This is a short story about a Death Eater on the day of Voldermort's death. I wrote it beacuse I'm waiting to write the Spirit of Christmas. Enjoy!

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Grief Thackery made his way down the cobbled street, the glare from streetlamps painful in the pitch dark of a winter British night.

Grief paused for a moment, smelling his prey's scent on the wind. He could sniff out his enemy, even tell he was relaxed, ignorant of his impending doom.

Grief lifted his arm, pointed it at the house. "Expulso!" he roared.

The spell slammed into the house, detonating into a ball of fire and smoke. A wave of heat rolled across the distance, scorching Grief's body. Cars were lifted and hurled across the street, slamming into other houses, smashing through the brickwork as if it were paper. The path at Grief's feet ripped, a tearing sound meeting his ears. Water gushed from broken pipes; the streetlamps flickered and then died. For a second there was silence.

Then the car alarms, whirling feebly sounded up, burglar alarms wailing fiercely, red lights flashing out throughout the blanket of darkness. People were screaming, running to the front doors, lost in the black, only broken by irregular car lights, bright red alarms, a spotlight from a military helicopter beating down on the flaming wreck. Flames licked at the wood, but through the smoke and intense heat, Grief could still smell his prey.

With a flick of his wand, the flames parted for him, and he was able to move into the still-standing living room. The crumbling ceiling groaned above him. In the middle of the room, covered in soot and blood, trapped under a collapsed rafter, his legs and right arm flattened and twisted. Bone showed through cracked skin. Grief thought it was almost beautiful, a man in agonising, debilitating pain.

Peter Polkins.

When Peter spoke, his voice was free of pain- free of all emotions, with the sole exception, perhaps, of bitter resentment. "Thackery. So, Voldermort doesn't want to finish me?"

Grief growled. "Don't say the Dark Lord's name! Show him respect!"

Peter laughed. "I am not scared of Voldermort anymore. I am a dead man walking. Well, not walking, exactly. You know what I mean."

"As it so happens," Grief continued, "the Dark Lord does not have time to deal with traitors such as yourself."

"He knows, then?" Peter asked, inquisitive.

"Of course he knows. Your attempt to get a message to the Ministry was clumsy. Rookwood intercepted your owl. Peter Pettigrew's betrayal has gone unnoticed, and the Dark Lord will, by now, have finished off the Potters." Grief grinned. "You have lost."

Peter's face contorted in pain. When he spoke again, the flickering flames seemed to light up a grin on his face.

"There was a...fight at...the Potter'," Peter managed, his life draining away. "There was an...explosion. Voldermort is...dead."

Something growled, and Grief realised it was himself. "Liar," he hissed.

Peter shrugged, not an easy feat when you being slowly crushed to death. "Whether you believe it...or not...he has...been killed...Pettigrew betrayed us...but Voldermort..."

The flash of green lit up the room, shining off the windows, TV, photos. Peter's head hit the floor, and he stopped moving. Grief was breathing hard, his teeth clenched and his hand gripping the wand so hard his hand was white and pale in the blazing inferno.

"Sir!" someone yelled. Grief turned, seeing for the first time fire engines and ambulances, their sirens screaming, screeching to a halt. Hysterical people were crying and howling, their shouts mingling with the sound of destruction and death to sound like music to Grief's ears. Two firemen were struggling through the burning debris to reach him, and reached out their arms to grab him.

"Sir!" one of them said again, more insistent. Grief glared, as the ceiling creaked dangerously.

"Sir!" the man practically screamed. Grief knew it would be the last word he ever said. Grief pivoted, focusing on the graveyard in Little Hangleton, where his Lord would surely be waiting. He saw the firemen's astounded faces as the roof collapsed, crushing them both. Then Grief was being squeezed on all sides, crushed by the very air and his vision became unfocused as the broken street faded from view.