It began in a dank and dreary pub, down an unnotable turn down an even less noteworthy street in the asshole of Knockturn Alley. No signs to mark it’s location, just green tinted windows and a heavy wooden door fitted with a large iron deadbolt, old-style. Noisey chatter escaped from the door as people came and went, the stillness of night returning with each closing of the door and returning just as soon again. It was in this decrepit cess pit of filth and scum that one Harry James Potter found himself in, ordering his fifth pint of firewhiskey.

The thing people didn’t understand about firewhiskey was that no matter how much you consumed, the burning never stopped. Amber liquid pumped with enough alcohol to make you forget what troubled you, a band-aid for those who had survived to see the end of the war. Harry loved band-aids. He liked to drink in Knockturn Alley, he figured a subconscious part of him felt like seeing He Who Hath Scar walking around their stomping grounds would be salt in the wound for Voldemort’s supporters – the ones who had survived, anyway. The cowed and the cowardly, crying intimidation and imperius once again. In another world, Harry thought, in other circumstances – if Fudge had been thrown out – then maybe they’d have gotten their just sentence.

As it stood, however, droves of scum were allowed to walk free. Mingling with their victims - widows and war children alike – plastering on insincere smiles. Harry despised them. He had argued furiously against their release in the aftermath, but the Wizengamot along with Cornelius had overruled him. The Wizarding World must move on to reconciliation, they had said. Harry sneered into his mug, reconciliation was for those worth reconciling with. The casual murderers of civilians deserved nothing. There were those who felt as he did, most especially among the Hit Wizards and Auror Corps, but as it usually goes with these things those who bear the brunt of the weight have the least say in the result. As much as he despised the Death Eater remnants, Harry increasingly considered his world intolerable as well. Fudge, he knew, had ultimately been elected – and not just once. Not even the public shame of being absolutely dead wrong about Voldemort’s return had seen him thrown out of office. Harry took another long draw, trying to push the depressing thoughts further down.

The temporary hum of silence the whiskey brought him was interrupted by a furious rage. He just couldn’t accept it, it was illusionary. Voldemort was gone, that much was true, but his kind walked among us, smug in safety and comfort. And no one cared. With a snarl, Harry flung his pint at the wall, standing up from his stool and walking unsteadily towards the door. As his hand closed around black iron, he paused and turned on the now silent bar. Flinging out a finger, he yelled, “Fuck you. I skullfucked your master and I’ll skullfuck you. You’re all dead men.” With a mighty tug he flung the door open and marched out, the street falling silent as the door closed behind him. Looking up and down the road he tried to recall which way the Leaky Cauldron was, racking his brain but coming up with nothing. The street lacked streetlights, most of Knockturn did at that, but the faint wisps of light bleeding out from the various shops and pubs substituted well enough, bathing the street in an ethereal and dim glow. Not wanting to linger he let his feet take him off to the right, past more pubs and boarded up shops. His mind felt foggy, the pavement beneath his feet oily – though he knew that wasn’t the alcohol. Knockturn Alley really was a muck pit, all the more fitting for the people and clientele it housed, he felt.

As he rounded a corner he caught the gleam of ivory masks behind him. All at once the fog dissipated, clarity returning with a roar and bringing along a vicious headache for his trouble. He knew the risks in coming down here, but he felt the old Death Eaters didn’t have the spine to attack him - not with their preaching about reformation. He put a hand on his wand, drawing it out of the folds of his robes and stepping down the nearest alleyway. Twirling his wand he cast a few notice-me-nots, basic Auror evasion tactics, falling back on his training in lieu of anything too complicated to do in his state. Sure enough, moments later two Death Eaters hurried past his makeshift hideaway. He noticed one stumbling slightly and figured they had probably followed him from the pub he’d just been in, probably on account of the death threats and what not.  Making up his mind he dispelled the charms, peering around the corner at the mouth of the alleyway. They hadn’t gained much ground, drunk as well he guessed,  so he lazily raised his wand to their backs. It took a minute to focus his eyes before he fired two stunners into the unsuspecting mens’ backs. Pressing a hand up against the wall to steady himself, he walked up to the both of them. As he raised his wand to send a patronus message to Auror headquarters, he faltered.

Standard operating procedure would see them tried and jailed, but it had long since been a crime to simply be a Death Eater – they’d be out in a year on minor charges. Yet more Ministry fuckery – erasing the law that would’ve seen them spend a few decades in Azkaban merely for having Dark Marks, all part of the plan for reconciliation. With Voldemort gone and the Death Eaters formally disbanded, it had ceased to be a crime. Just another part of the past to be neglected. Changing his mind, he bent over and grabbed two fistfuls of robe, dragging them out into the middle of the street. He rolled them over, removing their masks. Two men, as he suspected. One with sharp but mean features and lots of black hair, the other a blonde that looked faintly mousey. Brushing the dust off his hands as he stood back up, he withdrew his wand once more. Leveling it at the nearests head, he said aloud to no one in particular, “No peace” before firing off a Reductor. The man’s head jolted as the spell impacted, exploding downward, blood painting the pavement red and brain matter spilling into the street. Turning his wand on the other, he said, “No reconciliation,” cringing as the blood sprayed backwards on his own robes. He stood there for a moment, noting each detail down to the color variation between the two sets of organs now slipping out of their previous hosts onto the slick pavement before the nausea hit him.

Staggering backwards, he braced himself against a pub wall before his torso lurched and he emptied the contents of his stomach all over the sidewalk. Taking a few steadying breaths, he wiped the sick from his face with the sleeve of his robes, cringing as he tasted blood. With determination, he walked steadily back out into the street, leveling his wand at the pavement and casting Flagrate. Slowly, he burnt the words “NOTHING IS FORGIVEN” into the street. Once done he looked over his handiwork – two clearly executed vermin and a relatively easy to understand promise right next to them, glistening red. Now sober, despite his best intentions, he retrieved the masks and made for the Leaky Cauldron. He was glad he had gone drinking so late, it was very likely he would’ve panicked quite a few people if they had seen him now – blood stained and Death Eater masks in hand, calmly strolling down Knockturn Lane with his wand out. He walked past a particularly loud group outside a pub/brothel who fell silent as he passed. A glare sent them back inside. As he ascended into Diagon Alley, he put the masks into his robes, silently thanking whoever had decided that the shops here should close at civilized times. Lighting his wand, he made his way down the dark and quiet lane to his destination.

With a nod to Tom, he passed up the stairs. Technically, Grimmauld was his home but he loathed to spend much time there. He had found it a poor place to get plastered, too many memories. With Voldemort graved he’d found himself with an awful lot of downtime and not much to do with it. He’d retired from the Auror Corps and gone on a steady diet of firewhiskey briefly but regularly interrupted by the need for sleep. Tonks was still an Auror, though, he supposed she didn’t much know what to do with herself either. No one who was really involved did, the ones who made it through anyway. Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, the twins and Dean gone. Seamus having left the country, Bill permanently scarred after the run-in with the werewolves. Charlie having fucked off back to Romania. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley alive, wishing they weren’t. Turning the key to unlock his door, he wondered just how many it’d take for him to ever feel square again. Peeling off the bloody robes and depositing the masks on the top of his bureau, he reckoned he’d just have to find out. As sleep claimed him, an old quote he’d heard in school returned to him, and he repeated it for himself mentally. May the eyes of cowards never rest. Widowmakers and the killers of children would know no rest, that much he promised himself.