minutes.” The young man left quickly. Duncan smiled again. The boy had ambition and was quick to learn, but he could get a sort of star-struck demeanor when dealing with big heads like Dumbledore or the Minister. Duncan shrugged and started reading.
Mr. Jensen,
On November the fifth, your dementors stationed at Hogwarts attacked a student. The attack occurred during a school quidditch match. The student, the Gryffindor seeker, was flying when a number of dementors descended upon him. According to the student, the dementors caused him to grow faint, and then lose consciousness. The student then fell from the air down to the quidditch pitch. I was able to prevent serious or likely fatal injury by use of the momentum charm, but the student had to spend several days in the hospital wing. Great damage was done to his broomstick due to the fall. I also had to repel the dementors using my own patronus due to their continued attempts to follow the student to the ground.
This is not the first issue we have had with the dementors. They have insisted multiple times to come onto the grounds and even into the castle. They have been compliant thus far, but grow ever more indignant when refused. This recent incident is an unacceptable breach of their parameters and orders. I will be continuing my petition to have them removed from Hogwarts and if necessary, Hogsmeade Village. A copy of that petition will be sent along with this letter, as well as to the Minister.
Signed,
A.P.W.B. Dumbledore
Duncan unrolled the second scroll and read through the petition. Nothing was changed from the last version except for the addition of an even longer draft of the incident on the quidditch pitch. The bottom was signed by the headmaster, the deputy headmistress, and…Duncan had to read it three times.
“Remus John Lupin?” he roared. “Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor?” What in the name of Merlin did he have to do with this? First the train and now this? Duncan scanned the petition again, finally finding the name in both the train and quidditch incidents: Harry Potter. Duncan searched his desk and found the train report. Flipping past the pages of reprimand notes about the incompleteness of the job and complaints from the dementors, Duncan read Lupin’s signed testimony and found the same name. “Harry Potter?” he said out loud. He knew about the boy. Hell, the whole Wizarding World knew the story, but what he didn’t know is what the boy had to do with the dementors. They were stationed at Hogwarts because of Sirius Black having something to do with the boy, but any other reasons were kept rather secret by Dumbledore and the Minister. He got up from his desk and grabbed his cloak. If there was a connection, he knew who to ask.
______________
Azkaban sat on an isolated island in the middle of the North Sea. Muggles didn’t know of its existence as the mile radius around it was a thick storm and the enchantments on it made sea vessels turn away and made the area unplottable on any map. Like Hogwarts and a number of other high profile institutions, it had an anti-apparition charm on it. No one could easily come and go from it. So, that’s why Duncan sat in the back of a carriage as it flew through the storm and onto the roof of the prison. When they finally stopped, Duncan got out. He buttoned up his cloak all the way up to his chin and flipped up the collar. Though he spent more time with the dementors than almost anyone else, he didn’t enjoy the effects they had.
“How long you going to be?” called the driver from his seat on the coach. He wore a long, thick hide cloak like Duncan’s and half of his face was obscured by thick flying goggles. The other half was covered in a thick beard and leather balaclava that resembled a vulture’s neck. The two thestrals that pulled the carriage shook their skeletal heads and leathery wings. Duncan much preferred those creatures to the ones gliding above them.
“Hopefully not long,” Duncan called over the whipping wind. “Maybe an hour.” The driver nodded and climbed down. He pulled out a knobbly wand from his inner pocket. “And no patronuses!” Duncan yelled quickly. The driver looked at him then the wand.
“No problem,” he said with a smile, “never learned that spell.” He waved his wand over his open gloved hand and a small ball of flame floated an inch above it, following it as he moved.
“And don’t burn the carriage down,” Duncan muttered as the man climbed in. The last thing he wanted was to have to paddle on the rippling waves in order to get back to the Ministry. He turned and went to the trap door near the middle of the roof. As he reached it, a large dementor shot down from where it and a dozen others were gliding above. It hovered above the trap door so Duncan could barely see it under its billowing black cloak. He looked straight into the hooded face. “Duncan Jensen,” he said loudly, “Head of the Department for Dementor Affairs.” At that, the huge black spector nodded and returned to the iron grey clouded sky. Duncan opened the trap door and quickly descended the ladder.
Absolute darkness enveloped him when the trap door slammed shut above him. He lit his wand tip and descended the ladder. His breath still rose in foggy mist. At the bottom of the ladder, he paused and listened. Through the door on the small landing he could hear faint shuffles but nothing more. He knew there hadn’t been another breakout, but still, he readied his wand and opened the door.
The corridor that ran all the way down the tower of a prison was like that of a stepless spiral staircase. Lining on each side were the cells. The floor was just slanted enough that one wouldn’t lose their footing. And one didn’t dare lose their footing in this place.
As he walked, figures peered out at him between the bars of their cells. Most were huddled on their cots and the bars cast long, dark shadows from Duncan’s wand light. Some rocked with their knees in their arms, muttering to themselves. Others lay still on the thin mattresses, with most of them crying softly. Duncan jumped slightly when he passed by one cell. The man inside stood right up against the bars, and the wand light glistened off his sweaty face and vacant staring eyes.
“Lestrange,” Duncan said without any mask of friendliness. He looked down at the man’s bare forearms. Through the grime and dirt of over a decade of imprisonment, Duncan could just make out the image of a faded skull and snake. His own arm twitched as he remembered the trial where a death eater demonstrated the curse that tattooed the Dark Mark on a follower. He could still hear the scream of the poor house elf they used. Never a day went by that he didn’t regret not volunteering to do it instead. He turned away to keep walking but stopped when a low, hoarse cackle came from the cell opposite Lestrange’s. He turned and pointed his wand at the witch in the cell. She had a thick mane of matted and tangled black hair and looked like a shaggy animal. “Bellatrix.”
“Has the dog catcher brought in another stray?” the witch said, inflecting a baby voice, “or is he still looking for the bad boy that got out?” She cackled again and tilted her head back so her hair fell away from her face. The wand light made it even paler than it was. Her mouth was filled with black teeth and as she laughed maniacally her thin frame shook under her stripped prisoner’s cloak.
“I was just talking to your husband here,” Duncan said, gesturing a thumb behind him, “has he been kissing the wrong people?” The comment made Bellatrix stop and her head snapped forward. Her dark, hooded eyes glared at him. “Heard from your cousin at all?”
“My cousin was an ungrateful little mutt who didn’t stay where he was told,” she snapped, “He is a mangy half-breed, unworthy to bear the name ‘Black’.” Duncan raised an eyebrow.
“Abd a lunatic like you is? Maybe I should fetch a dementor or two and you can join your precious Dark Lord,” Bellatrix stood and then in a split second slammed into the bar of her cell and reached out with her left arm. Duncan didn’t move, standing still as she scrambled to catch him with her claw-like nails. Her skin was just as dirty as her husband’s, but the wand light cast the many scabs and scars that lined her arms around her faded Dark Mark. When she drew back her arm, she glared through the bars with a fiery hatred.
“The Dark Lord is not gone. Whether we find him or he rescues us, he will return. Mark my words, he will return and then we will hunt down that boy.” Bellatrix snarled at the last word. The mention of Harry Potter reminded Duncan of his intentions and he turned away.
“And I’m sure Sirius will be just as much use in that as you are in here,” Bellatrix snarled again then began to bark. She let out low, rough barks in a frenzy like a territorial mongrel at the pound. Duncan continued down the corridor. Bellatrix’s barking became a demonic cackling again which was joined by other prisoners. Their cacophony echoed in Duncan’s ears for days after.
At the end of the spiral corridor was a steep staircase leading down to the prison’s dungeon. The irony of a dungeon in a prison never escaped him. These days it was reserved for the dementors, but when the prison was first opened, it was reserved for extremely unstable prisoners - the kind that required magical means to restrain and contain them. Duncan took the staircase carefully, each step covered in a thin layer of ice, and the air got colder and thicker as he descended. The staircase opened a large, wide chamber. Its natural cave walls glistened with dampness and frost as Duncan’s wandlight hit it. His feet barely made any noise as he padded across the dusty stone floor. Several dementors had raced out of the chamber when Bellatrix and the others started their ruckus; Duncan having to flatten himself against the bars of an empty cell as the monstrously large prison guards rushed past him. Now, only one dementor remained - the one he needed to see.
“I need to ask you something,” Duncan said when The General turned to face him. He drew closer until he was just out of arm’s reach. He stared up at it. Its hood was down and even in the dim light, Duncan could see every sinew and scab of the rotted flesh. The skin stretched on the skull so tight that he saw every ridge of the bone, and an extra mass of flesh covered the dementor’s eye sockets. Its mouth was slightly agape, always gently inhaling, but Duncan had seen plenty of the beasts performing their “kiss” to know how grotesquely wide those jaws could stretch.
“It’s about…” Duncan started, paused, then with more confidence said again, “it’s regarding the train inspection back in September.” The dementor didn’t move, only its robes billowed a little more fiercely in a non-existent wind. “That boy, on the train. Why did you attack him? I trust you knew what you were doing but…but we were looking for Sirius Black. In fact, that boy was the one we were doing it for. Harry Potter.” At the name, The General cocked its head. “Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard that name from more than one of these psychopaths here. So, why, I ask again, did you attack him?”
The dementor nodded and lifted its hands. It made the same signs as last time: the one meaning “soul” and the altered version. Finally, it made the sign for the kiss - slightly moving a long fingered hand to its mouth. Duncan stared at it. Even with months of research, looking into everything they knew about dementors, he had no clue what it meant. He sighed and his breath hung in the air in a fog.
“Well, whatever it is, it happened on school grounds. Some of your people attacked the boy again and nearly killed him in four different ways. Unless you can tell me what’s going on I –,” he cut short as the dementor, in the blink of an eye, swooped down and grabbed him by the throat. Duncan let out a painful yelp as the dementor shot forward and slammed him against the wall. He dropped his wand when The General had seized him, so even though the dementor was inches away from his face, all he saw was a darker than night silhouette. Duncan squirmed but the dementor held him firm. Then, as Duncan stared into the thing’s face, the dementor began to exhale.
Its breath was a putrid, soul-rotting stench. It made Duncan’s brain grow foggy and he felt on the verge of passing out when it happened. From the dementor’s mouth came a small particle of white light. It slowly floated out and towards Duncan, riding the dementor’s breadth like a snowflake on the breeze. Duncan’s jaw fell open in shock, but as soon as it did the light flew into his mouth like a diving falcon. Its warmth burned like fire on his tongue, then his vision faded into the white. Then the memory formed.
______________
The room around him was a mess. His father’s bookcases were half-blown apart, books and splintered wood singed by curses and hexes lay everywhere. The decanter of hundred-year-old whisky was now only a pile of broken glass in a puddle of wasted alcohol. His father had always said any spilled drop of alcohol was a tragic waste. Ironic, now, since his own ricocheting spell has shattered it.
Desmond looked down at the man on the ground at his feet. His father lay pathetically sprawled on his back. The step stool he’d tripped over while lunging for his son was still under one of his feet. Desmond grabbed the dark mahogany wand from where it had fallen and pocketed it. He won’t need this anymore, he thought. After so many years, a lifetime, of seeing it used as a weapon, a tool for punishment, against his family, Desmond relished in finally having it. No more.
Liam let out a groan as he came to. Desmond quickly stepped over him and pointed his own wand at his father’s face. When Liam opened his eyes, they focused first on Desmond, then on the wand.
“You foolish, idiot boy,” Liam hissed. The aches from coming out of the stupefaction jinx made him slow to move. Desmond kept the wand trained on his father but stood firmly on his shoulder.
“I’m not a boy anymore,” he said, “you can’t hurt me…or mom…anymore.” Liam tried to sit up but Desmond leaned on his shoulder. Liam glared up with red rimmed eyes. A gash on his cheek oozed a drop of blood.
“Think you’re a man now, eh? Seventeen and already know the ways of life, do ya? Think you’ll change the world?” Desmond glared but tears welled up in his eyes. Liam sneered, sensing weakness. “That’s right, boy. Cry. Only thing I couldn’t beat out of you. Maybe you need a new lesson.” Liam looked around, moving a hand to search for his wand. Desmond pulled it out of his pocket and Liam’s eyes went wide.
“No more,” Desmond said, then as his father’s face reddened with renewed anger, “Avada Kedavra.”
The flash of green light made Desmond’s vision blur momentarily. But the power that surged through him was like lightning coursing through his veins. It was ten times more potent than the times he’d practiced the spell. But the foxes, dogs, and rabbits he’d used were different. This was different.
Desmond stepped back, away from his father’s body, and sank into the armchair behind him. The stuffing on the right arm puffed out of a large hole made by a spell. As the power of the killing curse and adrenaline faded from his system, he felt exhausted. No, he thought, not yet. He pulled from his pocket a metal badge. His Prefect’s badge. Desmond rubbed the engraved “P” and badger. The black paint was rubbed away, but he always kept the gold polished like new. He thought of the day he’d gotten it with his Hogwarts letter and how proud his parents had been. But then he remembered how drunk his father had gotten during the celebration that night. The way he cursed his son’s placement in Hufflepuff. The things he said to his mother.
“No more,” Desmond said. He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. He thought of the instructions in the book - Secrets of the Darkest Art. He thought of the feeling of the killing curse, all the years of practice, planning, and organizing. He focused on the relief he felt now. It was all over. He did the right thing. He did the right thing…
He stood up and repeated that thought. I did the right thing. He opened his eyes, lifted his wand, and concentrated.
“Expecto Patronum.” From his wand a horse made of light burst out. Only, this was different. The charm conjured a guardian of white and blue light. They were manifestations of happiness and concentrated joyous essence. Yet, this patronus was…green. It stood before him, swaying slightly. Its emaciated body shuddered as if it were sick. Desmond put out a hand and the patronus shrank away from him. The pale green light made the thing look unsettling, grotesque even. He couldn’t understand it. He felt happy, the happiest he’d ever felt. Why hadn’t it worked right?
He looked down and remembered the badge in his hand, then remembered the instructions:
There is only a spare window to take advantage of one’s power. After casting your patronus, cast the splitting curse and direct the piece of your soul into the chosen vessel.
Desmond took another breath. He looked at the horse. It shook violently as it cowered. He felt like a caretaker putting an animal out of its misery. He lifted his wand and make a slicing motion through the air.
“Horcrucius,” the incantation sounded like a hiss coming out. As if cut by a broadsword, the patronus split in two. The rear end faded away, but the front half fell with a corporeal thud, landing in the whisky and broken glass. The green light faded and the form it left behind was black and oily. Still pointing his wand at it, he willed the thing up and towards him. In the air, it congealed into a formless, inky mass. Desmond held up the badge. As soon as it was at shoulder height, the black mass enveloped it and his hand like a swarm of flies, then just as quickly disappeared as the badge absorbed it. He felt the cold metal pulse with a steady beat, like a heart. He fell back into the armchair and fell asleep, the horcrux tight in his fist.
______________
Duncan fell to the ground as the dementor released him and the memory, Desmond’s memory, faded from his vision.
“That…was…” Duncan coughed, looking up at The General. “H…horcrux? Is that what you’re telling me?” The dementor nodded. “And…Potter…has a…” the dementor shook its head once, then made the unusual “soul” sign again. Then Duncan understood. “He is…” He scrambled to his feet and grabbed his wand, then bolted to the doorway. He paused and looked back. The dementor was already gliding away, not looking at him. “Thanks.”
As Duncan ran up to the prison’s roof and got in the carriage, his mind raced. He’d briefly studied horcruxes in training, but not much was known about them. They were assumed to be extremely rare, or all to have been destroyed. As the carriage took off, he grabbed a roll of parchment and a quill from his bag. Before he could forget, he wrote down two notes:
Secrets of the Darkest Art
Desmond