Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

To Linus: without your father, this story would not exist.

'No spell can reawaken the dead' – Albus Dumbledore

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

– CHAPTER ONE –

Death of an Alley Rat



A man, terrified, darts through the heavy darkness of Knockturn Alley. His squat legs carry him away from his impending doom. He tries once more to Apparate, but to no avail. He glances over his shoulder, his bloodshot eyes wide and lidless. But, naturally, his pursuer is nowhere to be seen.

He hesitates. The Alley is utterly still; nothing moves. There is a chance – a sliver of a chance – that Death has found new prey. Pipe hanging limp in his mouth, he comes to a stuttering halt. He is wheezing and wracked with pain, but his eyes are active, darting this way and that, intent on finding the predator.

The crooked Victorian buildings that once signified all he cared about in the world - making a quick Galleon - seem to close in around him. Each one could be in league with Death, each one could betray him.

A sudden breeze picks up and autumn leaves caress his shaking ankles. With it comes a fell voice …

'Mundungus … Mundungus …'

Clang!

The sound of his own pipe hitting the cobbled street makes him jump a foot in the air. In an instant, he draws his wand and fires a hopeful spell into the distance.

Can he hear laughter, or is he imagining it?

He takes flight once more, sure now that Death is playing with him first before it delivers the fatal strike.

His pounding footfalls and quick, rasping breaths pierce the silence. He searches desperately for an avenue of escape, or a safe haven.

Then he disappears; the only sign of him is the gently swinging door of the nearby tavern. But that is the only sign Death needs.

The tavern is almost empty. A ceiling of smoke writhes like a menacing weather system. Its source is a group of hags in the corner whose skin is as green as the crumbling wallpaper. The boil-covered barman scrubs a lop-sided table with a cloth filthier than the surface.

A gust of wind whistles through the establishment, plunging it into darkness.

The darkness is pierced by a brilliant green light that illuminates the pub. Then another. And another.

The candles relight. Only two figures remain standing.

One is Mundungus Fletcher, disguised as a hag. He desperately clambers over the two dead hags in an attempt to get clear of the other figure: Death. But there is no escape.

Knowing this, Mundungus shouts, 'Premo!'

Death bats away the curse with the merest flick of its wand.

'Delibro! Fammipio! Lacero! Avada Kedavra!'

Death side-steps the Killing Curse with ease and laughs.

'You dare use that curse against me?'

Its voice is barely above a whisper, but causes Mundungus to freeze in horror.

'Y – You?' mumbles Mundungus, his wand trembling.

'That stick is no longer of any use to you,' says Death.

A jet of golden fire issues from Death's wand and races towards Mundungus'. Upon contact, Mundungus' wand explodes, showering the floor with sawdust. Mundugus stares, aghast, at the spot where his wand had once been. He falls to his knees. Slowly, he looks up at Death.

'P – Please, 'ave mercy!'

Death places the tip of its wand on Mundungus' forehead. Mundungus clenches his eyes shut and mumbles a prayer. His fear trickles down his thighs and forms a sodden pool around his knees. The stench of it hangs in the air.

'Do you deserve mercy?' whispers Death.

'E – Ev'rythin' I've d-done … c – circumstances …' Mundungus' quivering voice is barely audible.

'Circumstances? Yes, I can understand that. You see, thief, circumstances called me here tonight.'

''Ave anythin'! Y – You want g – gold?'

Mundungus' produces a bag from his pocket. Death throws back its head and laughs. 'Gold?'

Death lowers its wand and Mundungus' eyes open, renewed hope mingled with the fear. But Death has other plans. With the merest hand movement, Mundungus' bag of gold goes the same way as his wand and he stares, horrified, at the plume of golden rain.

'I have no need for your metal trinkets, thief. You have nothing I need, nothing but information; information I could get from any other Alley rat.'

'A – Anythin' … please …'

'Some days ago,' says Death, 'I finally came to claim Harry Potter. But I was unsuccessful.'

'W – What?' breathes Mundungus, staring up into Death's black hood.

'Were there any eye-witnesses?'

'B – Bu' y – you –'

'Consider your wand and bag of gold. Consider, next, your head and answer me.'

'I s – swear I don' know!' cries Mundungus. In his blind panic, he yells, 'L – Lazarus! Lazarus migh' know. Swear to Merlin I don'!'

'Thank you, Mundungus.'

Death turns its back on Mundungus, much to the thief's relief. But the relief is short-lived.

Death disappears. The heavy silence of Knockturn Alley is disturbed by the deafening screams of a dying man.