Disclaimer: I do not now, nor will I ever own anything even remotely associated with J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter. Unless the pajamas I have count, that is…

Coming King

"The killings have gotten worse," Auror Shacklebolt said gravely to the assembled Order of the Phoenix. The members sat crowded around the kitchen table which, to Mrs. Weasley's chagrin, was always dirty and on the verge of very near collapse. There was no break in the weary faces at that news. In times of war, something is always going wrong or getting worse. There was no getting around such things, it was simply a way of life, so they'd all come to accept it.

"But they've decreased in number," Ron Weasley stated, a confused look flitting across his face. "The number of Muggles killed has gone down dramatically since the last battle."

It had such an ominous ring to it, the last battle. Dark and foreboding, the words spoke of times fresh in all their memories. Times spent running through pouring rain across open spaces, scared even to gasp for breath lest you be noticed in the ever spreading darkness. Times spent crouched behind crumbling stone walls, arms thrown over your head to stop the showers of rock and blood. The rock was the premature destruction of feeble defenses, the blood someone's best friend, sister, lover. Half the time it was the poor soul who had been standing next to you only moments before while you watched them die and knew you could do nothing to save them.

The wizarding community had eons before any sort of final battle. There would be no end to this war they were struggling through. There would always be fighting, always be merciless slaughter and tears. They could only pray for easy deaths. That was the optimistic view. In reality, Voldemort's forces were quickly gaining power faster than anyone had thought possible. Hordes of creatures from the dark world were flocking to his aid, determined to stop those who had been oppressing them for so many years. And at Voldemort's hands, none at the table would be granted an easy death. Torture and humiliation lay before them all if they were defeated. That was the one thing that pushed them to continue fighting. They were no longer trying to save the world, for that was out of the question. They were simply trying to save themselves.

"And though that is a definite plus, Mr. Weasley," Shacklebolt said, handing out phoenix crested debriefing folders to the assembled members, "I said nothing about the killings increasing; I merely said they'd gotten worse.

A low murmur went around the kitchen table of Number 12, Grimmauld Place at those words. Nothing would ever get better. The situation could only continue its unstopped downward spiral until eventually they would have to reach up to hit the bottom of it all.

"What do you mean, worse?" Hermione asked tentatively, one hand toying with the edge of the notes in front of her. She knew better than to open them before advised. Without a vocal and magical go ahead from the head Auror, the notes were spelled to burst into flame.

As a silent answer to her question, Shacklebolt produced his wand from the insides of a rather bulky overcoat and merely said, "Open." The phoenixes adorning the folders glowed a brilliant gold and the clasps securing them closed opened with a snap. He gestured that they go ahead and open them.

A rustle of paper later and the weariness in the room was instantly replaced with fear and disgust. More than one hand was pressed to a mouth in the attempt to quell an uneasy stomach.

The images staring up at them were ones of unmistakable horror. Each, with few exceptions, contained a singe person, yet in most of the photographs it was barely distinguishable that they had, in fact, been people. It looked as though in some of the pictures that the photographer had tried to arrange the bodies as they would have been in life, but found they had no stomach for the task and given up.

Arms lay separated from shoulder blades, legs bent in too many places at peculiar angles, and lidless, empty sockets peered out with no discernable eyes. One of the victims was a boy of about twelve who seemed to have had his hands burned off entirely to the wrists.

"This one here," the Auror pulled a picture from the substantial stack he held, "was found to have a finger lodged in his throat." The man in question had only one finger remaining. "The rest were found in his stomach when it was opened during autopsy. But apparently he suffocated to death."

The room was completely silent save for the slide of paper and the occasional disgusted gasp. Tears began to slide down George Weasley's face as he found a picture of a girl no older than Ginny with what looked like tiny holes drilled throughout her entire body.

"As you can all see," Shacklebolt said in the attempt to get the meeting back to order, "these are Muggle photographs." It was doubtless, however, that the subjects could not have moved if they were Wizarding photographs either. "We've been working with their police to help us figure out who's behind this."

"Is that all you can say, Kingsley?" Remus said remorsefully, brown eyes scanning over the images. "Look at these for one moment and realize that they were once alive and unmarred."

"Worse things happen on the battlefield, Remus," the Auror said, trying to placate his friend, "there's no need to-"

"This wasn't a battlefield," Professor McGonagall broke in after having recovered her voice. "This was done in the privacy of someone's home! To unarmed civilians, no less!"

"I've never seen anything like this one," Ron said quietly as he slid one of the colorful photos to the center of the table. "We've seen most forms of torture but I don't understand this."

"It's Muggle," a new voice said so softly that it almost went unnoticed.

All eyes turned to the far end of the table where Harry Potter had been silently sitting for the duration of the meeting. "It's a religious reference."

He took the offered photograph from Ron and wet his lips, trying to push away the feelings starting to boil to the surface under his calm façade.

"When Christ was killed to save the souls of mankind," he continued just as gently, "he was crucified on a cross between a thief and a murderer."

Hermione nodded, scanning over the picture before averting her gaze once more. They were the only two in the room who had even the slightest training in the more religious aspects of life.

"The Savior of the world was coldly murdered between two criminals, effectively lowering his status as the son of God himself to that of a common law-breaker in the eyes of his people. The world became slowly more and more corrupt as the good of life began to die out. The ones who had followed him were beginning to turn their backs on him. Until he was finally betrayed by one of his own, one that he had dearly loved." Harry's voice was beginning to tremble with his effort to stay even somewhat collected. "But this middle cross is empty. Almost as if this, this sick person, is yet to find their own personal Christ."

"This death doesn't look as terrible as some of these other ones," Ron offered hesitantly. "It could be worse, I mean, look at this one." A middle aged woman was shown still floating in the red water she had drowned in.

"You want to have nails driven through your wrists and feet, do you?" Fred spat angrily.

Harry felt a surge of something convulse within himself at the thought.

"You'd best keep those opinions to yourself if you want to have anyone speaking to you," George finished for his twin.

"It's not the nails that really kill you," said Harry. "On a cross, the person being crucified has a sort of a seat. But they can only stay on it if they push themselves up with their feet."

Not a sound was made as all listened attentively to the young man speak. Apparently he was well versed with this sort of circumstance.

"The feet that are supporting you, however, are consequently nailed to a plank of wood, so the slightest pressure is enough to make you wish you were already dead. Such a pain, none of us can even begin to comprehend. There are two ways one can die on a cross. The first and more pleasant of the two is blood loss. The second comes when you finally give up all hope and allow yourself to go limp. If you're lucky, your legs won't instantly snap. If not, you have to deal with that agony, plus the ones in your wrists as your body weight begins to tear at the nails holding them to the cross. Though sometimes when your legs break they are forced upwards into vital organs, killing you quicker, which is always a relief. But if not, the pressure of your entire body then settles on your lungs and you slowly begin to suffocate."

Harry's eyes had glazed over as he spoke and the entire order was spellbound by the recitation. Remus made as though he was going to put a hand on the boy's shoulder, but he jerked away with a flinch, not allowing himself to be touched even by Remus.

"I'm sorry," he said dazedly. "I think I talked too much." He closed the folder before him, effectively shutting out the carnage, and pushed it away from him. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and rested back against the hard wood of the chair he was sitting in, cutting himself off from the rest of the Order.

"So what exactly are we supposed to do about this?" The hesitant voice of Tonks came from across the table. "What do the Muggles want us to do for them?"

"They simply want this person stopped," Shacklebolt said, smoothly taking control of those assembled. "But we need to find out if they're working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or if they're simply alone and psychotic. We aren't even sure if they're a wizard or a Muggle yet, but either way they must be stopped."

"We're to make sure that Pontius Pilate doesn't find his Messiah," Harry said, his eyes suddenly blazing to life. "We're to make sure that Judas doesn't bring the Christ to him so that the third cross won't be occupied. Somehow the outcome will save or destroy the world."

"Of course, Harry," Shacklebolt said, not really understanding the people he was alluding to. Some of them were almost beginning to think the boy's mind had been turned by the gruesome images.

"I want to be the one to do it," he said just as suddenly. "I want to bring this bastard to justice. No one gets away with this, not even in war."

Seeing the passion in his eyes, and knowing that finding the person was out of the question, Shacklebolt relented. "Of course, Harry," he repeated. Everyone understood that sending the Boy Who Lived on a wild goose chase would keep him out of harm's way. "We all wish you the best of luck with your search, and we will all help in any way that we can."

The fire that had been brilliant in Harry's eyes was doused and he slumped forward onto the table. The people around him slowly disbanded and he was soon left alone in the empty kitchen.

Harry raised his head off the table nearly an hour later, his eyes red and his visage confused. Disgust was sliding down over him, curling up gently into the dusty air, yet he was desperately trying to suppress a shiver of desire that he couldn't seem to shove down. He felt sick to his stomach yet there was a shortness to his breath that couldn't be explained away. Not understanding his own feelings in the slightest, Harry pushed himself back from the table and walked mechanically from the room. Only time would help him figure it out.

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