Harry Potter and The Last Horcrux

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A dark fan fiction short story which starts following the death of Voldemort at Hogwarts. However, the trio learns that not all Horcruxes have been destroyed. This short story builds from that
point onward.

Submitted: December 10, 2017

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Submitted: December 10, 2017



At first glance the lonely run-down house in front of him, the only spec in a dark desolate landscape of dead scrubs, appeared abandoned, but Harry knew better.

He could almost feel the tingling of his scar once more.

He closed his eyes, almost hoping for a stab of pain from the scar, yearning desperately for any connection back to those golden days at Hogwarts. Despite painful moments, even the worse days in the life he led then, compared with now, were memories fit to summon a Patronus. 

Now even when he looked at those memories through a Pensieve, it all seemed strangely unreal, as if watching the life of an identical stranger that he never knew.

Yet, he treasured them; those memories formed the last defence against the dark tide of thoughts that were never too far away from his mind and which threatened constantly to overwhelm him.

Summoning what was left of his will, without making with any effort to conceal his approach, Harry walked up to the derelict house and opened the door which yielded but with a long creak of protest.

Inside, the house was dark with its blinds drawn and had a musty smell from years of lack of proper use. It was small, had two rooms, the doors to both of which were closed. A single bulb which gave off more sound than light cast a dim glow over the hall. At the centre of the hall was a rickety old table and a shabby chair.

A short, thin, half-bald and prematurely-aged middle-aged man stood at the table with his back to Harry, slowly stirring something in a chipped mug. His white shirt had seen better times and was stained and frayed although the blue jeans he wore seemed to be in good condition as well as his shoes. Although he would have heard the door being opened, he was apparently in no hurry and only turned to Harry after a minute, once he had finished stirring whatever the liquid that was in the mug.

“How about some tea Mr. Potter?”, he asked calmly, as he sat down cross-legged on the chair, which creaked even under his seemingly insubstantial weight. The calm demeanour seemed theatrical, practiced.  

Without a reply, Harry studied his face. The dark eyes were definitely familiar but besides that, with his unmemorable oval face and unshaven stubble, the man could have been anyone.

Once he realized that a reply from Harry did not seem to be forthcoming, he sighed and continued conversationally.

“I heard about all the effort you took to hunt down every last one of the Horcruxes and knew that it was only a matter of time before you turned up at my door, whatever precaution I took. I also know how much of a personal stake you have in this matter……..”, he paused then as if uncertain of whether to continue. However after scratching his beard he continued, this time looking directly at Harry in the eye, “Considering especially the unfortunate fate of your friend, Mr. Weasley.”

The hunt for Horcruxes did not end after the death of Voldemort and Nagini.

It was only after the confusion had passed that Hermione found that Voldemort had created other Horcruxes. As skilled as he had been as a wizard, not even Voldemort has mastered the art of creating a Horcrux with his first effort. They found fragments of his soul embedded into few objects at Hogwarts and elsewhere.

It was one of them that had killed Ron. Perhaps out of impatience to finish their mission, on his own Ron had foolishly approached a relic which bore a fragment of Voldemort’s soul; one of the Dark Lord’s earliest failed experiments at creating a Horcrux.

Harry and Hermione found his body few hours later, lying on a pool of congealed and blackened blood with his face still bearing the stupefied look that they had grown to be so familiar with.

The loss of Ron had taken its toll on Hermione. Overcome with grief and regret she had chosen an end which Harry found far more sinister than Ron’s. Finding a wizard with great skill at memory charms, she had her memory completely expunged, together with all and any memories of magic.

Harry had found her in London few weeks ago, now a Muggle teacher with no idea of the magical world. She had seen Harry on the street and had passed him without a single glance of recognition.

In many ways the loss of Hermione had been worse than that of Ron, for Harry. The thought of his best friend not even being aware of his existence and all of their shared memories hurt him more than Ron’s death had.

Looking back, it had been the beginning of the end. It had given him the determination to pursue with every ounce of will that he had the path which had led him to the derelict house in which he now stood.

He stood, a man completely unhinged, with crimes perhaps as worse as those Sirius Black had been accused of then. It was through such new methods that he had managed to track down his quarry.

The pleas of the man he had tortured to get the identity of his current ‘host’ still rang in his years. He had been begging, bargaining when Harry pointed his wand at him and mouthed “Crucio”. The man had writhed in agony for a long time after Harry had finished his interrogation.

Harry dragged his mind back to the present, to the words being spoken by the man in front of him.

“………………… I have lived my life without harming a fly Mr. Potter,” Charles Riddle said, his voice no longer impassive but pleading, his calm evaporating at the lack of any response from Harry. “I am most certainly not the monster my father was................... not that he was ever a father to me or was aware of my existence. My spells are barely stronger than that of a rookie teenage wizard. I was but a mistake; an unforeseen product of a night when he used his powers to have his way with my mother.”

Harry absently listened to the continuing pleas of the unknown son of Tom Riddle, knowing well that he was telling the truth. He felt sympathy for the man, perhaps even empathized with him.

However, Harry had come to understand the nature of the Horcrux, even perhaps better than Dumbledore or Voldemort himself had.

He knew now that every important person in one’s life was a Horcrux. Whether you wish to or not that you will end up embedding part of your soul in the lives of those you love, cherish, hate, destroy or even perhaps come into contact with.

Not even Dumbledore, in all his wisdom, had perhaps realized this.

Expecting Voldemort’s followers, those who bore the Dark Mark in their bodies and in their souls, to fall down and surrender following the Dark Lord’s death had been a childish folly. His deranged soul had touched the lives of too many people, corrupting them forever, beyond any hope of absolution.

Harry knew well that he still was as much Voldemort’s Horcrux as he had been before. The darkness had touched his soul ……………… as it had probably touched the soul of the man who sat before him.

Ultimately, it made no difference. However innocent Charles Riddle might be, he was the heir of Lord Voldemort. He thus represented a rallying figure to the dark forces of the magical world.

That, and knowing well from his own demons, the path that those touched by the darkness could take, Harry knew that failing to destroy the final Horcrux was not a mistake that he could afford.

Harry did not look at Charles Riddle’s face again. In one fluid movement he took out his wand and spoke the word; the last word Harry’s own mother could have heard; “Avada Kedavra.”

The lifeless body of Charles Riddle slumped to the left, held there somehow for few moments as if by an invisible force. Then it fell down with a thump, raising a cloud of dust from the dirty floor.

Harry went to the now vacant chair, with the body lying beside it, and sat down.

He knew that it would soon be over; that the uttering of the worst of the unforgivable curses would have alerted the Dementors.

Under the new laws, recently passed to combat the chaos, there would no admission of murderers to Azkaban. The Dementors were no longer only prison guards, they were also executioners.

As he glanced towards the table he noticed the steaming mug of tea that Charles Riddle had never got a chance to drink. Laying his wand out on the table he gripped the mug and slowly sipped the tea as the air around him seemed to grow colder.

He could not summon a Patronus now had he even wanted to. No happiness was left in his soul. Not that he would have summoned one even if he could. In the last few weeks he had seen reflected in the mirror the eyes of a monster.  

He saw no need to live on, creating his own Horcruxes through his corrosive impact on the lives of the people he would meet.

He could feel them approaching now as flowing shapes appeared in the darkness around him before the light went out.

With the slight content smile of man done with a long weary day, Harry laid the mug back calmly on the table and awaited the inevitable kiss of the Dementor.

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