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SIYE Time:21:41 on 28th March 2024
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On the Woodway
By BigFatMaybe

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Category: Alternate Universe, Post-DH/PM
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Other, Ron Weasley
Genres: Action/Adventure, Drama
Warnings: Death, Disturbing Imagery, Extreme Language, Intimate Sexual Situations, Mental Abuse, Sexual Situations, Violence, Violence/Physical Abuse
Story is Complete
Rating: R
Reviews: 44
Summary: A gruesome murder at Hogwarts disturbs the peaceful summer, and Head Auror Harry Potter struggles with the dark secret he carries with him. Kingsley Shacklebolt's Ministry hangs by a thread as old foes once again seek to reclaim power. Ancient and eternal forces are changing the world once more, and Harry is caught in the midst of the storm.
Hitcount: Story Total: 227296; Chapter Total: 18734
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
Hello, everyone. It's been almost a year, but here it is: the sequel to my previous story: Driving Miss Weasley. If you haven't read that yet: what are you waiting for?

This story is more than twice as long as the prequel, and it's divided over thirteen chapters (and a prologue). It will be uploaded over the course of the coming month (or two). As always, don't hesitate to leave a review and/or share some points of critique!

I would like to thank my beta readers: Moon_Potato and Lawyer. They have worked their butts off over the past months to proofread, give me tips and critique, and point me into the right direction time and time again. Special thanks also to Vlaai, Freshenstein (aka. Squirelly Dan) and FloreatCastellum for proofreading! And, lastly, thank you to all my other friends at the Reddit HPFanfiction Discord. I've had their full support and help from start to finish. You guys are the best. Now, without further ado:




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Prologue

Julian Mercier rubbed his weary eyes as he counted the measly coin he’d earned that day. It was barely enough to buy himself some potatoes and some bread. Maybe some duck if he was lucky.

It wasn’t that his print shop on Market Street wasn’t profitable. The problem was that all of his money had to be spent on the appearance of his store, lest the filth, wear, and perpetually returning woodworm scare his customers away. The folk he welcomed here were picky gentlemen and nobles, and every hate-filled stereotype that his late mother had told him about when he was a young boy, was true. Just this morning, he’d had to grit his teeth and smile politely as a young nobleman complained to him that “you middling sort are lacking in court grace, not altogether polite, overfamiliar, and insufficiently respectful.”

And at the end of the day, he would travel to the other end of the street to buy a sorry excuse for a meal, and then return home to cook it. Before he went to sleep, he would read the adventures of Robinson Crusoe, in the hope that his dreams would be spent on far-away islands, where justice still reigned and God still listened to His people. That was the only respite he would get from his life as a print seller in eighteenth-century Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

At least he had mates with whom he could share this existence, he thought as he closed the thick, cotton blinds. He used to enjoy sharing a drink with them at the tavern after shop hours, but lately he couldn’t bring himself to smile as sincerely and laugh as raucously as he used to. Not while he had to hide this terrible secret from them.

He took the Elder Wand from the inner pocket of his shabby waistcoat and discreetly cast a Locking Charm on the shop entrance as he stepped out into the summer night on Market Street.

This cursed wand would be the death of him. That he knew for sure. Ever since that fateful day when it had come into his possession - or perhaps, the other way around - peculiar things had started happening to him. It had started rather innocently. Maybe the first misfortune was the woodworm infestation. Or maybe it was the first of many nightmares, where dark creatures crept into his bedroom and dragged him to Hell. Whatever it was, he should never have gone poaching with Thomas that day.

Lord, forgive me, he thought. It had become his mantra.

As always, he was the last customer of the day at Francis’ General Store, and the owner, Francis Willoway, welcomed him with a pitying smile.

“Come in, friend,” the broad, greying man said. “Managed to get through another day, then?”

“We still have a couple of hours,” Julian said. “D’you have any ducks left?”

“No, I’m afraid I sold them all,” Francis replied, compassion shining in his watery blue eyes. “You should come in earlier some time, you know.”

“You know I can’t.”

He wanted to cry, but he held it in. Just when he wanted to ask the day's price for potatoes, Francis beckoned to him before disappearing into the room behind the shop.

Julian entered the small, gloomy chamber with some trepidation. Francis stood bent over in a small pantry, and then he turned around and presented him a strangely shaped package.

“Here you are, friend,” he said.

Julian took it, still unable to identify what the man had wrapped in the woven pouch. He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“It’s venison,” Francis said enthusiastically. “Brian caught it yesterday on Lord Kinnaird’s estate. Said it was the biggest buck he’d ever seen!”

Julian’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Thank you, my friend,” he croaked, squeezing the shopkeeper’s shoulder.

“We all deserve a good meal,” he replied. “Now go, quickly, before someone outside notices us.”

Julian hurried home in the sultry summer air, barely able to keep his composure. Francis would, of course, think that he was emotional because of the gift. And he really was moved by the man’s generosity. But Francis didn’t know what had happened the last time Julian had gone poaching.

Back in his home, he watched as the deer meat slowly roasted over the fire. He was starving, but he willed himself to wait until the meat was properly grilled. He couldn’t afford to get sick by eating it undercooked.

His famished mind began to wander again. The sight of the venison took him back to that day when he and Thomas had ventured onto Lord Kinnaird’s land. It had been a hard winter, and to top it off, a sudden storm had sunk a ship that was due to arrive from Rotterdam, containing Dutch paintings that were supposed to be delivered to him. Being a merchant was a game of high risks, and that was when Julian had found out just how harsh the trade could be.

Desperate for food and money, he’d gone to Thomas for help. The old smith had still owed him some favours, so he agreed to accompany him on a hunt for meat and fur.

It didn’t go well. The estate was nothing like the greenwood of old, where merry men lived like the old Robin Hood of England. Once, legends told, England was covered in woods where animals were abundant, and berries, fruit, and nuts grew wherever the eye could see. Such were its riches that every man, lord and peasant, thane and churl, co-existed in moderation and freedom.

But then the Normans had come, and with them, despotic new laws. Woods were turned into hunting grounds for the rich, and peasants were made into servants. Even then, Julian thought, that was better than the sparse world he lived in now. The few forests that remained, preserved to fill the nobility’s need for hunting, were wiped from the earth for the glory of the Empire and its immense fleet.

The forest where Julian and Thomas had hunted was desolate, silent, and empty. By noon, they had caught one rabbit, and by the time they had set up camp for dinner, they had only added an emaciated grouse to their spoils. And as they sat there around their small campfire, cooking the bird and drinking their desperation away, Thomas had become talkative...

Julian shook his head to snap out of the memory. He glanced at the meat and deemed it ready to eat. He carefully removed it from the skewer, levitated it onto a pewter plate, and finally began to eat.

After finishing the considerable chunk of meat, his eyes started to droop. He washed up with a quick spell and then collapsed on his cot in the corner of the small room. Sleep came easy, for once, now that his stomach was full. But with a dreaded certainty he found himself in that forest, once again forced to relive that terrible night.




“I found this odd branch on the ground this afternoon,” Thomas said, holding up a peculiarly-shaped stick as they sat around the campfire. Julian’s heart started beating faster when he recognised it as a wand. “Look how strange it is, do you see those little nubs on it?”

“Yeah,” Julian said with a hollow voice. He had heard stories about a wand shaped like this. “Is that elder wood?”

“Yeah, it is. Anyway, I broke it and was about to toss it, but then I saw something that looked like a hair inside it. And then I swear it mended itself,” Thomas continued.

“Can I see it?” Julian asked, holding his hand out towards it. There was no doubt. It was made of elder wood, and what Thomas had seen was a Thestral hair. There was only one wand like that. This was the Elder Wand, and Thomas, the poor Muggle, had no idea about it.

“No, I don’t think so, young man,” Thomas laughed, putting the wand back in his pocket. “A magical stick; this is gonna bring in a good sum. Tell you what, though, I’ll give you twenty percent of what I get for this. I wouldn’t have found it without you, after all.”

“Alright,” Julian heard himself say.

But he couldn’t take his mind off the wand as they ate the bird and then crawled into their sleeping bags. He remembered the stories his mother used to tell him, and the Tale of the Three Brothers used to be his favourite. He knew, like every other witch and wizard in the country, how much power the Deathly Hallows possessed.

Julian lay awake, staring into the embers of the fire. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake his thoughts from the Elder Wand. A strange obsession had taken a hold of him, and he couldn’t resist it. He stared into the fire for what seemed like an eternity, not knowing whether he was asleep or not.

The old smith started snoring, and Julian quietly crept out of his sleeping bag. In a daze, he tiptoed to his backpack. He took his hunter’s knife from its sheath, and snuck to Thomas’ sleeping form. He watched the man for a while as he kneeled next to him, and then he slit the Muggle's throat with no more hesitation.

He startled awake, still in his sleeping bag on the forest floor. Thomas wasn't snoring anymore. That was when he realized his hands felt funny. He looked down.

There, clutched in his blood-soaked hand, was the Elder Wand. His stomach turned to ice as realization set in. He sat upright, and looked at his friend on the other side of the fire. Thomas, the old smith, was dead. His throat was sliced open, his neck, torso, and sleeping bag were coated in drying blood, and his grey eyes were empty, lifeless.

He began to shake uncontrollably, and he barely suppressed a scream at the sight of his old friend’s corpse lying so close to him. He looked down at his hands again, and realized; this was his doing. It hadn't been just a nightmare: it had really happened.
He clutched the Elder Wand until his knuckles went white. Then he crawled out of his sleeping bag, and began the gruelling task of getting rid of the body.




Julian awoke with a start, and found himself back in his cot. He shuddered as he exhaled, but he couldn’t shake the sight of Thomas’ body lying so close to him.

He rubbed his face tiredly, and decided to get out of his cot. Pacing through his house for a while always helped to shake off the awful dreams.

But he couldn’t lift the bedcovers.

The door to the shop flew open and slammed against the wall with an ungodly noise, and a strong gust of wind rushed into the room. Julian lay frozen as a creature, black as tar and with far too many limbs, crawled in. Its eyes glowed like those of Satan himself, and its countless teeth shone in the candlelight. Julian couldn’t move, and the monster moved closer to him, spreading out its long ape-like arms to snatch him and drag him away.

“Your Lord has heard your prayers, Julian Mercier, and He has deemed them unworthy,” it rumbled.

“Please, don’t take me,” Julian begged, desperately trying to free himself from this spell that froze him in place.

But it was to no avail. He felt the sharp claws sink into his skin as the creature grabbed him and lifted him up like a twig. And as it spread its immense, leathery wings and carried him out of his home into the night, he hoped, prayed, that this was indeed still a dream. He was carried at an unbelievable speed over fields, past coal mines and small villages, and towards a forest he’d hoped he would never have to see again.

They flew past the outcrops he and Thomas had used to hide their horses, and then landed by the edge of the woods. Julian saw the raging flames of Inferno waiting for him in that forest, and he struggled against the creature with all his strength, but its claws only sank further into him. Tears sprung in his eyes, he screamed and he cried, but nothing would help. The heat started to itch his skin, and the pain only increased as they approached the raging flames of the gates to Hell. The fire started to lick at him, but the monster did not stop. He felt the hair on his arms singe off, his eyes became drier and drier until he could not close them anymore, and his pyjamas charred and melted onto his blistering skin. His last screams were smothered as angry flames entered his mouth, charring his lungs as he breathed his last panicked breaths.

Not a trace remained of Julian Mercier’s terrible end, except for a wand lying on the forest floor, waiting to be found by an unfortunate passer-by.

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