Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

– CHAPTER FOURTEEN –

The Immortal

'Do you think he's coming, Hermione?'

Her response is to tighten her grip on my hand. We are in perhaps the busiest soukh in Sana'a, and with it the familiar attack on my senses. There is the gold of the sand, the green of vegetables and the rainbow array of bhurkas. Stall keepers lounge back in their make-shift stools with their bare feet by their wares and a rabbit-like pouch of khat bulging in one cheek.

Chaotic beeping from the nearby road threatens to drown the calls of the market traders. They are particularly enthralled by Hermione who, despite her black bhurkha, is clearly an attractive, moneyed European.

'Real gold! Beautiful! Real gold!' cries a small boy barely tall enough to peak over the counter. His slug-like father leers at us from his near-horizontal position.

We slip in and out of the milling tourists. Not too quickly that any watchers would be alarmed, but not so slowly that one of the market boys could ensnare us.

The instructions Hermione received from her Yemeni contact were brief: Soukh Medina, 5pm, I will find you.

It is 5.07pm.

I spot a small alley through a crevice between two market stalls. It is a cesspit of filth, but, more importantly, is a haven from the angry beating of the sun. I discreetly Scourgify its entrance and lead Hermione there.

'Charming,' says Hermione, screwing up her nose.

'You prefer to be out there?'

Before Hermione can retort, a hand reaches out of thin air and grabs her arse. Hermione jumps a foot in the air. I grab the offending arm and twist; there is a satisfying crunch.

I cancel the attacker's invisibility charm and have my wand pointing at the throat of a man, a local by the look of him. He does not look afraid. This is new.

'Harry, let him go,' says Hermione, before proceeding to fix the stranger's wrist.

I stare at the man for long seconds. He has dark, clever features: hooded eyes, a pointed face and a sharp goatee. Rather than the white, robe-like thoob the local men wear, he is garbed in deep purple wizard's robes.

'You're Mustafa,' I say. He nods, his eyes on my wand. I realise I have used the Elder. Stupid. I remove it from his throat.

Mustafa visibly relaxes, and his fox-like face curves into a smile. 'Many apologies, Harry Potter, I did not mean to be so familiar with your amour.' He extends his hand.

'Announce my name to the whole street, why don't you,' I snap. Mustafa's Cheshire Cat grin falters and he drops his outstretched hand.

'Don't mind him,' says Hermione, coming between us. She offers her hand instead, which Mustafa takes delicately, familiarly. He plants a kiss without taking his eyes off Hermione, who reddens slightly.

'It is wonderful to see you again, my dear,' he says.

'Let's go,' I say.

Hermione shares a look with Mustafa that clearly says 'I told you so'. Mustafa merely flashes his wily grin and searches his robes. He pulls out a curved dagger similar to the ones the locals carry around.

'Either that's a Portkey, or this really isn't going to end well for you,' I say.

Mustafa laughs deeply and goes to slap me on the back. He catches himself before he touches me, thinking better of it.

'You did not tell me he was funny, Hermione,' he says.

Hermione shakes her head ruefully. 'Yes, he's a riot.'

Mustafa lays the dagger flat on his palm. 'You're quite right, of course, Harry Potter –'

'Just call him Harry,' interjects Hermione.

'This Portkey will take us to where we need to be.'

The dagger glows blue. With the usual tug on my navel, the alley disappears and we are sent whirling through space.

We land in a furnace.

The air ripples with currents of scorching heat. My skin feels as though it is melting. It is like nothing I have ever experienced; the beads of sweat that form on my face practically evaporate as soon as they form. How do people live here?

I look around, trying to establish where 'here' is. We are high up the side of a steep mountain, in an alcove exposed to the sun. That explains the heat. Far below is a vast valley which glitters with gleaming red sand. The blazing sun makes it impossible to make out much more.

'I should have said it will be hot,' says Mustafa, rather redundantly.

He begins to trace his newly-healed hand along the walls of the alcove, muttering in Arabic. My very basic grasp of the language tells me he is activating some sort of tracking charm, though not one I recognise.

I cast a Cooling Charm on the area and step out into the narrow dirt road. The road winds around the mountain, upwards towards its flat peak many miles above. The valley is surrounded by vast red mountains identical to the one we are on. In the distance, I can see vans careering around the winding roads at break-neck speed.

'Mental,' mutters Hermione from behind me.

She has relieved herself of her Bhurkha in favour of summer robes. She grips the walls of the alcove like a baby to its blanket. I forgot she is afraid of heights.

Mustafa, who has finished his examination, puts his arm around her reassuringly. 'We are quite safe,' he mutters.

Rather than shake him off, as I expect her to, Hermione involuntarily leans into him and nods.

'What's the plan?' I say, swatting away a mosquito. The Cooling Charm is beginning to attract the local wildlife.

Mustafa betrays a flicker of annoyance before turning to me.

'As you know, Shakhs Khaled uses Muggle babies to experiment with.' A flash of primal anger crosses his face. 'The local villages have learned to bring a baby here, to this spot, once a month.'

'Disgusting,' says Hermione. She picks a spider out of her hair and tosses it off the side of the cliff.

'Unforgivable,' spits Mustafa.

'But why don't they fight back?'

'They did, Harry,' sighs Hermione.

'That is right, Hermione,' says Mustafa. 'My research tells me that, in the 1800s, Shakhs Khaled laid waste to a number of villages, leaving only the new-borns he needed for his experiments. The locals tried to fight back, but they were no match for such a wizard.

'After a series of attacks, Shakhs Khaled realised that he was going to run out of babies. He needed to keep the Muggles alive to produce more babies, you see.

'Not only that, but he did not want to alert the Ministry. Even with their Muggle-hating stance, our Ministry could not ignore Muggle-killings on that scale. It was genocide! They would face sanctions from the International Confederation of Wizards, or worse.

'So Shakhs Khaled sent a message to the remaining six villages. Twice a year, they would provide one boy or girl here, in this alcove, or face his wrath …'

'But I've been thinking about that,' says Hermione. Her face scrunches in that way it does when she has found a logical flaw. 'Surely this is a serious breach of the International Statute of Secrecy?'

Mustafa smiles, but there is no mirth in his face. 'It would be,' he says, 'if the local villagers believed it to be magic.'

'What else could it be?' I say.

'Perhaps the first villagers suspected magic, but that was two hundred years ago. They now believe Shakhs Khaled to be a vengeful prophet sent down by God. They have come to believe that their ancestors were in violation of the word of God and they have now been punished by Shakhs Khaled for the rest of time. "Shakhs Khaled" means "the immortal".'

'I still don't understand why the Ministry doesn't do something about it!' says Hermione.

Mustafa laughs hollowly. 'Shakhs Khaled is a wizard of prodigious skill, and the Yemeni Ministry is not so strong as the British Ministry. Many of my bosses believe that the lives of twelve Muggle infants a year is not worth the manhunt it would take to track him down and bring him to justice.'

'So why are you tracking him down in your spare time?' I ask.

Mustafa considers me carefully for a while before replying. 'I am a Muggle-born, like Hermione. I grew up in the village down there.' He points down at the valley, but it is too bright to make anything out. 'When I was a boy, my sister was chosen.'

'Chosen?'

'A culture has developed around Shakhs Khaled,' he says, his hands trembling fists. 'It is considered a great honour to sacrifice one's child to him thus bringing peace and prosperity to the village. My father was all too happy to give my sister up.' He seems to forget that we are here. He begins to pace furiously. 'How my mother begged for her life; how I begged. But no. In our culture, the father's word is law. I vowed that day that I would one day avenge her.'

For the first time, I sense a darkness in Mustafa. Perhaps Hermione does too, as she takes a step back. I study the man I had deemed to be an irritating necessity. Reading between the lines, I would bet my house of rubble that he has since murdered his father. He is clearly hell-bent on revenge. It must have driven him to become an Auror. But one question remains.

'Why have you waited this long to avenge her?' I ask. 'Why do you need us?'

Mustafa stops pacing and takes deep breaths. He appears to regret showing us his darker side.

'I am not so naïve as most,' he says slowly, carefully. 'These mountains are littered with the bones of Muggle-born wizards who have tried to beat him. I cannot kill him alone.'

Hermione's eyes narrow. 'You mean arrest him,' she says.

Mustafa's smile returns, though it is more wooden than winning. 'Of course, my dear. However, we must prepare ourselves for any eventuality.'

Hermione shoots me a look that clearly says 'we can't let him do it'. I completely agree. But not for the same reason. I cannot allow Mustafa, with his head full of steam, to kill Shakhs Khaled before he tells me what I need to know.

'Let's start tracking him,' I say.

Mustafa nods and lays his wand on his palm. He whispers in Arabic and the wand twists and turns like a compass. The tip eventually points up the dirt road, towards the peak.

'Great,' says Hermione.

'Just don't look down,' I suggest.

We make slow, tentative progress. This is partly due to the terrain; the rocky ground is uneven in parts, and in others so weathered that, without magic, we would have slipped back towards the alcove. Hermione is becoming increasingly jittery the further we climb. I try not to be impatient; after all, she has not been through the same training Mustafa and I have.

I let Mustafa deal with Hermione while I consider what I will ask Shakhs Khaled. I am so close to getting the answers I need. I can feel it.

From what Hermione has told me, Shakhs Khaled has been living alone in these mountains for at least two hundred years. He is likely to have lost all sanity. Luckily, I can speak his language.

But what to do with Mustafa and Hermione when we get there. They will be a hindrance, Mustafa especially.

Before I can contemplate a salient plan, we reach the peak. I cannot help but marvel at the view. The valley below is now barely visible below a thin layer of wispy clouds. The clouds form a spectral carpet, punctuated only by the red, jagged peaks of the mountains around us. It is unearthly.

'Wow,' whispers Hermione. Her voice pierces the air like an unwanted intruder.

I cancel my redundant Cooling Charm; the temperature has dropped dramatically. A brisk breeze carries colonies of clouds between our legs.

We are on a small plateau, no larger than a Quidditch pitch. The parts of the ground not covered by clouds are dead flat. The view is interrupted only by a shabby hut made of the same sandstone as the rest of the mountain. It is camouflaged so well that it is barely visible.

'Wands out,' I bark.

I cast a homenum revelio, but it returns nothing. Mustafa moves forward but I hold my arm out to stop him.

'I go in first,' I say. I will not have him ruining this.

I edge closer and cast charms to undo any booby traps Shakhs Khaled has cast. But the hut is oddly unprotected. He seems to rely on his reputation to keep intruders away. Foolish.

I prise the wooden door open. It is stiff, as though it has not been used I years. A blast of heat, sweat and human excrement rushes out to greet us. Hermione coughs behind me. I merely wrinkle my nose and proceed onwards.

Lumos, I think, and Shakhs Khaled's hovel is illuminated by my wand light.

The hut is not much larger than my old room at the Dursleys. Half of it is taken up by a battered mattress. It is covered by layer upon layer of yellowing stains such that it is impossible to tell what colour it had once been.

There is an old Victorian, metallic bathtub beside the mattress. It is missing two legs and leans precariously over where I presume Shakhs Khaled sleeps. But this is not what draws my attention. The tub is covered in blood. It is as though it has been applied by a child with a brush.

I lean in and touch some of the blood on the side of the tub, ignoring Hermione's cry of 'Harry, don't!' It is warm and viscous. Fresh.

I take a step further into the hut and realise that the floor is sticky. I look down. We are standing in a pool of blood: by the look of it, from the same source as in the tub.

'He is not here … we should go,' says Mustafa.

I am about to agree when I spot something on the mattress. A photo. I reach down and pick it up. A man and woman are standing, arm in arm, outside a straw hut. The man has dark features, not dissimilar to Mustafa, and shoots the camera wicked, mischievous grins. The black woman in his arms is staring at him adoringly, almost slavishly. They are clearly in love. I feel a pang of … something. Envy?

With a jolt, I realise Hermione is tugging at my arm.

'Let's go,' she says. She has seen the photo and, for some reason, looks more terrified than I have ever seen her.

I nod, drop the photo and we return outside. I breathe in a lungful of fresh air.

'I think we should go back to the city and – '

Mustafa and I cut her off with a unified, 'No.'

'The blood was fresh,' I say.

'And there are traces of very recent, dark magic,' says Mustafa. 'We should plan an ambu – '

'Avada Kedavra!'

It happens before any of us can react. A jet of green light pierces the clouds and strikes Mustafa square in the chest. The force of the spell blasts the Auror backwards, off the side of the cliff and out of sight.

'NO!' shrieks Hermione.

But there is another jet of green light, this time meant for Hermione. I react instinctively. The clouds around her solidify into a gleaming white cocoon. The spell hits it with a clang and both the curse and shield dissipate.

I dive behind the hut and summon Hermione towards me. A third Killing Curse rushes through the spot she occupied seconds before.

I steal a glance at Hermione. A stream of tears is running down her face, but she is otherwise unhurt.

I grab her wrist and force her to get down. 'Stay here,' I say. She was never an accomplished dueller; I can deal with our attacker easier if I do not have to worry about her safety.

I have my holly wand in my right hand, my Elder in the left.

Time to play.

I roll out from behind the hut and, as I do so, transfigure another white shield with my holly wand and, before the shield fully solidifies, send two speculative Stunners into the white mist.

Clang!

Another Killing Curse hits my shield and it shatters.

I look around, trying to find the attacker. But Shakhs Khaled is nowhere to be seen. Then I notice that the clouds are thicker than they had been when we first came to the plateau.

So that's his game.

I sense, rather than see, another curse heading my way. I drop to the ground with such force, a tremor of pain rushes up my spine.

In a flash, I am back on my feet.

I circle my holly above my head around and around like a great lasso. A tidal wave of gale-force wind rushes out in every direction. Clouds evaporate before it and reveal a stooped figure who is crouched on the opposite side of the hut.

He hesitates for a second. A second is all I need.

I jab my Elder at the wand in his hand. A jet of golden fire strikes it and it explodes in a shower of wood, smoke and gold. Satisfied, I stun him.

'It's safe to come out now,' I call to Hermione.

Hermione approaches slowly. She is looking at me as though seeing me for the first time.

'It's ok,' I say, nodding towards where Shakhs Khaled lies stunned, 'we got him.'

Hermione continues to stare, switching between me and the wand in my left hand. Tears continue to fall down her face unbidden.

'Harry,' she whispers. Her voice is strained. 'That spell … '

I examine her carefully. Does her shock come from seeing a spell that shatters wands, or does she know that 'Death' uses the spell on his so-called victims? I decide to say nothing.

She raises a trembling hand and points at my Elder Wand. 'No spell can do that,' she says.

I sigh. 'Hermione, what will it take for you to stop believing everything you read?'

She shakes her head. I notice that there is still a fair distance between us. She seems afraid to come any closer.

'No,' she says, 'this isn't like the Hallows. No spell can do that.'

'No spell is meant to repair wands either,' I say. 'But the Elder Wand managed to repair my holly wand, remember?'

'It's not the same …'

'What does it matt –'

'It matters because it's dark magic!' she says shrilly. 'Really dark magic. And the way you duelled …' She raises her wand at me. I do not move, but I am ready to strike. 'What does Harry Potter hear when a Dementor comes near him?'

'It's me, Hermione.'

'Answer the question!'

'I hear my mother begging Voldemort to spare me,' I say, edging closer to her.

She lowers her wand. 'I'm sorry, Harry, I had to check. But how … where did you learn this magic?'

The lie rolls off my tongue easily. 'Dumbledore. After the war, McGonagall gave me his personal journal. It has all these spells he invented, spells he reckons can only be performed with this wand.'

Hermione nods slowly, but she is still trembling. 'Let's get out of here, Harry. We have to find M – Mustafa's body.'

'We will,' I say. 'But first, I need to get to get the answers I came for.'

I ignore Hermione's remonstrations and take a small vial of Veritaserum from my cloak.

'Harry, is that –'

I silence her with a hand and approach Shakhs Khaled. I am met by perhaps the most grotesque sight I have ever come across. Shakhs Khaled has the look of an ancient ape. His closed eyes are sunken and set in black sockets. His parchment-like skin is deeply wrinkled; not only on his face, but also his bald head. He is more corpse than human.

But it is his robes that stop me in my tracks. Covering almost every inch of cloth are the severed heads of his victims. Some are skulls, long rotten. But closer to his heart they still have hair and rotting flesh. And, directly over his heart, is today's kill. A baby girl with black hair. The blood is still dripping from her neck and on to the thinning hair of a boy's head below her.

This is a different kind of evil.

Behind me, Hermione retches. I cannot blame her. Even I am repulsed.

Against the desire of every bone in my body, I move closer and tip his head back. He has only a few black teeth left. His breath reeks of blood. I pour three drops of Veritaserum down his throat.

'Rennervate.'

Shakhs Khaled opens his eyes.

'What is your name?' I say. I must test the efficacy of the Veritaserum with some preliminary questions.

Shakhs Khaled's eyelids flicker. 'Saleem Pasha.' His voice is a deep rumble.

'How did you come to be known as Shakhs Khaled?'

Shakhs Khaled takes a deep, shuddering breath then begins to speak. 'It all began with my darling wife's death.'

My eyes narrow. 'The woman in the photo?'

'Yes. Her father took me in. Trained me in the magical arts. He was a great wizard, well regarded in the community. But Yennenga … she was promised to another man. It was custom. She was meant for the Chief Warlock's son. But she fell in love with me, and I her.

'Knowing her father would never approve, we stole off into the night and eloped. We were happy for a time, but I always felt guilty. Her father saved my life, taught me everything I knew. I thought he would understand, if only we explained it to him. My darling Yennenga told me not to, but I told him. And he … he … '

Shakhs Khaled's head rolls back and his face is stricken with an ancient grief. He does not need to tell me that her father killed his wife.

'And you took your revenge?' I say, leaning in.

'Yes. I killed her father, the man she was promised to, and even the Chief Warlock himself. I destroyed the village with Fiendfyre. They had taken her from me. They did not deserve a clean death.'

'Harry,' says Hermione warningly, but I cut her off.

'So, having avenged her death, why did you do all this?' I gesture towards his abominable cloak.

'I had to return her to me. I could not live without her. I have seen magic do miraculous things; surely it could bring back the dead? I travelled the world looking for the answer. But everywhere I went was a dead end – wizards such as Nicolas Flamel had unlocked the secrets of prolonged life, but I could find no spell that can reawaken the dead.

'And then I heard tell of a legend; a stone so powerful it can bring loved ones back from the land of the dead.' My hand involuntarily goes to my pocket. 'After decades of searching, I found the stone in England. It was in the hands of a senile old woman who had set it into a ring. She had no idea of its power.

'I turned it three times, as legend says one must. And I could see my love, talk to her, even. But she was not returned to me. In that moment, I nearly took my life.'

'Did you find out how to bring her back?' I ask.

'Yes, in theory. After returning the useless stone to the old woman, I went deep into the Amazon rainforest and found a tribe whose elders live for hundreds of years. They worship their ancestors and, rumour had it, found a way to communicate with them.

'But they were a mistrustful people. Many wizards before me had tracked them down, hoping to unlock the secrets of long life. But they guarded these secrets jealously. I spent fifty long years in their company before they trusted me. Only those who are immune to death can venture into the land of the dead and bring back those who dwell there ...'

I stumble backwards, numb. Here it is. The answer I have been searching for. It is so simple, so elegant. I realise that Shakhs Khaled is still speaking.

'… and searched but I have not found a fool-proof way of immunising myself to death. Unicorn's blood, baby's souls, these are all temporary ….'

But I have the answer. Slughorn gave it to me at the tender age of sixteen. His voice comes to me unbidden.

'Well, you split your soul, you see … Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged …'

My mind goes back to the Battle of Hogwarts. The Horcrux inside me meant I could speak to Dumbledore. And if I could speak to him, what would have stopped me from bringing him back to life with me?

A jet of red light brings me back to the present: Hermione has Stunned Shakhs Khaled. She is staring aghast at me, fresh tears pouring down her face.

'I know what you're thinking, Harry.'

'I'm not thinking anything,' I say, but she has heard too much. I should have Stunned her.

'I'm not stupid. You – You can't. Think, Harry, think about it rationally.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'You can't make a Horcrux!' she screams.

I need to Obliviate her; it's the only way. 'It's not the same as Voldemort. I'm doing this for love.'

Hermione lets out something between a laugh and a sob. She is quite hysterical. 'No, Harry, it would be for yourself. Think, Harry. Could you really kill someone? An innocent person –'

'You think Shakhs Khaled is innocent?'

'You promised me, Harry!' she yells. 'You promised me you wouldn't hurt anyone!'

'Look –'

'She wouldn't want you to do it, Harry! For all her crazy ideas –'

'DON'T CALL HER CRAZY!'

Blood is ringing in my ears and I am breathing heavily.

'But she was Harry, and I know why. I didn't want to tell you like this, but I've been doing some digging –'

'Shut up.' A red mist of hot anger is clouding my vision but my voice is oddly calm.

'Listen to me, Harry, before you do something you regret. Luna –'

I utter an inarticulate yell of rage and slash my wand in her direction. Anything to stop the filthy lies pouring from her mouth. Blood spurts from her chest as though she has been cut with an invisible sword. She staggers backwards, her face contorted with pain and disbelief, and collapses with a dull thud.

She will not keep me from my Luna.

I Disapparate.