Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. All of the characters that JK Rowling invented are hers. The characters that I invented are nobody's, really. I am doing this purely for my own enjoyment, not for any sort of commercial profit.
A/N: Some chapters flow easily out of my fingers, like a spider spinning an elaborate web. Every word falls effortlessly into its proper place, and every phrase is robust and delightful. This was one of those chapters. Enjoy.
Chapter 6: The Killing Curse
Harry was winded. The compression of Apparition had forced all of the breath out of him, and the Body Bind compounded the effect, making it difficult for him to draw a deep breath. However, he was given no respite. Barely half a second had passed before Foucan yanked him once again through the crushing, black tube that was Apparition. Foucan repeated the process five more times, each one driving even more air out of Harry's chest. He was dangerously close to asphyxiation; his vision was black even when he wasn't Apparating, and he could feel an unnatural pressure forcing his eyeballs back into his skull.
Finally, the sensation ended. Harry still couldn't draw a deep breath because of Foucan's curse, but at least he had some time to recover. He gratefully sucked in what little air he could as fast as possible, nearly hyperventilating in an attempt to keep himself conscious. He realized that Foucan had dropped him on a hard floor of some sort. Luckily he was facing up, so he could get some idea of his surroundings. The wood-paneled ceiling was low, and the bare walls were painted a cream color. He couldn't see Foucan, but he could hear the man retching somewhere nearby. He didn't know what had caused the man to become so violently ill, but he thanked his lucky stars that it happened when it did.
Suddenly, Harry heard a loud crack above him, and Moody appeared out of thin air, his clawed wooden leg nearly impaling Harry's head. Moody quickly ended the Body Bind, and Harry climbed hastily to his feet. He turned around and saw Foucan doubled over on the floor. His skin appeared to be melting and bubbling, and his face was stretching outward as if his body was too small to contain it. The effect was repulsive.
"Polyjuice," growled Moody tersely. "It's wearing off. Grab my arm, quickly!"
Harry obeyed immediately, turning and firmly grasping Moody's arm with both hands. He didn't want to tarry a second longer than absolutely necessary. However, just before Moody Apparated away, Harry couldn't resist looking back over his shoulder. What he saw made his blood run cold. The man crouched on the floor was not Foucan. Harry's eyes met the murderous glare of the man he had read about on page one of the Facebook: the most dangerous fighter in Voldemort's arsenal, Antonio Ramirez Sanchez.
Moody's arm started to twist out of his grasp, but Harry hung grimly on. This time, he was able to draw a deep breath before Apparating, so he was fully recovered when they popped out the other side. They were in an empty room with no doors, dominated by a large stone fireplace that contained a small, crackling fire. Moody pulled a cloth pouch out of the pocket of his robes and tossed the whole thing into the flames. The fire turned a bright, blinding red, and the flames leapt up to twice Harry's height, hungrily licking the ceiling of the room.
"Haven!" roared Moody, before grabbing Harry's arm and jerking him into the flames.
Flooing with another person was exponentially worse Flooing alone. As if the rapid, nauseating spin wasn't bad enough, Harry's elbows, knees, and head continually banged into the bony old Auror's body. After what seemed to be an eternity, Harry and Moody stumbled out at another grate, their tangled bodies sprawled across the floor. The pair immediately bounded to their feet, wands drawn and ready for action. A second passed. Ten seconds. A full minute went by, and still nothing happened.
"Shouldn't we be moving, sir?" panted Harry. "If we stay in one place, can't he find us?"
Moody's face was grim. "That was a secure Floo connection, Potter," he muttered. "It's untraceable, according to the man who sold it to me. But it wouldn't be the first time I've been lied to by a vendor," he added almost to himself.
"That's not reassuring, sir," Harry pointed out. "Shouldn't we get moving?"
Moody shrugged. "Where to? This bunker is the one of the most secure places that I know of. Apparition and Disapparition are impossible. Portkeys won't function here. We're five hundred feet underground. The only way in is by Floo, and only if you have access to the secure connection."
"We're five hundred feet underground? But there's a window, I can see London!" said a confused Harry. He pointed toward the window, from which Canary Wharf was clearly visible.
"It's enchanted. Trust me Potter, this place is almost impenetrable. If Sanchez can get to us here, he can get to us anywhere."
No sooner had these words left Moody's mouth than the flames in the fireplace behind him roared and turned bright red. Moody whirled, shouting "Inflammo Clausus!" The jet of purple light streamed towards the grate, but it bounced off the spinning figure that had materialized within the flames. Before Moody could get a second spell off, Antonio Ramirez Sanchez stepped calmly out of the fireplace and into Moody's secure bunker.
Oddly enough, the first thing that Harry noticed was that Sanchez had changed his clothes. He was no longer wearing the valet's uniform. Instead, he was dressed in a set of pure, snow-white robes that were somehow spotless, even though the man had just stepped out of a sooty fireplace. He had a sharp nose like a hawk's beak, and his eyes were like two chips of blue ice set in his face. His silver hair was cropped to shoulder length, and his fingers were curled gracefully around an ebony wand.
"Alastor, it has been too long," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Tell me, from whom did you purchase the Floo powder? It was quite a clever enchantment."
"Leave or die, Antonio," snarled Moody, ignoring the question. "Choose quickly."
"Moody," said Sanchez in a slow, soothing drawl, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "My old friend, there is no need for such animosity! We are two of a kind, fighters born. I merely wish to know where you acquired the Floo powder. It is my business to know where such items may be found."
"This is your last warning, Antonio," Moody reiterated. "Leave or die. Those are your only two options."
"Alastor, calm down!" said Sanchez in a commanding tone. "I did not come here to kill you. Indeed, that is the reason I stole the boy in the first place. Rest assured, I could have killed you and your three companions back on the beach and taken the boy by force. Instead, I used subterfuge, so that I could avoid harming my old comrade, Alastor Moody. I did not come here to fight you. I just came for the boy. Lower your weapon, and I will take Potter and leave peaceably."
"Time's up," said Moody. "Avada Kedavra!"
The jet of green light soared straight towards Sanchez's head accompanied by a rush of wind, as if Death himself were riding the green wave of power. But Sanchez wasn't one of the greatest fighters in the world for naught. With the barest hint of a bend in his back, he leant out of the way of the curse. The jet of green light missed his head by millimeters, but Harry could tell that it was no accident. The movement had been precise and flawlessly timed.
Harry stared at Moody, momentarily shocked. Moody had just used the worst of the three Unforgivable curses as if it was a stunner, without even a modicum of remorse. And he wasn't done. Moody cast five more curses in rapid succession, trying to overwhelm Sanchez's defenses. But Sanchez merely gave one tiny flick of his wand, and all five curses altered their direction and streamed straight for Harry. Harry snapped out of his daze and leapt gracefully to the left, diving easily out of range of the spells.
The result of this maneuver was that Harry and Moody stood on opposite sides of Sanchez, wands raised and ready to cast at a moment's notice. Sanchez, for his part, had yet to cast an offensive spell. He stood tall in the center of the room, and his body was turned entirely to face Moody, as though Harry was an insignificant trifle by comparison. Sanchez opened his mouth, but it wasn't to utter a curse.
"Pathetic," he sneered. "Seventy years as an Auror and yet you still fight like you're fresh out of school. Your tactics are amateur and your spell selection unoriginal. You think to overwhelm a wizard who is twice as powerful and twice as fast with six spells? You insult me with such a juvenile display of dueling ineptitude. Crawl back to the Auror Academy and admit your failure, Alastor. Maybe they will take pity on you and teach you to duel properly."
Moody shrugged. "Tough words, Sanchez. Come over here and say that again to my face."
Sanchez tried to take a step, but his feet were glued solidly to the floor. He looked down and found them bound by a sticky, tar-like substance. "Touché," he growled, rage etched in every line of his face. He made as if to cancel the spell, but at that moment, Harry made his move.
While Sanchez was insulting Moody, Harry had not been idle. He had slowly crept forward until he was within perfect spell range: as close as possible, but still far enough away to react if his spell was blocked. As Sanchez pointed his wand at his feet, Harry wordlessly cast a powerful bludgeoning spell directly at his unprotected back. The spell worked exactly as planned, hurling Sanchez forcibly forward. But since his feet were still attached to the ground, he swung downwards as though on a hinge, and his nose smashed into the unforgiving ground below. Harry winced as he heard two loud cracks, signifying that the man's ankles had snapped.
Moody immediately cast three stunning spells at their fallen opponent, but they were ineffective. Sanchez somehow sensed the attacks coming and raised a small shield of golden mist, which sent the stunners careening into the ceiling. Suddenly Sanchez lashed out with his wand arm, causing Moody's wooden leg to explode so violently that some of the splinters embedded themselves in the walls. Moody let out a roar of rage and pain, but he couldn't stop himself from toppling to the side. He fell to the floor with a sickening thud, but he managed to keep his wand arm trained on Sanchez.
Harry rushed to the aid of his fallen guardian. He leaped toward Sanchez and cast a severing charm at his hamstring. But he was too late. Sanchez had already pushed himself up off the ground, causing the severing charm to pass harmlessly by. Sanchez waved his wand, and the pitch around his feet instantly vanished. He healed his ankles with another quick jab of his wand, and suddenly Harry found himself face to face with the Argentinian killer. Sanchez had blood streaming down his face from a broken nose, and the front of his white robes was bathed in crimson. But instead of making him look weaker, the blood made him feral, like a ravenous tiger closing in for the kill.
"I am tiring of this game," he spat, and that was the only warning Harry got.
Sanchez's hands moved in an intricate blur, making complex motions faster than Harry's eyes could follow. Harry felt himself plucked off his feet by an invisible hand. Before he could react, the giant hand hurled him viciously into one of the walls of the bunker. The impact knocked the wind out of him and jarred the wand from his hand. He gasped with pain as he tried to draw a breath. He coughed and tasted blood. Surely at least two of his ribs were broken. Even falling off of a broom couldn't compare to this sort of collision.
Harry felt himself start to slide down the wall, but his descent was abruptly halted. Chains and manacles snaked out of the wall behind him and bound him tight. His arms and legs were tied securely to the wall. He was trapped like a fly in a spider's web.
With Harry out of the way, Sanchez was able to turn his full attention to Alastor Moody. "You have been training the boy," said Sanchez conversationally. "I can see your style in him. The Dark Lord will be very interested in this bit of information."
Moody groaned, and Sanchez nodded. "I see, you were trying to keep this a secret. Well, it was a good idea, but doomed to failure. After all, when I take the boy to the dungeons of the Dark Lord, we will glean much more than just his training regimen."
"Over my dead body," said Moody grimly.
"Yes," agreed Antonio, "I'm afraid it will have to be over your dead body."
Moody raised his wand in a last attempt to curse his nemesis, but Sanchez was far too fast for him. He flicked his wand, and Moody's wrist snapped and fell limply to the side. Sanchez flicked his wand again and clove Moody's wand neatly in two. The sound of the pieces clattering to the floor could be heard clearly in the otherwise silent room. Moody slumped back against the wall, defeated. Sanchez sheathed his wand in victory.
However, Sanchez did not turn back to Harry. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Moody. "I don't want to do this, Alastor," he said grimly. "We were once the best of friends, and even if you have forgotten that friendship, I still value it. You saved my life many a time during the Great War, and I consistently returned the favor. It seems such a waste to throw away a life that I used to work so hard to protect. But it is obvious to me that you won't give up this fight. You leave me no other choice."
Suddenly Sanchez's face twisted in revulsion and anger. "Why, Alastor?" he screamed. He ran over to Moody's fallen form and punched him hard across the face. "Why?" he yelled again, and kicked the old man viciously in the stomach. Moody curled into the fetal position, his entire face screwed up in agony.
"Why…do you insist…on being…so…damn…DIFFICULT!" Sanchez roared, punctuating each word with a blow to Moody's groin, gut, or face. Moody was gasping pitifully, rolling around on the floor uselessly trying to evade the blows. His magical eye was whirling impossibly fast in its socket, desperately trying to escape the pain. But Sanchez was beyond any sort of reason. He straightened up and let out an unearthly bellow.
"AAAARGHHHAAARRR!!!" he cried incoherently, and his eyes gleamed with a deranged light. "WHY?!?" he screamed one last time.
Sanchez whipped out his wand and set it against Moody's flesh. His face contorted in furious concentration, and his teeth were bared in a lion's grin. Moody's eyes opened wide, and his scars stretched in agony. But the scars continued to stretch, twisting and popping until blood started trickling from every wound that Moody had received in his long career. Harry realized with a thrill of horror that Sanchez was slowly killing Moody by opening up every old wound. Hot tears filled his eyes, and he found a renewed strength to struggle against his bonds.
Moody was moaning piteously, vainly swatting at Sanchez's arm in an attempt to stop the torture. But Sanchez continued unflappably onward, and blood was now flowing freely from every scar on Moody's body. Moody's struggles were weakening but his moans were getting louder and more desperate.
"Harry," the old man muttered. "Harry…please…God, no… "
Harry was transported back to a moment three weeks ago, when he had been similarly incapacitated on top of Hogwarts' tallest tower. He had helplessly witnessed Professor Dumbledore's last moments. Watched him beg for his life.
Severus… Harry heard. Severus…please…
Harry made a decision. He could not, would not be helplessly forced to watch another mentor die. All tears were gone from his eyes. Instead, a feeling of rage and power suffused his body. With a terrible roar, he put forth all his strength into breaking his bonds. The steel was helpless against the power of Harry's wrath. The metal chains snapped like twine, and Harry dropped cat-like to the floor, all pain and fear forgotten in a wave of righteous anger. Sanchez whirled to face him, and for the first time in the confrontation, fear was evident in his eyes.
"Harry, catch!" yelled Moody, hurling Harry's wand through the air. Harry was encouraged to hear a note of strength in Moody's voice, even as his Seeker reflexes reached out and snatched his wand out of the air. He gripped it firmly and pointed it directly at Sanchez's heart.
"Now, Sanchez," he said brazenly, "fight someone who can fight back!"
With a cry, Harry brought the wand slashing down. Stupefy, Everbero, Diffindo, Reducto, Lacerus, Sectumsempra, Fugo Cruentus. The nonverbal curses flashed through his mind, each one more violent than the last. None had any effect. No matter how fast Harry was, and no matter how powerful his spells, Antonio was faster and stronger. With each failed attempt, the fear faded out of Sanchez's eyes, and he began to counterattack.
Harry managed to block Sanchez's first three spells with Subsisto, a new shield he had learned from Moody. However, even though the third spell was blocked, its force was sufficient to shatter the shield. Sanchez had a fourth spell right on its tail, and Harry was forced to dodge to the side. He ran to the right, staying just ahead of three more curses. But it was a trap. As Harry outran first three spells, he plunged directly into the path of the fourth. The Imperius Curse.
Harry felt himself slip into a blissful trance. Nothing mattered. He was free. He was floating through a dream world, every moment more peaceful and pleasing than the last. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he remembered something about Professor Moody and a man named Sanchez, but they were unimportant. All that mattered was the feeling, the nirvana that was life.
A random thought came floating through the mist. Come here, boy….
Harry's feet wanted to obey. Every fiber of his being aimed solely to please that voice. And yet, there was another voice floating in the mist.
'Why should I?' thought the other voice. 'What's in it for me?'
Harry felt the second voice beginning to win out, as it usually did whenever he was under the Imperius curse. But then, out of the mist, a third voice floated past.
'Well, why not?' it said. 'What harm could it do? Let's just see where this goes, shall we?'
Then all three voices were in agreement, and it was the most glorious feeling in the world. Harry walked slowly towards Sanchez, every step taking him closer to supreme bliss. Finally he reached Sanchez's side and stood next to him, gazing down at the battered, bloody figure of Alastor Moody.
Good man! said the first voice, sending a shiver of pleasure down Harry's spine. Well done. Now, raise your wand, nice and slow.
That gave the second voice some pause.
'Well…I guess so…' it finally said. Harry raised his wand.
Good, excellent, purred the first voice. Then its tone sharpened. Kill him!
Harry grinned savagely. 'Like hell!' he thought, and the spell was broken. He whirled and plunged his wand straight at Sanchez's heart. "Avada Kedavra!" he roared.
Time stood still. Every despicable emotion Harry had ever felt surfaced in that one instant: hate, fear, rage, greed, and despair all bubbled to the forefront of his mind. The feeling was horrendous and nauseating, but it was euphoric. It was the best and worst moment of Harry's life. He had never felt more alive, and yet he had never felt more soulless and dead. It was the stuff of nightmares and dreams rolled into one fantastic, terrible moment. No other feeling in the world could compare.
A blast of green light emanated from the tip of Harry's wand. There was no room for Sanchez to dodge; the tip of the wand was just inches from his torso. The green messenger of Death sailed straight into Sanchez's chest. And straight out the other side.
Where the spell should have impacted Sanchez, there was a gaping, bloody hole. The man stared down at his chest in shock, and then looked back up into Harry's eyes. Harry could see pain and terror written there, but he was horribly confused. Why wouldn't Sanchez die? What had gone wrong?
Sanchez fled. He whipped around and dashed back towards the Floo, and Harry was too shocked to try and stop him. Harry could see that the tunnel in Sanchez's chest extended out the other side of Sanchez's body, as if someone had run him through with an invisible spear. There was a huge scarlet stain on the back of his robes that was rapidly expanding. Sanchez pointed his wand at the fireplace, and Floo powder poured out of it, sending up a huge spout of green flames.
"Kn-Knockt-turn Alley," he sputtered, before falling awkwardly into the flames and spinning away. Thus it was that Antonio Ramirez Sanchez lost his first fight in nearly seventy years.
Harry stared at the grate, stunned. His mind had yet to come to terms with what had happened. 'Foucan,' Sanchez, the fight, the Imperius Curse, the Killing Curse, everything was just a blur in his brain. He looked dumbly down at his wand. Just moments ago, it had been bathed in green light as he had attempted to kill Sanchez. The feeling of casting the curse returned in a rush, but it was just a pale memory that could never hope to capture the exhilaration. Suddenly, Harry felt overwhelmed by nausea, and he vomited. He held his head in his hands, mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted.
He felt a strong hand firmly patting his back, and he looked up into the scarred visage of Alastor Moody. Moody was using a different wand to heal the wounds that Sanchez had reopened. With one spell he would stop the bleeding, and with another he would sew the flesh back together. When he saw the old man standing and using magic after his ordeal, Harry completely forgot about his own worries.
"Sir, are you all right?" he asked concernedly. "Shouldn't you be resting after that? Sanchez nearly killed you!"
Moody just shook his head. "Nah, it wasn't so bad. I've lived through worse. You should be worrying about yourself, Potter. It's not every day that a man casts his first Killing Curse."
Harry was silent. The topic was still too raw to discuss comfortably.
Moody finished healing his wounds, and with a muttered "Reparo," he fixed his wooden leg. Moody walked over to Harry and examined Harry critically with his magical eye. "You've got five broken ribs, Potter," he said bluntly. "You better heal those, and fast. Remember, the more time that passes between an injury and the healing spell, the more difficult the spell becomes."
Harry nodded. It was one of the first things Moody had taught him when he began learning healing spells. Harry lay down on his stomach and pointed his wand at his back. Corpus Resarcio, he said mentally, and he felt one of his bones pop back into alignment. The spell was painful, but not excruciating. He repeated the process four more times, and then his body was right as rain. He cast a quick cleaning spell to remove the blood and bile that was left over from the duel, and then he sat up, leaning back against the wall. After a moment, Moody walked over and sat down beside him. The two of them stared idly out of the enchanted window, which still showed London as peaceful as ever. Harry broke the silence first.
"Should we be moving, sir? Will Sanchez be back?"
Moody shook his head in dissent. "No, I doubt it. If we're lucky, he may be dead. But even if he survived, he won't be recovering from that wound for a long time. Don't look so down, boy, you did a good thing today! You came closer to killing Sanchez than anyone I've ever known."
Harry turned his gaze to his old mentor. "What the hell happened, sir? Why didn't the killing curse work properly? And how are you fixed so soon? I thought you were dying for a moment there." Harry's voice broke as he said the last sentence. Every time he thought of Moody rolling around on the floor begging for help, he remembered the same desperate plea escaping Dumbledore's lips. Severus…please…
"Antonio's one fast bugger, isn't he?" said Moody with a humorless chuckle. "They say the first thing you notice about Sanchez is his speed. The second thing you notice is that you're dead. But he's also a genius in his own way. I never would have thought to evade the curse by committing suicide."
"What?" said Harry. "He killed himself? But he was still alive!"
"Not for long though," Moody pointed out. "You saw what he did. He cut a hole in himself to avoid the unblockable curse. Went in one side and out the other. What an idea! He must have been saving that one up for years, waiting for someone to try to kill him. There's no way he thought that up on the spot."
Finally, Harry understood. The Killing Curse had worked. It took a phenomenal feat of magic by Sanchez to cheat certain death. "How could he survive after cutting a hole in himself? That looked like it drilled a huge chunk of his heart out."
Moody looked at him strangely. "Magic, how else?" Harry snorted, so Moody continued. "Seriously, Potter, I'm not taking the mickey out of you. If you have enough control over your magic, you can use it to keep yourself alive even after your vitals have given up. I'll be showing you how to do that, to some extent."
Harry looked at him incredulously. "You'll teach me how to do that?"
"Well, I'll show you how to get started. Of all the things I have to teach you, it's the most important, but it's also the most self-taught. It takes time and practice, and that's about it. You'll be learning how to feel and control your magic, without crutches like wands and spells. It's magic at it's deepest and most basic."
Harry sat enthralled. "When will we start?"
"As soon as we start training again. I was keeping a pretty good eye on you today, and you're too slow. Your technique is pretty solid, but you're just not fast enough to keep up. You take a look at any of the greatest fighters in the world: Sanchez, Voldemort, Dumbledore, Shen Zhang, Robards, or the Black Mamba. You'll find that they all have one thing in common. They're all inhumanly fast. And that's not because their bodies are in good shape, but because they know how to control their magic and use it to boost their bodies' speed and strength. I need to teach you that if you're going to stand a chance in your next battle."
"Is that why you've had me run all the time?" asked Harry, finally understanding Moody's purpose.
"Right, so you'll have a baseline from which to work. You'll learn to stop using your muscular strength and stamina and start relying more on your magic."
Harry nodded. "What about my other question? How did you recover so quickly? Sanchez nearly killed you!"
Moody closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. After about five seconds of silence, he muttered, "I was faking it."
"What?" asked Harry with disbelief. "How could you possibly fake being tortured to death?"
"By screaming at blows that don't hurt and shrieking in agony at the tiniest scratch." He snorted at Harry's astonished look. "It's called playing dead, Potter. Get the bad guy to think he's killed you, and then when he turns his back, you get him good. By the way, that's a good reason to always have at least one spare wand on you," he added, gesturing with the wand he was currently holding. The shattered pieces of his old wand still lay on the ground.
Harry was still looking at Moody in shock, so the old man continued. "Stoicism gets you nowhere when you're being tortured, Potter. It sounds heroic on paper, but if you try it in real life, the bad guys will just torture you worse. What you want to do is go to the other extreme. Scream, cry, beg, piss your pants, do whatever it takes to make your would-be killer think he's got you broken. Dignity's worthless in the real world. You want him to worry that he's torturing you too hard, not that he's going too easy on you. Eventually, your enemy will be disgusted at your lack of courage. He'll start to underestimate you and start to drop his guard. That's when you go for the jugular."
"And that works?"
Moody nodded. "Most of the time. If you hadn't performed so well, I reckon I might have got him eventually. Antonio went crazy at the end there, he wasn't thinking clearly. I was just waiting for the best possible moment to strike."
Harry furrowed his brow. "What did happen at the end of the duel? Sanchez just went…berserk, really. Why was he shouting about you being friends in some war?"
"Because he's a couple cards short of a full deck, if you know what I mean," said Moody, tapping his head with a finger. "Not all there. He and I were never great friends. We fought in the same regiment in the Great War, or World War I as the Muggles call it now. At that time it was common for aspiring wizarding fighters to take part in Muggle wars, in order to hone their skills for combat. The two of us served under the very British Corporal Basil Fotherington. You know the type: waxed moustache, very formal. 'Chin up, chest out, stiff upper lip, wot?'
"Sanchez is Argentinian, of course, so he had to pretend to be a British soldier to fight. He was the most stereotypical Brit you've ever laid eyes on, and I think a lot of the Privates saw right through him. But Fotherington just ate it up. We were the only two wizards in the unit, so we bonded slightly, but we never met up after the war. To this day, Sanchez insists that we were close friends, comrades bonded by hardship and danger and whatnot. I think he's never had a real friend, so he thinks that our relationship is friendship. Like I said, not quite right in the head. None of Voldemort's men are, really. No sane man would do what they do."
Moody heaved a long sigh, and then climbed stiffly to his feet. Harry followed suit, and watched as Moody walked slowly over to the fireplace. "Well, shall we be going?" Moody asked.
"Where to?" asked Harry curiously. "Your place?"
"Merlin's beard, no," said Moody with surprise. "We've got to go back to the wedding. Your friends'll probably be in a right state by now, wondering what's happened to you."
Harry blanched. He could see Hermione and Ron in his mind's eye. Ron would be pacing, nervously proclaiming that Harry could handle himself all right and would probably be back in no time. Hermione would be sitting down, biting her nails, and probably crying. Just the thought of Hermione crying over him left a foul taste in Harry's mouth. He hated it when girls cried. It made him feel so helpless.
Moody tossed a pinch of ordinary Floo powder into the fireplace. "Chateau Delacour!" he enunciated into the bright green flames. However, before he could step through, Harry grabbed his arm.
"Professor," said Harry haltingly, "can I ask you one more question?"
"Sure."
"What does it feel like when you cast the Killing Curse?"
Moody paused, looking searchingly into Harry's eyes. For a long time, he gave no response. Just when Harry thought that Moody wasn't going to answer him at all, the old man opened his mouth. "Why don't you tell me what it feels like when you cast the curse?"
Harry was momentarily stymied. He didn't want to admit what he felt while he cast the curse until he knew whether his feelings were normal or not. But Moody didn't look like he was going to budge. Reluctantly, Harry started to describe the sensation.
"It was terrible. I felt every emotion I hate feeling. I was full of hatred, despair, savagery, and violence. I could see memories. Memories of watching Cedric die, memories of torturing Lestrange, and all of the other memories that I see in my nightmares. It felt like a Dementor was standing at one shoulder and Voldemort was on my other side. It was awful. But at the same time…"
Moody nodded sagely. "You enjoyed it."
Harry nodded, ashamed of himself as he did so. "Yeah. What kind of person am I, that I enjoyed casting the Killing Curse? I'll understand if you don't want to train me any more, sir."
Moody let out a barking laugh. "If only I had a Knut every time I heard that from an Auror recruit…. You've got nothing to be ashamed of, Potter. Everyone else feels the exact same thing. Even me."
Harry shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I didn't just enjoy it, I loved it. I couldn't get enough of the feeling. I just wanted more."
"Don't argue with me, Potter," growled Moody, but his face wasn't unkind. "If I tell you everyone feels the same way, then everyone feels the same way. If anyone ever tells you that there's nothing to enjoy about killing, then they haven't killed. It's a great feeling. Murder is one of the most enjoyable things that I've ever done, and at the same time, it's one of the most appalling. The important thing to remember is that no matter how good it feels, killing is a sin. It's an evil act. Don't do it."
"But if it's evil, then why were you so willing to kill Sanchez?"
"So that you wouldn't have to, Potter," said Moody with a sigh. "That's the sacrifice we Aurors make. I'm almost certainly going to hell for all of the terrible things I've done in my life. But I maintain that everything I did was necessary, so that parents can let their kids play outside without fearing for their lives. People like Voldemort and Sanchez have to be stopped for everyone's sake. And if the only way to stop them is by killing them, so be it."
Harry paused for a moment, thinking of what to say next. "Do you really believe that killing Voldemort would be evil?"
"It's a necessary evil," said Moody at once. "But maybe I'm wrong. I'm just an Auror, not a philosopher. All I know is that the only way I've managed to avoid walking the way of Voldemort and Grindelwald is by remembering that killing is in fact evil, and should be avoided as much as possible. I would suggest that you keep it in mind, too. Now, enough talk. We really have to get back to the wedding. Chateau Delacour!"
Moody stepped into the bright green flames, and after a moment, Harry followed.
ooooo
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"I told Aberforth to keep your friends here," said Moody grimly, kicking idly at the sand. They were standing on the beach very near where Harry had been kidnapped, but there was no sign of Harry's friends or the old barman. "They obviously Apparated, because there aren't any footprints leading away from this spot. But the trail is too cold, I can't trace their magic."
"Maybe they went to the Hog's Head, sir," suggested Harry. "Aberforth Dumbledore owns the place, doesn't he?"
"Good thinking, Potter," said Moody. "Grab my arm and we'll see if we can't find them."
Moments later, Harry and Moody popped into being outside the Hog's Head. The village of Hogsmeade looked almost entirely deserted. There wasn't a soul on the street, and Harry couldn't hear any noise coming from the usually busy Three Broomsticks. Harry realized that the residents were probably scared to leave their homes in the wake of Dumbledore's death. After all, as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Dumbledore had probably been a fixture in the town for forty years.
Moody walked up to the entrance of pub. There was huge faded "Closed" sign nailed over the front door, and the grimy windows were shut with the blinds drawn. Undeterred, Moody rapped his knuckles sharply on the sign.
"Open up, Aberforth," he called. "It's me."
For a minute, nothing happened. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught a glimpse of movement. He turned just in time to see one of the blinds fall back into place. He breathed a sigh of relief. Aberforth and his friends must be here.
The door opened, and Aberforth stuck his head out. "Come in, quickly," he hissed. "We don't want everyone in Hogsmeade knowing that Harry Potter's in town. We'll be swarmed."
Moody and Harry stepped hastily over the threshold, and Aberforth shut the door with an audible snap. Even before the door was closed, Harry saw Ron and Hermione barreling towards him. A huge grin split his face, and he rushed over to hug them.
"Harry!" shouted Hermione gleefully, crushing his ribs as she hugged him close. "Oh my God, we were so worried! It all happened so fast, and then Moody was shouting instructions, and Aberforth grabbed us and took us here. It was terrifying! But I'm so glad you're safe," she added, giving him an extra squeeze. "Are you all right?"
Harry grinned, basking in the feeling of having his friends around him once more. "Yeah, I'm fine. It was pretty touch-and-go for a minute there, though." They sat down in the rickety wooden chairs of the Hog's Head, and Harry related the events that had happened to him in the past half hour. Ron and Hermione sat listening raptly, and when he was finished, Ron leaned back in his chair and gave a low whistle.
"I thought you were a goner for a moment there, mate," he said seriously. "Moody just shouted, 'Stay here and tell no one!' and then he was gone. I was pretty sure that he wasn't going to be able to find you."
Harry paused at that. He glanced over at Moody, who was talking to Aberforth in a low voice. Both men were sipping a translucent orange liquid that gave off a fiery glow when touched by a ray of light. "Professor," he asked Moody, "how did you find me after Sanchez Apparated away?"
"What's that?" said Moody, momentarily turning away from his conversation with Aberforth. "How did I find you? All magic leaves traces, Potter, including Apparition. I used the traces of Sanchez's magic to find out where he had Apparated you. Mind you, those traces fade with time. We're talking seconds, not hours. If I hadn't been there just a second after you and Sanchez Apparated, he might have lost me."
"Lucky you were there then," said Ron, looking at the old Auror with newfound respect.
"Luck had nothing to do with it, boy," growled Moody. "It all comes down to constant vigilance. I was expecting someone to try something fishy at the wedding, to be honest. That's why I stuck to Potter like glue. With Potter and the entire Order of the Phoenix there, the wedding was just too big a target for Voldemort to miss. At the same time, the wedding was in France, and Voldemort's not stupid enough to launch a major attack outside of Britain. He doesn't want an international war. He made that mistake the last time around. This time he wants us isolated, so he can take control of Britain before looking abroad."
"But sir," said Harry, "if you were expecting something, how did Sanchez get past your defenses?"
"He outsmarted me," said Moody bitterly. "Jacques Foucan was the one person at that party that I completely trusted. I've known him for years, and he's about as good as Aurors get. Sanchez must have killed the real Foucan and used Polyjuice to replace him. But Sanchez knew that I would see right through him if he brought Polyjuice into the party. So instead, he must have taken his last sip just before we arrived and then vanished the potion. From then on, he had exactly one hour to kidnap you before he ran out of potion. He mistimed it, and he paid the price."
Harry nodded. "Do we still have to keep our training between the four of us, sir?" he asked, gesturing towards Ron and Hermione. "Sanchez said he was going to tell Voldemort about us, so does secrecy really matter any more?"
"Absolutely," grunted Moody. "There's no way Sanchez is going to tell Voldemort about you."
"Why wouldn't he?" asked Ron curiously.
"Because that would mean admitting that a sixteen-year-old boy defeated him in a duel," explained Moody. "Antonio's ego will never allow it. If I know him, he'll pretend that today never happened. And that's fine with me."
Aberforth, who had been silent throughout the conversation, suddenly stood up. "Harry," he asked, "do you wish to see what Albus bequeathed to you? The package is in the cellar, and it would probably be best if you went down there today, when my pub is closed."
"Sure," said Harry with some trepidation. The attack had pushed Dumbledore's will clean out of his mind, but now that Aberforth mentioned it, Harry supposed that he had to see his new possessions. He wasn't sure if he was ready for another reminder of the permanence of Dumbledore's death, but he had to face it sometime.
Aberforth walked into a back room behind the bar, and Harry, Hermione, and Ron followed. Moody stayed put, explaining that he had no desire to find out anything Albus didn't want him to know. Aberforth turned on the light with a wave of his wand, and Harry saw that they were in a narrow, decrepit wooden stairwell. The wood panels were mostly blackened, leading Harry to wonder if the place had been burnt at some point in its history. He could see dust and mold on the walls and ceiling, clear evidence that no one had been down this way in many years.
"No offense, sir," said Harry, "but why is everything in this pub so dirty?"
"None taken," laughed Aberforth. "It's meant to attract a certain type of clientele. People come here to have dealings on the shady side of the law. I come here to eavesdrop on people making dealings on the shady side of the law. Generally, if I overheard any information that concerned my brother, I would relay it to him using a rather clever secret Floo connection that we had. He would then decide whether to act on the information or not."
"So you and Professor Dumbledore used this place to spy on people?" asked Harry, hardly believing his ears.
"Essentially yes," affirmed Aberforth. "Ah, here we are. The cellar!"
With a flourish of his hand, Aberforth directed them into a tiny room. It was constructed from the same moldy, blackened wood as the stairwell. The light came from a dimly flickering lantern on a shelf in the corner. The room was entirely bare except for a medium-sized wooden trunk in the center. The latches on the trunk were sculpted in the shape of golden bumblebees.
"There it is," said Aberforth with a gesture. "Everything Albus left to you is in the trunk. I'll just pop up back to the bar and have a delightful talk with Alastor. I'll leave you kids to satisfy your curiosity." With that, Aberforth turned around and clumped back up the stairs, leaving the three teens alone with Professor Dumbledore's gift to Harry.
All three stared at the trunk. For a moment, nobody moved or said anything. The silence was broken by an enormous sneeze from Ron.
"Sorry, it's dusty," he muttered, and Harry and Hermione chuckled. The tension in the room was broken, and Hermione bent down to undo the latches on the trunk.
"Ouch!" she said, jerking her hand back as though she had been shocked. "The bee just stung me!"
It was true. Harry could see that the bee's stinger was still quivering, as though daring anyone else to try and open the trunk.
"It must be because the trunk's for me," said Harry, as Hermione sucked on her finger. "I'm the one who has to open it." Sure enough, when Harry bent down, the latches opened with no resistance. And inside the trunk…
"It's just a bunch of parchment!" said Ron incredulously. "What's the use in that?"
Harry bent down to give the trunk a closer examination. He dug through the parchment, trying to find any hidden items or trick doors. He didn't have any success. It appeared that the only contents of the trunk were a bunch of pieces of parchment. Harry sat back with a sigh, idly picking up a piece. It was simply a list of random, meaningless words and phrases.
"Can I see that, Harry?" asked Hermione with a shrewd look on her face. Harry wordlessly handed the parchment to her. He felt a deep sense of disappointment. Dumbledore had simply left him a gag gift, the same as he had done to Moody.
"Specialis Revelio!" said Hermione, and the piece of parchment suddenly glowed a bright, electric blue. Harry and Ron stared at the parchment, amazed. Hermione had a satisfied look on her face.
"I thought so," she said excitedly. "The parchment's been enchanted to look worthless. You probably need a password to see what the real message is."
"Well, Dumbledore always uses candy for passwords," Ron pointed out. "What's Dumbledore's favorite candy?"
Harry reached out and took the parchment from Hermione's grasp. He laid his wand on top of it and firmly said, "Lemon Drop!"
Immediately, the letters began to rearrange themselves into recognizable words. As soon as Harry understood the title, he gasped. Curious, Hermione looked over his shoulder at the parchment and immediately started hyperventilating.
"Harry, do you know what this is?" she squealed excitedly. "These are the notes of one of the greatest magical researchers of all time! Oh, I knew Dumbledore would have left you something worthwhile. This is…it's just unbelievable!"
"Hang on, Dumbledore left you research notes?" asked Ron, coming to stand on Harry's other side. "That's great, but how is that going to help with, you know, the Horcruxes?"
"These aren't just research notes," said Harry, almost as amazed as Hermione. "These are all of the notes Dumbledore took while hunting down the Horcruxes. Look at this sheet, for instance. It's a list of all of the places where Dumbledore thought a Horcrux might be hidden. And look! See here, where it says 'Gaunt Residence'? There's a little note that says 'See page 27 for a full account.' This chest is going to make our search for the Horcruxes so much easier."
Hermione was already pulling other pieces of parchment out of the trunk, pure enthusiasm lighting up her face. However, Harry felt that he had to speak up.
"Hermione, stop for a moment," he said. Reluctantly, she put the parchment in her hands back into the trunk and turned around. Harry continued. "I don't think this is the right place for this. We need a lot of time to ourselves to really go over these notes in detail. I don't want to rush this, and I really don't want to lose anything in the basement of the Hog's Head."
Hermione nodded, and the three of them reverently placed the pieces of parchment back into the trunk. Harry closed the lid, mentally apologizing to Professor Dumbledore for doubting that he would give Harry something useful. He picked up the trunk, amazed at how light it felt. Another good thing about receiving parchment was that it weighed practically nothing. He was about to head back up the stairs, when Ron slapped his forehead.
"What is it, Ron?" Harry asked curiously.
"I forgot all about it," he said excitedly. "I really wanted to tell you at the wedding, but first Moody was with you, and then Aberforth showed up…"
"Alright," said Harry with a laugh. "I get it, you really wanted to tell me something. Be my guest."
"Harry," declared Ron with an overly dramatic pause. "I know who R.A.B. is."
Harry dropped the trunk in surprise. Even Hermione looked startled. But then, in Harry's mind, the pieces started to click together. He remembered the man he had been reading about earlier that day. Regulus Arcturus Black. R.A.B. It fit perfectly. As a Death Eater, he knew the Dark Lord personally. He came from a family steeped in the Dark Arts, so he could have known about Horcruxes. Regulus had been personally murdered by Lord Voldemort, just like R.A.B.
Harry looked Ron dead in the eyes. "So do I."
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A/N:
That's another chapter dealt with. I loved writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. This time, I'm posting it on a Thursday night. Last time I posted it on Saturday afternoon, and about four hours later the story was already on page two of 20,000 words. Hopefully it'll stay up a bit longer this time.
As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed: japanese-jew, Lord Purity, Shadow Lighthawk, darksentinant, Estel A Duath, 10dedfish, Lord Nott, and HP55. You guys rule.
Something funny I've noticed: a lot of Lords tend to like this story. Lord Purity, Lord Grindelwald, and Lord Nott. Here's hoping that more Lords come and join the party.
Nobody asked about this, but I thought I'll say it anyways. The character of Antonio Ramirez Sanchez is based loosely on a real person: Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, aka Carlos the Jackal. By 'based,' I mean that they are both South American assassins/terrorists. Basically, I just liked the name.
I don't dislike Harry/Ginny in particular, but I dislike Harry Potter romance in general. Practically every relationship seems to be dysfunctional, and I don't particularly like any of the pairings. I haven't read very much fanfiction, but I don't really like any of the romance there, either. In my opinion, the only way to write a good romance in the Harry Potter world is to take the characters and completely change their personalities so that they're compatible. Either that or just create new characters. Neither of these options makes for a particularly appealing story, in my opinion.
Finally, I just want to give you a quick idea of where I'm going with this story. There will probably be two or three more chapters before we move onto a new story arc. Harry will move from full time training mode into Horcrux hunting mode. That's where we'll get into the real story (that's where the Fatal Deception is, for instance), and that will probably be two-thirds of the story. I hope to finish before Deathly Hallows comes out. I may be off by a few weeks, but hopefully you guys will stick with me.
Oh wait, there's one more thing. If you like this story (which if you've read up to chapter six, you probably do), there's another story out there that simply destroys this one. It's called "The Phoenix and the Serpent" by Sanction, and it's unbelievably good. Those of you who like my Moody will love her Moody and his companion, Daniel Oaks. Her fight scenes are phenomenal, and she's amazingly creative with both characters and plot lines. The only thing to keep in mind is that it was written after Book 4 came out. That means that it's a little outdated, but in my opinion that actually makes it better. You can see the story in my Favorites, or you can just search for it.
Seriously, check it out. I promise you will be amazed.