Chapter nine: Orellana's cradle

It took some time to discover the location of the cemetery Neville had drawn. However, through a string of informants, sweetened by money, it was discovered that Neville had drawn a fair representation of Chauchilla cemetery.

The cemetery was far beyond the outskirts of town, built into an eroding hillside, hundreds of feet above the desert plain. It took nearly an hour to navigate the narrow trail of steep switchbacks to reach the cemetery gate. From hear, the Nazca lines were visible, spread out on the plateau below.

James wasn't afraid of heights, but he was still nervous, standing there beside the ten-foot tall chain link fence marking the entrance to the cemetery. A few yards away the ground fell away, nothing but empty air for fifty feet. It didn't help in the slightest that the ground seemed to shift beneath his feet with every step, unstable. The air was cooler up here, and, though the deepest part of the night, the moon shown down brightly, revealing a sign on the fence, covered with bold Spanish writing.

"It says, 'trespassers will be killed'," said Harry, in explanation.

"Good thing we aren't trespassers," said James, sarcastically.

"That's the spirit," Harry answered, half mindedly.

"Alahamorha!"

The gate slid open, the chain binding it closed clattered to the ground. Harry, sensing no danger, magical or otherwise, stepped over the threshold. Holding his wand out in a ready position, he walked into the cemetery. James followed him without hesitation, but Harry could sense the boys fear.

The cemetery was built on more than one level, shelves carved out of the rock. The graves were a mix of all time periods and cultures. There was everything from stately stone mausoleums, plain gravestones, and unadorned crosses of rotting wood. The cemetery had certainly fallen into disrepair, however. There were empty pits, where graves had once been. Shattered coffins and discarded remains were strewn about. They certainly had not been the first trespassers.

"This place has got to be hundreds of years old," Harry murmered, examining a lonely fragment of gravestone.

"Perfect timing for Orellana than," said James. "Now we just have to find out which one is him."

"Yeah, real easy," Harry said.

They walked in silence for a moment. "These people," said Harry gesturing about at the graves, both desecrated and untouched, "These are locals. Only a few hundred years old. The Conquistador would be elsewhere. I'm thinking underground."

James looked back, toward the entrance. He thought he saw movement, something flickering for a brief second, movement in the shadows. "There's something in here," he whispered.

"The living dead," Harry groaned, As James moved closer to him, aiming his wand wildly into the shadows. A jet of orange light burst flew through the air from an unknown source, impacted the ground just in front of them, and exploded in a geyser of silt and rock. Harry was thrown from his feet, but rolled into a crouch, suddenly alert.

James stumbled away from the blast, tripping, but getting back to his feet. He heard a faint rattle behind him, and turned quickly. A second spell hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He was hurled back, and fell against a wooden coffin.

The coffin exploded outward, and a blow hit James in the jaw. As James fell back again, holding a fist to his bloody lip, he got his first real look at his attacker, crawling from the wreckage of the coffin.

It was a man. Short, and sinewy, with the same dark skin as the locals. He wore brown trousers, and no shirt, and he was covered with bones. The front of a human skull was fastened over his face, hiding it, dark eyes, peering from dead sockets. More bones were strapped to his arms, almost like a sick take on body armor. White body pain was smeared in lines across his chest, suggesting ribs. It was very much alive. And worse, the man, whoever he was, held a wand in his left hand.

A stream of energy shot over James shoulder and hit the man in the face. The skull mask shattered, the man screamed, and darted away, swallowed up by the darkness. James felt a strong hand on his shoulder. "All right?" asked Harry.

"No," James shouted. "That thing was not dead."

"I know, we're just lucky, I guess."

Harry and James stood, back to back, searching for some sign of movement in the darkness.

"How many are there?" James asked breathlessly.

"Two," Harry answered. "I think. One for each of us."

Another spell flew out of the darkness, but Harry deflected it, and it fell in a splash of sparks against a sealed mausoleum, blackening the weathered stone.

"Stay here,' Harry whispered, and he was gone, slipped away into the darkness. James breathing was ragged, panting; he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He spun, seeking out every little sound. Each one seemed to be another of their attackers, seeking him out. He saw flash of light, on the other side of the graveyard. Spells exchanged, his father.

The spell hit James in the back. He was lifted of his feet by the impact, his wand flying from his grip, and fell, tumbling down six feet into an open grave. The coffin waiting at the bottom splintered under his weight. James found himself eye to eye with a real skeleton, decorated by the remnants of flesh, long since rotted away. The stench of death filled his nostrils, and he screamed.

James twisted around. A man decorated in bones, seemed to drop from the sky, into the grave. He was wandless, most likely thanks to Harry, and without a skull to cover his face; the one Harry had attacked earlier. But in his grip was a short, handmade knife.

The man slashed out, James twisted away, but there was little room to maneuver in the grave, and the knife cut into his shoulder. He screamed again, this time in pain. He kicked out, catching the man in the chest, slamming him back into the side of the grave. The soft ground shifted, dirt pouring into the pit on top of them.

The man feinted with his knife, and made to move in on the left, but James was ready this time. He seized the first weapon he could find, a long leg bone from the newly uncovered corpse, and swung it with all his might. It cracked across the man's head, and he fell back, unmoving.

James scrambled out of the pit, as the man beneath him began to stir. He found himself facing the other bone-adorned man. He stood twenty feet away, too far for James to reach without a wand, and pointed his own wand directly at James head. Beneath an empty jaw, the man's lips parted.

"Ava-"

The rest of the killing curse was cut off, as a silver orb formed around the man. There was flash of green light, and as the specialized shield charm disappeared the man was limp on the ground, dead by his own curse.

Harry strode out of the darkness, defiant look on his face, wand in hand, clothing torn and dirty but without a scratch on him.

Behind James, the first attacker vaulted out of the whole, ready to resume their battle, only to find himself facing Harry Potter, wand out in front of him, leveled unfalteringly at the man's chest.

Harry and the man locked eyes. It took only a few seconds, but the exchange between them without words seemed to draw on for far longer. Then, without a word, the man turned and scampered away into the darkness.

Harry sighed, long and drawn out, and his wand fell to his side. "I'm getting to old for this," he said quietly.

"That was incredible," James said. "Can all Aurors do that, I mean, you saved my life, and…" he glanced at the dead warrior, splayed out on the ground where he had fallen. While in a very unorthodox manner, and to save his son's life, Harry had killed him.

Harry gave him a humorless smile. "Well, I am the chosen one."