FicWad

The house was like every other house on the block, made from orange brick with plastic railing, two windows on the front and a door painted green. There were three trees in the front garden and a well cared for lawn which seemed to have been mown recently. The house itself was well cared for and in good repair, and the car in the garage was a black rolls royce. If someone saw it without anyone else pointing it out to them it would be indistinguishable from the other houses on the street. Looking at it no one could guess that it was owned by anyone other than a middle class business man with a good taste in cars and a careful investor. If they talked to the locals however they would come to a far different conclusion.

One thing about the house was that no one had ever been invited inside. The people of George chase were a social lot who were unprepared to deal with the houses owners. For they were never seen. No one had ever seen them mow the lawn or tend to their tree’s, clean the house or wash the windows. The car had never left the driveway and neither of the couple were ever seen outside their house. They never brought groceries, never seemed to work or attend parties, and on the few occasions that someone knocked on the door and asked about this strange quirk, they would get no answer other then “We like to keep to ourselves” and have the door slammed in their face.

The locals however were not so much concerned with this as a mystery that still appeared in gossip and rumours despite having happened over twenty years ago. Despite the couple’s self imposed seclusion their son had been well known and liked throughout the neighbourhood. Cedric had been a thoughtful, charming boy with a good memory for faces and good at remembering details about people. Handsome and athletic, he made friends easily and was an easy person to trust. At the age of eleven he had been sent to a boarding school but had kept in contact with all his old friends and still saw them on the holidays. However at the age of sixteen he had mysteriously disappeared, and despite several police investigations the police gave came to no conclusions that would satisfy the locals. It was finally decided that the boy’s father had killed him, cut him into tiny pieces and either buried him or fed him to his dog.

The locals now tend to avoid the house, which gave the couple the privacy the wanted. The Diggory’s (for that was the couple’s surname) had never craved companionship, and ever since the death of their son they had positively detested it. Amos had quit his job in the ministry for magic and now lived practically in his own head, ignoring most of the outside world. His wife cried herself to sleep every night and they both ate like birds. Neither of them had been able to move on, and they sometimes acted as if their son was still there, setting the table for three instead of two or buying two tickets for Quidditch games they would never go to. Though magic kept the house in good repair it seemed near the point of collapsing. The one night during a fierce storm on the twelfth of July a stranger came knocking.

Mrs Diggory answered the door, though she had no intention of letting the knocker in. As she peered out a cheery voice called out “good evening ma’am.” Despite the tone the words sounded wrong somehow, and she couldn’t shake of the feeling that the stranger was more accustomed to inspiring fear then calm. The stranger was a large man, at least 6’ 6 with a clear agility and dexterity about him that belied his size. He wore a dark brown leather coat of a sort that went out of fashion years ago, and a matching pair of moleskin pants and wide brimmed hat. The hat kept the rain of his face and it’s angle concealed his eyes. The man’s attire let of small warning bell’s in Mrs Diggory’s mind, but she ignored them. Her original impression had been that this gentleman wished for her to come to some garden party or such, but she was having to rapidly rethink her opinion.
“May I come in?” It wasn’t so much a statement as a formality. Despite his polite tones he seemed to be saying that I will not be refused, things will be thus.
“I’m sorry but now’s not a good time, maybe later.” She said this automatically, and went to close the door, but before she could his hand shot out so fast you could barely see it and closed around the rim. She noticed a small cross on each of his fingernails and then noticed he was wearing three silver crosses around his neck.
“Please leave.” She said after a few seconds.
“I’m sorry but it really is important.”
“Maybe later.” She said desperately.
“Listen, and I’d advise you listen carefully because I won’t repeat this. I intend to come in and speak to you and your husband and I do not plan to stand out in the rain any longer. Now let me in, please.” The please was clearly not meant, mearly there to keep up the illusion of common curtsey. Mrs Diggory found her hand opening the door practically of it’s own volition. She went to close it but he had already walked past her into the hallway.
Mrs Diggory decided to get rid of him as soon as possible. “What is it you wanted?” She snapped rudely, hoping to make him get to the point. He reached his hand into her robes pocket and pulled out her wand. Twirling it expertly between his fingers he met her shocked gaze with a smile. “This” he said pulling something else from his jacket pocket. The rain muffled the sounds of the scuffle, and nobody heard the scream.

Amos stared into the fire moodily. The wood had burned down to coal and ashes, but it was still incredibly hot. Amos could do nearly anything he wanted, he had the magical strength to do anything short of bring back the dead. He could make someone love him, levitate and animate objects and summon objects to him. Since he had found out he was a wizard things had always gone well for him. He had never wanted anything and could protect himself from the affects of pain, sickness and age.
But how could he protect himself if he couldn’t protect his own son? The thought struck him again like a hot poker through the chest. He wished more than anything that he could simply move on, or at least he told himself he did, but in truth he wanted to hang on. He never wanted to let go.

Wrapped in his own thoughts he didn’t hear the stranger approach, water sliding of his jacket. He didn’t see the glint of steel as the stranger reached inside his jacket, and he never smelt the sharp scent of fresh human blood. When he finally did wake up to the outside world it was much to late. The stranger hauled him roughly to his feet, shoved him against a wall and Amos felt a sharp prick of steel under is chin.
“I know what you are, heretic,” the man said, absolute anger and utter contempt fighting for control of his voice. “And so does god.” The last words were like stone. Stone engraved with a name and two dates. Amos’s fear was suddenly eclipsed by blinding pain, and then peace, peace and the knowledge that he would soon be reunited with his son.

As Amos slid to the floor unconscious, the stranger kneeled down and carefully, using a stiletto forged from the purest silver, struck him through the heart. He quickly removed it and cleaned it then bent down again, using a much smaller knife, carefully cut a cross into his cheek. He stood up and, pausing only to spit on Amos’s still body, left the building. No one saw him leave. No one had seen him come in. No one had noticed anything. And miles away in privet drive Harry Potter rolled over in his sleep.