The Sugar Quill
Author: Airri  Story: Killing Karkaroff  Chapter: Default
The distribution of this story is for personal use only. Any other form of distribution is prohibited without the consent of the author.

Disclaimer: I want to be JKR

Disclaimer: I want to be JKR. However, I am not, so only the words belong to me.

A/N: I wrote this story at approximately 5:00 AM, July 18th, when I was all depressed from finishing HBP. Thanks to all who read and beta-ed this – Darker Rage, Ara Kane, and BeatriceEagle from the beginning. Or more, I can’t remember. Love to Devi and Hematite, and congrats for getting on SQ before I did!




Killing Karkaroff





The wind roared against the desolate, empty land. Rain with the force of malicious bludgers hurtled down from the desolate sky, beating anything that happened to be out that night until they were black and blue all over. This, of course, meant that no one was out that night. That is… no one in his right mind.


This did not include a dark, cloaked figure hunched against the wind, hugging the cloak about him tighter and resolutely turning to face his destination and take up the grueling walk again.


Little did the traveler know that someone was watching his progress, someone whom he would prefer not to meet. This person, the only other one out and about on this night, was called Lord Voldemort; and anyone in his right mind would be keen on avoiding him and his wrath. And, unfortunately for the traveler, Lord Voldemort was in a particularly wrathful mood.


Swiftly and silently, Lord Voldemort pursued the fleeing figure. Despite many glances back over his shoulder, the cloaked man braving the weather did not see his pursuer. He was not supposed to. Powerful magic cloaked Lord Voldemort, obscuring him from anyone who might glance that way. Indeed, there was only one person in the world who would have been able to see him at that moment, and this person was busy running a school.


Finally, Lord Voldemort caught up with his prey. “Igor Karkaroff,” he said in greeting – or warning, it was impossible to tell.


After gasping and jumping like a fish out of water, the man named Igor Karkaroff flung himself down in the mud at Lord Voldemort’s feet, ignoring the fact that dirty water was seeping though his once-fine furs and chilling him to the bone.


“Master . . . Master, forgive me!” he croaked, weeping and pleading as a small child does when fearing a terrible punishment.


Crucio!” Lord Voldemort screamed, a high, cold screech. Karkaroff writhed and screamed and howled as if he were on fire.


Lord Voldemort stood tall, his pale face just visible under his hood, and gazed down at the pathetic figure prostrate upon the ground. “You think I will forgive you, Karkaroff? You think I will forgive your feeble, yet strangely effective, efforts to save your own skin by putting my faithful followers in Azkaban? And then not answering my summons, my first summons in thirteen years, and running away like the little gormless worm that you are? You could not even attempt to face me that first night, to believe that I had risen again. And you think I will forgive you for that?” Throughout the entire speech, his voice had risen in pitch and volume, and had grown even more cold and uncaring.


“Master . . . Master . . .” Karkaroff continued to say in a weak voice, panting slightly.


“You think wrong.” Lord Voldemort’s words held a lot of power in them, and the power in those three words did not bode well for Igor Karkaroff. Indeed, Lord Voldemort raised his wand high, and screamed again. “Crucio!”


It was sick to watch the scene on the moor. It was sick to watch someone stand over a man and cause him unendurable pain. It was sick to watch that man roll around on the ground and scream as though his heart were being wrenched out of his body.


Finally, the torture stopped and Lord Voldemort’s hard voice came again. “You made a mistake, Karkaroff, and I do not tolerate mistakes. You do know what is coming next, don’t you?”


“Death.” It was less than a whisper.


Then Karkaroff redoubled his efforts to beg his master to let him live. “Master, I have made a mistake, I know, but I can fix it. I will serve you better. I’ve been close to the Ministry of Magic for years; I have information that would be valuable to you, and I could get more… Master, please! I could help the remaining Death Eaters escape from Askaban! I could be a great asset to you, Master. Please, Master, please.”


All he got in return for his groveling was a sneer, and an icy look. “No, your mistake is too big to repair. And you will have to pay . . .”


Karkaroff gasped and then began to sob. Voldemort raised his wand again. “Avada Kedavra!”


There was a flash of brilliant green light, and Igor Karkaroff was no more.

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