Aftermath

Chapter 34. Aftermath

THE DAILY PROPHET

(4 January, 1997)

You-Know-Who's Attack on the London Auction—Is He Back?

By Joseph Colin

To answer the question in the headline—yes, the Dark Lord returned. But before you begin panicking or planning an extended holiday, rest assured: he is now dead. Permanently, we believe.

To fully recount the events of this morning, a day brimming with shock and revelations, we must start at the beginning. As many of you are aware, our wizarding world was left astounded when Lady Longbottom and Lord Greengrass unveiled a potion capable of curing any disease, restoring magic to Squibs, and even de-aging individuals to their prime. Yes, it sounds just as fantastical even now. Yet, the miraculous revival of Lord Longbottom lent the potion undeniable credibility.

The two esteemed figures staked their reputations on the line, summoning the wealthiest witches and wizards from across the globe to participate in the auction of the legendary Cure-All. By this point, it was clear to all that this was no mere hoax. Alas, for most of us, the potion remained an unattainable dream. Nevertheless, the organisers, in a rare gesture of transparency, permitted a select group of reporters to witness the event. I was among them.

The auction hall resembled a grand theatre, with luxurious chairs arranged on wide, descending steps. My fellow reporters and I were seated in the last row, a placement that, while underscoring our lack of importance, afforded us an unobstructed view of the podium where Lord Greengrass presided over the bidding. The starting bid alone was enough to leave me reeling: 500,000 galleons.

Yes, you read that correctly. 500,000 galleons. And that was merely the beginning.

My gaze drifted to the VIP gallery, where Rayhmir, the enigmatic creator of the potion, sat beside Lady Longbottom. Until now, his identity had been shrouded in secrecy. But today, he revealed himself. He remained impassive, his expression blank, as though the exorbitant sums being bandied about were of little consequence. Here is a photograph of the elusive genius. All we know of him is this face and the name 'Rayhmir'—though there is no guarantee that either is genuine. Our efforts to uncover his background have proven futile.

Returning to the auction, I watched in awe as the bids soared to unimaginable heights. The wealth on display was beyond the comprehension of ordinary witches and wizards. After a fierce bidding war, Isabella Zabini unexpectedly offered 50 million galleons, making a staggering jump of 30 million from the previous bid. Even the other bidders were left dumbfounded. Here is a photograph of her triumphant, albeit smug, expression upon securing the potion.

You might think that was enough excitement for one day. But no. Moments after Lady Zabini's winning bid, figures clad in dark robes and silver masks stormed the hall. I need not elaborate on who they were. Those of us who lived through the last wizarding war know them all too well: the Death Eaters, the Dark Lord's loyal army.

I am not ashamed to admit that I scrambled to the stage, where the crowd had gathered in a desperate attempt to distance themselves from the intruders. My heart pounded in my ribcage, and I feared it might be my last day alive. It had been years since the last sighting of Death Eaters, but I, like many others, remember all too well the devastation they wrought. Here is a photograph of the Death Eaters encircling the top steps, effectively trapping us down on the stage.

As I pondered the reason for this dark assembly, two figures strode into the chamber: a man presumed dead and a woman long known for her madness. Here are their photographs.

I immediately recognised Bellatrix Lestrange, who had somehow escaped Azkaban and subsequently freed her fellow Death Eaters. The man, however, remained a mystery—until he introduced himself as 'Lord Voldemort'. Here is an archival photograph of the Dark Lord from years past. While the two share some resemblance, the man before us appeared far more ordinary, even human. The reason for this remains unknown.

First, he incapacitated our guards, scaring them away. Then, he called for Rayhmir. Was he attempting to recruit him? Or was he planning to eliminate him? We may never know, for what transpired next will be etched into history.

Rayhmir did not approach the Dark Lord as one might expect. He showed no fear, no recognition of the Dark Lord's infamy. What followed left me—and everyone present—utterly speechless. I will let the photographs speak for themselves. (Content warning: graphic depictions of death.)

In a display of power that defies explanation, Rayhmir somehow commanded the Death Eaters to choke on their own wands—all except Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Voldemort. The scene was as horrifying as it was surreal.

But the day's events did not end there. After the Death Eaters had perished, Rayhmir ordered Bellatrix to kill her master. To the astonishment of all, she complied, uttering the terrible Killing Curse and ending the Dark Lord's life. Here is a photograph of the moment.

With Voldemort dead, Rayhmir seized the hysterical Bellatrix and apparated, shattering the anti-Apparition wards in the process. Her fate remains unknown, and frankly, inconsequential. She has terrorised an entire generation, killed hundreds of people in her savagery; no punishment could ever suffice.

And so, the Dark Lord rose and fell within the span of a single day. According to trusted sources, it was Bellatrix Lestrange who resurrected him through a series of dark and twisted rituals. Lady Longbottom, who will serve as Rayhmir's representative moving forward, has assured us that neither Voldemort nor Bellatrix will pose any further threat.

The wizarding world can breathe a sigh of relief—all thanks to our hero.

~xXxXx~

Albus Dumbledore

He rereads the article again, unable to believe his own eyes.

The Daily Prophet issued an emergency evening edition. It arrived just as everyone was gathered in the Great Hall, sitting down for dinner. While the article relieves and terrifies him equally, it's the next article that gains his rapt attention, that promises to cause unprecedented chaos.

THE IDENTITIES OF DEAD DEATH EATERS WILL SHOCK YOU!

It reveals all those who died in the London auction. It includes powerful names like Malfoy, Nott, Carrows and so on. Already, the murmurs and the panic at the Slytherin table is rising rapidly. If he doesn't do anything quick, he'll have a riot on his hands. The situation is only exacerbated by the exalted cheers at the other three tables, who don't care that the dead are related to their peers.

He rises from his seat and yells over the racket, "Prefects, lead the students back to their houses. Curfew is in effect immediately until further notice. You shall eat your dinner in your common rooms."

His heart truly goes out to the sobbing children. Regardless of their parents' sins, they should never have had to witness such horrors splashed across the front page of a national newspaper. They didn't have to see their loved ones choking to death.

Sweeping his eyes across his staff members, he nods gravely. They will need to discuss and send the affected students back home for last rites and rituals. An emergency meeting will be required to sort this out.

Rayhmir—that's the name of the man who vanquished Voldemort. He wishes he could celebrate this victory, but he finds himself preferring to deal with a known entity rather than an unknown one. The power gap between them is disconcerting. Voldemort was no weakling, yet Rayhmir defeated him as if he were a powerless child. Now, he can't help but wonder if they've simply replaced one calamity with another.

Fortunately enough, it seems Rayhmir has no interest in world domination. His focus is solely on business, at least for now. He hopes it stays that way, because even with a genius like Harry by his side, he doubts they could stand against Rayhmir if his ambitions shifted. Perhaps in the future, when Harry is older and stronger, they might have a chance to confront him. But for now, all he can do is hope—hope that such a day will never come.

If everything goes right, if his fear proves to be baseless paranoia, he wouldn't have to fight against Rayhmir. They could keep minding their own business.

Then again, rarely everything goes right.

He observes the crying Slytherins as they are herded out.

It's a shame for mere children to suffer such dreadful news.

~xXxXx~

Daphne Greengrass

She can't wrap her head around what's happening. Her eyes can read the text, but her mind refuses to process it.

Voldemort is dead. Worst of the Death Eaters are dead. The remaining are incarcerated by the help of her own father, Damian Greengrass, the very man who was recruiting them.

The relief she feels is impossible to hide. She hadn't brought another war to Britain. She hadn't helped raze her own country. Her part in reviving the Dark Lord hadn't caused loss of innocent lives. That cursed man is gone. That crazy woman won't bother her any longer. Her conscience is clear—and it's all thanks to Harry Evans.

She examines the Gryffindor table, where the atmosphere is entirely different. Laughter and cheers surround them in a stark contrast to the suffocating grief here. Harry is grinning and joking with the boys around him. And Neville Longbottom seems to have gained the spotlight tonight, no doubt because his mother works with 'Rayhmir', the new hero of Britain. Tori is also there, drenched in their merriment, trying her best to steal Harry's attention.

Further down that table, Daphne notices the knowing looks on the faces of Iris and Rose. A glance at the head table reveals that Professor Evans is the same, doing her best not to stare at her own son.

Of course, they know that Rayhmir is Harry. It appears he hasn't informed his family about the incident. He will have an interesting conversation with them tonight, she's sure.

"What are you smiling about?" Tracey snaps besides her, linking their arms as they get up and follow the prefect. "Better stop it unless you want to be mobbed."

Daphne acquiesces. While she doesn't care for the deaths of her housemates' parents, smiling at their tragedy would be in bad taste. And not all of her housemates have been antagonistic towards her. Few had been sympathetic and supportive from afar. She could put on a sad face for their sake.

Tori joins them as they exit the Great Hall, leaving behind her Gryffindor friends. "I wish I were a Gryffindor. They're going to have a party tonight," she bemoans, not bothering to keep her voice down.

Daphne winces at the murderous glares aimed at their backs. "Tori, shut up, please."

When it seems Tori is going to ignore her suggestion and glare back, Tracey steps between them and pinches Tori's cheek, prompting their usual ribbing, successfully de-escalating.

Today might be the day where they could be attacked. Many Slytherins have lost close family members, and the trio are currently the most isolated ones in the snake den. It's not unusual for a majority to harass a minority when they're distressed, when they need to vent out.

If she didn't have her new power—courtesy of Harry—she might've been more intimidated. As it is now, she's absolutely confident in her safety.

The three girls enter Daphne's room instead of going their separate ways. They even sleep in the same room since she got her powers. Tori and Tracey know of her strange ability, but they've been polite enough not to press her on how she got it.

Closing the door behind her, she uses her power of Safe Zone and creates a barrier around them. Now, no one unwanted will be able to enter the room.

Tori clambers over the bed to take her favourite side, while Tracey sits on the edge. "So that happened."

Daphne nods slowly, drifting away from them, taking the stool in front of the vanity, picking up a comb and running it through her loose hair. "Sooner or later, we and Longbottom will be targeted."

"Because of our parents, who work with Ha—Rayhmir?" Tori rolls over to the side, near the edge where Tracey is, catching herself and shrinking under Daphne's glare.

The little princess almost blurted out the secret. She's sure it was the contract that reminded the numbskull to shut up and save herself from death.

It just shows how agitated Tracey is that she doesn't even notice the slip of the tongue. "I never knew there was a wizard who could simply ask people to kill themselves. He must be the strongest wizard ever. Even Dumbledore can't do that, as far as I know."

"And the most good-looking." Tori giggles, earning an inquisitive and an annoyed glance from them.

"Did our little princess give up on Evans? Does she now like this handsome dangerous man who can tell her to kill herself?" Tracey pokes her in the belly, knowing her weak spot.

The numbskull shoves her hand and rolls away. "Obviously not. Harry is the best. But I'm not blind. Rayhmir is supremely beautiful."

"I can't argue with that." Tracey bobs her head, unfolding the newspaper and staring at the picture of the blonde man sauntering towards the frozen Dark Lord.

Tori sits up and burrows into Tracey's side, mooning over the new hero. "I still like black hair and green eyes."

"Of course you do." Tracey laughs, missing the context.

Daphne ignores them both and studies herself in the mirror. At her beautiful face. At her long silky hair.

Blonde is certainly better than obsidian. Though she can appreciate whatever form Harry Evans takes. He will be perfect and all-powerful in every one of them.

After today's events, Daphne has decided she'd follow her parents' example and be subservient to their new lord. And unlike them, he likes her. So he wouldn't even force her to do anything she dislikes.

Harry is a god in all practicality. And she'd rather be his trusted priestess than a nobody. Following him is easy and beneficial. It's in her best interest to ingratiate herself and obtain limitless power.

She rubs her thighs and ponders on how to do that.

~xXxXx~

Unlike the rest of the Gryffindors, Rose, Iris, and I break away to our quarters. Honestly, having a personal room is the best perk of becoming a champion. And it's much easier to coordinate a shower schedule with my sister than with a bunch of unruly boys.

I plop down on the sofa and lean against the armrest, bracing myself for the inevitable questions.

Iris settles beside me, while Rose takes the adjacent sofa, the one forming an L with ours. As usual, they're dressed in their signature styles—Iris in her colorful blouse and skirt, and Rose in her T-shirt and baggy jeans. I don't get to admire them for long before they fix me with expectant looks.

Stifling a sigh, I say, "Sorry for not telling you what happened at the auction. But as you can see, it was a huge mess, and I wanted to rest rather than spend hours talking about it."

"First of all, are you alright?" Rose asks, annoyed but concerned, her hair braided over one shoulder.

"Not a scratch."

"Secondly, how factual are these articles?"

"Hundred percent."

She makes a complicated face. "Are you really not concerned by the rising number of bodies? You killed them, and before you say anything, I'm not complaining about that. BUT I do think the cruelty wasn't necessary. I'm also worried that you don't seem to feel anything about the mountain of corpses you've created."

I'm glad she doesn't know what I did to Bellatrix—or about the trail of dead I left behind on the Island of Ohara. She'd be insufferable if she did.

"Stop with the stupid talk," Iris speaks up in my support. "They were Death Eaters. They deserve all the cruelty in the world. The ones who attacked you on the Yule Ball night also deserved what Harry did. And who cares if he feels anything for them or not? It's better he doesn't. Those animals don't need empathy."

Heh, there's a reason she's my favourite.

I grin and open my arm, and she snuggles in readily, resting the side of her face on my chest. "See? Iris understands."

"Of course she does. You both are psychos," Rose grumbles, rubbing her forehead. "It's not about whether the Death Eaters deserve empathy, the question is if you're even capable of it. I'm worried for you, Harry. I don't like talking about this either. But I don't want you to become some serial killer who gets off on other's pain."

I skim my fingers through Iris' smooth red locks. "I won't. Now please shut up so I can headpat Iris, which you can never do."

Is this a petty and childish attack? Probably. But her offended face is worth it.

She mutters something nasty under her breath and lies down on her back with a huff, her legs dangling from the arm of the sofa. "Just so you know, Mum will be here too, and you won't be able to shut her up like this."

I wish that wasn't true. But yes, Mum will have her own worries to express. I distract myself from the upcoming lecture by combing Iris' hair and massaging her scalp. The grouchy one just lies against me and gives me free rein, humming in appreciation.

Minutes pass and a comfortable silence ensues.

"Are we skipping dinner tonight?" Rose just has to break the peaceful quietude.

Iris moves away at the mention of food. Sighing, I too, sit up. We call the house elves, as instructed, and choose from the options available and eat together for the next thirty minutes. We would've waited for Mum, but she said she'd be eating with the professors at the emergency meeting.

Opposed to what Rose thinks, I did feel guilty when I saw the tear-streaked faces of children. More than a few First-years had lost their parents because of me. Passing judgment had felt exhilarating—like a god punishing reckless mortals—but the wretched faces of small Slytherins shattered that illusion.

The problem with becoming too considerate is that it might make me hesitate in the future, forcing me to wonder whether my foes have families of their own. But that kind of thinking is foolish. An enemy having innocent children doesn't entitle them to special treatment. It's their responsibility to consider the consequences of their actions, not mine.

"You can sleep with me." Rose offers Iris, pulling me from my thoughts. Apparently, Iris will stay here instead of returning to the Gryffindor Tower.

Iris glances at me, and I don't need to read her mind to know what she wants. "It's fine. She can sleep with me," I butt in.

Rose shakes her head. "We are used to sharing a room. I won't be inconvenienced by it."

That's valid. The two do share a room when we aren't at Hogwarts.

"Rose, get the hint. She wants to sleep with me," I argue.

"As I said, we don't want to inconvenience you." Rose remains stubborn for no real reason.

Wait, is she… Yes, I understand now. The dumb moron.

"If you're worried I'll try to fuck her," I begin, "you're a bit too late. We were doing that long before I ever did it with you."

Rose's eyes widen, then she blinks, and then her face contorts in fury. "What?"

Iris looks at me with a frown, having not expected me simply blurting out the secret. Though she doesn't seem to mind it too much.

"Yes. We are together." She shrugs, as if it's nothing out of the ordinary. "Stop acting like an overprotective mother. You and Harry are having sex too."

It's my turn to be surprised. I haven't told her about my relationship with Rose or Mum. She made that connection herself. There was actually no particular reason why I kept them separate. I just didn't see any reason to bring them all together.

Rose's enraged face turns pink, morphing into embarrassment, and then she simply drops her head with a pout. "Fine. It makes sense."

"Great. I'm glad that we understand each other." I smile.

If glares had powers, Rose would've been able to time travel backwards and force dad to pull out.

"It's decided. I'll sleep with Harry tonight," Iris states firmly, cuddling into my side, her arms around my neck.

I can feel her arousal in the way she's being all touchy. The press of her warm skin is enough to stir my groin. And she smells incredibly nice. My arm winds around her waist and keeps her flush against me, my palm spread wide, grabbing the side of her thigh. Iris has a very low sex drive, so I don't sleep with her as often as I do with others. I won't miss this rare opportunity.

"Wait a minute, I have an idea." Rose perks up, her lips stretched in a wide smile. "How about we all sleep together?"

Iris shoots down the proposal before I can. "Harry and I will be doing more than sleeping."

"I know." Rose's grin somehow grows further. "We three should sleep together."

…

…

I love you, Rose. I love you from the bottom of my heart. Adopting a 'reluctant' smile, I shrug. "Well, it would be mean to leave her all alone. For all her stupidity, she's our beloved sister."

Iris glances between us with visible disgust. "No. I like only Harry."

The hurt on Rose's face makes me recoil. She didn't deserve that. While it has been obvious to everyone that I prefer Iris, Rose and I have grown extremely close this year. I would love for her to be included with us—not only because I want a threesome, but also because it may prove pivotal in the growth of their relationship.

Rose musters up a pained smile. "Fine. You losers can go shag like bunnies. Just don't forget the contraceptive charms."

I brush my fingers along Iris' thigh. "Maybe you should give it a try. Who knows, you might like her too."

Iris bites her lip, staring at Rose, looking regretful. When it seems like she'll remain silent, her lips part and a whisper escapes. "...Okay."

Rose throws herself at us with a whoop, earning an elbow at the face.

I sigh as they argue and throw insults at each other.

~xXxXx~

Isabella Zabini

She opens the door to the laboratory and scrunches her nose when assaulted by various types of scents. Few are pleasant while most are putrid.

Her master's lab is long and narrow, entirely covered with white tiles. A wide counter runs along the one wall, at her waist height, displaying all sorts of things, from a rack of test tubes to small potion pots emitting colourful smokes.

She ignores those and sashays forward, towards the far wall where he is busy with his latest obsession.

Nicolas Flamel is a thin, wiry man—not old enough to be grey and frail, but not full of life like a young man either. He wears a fine suit that has been out of fashion for a long time, and he keeps his brown hair short, with a well-groomed goatee complementing his slightly wrinkled face.

As she stops before him, she notices the runic circles on a thin sheet of metal. Squashing down her curiosity, she smiles and gives a deep courtesy—long enough to allow him plenty of time to ogle her barely covered tits.

Of course, his eyes do not stray below her face. A half-smile twists one side of his mouth as he steps away from his latest endeavor and grants her his full attention. "At this point, my dear, one must wonder why you even trouble yourself with such frivolities as clothing?"

She simpers and looks up at him coyly. "Oftentimes wearing less is more effective than being outright naked. But if my master desires, I shall tear this dress right away and offer my body in an instant."

He laughs like an entertained grandfather. "I'm afraid those days are long behind me, dear. Now, tell me why have you come? I trust you would not trouble me without good reason."

Unlike other men, her master cannot be swayed by womanly wiles. If he could, she'd have already gotten that godly phoenix enhancement. At present, only he and Teresa have that power, making them immortal. She hopes she'll join them soon and become undying. For now, she must exercise patience and be his most loyal servant. Because say one thing about Master Flamel, say that he likes rewarding loyalty. That's how she gained the Veela enhancement. She just has to continue what she's doing and immortality will be in her grasp.

She offers him the vial of Cure-All. It gleams golden from the liquid inside it, and manages to gain his interest.

He steps closer and plucks the vial from her fingers, inspecting it with his eyes. She watches with bated breath as a scowl mars his face. "This is merely water. Glowing water. This is not alchemy."

"Is that so? Are you saying we've been cheated?" she murmurs.

He shakes his head. "I do not know. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. All I know is that it's not alchemy. Hmm, let's experiment."

She hastily follows him as he leaves the lab and jogs towards the basement. It's to her credit that she can keep up with him even when she's in high heels.

The basement contains many 'specimens', from young to old, from weak to powerful, from muggle to wizard. Once, she had felt queasy at the chained slumbering people. Now, all she feels is excitement to see what her master does.

"It mends all afflictions, even severed limbs. It bestows magic upon the ungifted. And it restores the aged to their prime. Have I the right of it?"

"Yes, Master."

He comes to a halt in front of an ancient man, who can be perfectly described as skin and bones. He's also one hand short, chained by only one arm.

With a wave of his hand, the prisoner wakes up with a start. Before he can scream or beg, her master stuffs the potion in his mouth.

…

…

They both gape with wonder. After a flash of golden light, the ancient man is not so ancient anymore. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, with a healthy body and sharp mind.

The potion really works. It does as promised.

The specimen is put to sleep again, and her master faces her. "I want the genius who enchanted this water."

"I'm afraid it will prove to be difficult," she says apologetically, offering him the newspaper.

Her master roves his eyes over the text. "Interesting. That's a powerful man."

"Indeed." She nods.

"It says his name is Rayhmir. A pseudonym, in all likelihood." He scratches his goatee, staring at the name.

"Yes."

"There's a hint here, dear." He chuckles softly, bringing the paper closer. "It could be an anagram for 'I'm Harry'. Do we have any exceptional young Harrys among us at present? Given his crippling desire for recognition, this Harry must already be attempting to gain fame."

She's bemused by the swift revelation. "Actually, there is Harry Evans. He's a champion of Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament."

"I want you to keep an eye on him and, should he prove to be our man, seduce him." He commands. "It is better to earn his allegiance than to force it. I am uncertain how strong he is."

"Not more than you."

He smiles. "Not more than me. We may have to resort to the stick if the carrot does not pique his interest. I leave this in your hands. I require results by the year's end. Should you succeed, I will reward you with the phoenix enhancement."

She bows with a flourish. "I won't disappoint you, Master. I have already charmed his father. It should provide me the opportunity to make contact with him."

"Good. Now leave me." He waves her away as he begins to cut into the man who drank the miracle potion.