Prologue
24 June 1995, Hogwarts Hospital Wing
Aria threw the doors to the Hospital Wing open in her panic to reach her brother, ignoring Madam Pomfrey’s glare. “Harry? Harry?”
Harry’s breathing was ragged, and his eyelids were fluttering. “Aria…”
Aria looked up at the sound of Parseltongue. “I’m here, Harry.”
He grasped her hand when she laid it over his. “Take the Cloak and the Map… Or give them to Mione and Ron. Up to you. Just… Bury me beside Mum and Dad.”
“Please don’t die…” Aria knew it was futile, he was already giving over to the rattling sound she associated with the dying. “I promise I’ll bury you beside Mum and Dad.”
“Thank you… Tell Mione and Ron… No, Mione and the Weasleys I love them. And Sirius and Remus too. And Mrs Weasley thanks for everything she’s done for me.”
“I will, little brother.” Tears spilled from Aria’s eyes as she watched Harry’s eyes slip closed, and she almost didn’t feel Madam Pomfrey push her aside, attempting to resuscitate Harry. Aria knew it was futile anyway, her baby brother wasn’t coming back.
Fifteen minutes of failed attempts at resuscitation later, Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr Potter is gone.”
Aria sensed Dumbledore before he spoke. “I’ll handle the funeral arrangements.” He sounded so world-weary that she found herself incapable of believing it, and she sprang up.
“You will do no such thing!” Aria all but shouted. “I’ll bury my brother myself! You don’t deserve to handle the funeral arrangements when you’re the indirect reason he’s dead!”
“He died of an Acromantula bite, Miss Potter,” Madam Pomfrey tried to placate her.
“And the bite wouldn’t have been fatal if the esteemed Headmaster brought him to the hospital wing fifteen minutes earlier, because the antivenin only works in the first 135 minutes after a bite!” Aria was breathing heavily. “And now both Hogwarts champions are dead. I hope you’re happy to have revived a blood sport.” Her tone was glacial.
When Molly stepped forward to hug her, Aria crumbled into the Weasley matriarch’s arms, finally breaking down in sobs. Padfoot’s attempt at comforting nuzzles didn’t help either, only making her cry more.
“He… He said to tell you that he loved you,” Aria said between sobs, “and thanks for everything you’ve done for him, Mrs Weasley.”
Molly hugged Aria tighter, letting her cry. When Minister Fudge walked in with Rita Skeeter in tow, Aria looked up with tears still streaming down her face. “Ms Skeeter?”
“Yes, Miss Potter?” Rita was intrigued.
“Does the Daily Prophet take articles from people not on their payroll?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Expect a letter. This Tournament should’ve stayed a thing of the past,” Aria’s tone was losing emotion, since she was wrung out. “And don’t sensationalise anything if you write about the deaths, because I will make your life difficult if you do.”
Rita nodded and left, and Aria sat there, surrounded by her friends and chosen family, feeling the weight of being the last Potter settle on her shoulders.
26 June 1995, Malfoy Manor
Both Lucius and Thomas dropped their copies of the Daily Prophet on seeing the headlines: ‘Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter Dead! Triwizard Tournament Claims Two More Lives!’ and ‘The Bloody History of the Triwizard Tournament – a special article courtesy of Aria Potter.’
The article on Harry and Cedric’s deaths was short and respectful, which was shocking as it came from Rita Skeeter.
‘Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter Dead! Triwizard Tournament Claims Two More Lives!
By Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet correspondent.
Today, dear readers, I am sombre. Both of the Hogwarts Triwizard Tournament Champions – and winners – have died. In honour of their memories, I will give short biographies of them.
Cedric Amos Diggory – Heir Diggory – was the only son of Lord Amos Diggory and Lady Julia Diggory née Summerisle. He was a Hufflepuff, a Prefect, and the Seeker for the Hufflepuff team. His close friends state that he wanted to play professional Quidditch after graduation, before taking up the Diggory seat on the Wizengamot. He was the original Hogwarts champion, and has always shown Hufflepuff’s loyalty, dedication and kindness. (Picture courtesy of Cho Chang.)
Harry James Potter – Heir Potter – was the younger child of the late Lord James Charlus Potter and Lady Lily Marie Potter née Evans. He was a Gryffindor, and the youngest Seeker in recent times, playing for the Gryffindor team. His sister – the current Heir Potter, Aria Potter – has stated that he wished to become an Auror after graduating. His entrance into the Triwizard Tournament was a fluke. He embodied the values of Gryffindor, such as daring, bravery, and courage, to the very end. His close friends have stated that he disliked his fame, primarily because of the loss of his parents associated with it. (Picture courtesy of Aria Potter.)
The funeral of Cedric Diggory will be held at the Diggory Family Plot in Devon on 7 July 1995 at 9:30 AM. The funeral of Harry Potter will be held at the Godric’s Hollow Cemetery on 9 July 1995 at 11:00 AM.’
The two men traded looks, before reading Aria’s article.
‘The Bloody History of the Triwizard Tournament
By Aria Potter
For those readers that were following the Triwizard Tournament in earnest, I shall apologise – but only briefly – for shattering your rose-tinted views of what is in reality a blood sport. The Triwizard Tournament – which was hosted at Hogwarts for the first time since its discontinuation in 1793 this past school year – started as a competition between Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and Dumstrang Institute of Magic – the three oldest magical schools in Europe – in 1078.
And from its early days, it has been shrouded in tales of death and injury. The first dozen tournaments were free of death, but the thirteenth tournament, held in 1130, was fatal to two of the three champions. The Hogwarts champion of that tournament, Armand Slytherin, was the only surviving champion due to the tournament organisers using a basilisk in the final task, and a basilisk’s direct, uncovered gaze is lethal to all except a Parselmouth.
The thirteenth tournament set a trend of steadily increasing fatalities across the following 166 tournaments. Where most of the champions would survive, spectators or judges – or hostages, in some cases – would die. The fatalities – as of the 24th July 1995 – rank in at 2,500. It came to a head in the 179th Triwizard Tournament – hosted at Dumstrang Institute in the 1792-1793 school year – where all three champions, two judges, and 500 spectators died in the Third Task due to a chimera getting loose in the arena. It was discontinued due to being too high-risk for everyone involved.
And then, in the spirit of International Cooperation, it was revived on the suggestion of Bartemius Crouch Senior, the former head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, in an attempt to repair Magical Britain’s poor relations with other countries. The results?
The near-death of the Head of the French Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Armand Delacour’s, youngest daughter, Gabrielle Delacour, from hypothermia in the Second Task due to being a quarter-Veela.
The near-breaking of a Treaty between the Merfolk tribes and the Veela clans.
The breaking of an ICW law regulating the usage of nesting dragons in sporting events.
And the death of two champions: Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter.
I end this article with a question for you to ponder: Is the death of twenty-five hundred magicals – often children – worth it for our entertainment? And if you think it is, then I ask another question: When will it stop?
(For ICW laws and regulations, see Page 6. For information on the Merfolk-Veela treaty, see Page 7. For the list of dragons and their conservation status, see Pages 8-10.)’
“I must admit, Miss Potter’s article is rather well-written.” Thomas sounded impressed. “The first sentence of the article felt like a slap across the face, whereas the last paragraph is obviously intended to make you question your opinions and morals.”
“Will you be attending the funerals, My Lord?” Lucius asked hesitantly.
“None of the My Lord business, Lucius, call me Thomas. I intend to take the political route this time around, now that I have most of my sanity back,” Thomas said with irritation lacing his voice. “I will attend the funeral of Mr Potter, because I would still be busy with the permanent human transfiguration on the 7th.”
“You will need a new name then, my friend,” Abraxas said from his portrait. “Thomas, after all, is too close to Tom.”
“Do you have suggestions, then?” Thomas arched an eyebrow.
Abraxas hummed, thinking. “Athanasius Maclin Gaunt,” he suggested at last.
“Explain,” Thomas said with a raised brow.
“Athanasius means Deathless or Immortal. Maclin was the older brother of Marvolo Gaunt, who died in 1902, and it was rumoured – although never proven or disproven – that he had a bastard child somewhere.” Abraxas smirked as Thomas thought it over. “And Athanasius can be shortened to Than, which will keep the nicknames starting with T.”
“You’ve just given me the perfect idea for a new identity. Thank you, old friend,” Thomas smiled at Abraxas’ portrait.
“You’re welcome.” Abraxas smiled back.
9 July 1995, Godric’s Hollow
Aria was standing beside the grave, watching the people arrive. There were Muggle-repellent, privacy, obfuscation, and secrecy wards up around the cemetery, due to the sheer anticipated amount of people planning to pay their respects to the Boy-Who-Lived.
The Dursleys were in funeral clothes, Harry’s death having brought down the blood wards, and all of the compulsions to hate and neglect – if not outright abuse – the Potter siblings that corrupted them fell with them. It had only escalated as far as verbal abuse, which brought very little comfort for the group. All three were apologetic, but Aria was numb.
The officiant’s speech flew over Aria’s head, but she gestured to Dudley to go first.
He looked out-of-place among the sea of wixen in formal robes, and was clearly nervous, but he spoke well anyway. “Harry was my cousin, and he was incredibly brave, and smart when he wished to be. He never let the world bring him down if he could help it.”
Ron’s was next. “I met Harry on the Hogwarts Express in first year. I couldn’t find another compartment, and ended up sitting with the Potter siblings. We became friends that day, although I loved him like a brother.”
“I first met Harry on the Hogwarts Express,” Hermione started, “but we didn’t become friends until Halloween 1991, when he and Ron saved me from a fully-grown mountain troll that had cornered me in the bathroom I’d been hiding in after Ron said something mean during Charms. He was brave – if a tad reckless – and kind, valuing his friends more than all the gold he had.”
Various other people made speeches, and then it was Aria’s turn. “Harry was my baby brother, whom I adored from the moment I saw him when I was ten months old. My first memory is of my Mum holding him while my Dad was trying to get me to eat at the breakfast table.” She didn’t try to stop the tears, speaking around her sobs. “Harry was the epitome of everything Gryffindor. Daring, filled with nerve, chivalrous, wilful, brave, full of strength and courage, but also reckless, rebellious and a tad too forgiving, with probably the strongest moral compass I’ve ever seen. He valued his friendships, and would help those who asked. He was rubbish at chess, but kept playing anyway, just to see Ron smile. He had a kind soul, and the world is all the less for his absence.”
The officiant stepped forward as the casket was lowered and covered with dirt. Aria gave Dumbledore a withering glare through her tears as he opened his mouth, and he snapped it shut, reading the unspoken threat there. The glare conveyed the message, “You’re here as a courtesy, nothing more, so shut up,” quite well.
The officiant looked at Aria. “The tombstone, Heir Potter?”
Aria took out her wand. “Stand back, please.” She pointed it at James and Lily’s tombstone, much to everyone’s surprise, and started transfiguring it. When she was done, many gasped at the new one. A majestic marble stag was standing proud and tall, guarding a doe and a young buck that were lying down. There were three plaques, one above each grave.
The old quote, “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is Death,” was gone. In its place were more personal ones.
James Charlus Potter
27 March 1960 – 31 October 1981
Beloved Father, Husband & Friend
Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.
Lily Marie Potter née Evans
30 January 1960 – 31 October 1981
Beloved Mother, Wife, Sister & Friend
But for those who love, time is eternal.
Harry James Potter
31 July 1980 – 24 July 1994
Beloved Brother, Nephew, Cousin & Friend
It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.
Under the plaques, on the base of the tombstone, there were words engraved: Mors est Vetus Amicus.
Hermione read it and smiled through her tears. “Death is an Old Friend, Aria?”
“It’s on the Potter family crest – the traditional one,” Aria responded quietly.
Most of the mourners left, until it was just Aria, the Grangers, the Dursleys, the Weasleys, and Thomas – now known as Athanasius – left in the cemetery.
Aria stared at the tombstone, with tears streaming down her face.
“Sunday is Gloomy
My hours are slumberless
Dearest the shadows
I live with are numberless”
Hermione and Ron hugged Aria between them, letting her cry. They could understand how she was feeling, since they had relatives they cared about too.