36

Engelland's face was changing before James' eyes. It looked as though there were marbles under the man's skin, moving around, pushing outwards and rolling inwards at the same time, contorting the face into a shape that didn't suit it. The short cropped, dark hair was elongating into long and elegant curls, and the friendly face of the Auror was changing into the face of James' nightmares. The smoothly trimmed beard on the oddly handsome but at the same time entirely menacing face of Gilles Rochefort. One brown eye now stared at him, and where the other eye should have been was a dark, empty socket which was quickly filled as Rochefort slapped his whirring magical eye into place. Both eyes – natural and magical – now stared at James. The malicious smile was gone, replaced with an almost curious expression.

James slowly got to his feet, aware that Rochefort was allowing him to do so. James suspected that whatever his plan was, he did not want this to end quickly. He could feel his wand in the waist band of his jeans, but he didn't dare reach for it yet. 'Where's Engelland?' he asked once he had regained his breath.

'Dead,' Rochefort said quietly.

'Dead?' James echoed.

Rochefort chuckled. 'Unless removing someone's head from their shoulders does not kill a man, then yes, I would presume he is dead.'

James felt a pang of regret for Engelland, the kind Auror who had taken on the task of shadowing the Potter family's every move and protecting them at every turn.

'It should please you to know that he died well,' Rochefort said, relish in his voice. 'No sniveling or begging. No crying or pleading. No, he went down fighting, trying to get a warning out to the Ministry until his last choked and broken breath. After that things got a bit messy.'

James clenched his fists as hatred for Rochefort swelled within him.

Rochefort idly twirled his wand in his finger. 'You are a curiosity, Potter,' he said in that quiet, silky and menacing voice. 'There I was, firmly ensconced in the good graces of the Dark Lord. His capable lieutenant, capable of handling any task placed before him and eliminating all opposition. Take the Longbottom family, for instance,' he said, his regular eye glinting as James felt himself grow pale. 'For all the mystique surrounding that old, pure-blooded family, they were remarkably easy to destroy. So predictable…protecting the children and all of that nonsense.'

'You're a monster,' James said.

Rochefort laughed. 'An exceptional one,' he said. 'In every regard. Until you came along.' His face darkened as he stepped towards James. 'Suddenly, there were doubts about me,' he hissed. 'Whispers amongst the ranks of the Death Eaters that I, the Dark Lord's most faithful, devoted and talented servant, didn't poses the necessary qualities to destroy a simple child. You, Potter. You are the first thing I have ever encountered that has cast my skills into doubt.'

'I'm honoured,' James said sarcastically.

'You jest,' Rochefort hissed. 'But surely you know as well as I that this was no result of magical skill on your part. It was not the result of you being better than me in any single way. The only reason you stand here alive today is because of luck, circumstance and the protection of powerful allies. None of which you have present now, I may add.'

James sensed the moment was coming soon, but he waited.

'You may wonder where we are,' Rochefort went on, gesturing to the gravel road around them. It was an alley way – where, James could not be sure, but it still looked like London. 'Yes, it's London,' Rochefort confirmed as if James had pondered the question aloud. 'You see, the Dark Lord realized how it was that Dumbledore and his minions were able to hone in on you when he had his little audience with you. You and that mudblood both still have the Trace upon you. It was unwise to lure you out away from where magic is commonplace, where you could blend in with your surroundings. The Dark Lord learned from this, and I have as well. We are very close to King's Cross…close enough that us performing magic will not set off any alarm bells that will summon the Ministry instantly. This will afford us time to duel, one on one. Skill against skill alone.' His eyes flashed. 'Does that frighten you, Potter?' he hissed.

James shifted his feet. 'It bores me, actually,' he said in a confident tone. 'I'm wondering when you're going to stop rambling and start doing something.'

He was satisfied to see a flash of annoyance cross Rochefort's face, but he laughed a moment later. 'I know what you're doing, Potter,' he said slowly. 'It's commendable, really – you know your number is up, so you are simply trying to get your insults in while you can. Yes, you have a quick wit and a big mouth, but neither will save you from me,' he said. 'You have personally offended not only me, but the Dark Lord. You, that mudblood, and the other two – the Longbottom survivor and the Dearborn girl. Once I have destroyed you, along with this ridiculous faint hope that you have somehow come to represent, I will set about destroying them.'

James laughed hollowly. 'Good luck,' he said. 'If you think the Ministry's protection of me was tough to get through, you'll have a Dickens of a time getting to them.'

'True,' Rochefort said. 'But it's all a waiting game. Oh, the wait was agonizing, Potter,' Rochefort said. 'I had half a mind to simply stroll into Hogwarts and murder you in your bed. Take out your little gang of friends at the same time. A suicide mission, maybe, but it would have been oh-so-satisfying. But even if I had been able to set foot on the Hogwarts grounds again, Dumbledore and his staff would surely have managed to intervene. So I waited. I saw your little routine of guards during the Christmas break – Meadowes and Cresswell handing you over to Engelland and Moody – and I hatched a plan. It meant waiting, but I knew the payoff would be sweet.

'Another idea I got from you, Potter,' Rochefort said silkily. 'Word of your pranks always make their way out of the school. Naturally, the only way you could have duped those Slytherins in the manner in which you did was Polyjuice Potion. What an excellent idea. Of course, again, you had a more-skilled friend help you in concocting it.'

'How do you know all of this?' James asked.

Rochefort laughed. 'I don't rat on my friends, Potter,' he said. 'But back to what I was saying – it was all just a matter of catching Engelland a lone, dispatching him, and then assuming his form. With any luck, I may have also managed to kill Moody at the same time. Two birds, Potter,' he said. 'And now here we stand. I understand you have been taught how to duel. Now we shall see how skilled you really are.'

James moved instinctively. In less time than it took for the thought to formulate in his head, he called upon his Quidditch reflexes and moved left, drawing his wand at the same time. The curse that Rochefort had sent his way whistled past where James had been standing, crashing into a garbage can which exploded into pieces.

'Expelliarmus!' James called, still running to the side. The swiftness of Rochefort's shield charm would surely have knocked James off balance had he been standing still. Rochefort now spun his wand and cast another curse at James, but he dove into a roll, slashing his wand as he did so and non-verbally casting the redactor curse. Rochefort dodged nimbly aside and it careened into a wall, denting the brick heavily and raining down powder on them. James sprung to his feet, his wand held out in front of him to see Rochefort doing the same.

'Impressive,' Rochefort said quietly. 'Much better than I anticipated.'

James smiled grimly. 'You're much worse than I anticipated,' he said.

Rochefort's eyes flashed and he slashed his wand again. James hurled himself to the side but it still caught him on his shoulder, sending him spinning and crashing to the ground. He climbed to his knees before something struck him in the face – Rochefort had leapt forward and kicked him hard in the nose. The force of the strike lifted James from the ground where he had been on his hands and knees and sent him crashing onto his back. He saw stars in his vision and he was suddenly flung through the air once more, crashing into a brick wall. James felt a surge of pain in his hip as he crashed to the ground. He looked up to see Rochefort advancing – James had refused to relinquish his grip on his wand. He recalled the tactic he had used on Snape – spells cast in quick succession, and he pointed his wand at Rochefort, jabbing with it and casting over and over.

The stunning spells flew at Rochefort and, with a momentary feeling of glee, James saw one of the spells surge through and catch him in the midsection. Rochefort staggered and James hauled himself to his feet, pointing his wand at a trash bin and magically hurling it towards Rochefort. It struck him in the face, sending him crashing to the ground. James limped forward, casting a stunning spell, but Rochefort leapt up and away and slashed his wand angrily. A wall of purple flame spat towards James who cast a shield charm, but the force of the curse sent him hurtling backwards once more. He soared through the air before landing heavily and skidding along the ground on his bag, the gravel chopping his skin like a cheese grater. James pointed his wand from his back and cast two stunning spells, but Rochefort deflected them both and then struck James with the Cruciatus Curse.

For a moment that seemed like an eternity, James' world was wrent apart. He knew nothing but pain that seemed like it would never end, but just as suddenly as the sensation had begun, it ended. James' brain was scattered for a moment, but he was suddenly kicked in the side of the head again. He cried out in pain – he couldn't see, his vision was blurred and spotted with white stars. He was kicked over and over again – his torso, his face, his head, his legs – he tried to curl into a fetal position to protect himself but Rochefort was relentless. James could feel bones snapping under the onslaught as Rochefort punctuated each blow with a word.

'How—skilled—are—you—now—Potter?' Rochefort bellowed, kicking James one last time in the back and then backing away was James lay there. He coughed and blood splattered out of his mouth. He looked at Rochefort who was standing there; for all the damage Rochefort had done to James, he could only see a scratch on one of Rochefort's cheeks. 'Get up,' Rochefort snarled. 'The time has come, Potter. Get up. I want to look at you when I kill you. I want you to soar through the air and land like a broken china doll when I strike!'

James thought of Engelland. Rochefort said he had died honourably, fighting to the last breath, and James knew the time had come to use his one last shot. His mind drifted to Madam Bones – you have to MEAN Unforgiveable Curses, Potter – and he thought of Professor Bowen. He thought of the Longbottoms. He thought of Engelland. He thought of Sirius being kidnapped, of Frank and Alice being ambushed.

James was only dimly aware of having gotten to his feet. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

'Come on, Potter. Don't you have any other little tricks you want to try?' Rochefort taunted. 'Come on. Free shot. What childish little spells has that muggle-loving fool Dumbledore taught you?'

James managed a grin. 'Only one,' he choked through broken teeth. He pointed his wand at Rochefort and summoned all of his anger and hate. 'AVADA KEDAVARA!'

Time seemed to slow down. It felt as if every ounce of energy James possessed had flowed through his arm and out the end of his wand. A massive jet of green light soared across the ally straight at Rochefort, whose normal eye had widened in surprise. He made no move; he had not expected anything like this. The light seemed to encompass him in the second before the spell struck, and James saw a flash of fear cross his face.

Then it hit. The curse caught Rochefort in the sternum and lifted him from the ground, rocketing him across the alley into a brick wall which cracked and crumbled around him, burying him in bricks. A cloud of dust and rubble flew into the air, covering James in dirt and grime as he sank to his knees. He couldn't move a muscle. He simply sat there, resting on his heels, panting as he squinted through the dust, waiting. The cloud cleared and there sat the pile of brick and rubble. No movement.

James knew a fleeting sensation of glee, but it was short-lived.

A hand slowly broke through the surface of the rubble and it was followed by another. The long-haired head of Rochefort emerged after it, taking a long, shuddering breath as he emerged from the pile. He flopped down on top of it and coughed, spraying blood all over the ground. He took choked breaths and now looked to be in just as bad a state as James was. He looked at up at him.

'You…miserable…little…bastard,' Rochefort hissed. He raised his wand, and James knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was powerless, drained. His last chance had failed. He had not been able to finish him off.

But suddenly, loud cracking sounds met James' ears from either end of the ally. He couldn't even turn his head to look, but Rochefort did – and suddenly he was gone with a loud crack of his own, apparating away.

'JAMES!' came a familiar voice and he was suddenly aware that he was pitching forward onto the ground, crashing face first to the dirt. He was quickly turned over and he was looking up into several faces. They were blurs with familiar voices. James blinked several times, tears of pain blotting his vision. 'James, it's me,' came his father's voice. 'James can you hear me?'

James took a choked breath through battered lungs surrounded by broken ribs. 'I couldn't do it,' he whispered.

'Couldn't do what, son?' Mr. Potter said.

'I couldn't…kill him,' James rasped.

'What's he talking about?' came another sharp voice. James squinted and saw the outline of Bartemius Crouch. 'Give me his wand.'

'Really, Barty, is that necessary—' his father began.

'I said give it here,' Crouch said sternly.

'He's just been through the fight of his life—against Rochefort, for God's sake!' Mr. Potter thundered. 'You can't be serious!'

A third voice joined in. 'Potter, hand over his wand.' It was Millicent Bagnold.

'This is absurd,' Mr. Potter said as James felt his wand being taken from his hand.

'Priori Incantatem,' came Crouch's voice. James heard a faint rushing sound and recognized it as a microcosm of the noise he had heard when he cast the curse. There was a series of hushed whispers following the sound and James felt his father's grip upon him tighten.

It was Bagnold who spoke next. 'Where the hell did he learn to do that…?' she whispered.

'You…you know the law, Potter…' said Crouch in an uncertain voice. It was a tone James had not heard from the man.

'You can't be serious,' Mr. Potter said angrily. 'All of you—you can't be! He was going to be killed! He had no choice!'

'There are no exceptions,' Crouch said quietly.

'Millicent—Millicent, please,' Mr. Potter said. He was begging now. James could feel his consciousness slipping away—he fought to stay awake, strained to hear the words he knew would damn his future.

'I…I am sorry,' Bagnold said. 'But the law is the law. We must place James Potter under arrest…'

The rest was lost as James lost consciousness, his world fading to a bleak, hopeless black.