Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix and Fenraellis and to the crew at DLP for their critical comments.
CHAPTER 4
Unforgivable
Faucon rushes into the opulent study. “He failed, Chevalier. Le Survivant overcame poison and blade.”
“What of our assassin?” The elderly man sits up straighter in his high-backed, leather chair, the heavy tome on his lap forgotten.
“Slain. Remarkable, but the boy somehow survived actinus venom long enough to dispatch our man. When we recovered the body, the blood on the adept's hands wasn't his own, so we know he found his target. He was killed by a blasting curse to the head, based on the conditions we found the body. His deadman portkey recovered the body for us, but there wasn't much need--nothing remained above his shoulders to identify him by.”
“Whom did we lose, Faucon.”
“Michel Moreau-Dupuis.” The middle-aged man blinks away for a brief instant.
Chevalier peers at his former apprentice for a long time before coughing roughly and clearing his gravelly throat. “Very well. Send another, Faucon, but do not underestimate the boy. It is clear that le Voleur is training him quickly in our ways. His detection and dispatch of our adept shows that he should be approached as highly dangerous. Tell your assassin to expect he has absorbed visum sight, eukolos agility, and kikus strength.” The ancient warrior clears he throat again. “I know by my own means that he acquired re'em blood weeks ago, so kikus is a given--it's a simple rune, after all. Zue que feathers, and bakeneko saliva arrived at the school yesterday by courier, so we should expect magical focus glyphs next. We should have some months before the child progresses to that stage, though if he were to succeed, he would prove to be a much more difficult mark.
“So, none of the darker runes?”
“No.” Chevalier takes a sip of vin rouge and replaces his goblet on the small, circular table to the left of his chair. “From other intelligence I've received, we do not expect him to pursue that path. The boy is a fitting charge for le Vouler, a man I could respect, were circumstances different.” The elderly man folds his book closed and sets it aside. He stands and steps toward the window. Pale, spotted hands grasp the sill as he looks out over the Alpine range in the distance.
“Sir?” Faucon is surprised at hearing of Chevalier's reverence for his arch rival.
“You are dismissed, my peregrine.”
"Poppy, how's he doing?" The Headmaster strides into the infirmary, his lavender and canary yellow robes flaring behind him.
"Stable, though I don't think I've ever seen anyone so close to death who didn't need to be fitted for burial robes. Merlin, what's going on? Who could have done such a thing, Albus? And on the Hogwarts Express no less!”
"That's something I'd like to hear too, Albus." Remus has kept a vigil since Harry's arrival two days ago. The man's jacket, shabby grey tweed, is wrinkled from his having slept in it for two nights. He has two days' beard growth and a wild look about his face.
"I have my speculations on the matter, Remus, but this is neither the time nor place to voice them.” The werewolf growls subaudially. “When I know more, I assure you that I shall share my thoughts with you.”
Dear Fleur,
I apologize for not replying to your letter earlier. As you might have heard, I had a bit of an adventure on the Hogwarts Express the other day. I was attacked by an assassin who stabbed me twice with a poisoned dagger, but I managed to portkey to the hospital wing and after a two day lie-in I was no worse for wear, though I did add a couple scars to my collection....
I'm pretty sure I killed my attacker and I'm confused about how I really feel about it. It's strange being 14 and knowing I've killed two people (the other was my Defense teacher my first year, who had Voldemort in his head. I can tell you the story sometime if you're
interested). I don't feel like a killer, since it was self-defense both times, but I don't feel “clean” either, if that makes any sense. The thing I can't figure out is how anyone knew I was going to be on the train, since I only told a few people.
On a happier subject, did Gabrielle like her chocolate frogs? They are my favorite and I thought she'd appreciate them (though I hope your mum didn't give her too hard a time). Let her know that if she got an Agrippa card, I know someone who would pay her many Galleons for it!
For some reason, my friends don't seem close anymore. I told you about Ron, my best mate, but he is really cold now. It's like I did something to offend him, but I can't figure out what. My other best friend, Hermione, is dating Ron and she spends most of her time with him. More than anything, I miss having someone close to my age to talk to, someone like you. The past weeks, I've come to realize how much I miss spending time with you.
Tell me more about the Tri-Wizard tournament! I didn't make our opening feast, so I didn't hear what the Headmaster had to say about it. Are you really coming to Hogwarts in a month? I hope you're selected as a champion--if so, I know you'll be brilliant!
Take care of yourself, Fleur, and let me know if you want someone to help you with your preparation when you get to Hogwarts. I wouldn't mind being your sparring partner, provided you go easy on me. (Madame Pomfrey has warned me about staying out of her ward!)
I've asked Hedwig to stay with you while you write your reply, but if you're too busy, I understand. Feel free to send her on her way.
Your friend,
Harry
“Hey Fred, George.” Harry walks into the sixth year Gryffindor dormatory.
“Harry, to what do we owe the pleasure of your esteemed company?” George stands and offers a mock bow.
“I was wondering if you guys could help me with something.”
“You have your eye on some bird and don't know how to tell her?” Fred's eyebrows waggle. “You've come to the right place. We're nothing, if not suave and subtle.”
Harry snorts. “Right. No, it's about Ron.”
“You have your eye on Ron? Oh, Harry, I didn't know that you swing that way.” Fred flutters his eyelashes as he leans his head on Harry's shoulder and places his hand on Harry's abdomen, guiding it slowly southward.
“No, git!” He swats away Fred's hand. “It's that he acts like he hates me or something. He hasn't talked to me in weeks. I don't know what I did to make him so pissed at me and I just wondered if you guys knew something.”
“Well, you did turn down Dad's offer to attend the World Cup. Said you had 'more important' people to see,” George says, officiously, framing the inverted commas with his fingers.
Fred continues, seriously, “Dad and Mum were right put out, Harry, hearing that. Mum even cried for a spell.” Harry's heart sinks as he realizes why Molly and Arthur were so cool towards him at King's Cross several days ago.
“Took Dean instead, Ron did.”
“Oi, don't remind me...”
“Dean's floppy tongue in little Ginny's mouth....” Fred shivers.
“Scarred for life, I am, oh brother of mine,”
Harry blinks at the image and then blurts, “Wait! What do you mean, 'turned him down?' He never invited me! I showed up at the Burrow that night, thinking we'd all listen on the wireless as we'd planned, but nobody was home. I was sleeping on your couch, waiting for you when Pigwidgeon showed up.”
“Really?” George and Fred chorus, looking thoughtful.
“Why would I lie? The first I heard you had tickets was when Pig delivered Ron's and Hermione's letters the night of the game.... It sounded brilliant. I'd have said, 'yes' in a heartbeat, you know.” Though he's furious, his last words are barely audible.
“How odd. I think we need to have a family tête-à-tête with ickle Ronnikins and find out what's up. Don't you worry, Harry, we'll get to the bottom of this.”
“Thanks guys. By the way, what are you two doing up here all the time? I never see you down in the common room anymore.”
The twins look at each other, then turn to him, each clasping a hand on one of Harry's shoulders. “Harry, old man, we are looking for business partners....”
“So what is this I hear about Fleur and the lesser thief?” the tall, dark-haired man whispers to his fiancée's father. His robes, dark brown silk the exact hue of his eyes, are cinched at his waist in a modern fashion that accentuates long legs and an athletic build. He deports with privilege and feline grace, his long, wavy tresses tied in the fashion of pureblood gentry.
“Robért, the boy is quite taken with her since their first meeting some weeks ago. They have been exchanging letters.” Gerard Delacour swallows some champagne as he watches his radiant daughter charm a ministry official. He turns to Robért and notices the addition of ebony embroidery at the cuffs of his robes, the mark of a scion. Since the recent death of Robért's cousin, leadership of the Dupuis family was in flux. Not so anymore. “The boy is surprisingly resistant to her veela nature.”
“Interesting. I was not aware that there was a... technique to confer such resistance.”
The older man scowls slightly, impressing on his lesser a need for discretion. “There is none, not of that sort. Fleur tells me that he is a most remarkable boy, able to resist her from their first, yet decidedly heterosexual. It is a most impressive restraint, as I understand that he had never encountered veela before their meeting.”
“Indeed.” The two share a knowing glance as Fleur approaches, a picture of grace. She accepts a glass of white wine from a servitor as she arrives.
“Father, Robért,” she smiles, kissing each on the cheek, and then slipping her hand demurely around the elbow of the younger. She smiles slightly at her intended, playing the role expected of her.
“Fleur, my love,” Robért says, warmly. “We were just discussing le Survivant. I understand that you now write to him regularly?”
“Yes....” Her voice is cautious.
“Do not fret, I am not jealous,” his brown eyes gentle. “I merely wish to know more about the boy--he is famous, no? What kind of child is he?”
“He is hardly a child. I've learned much of him. He has had a difficult life, one that left him humble in spite of his fame. He is very brave--he has faced dementors, acromantula, dark wizards--he slew a twenty-meter basilisk with a sword...”
“My, a tiger in a kitten's body! Such tales--he must have a gift for storytelling,” he says, laughing condescendingly.
“I was skeptical too, my love, but I've corroborated his stories--if anything, he is being humble. It is a pity that Gabrielle is so young...” she sighs wistfully, then fixes her father with a stare, her voice picking up a slight edge, “Did you know, Father, that someone tried to assassinate Harry Potter some days ago?”
He holds her eyes for a moment and then nods slowly. “I am aware of that, ma petite,” he says, dryly.
“Yes. He barely survived, but he dispatched his attacker in a most... dramatic fashion.” She takes a large swallow of wine, an adequate white Bordeaux. Her fair cheeks flush spots of pink and she dons a pursed, slightly feral smile. “I do not believe that it is safe to underestimate Harry Potter.” She looks out across the parlor at the other elegantly dressed guests who are chatting amicably.
Gerard Delacour regards his daughter for a moment. “Fleur, I ask that you continue your acquaintance with this boy while you are in Scotland and befriend him if possible. Many of us wish to know more about him.”
“Yes, father,” she says, a coldness growing in the pit of her stomach.
Harry sits alone at breakfast, quiet in his thoughts. Since the incident on the train, few students speak to him. Judging by the words he overhears, it stems from most regarding him as dangerous to be around. Others are in shock at the way he handled his assailant, decapitating him, exploding his head, and leaving the remains plastered about the corridor of the Express. Hermione is furious that he won't join her new organization for house elf rights, of all things--even Harry, muggle-raised as he is, knows that this is ill advised. At least the Creevys are keeping their distance--thank Merlin for small miracles. He shrugs, mildly annoyed, remembering the ostracism of his first year after the dragon incident and his second, with the Chamber of Secrets.
He smiles as his snowy owl, Hedwig, arrives. He unfastens the letter she carries, which is written in a graceful script that he knows well, and he offers her a banger from his plate. He brings the letter, written on chiffon parchment, to his nose and closes his eyes, catching a faint whiff of salt air and his friend's perfume--whether she intends or not, it reminds Harry of southern France, of walks by the sea, of happiness. Glancing at his watch, he realizes that he doesn't have time to read it, so he stows it in his bag and rushes to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
Harry reaches the classroom just before the bell and he takes a seat adjacent to the back wall. The Slytherins and Gryffindors are already seated. Neville makes eye contact and gives him a small wave, which Harry returns with a nod. Today, the agenda is to continue tuition of the Unforgivable curses, each student being subjected to an Imperius cast by their psychotic ex-auror instructor, Mad Eye Moody.
Since he started being able to sense magical auras, Harry has been disturbed by what he sees in the professor. He notes peculiar magic, not unlike a glamour spell, surrounding the man's broken body and a charnel taint of darkness.
After a tedious lecture, including several comical entreaties of “Constant Vigilance,” the class take turns being placed under the Imperius curse. None come close to shaking off the curse, yet all, save Harry and Moody, laugh at the antics of their classmates while under the curse.
“Potter, you ready?” Harry nods. “Imperio.”
A warm sensation sweeps over Harry and he feels an urge to listen to the voice in his head that tells him to stand up onto the desk. He takes a step forward, then asks himself, “why?” The voice in his head asks him again, “Why?” as he takes a second step and grows louder, harder to ignore. “Why do this?” He bends his knees and gathers for a jump. “What point does it serve? Why should I listen to him?” The slack expression on his face fades and Harry stumbles into the desk, bruising his knees in the process. He stands up and grumbles, “I don't think I will, Professor. Why don't you stand on the desk?”
The class is completely silent.
Moody eyes him coldly for a moment, then laughs loudly. “Good work, Potter. You threw it off in the end--glad to see at least one of you snot-noses could.” His false eye looks Harry up and down. “You ready to take the kid gloves off, Boy, try one at full strength?”
“Do your worst,” he says, seething at the epithet.
“Imperio!”
This time a thick, red-pink bolt jets from Moody's wand and washes over Harry with a heady, intoxicating warmth. The command, to politely tell the professor that he is physically attractive, seems such a little thing to do, why not? The voice is seductive, beguiling... wrong. The faint questioning voice in Harry's head returns, “Wrong! Why? Why do this? This isn't right. This just isn't right!” Harry's head clears and he blinks at his instructor innocently.
“Professor Moody?”
“Yes, Potter, I believe you have something you wish to say to me?”
“Sod off, you hideous freak.” The look on Moody's face is priceless.
“Oh, ho! Nice one, Potter. You've got some steel balls, I'll give you that. Take your seat. Ten points to Gryffindor.” Harry is just happy to have this ordeal behind him--he loathes the attention and he resents losing control to anyone, much less Moody.
Malfoy calls out, “Professor, what about the Cruciatus curse?”
“What about it? I sure as hell am not teaching it to you, of all people. Not while I remember your old man putting it on me before I brought his pasty ass in.”
Draco blanches. “Father was under the Imperius.”
“Yeah, right kid, and my mug's won Witch Weekly's Most Dazzling Smile....”
“Well, aren't you going to give us a chance to learn to fight it?” Malfoy interjects with a smirk.
“Kid, if you couldn't throw off an Imperius, and you weren't even close, there's no chance in hell you could fight a Cruciatus.” He turns to address the classroom, clomping his peg leg onto the floor for emphasis. “The curse is no joke. People have died under it, gone insane under it.” His artificial eye lingers on Neville. “Very few have ever fought it off when the curse is properly done.” He fixes Harry with both eyes, a thoughtful expression on his face. “And I'd bet a stack of Galleons that only one of you would have a hope of doing it. Though it isn't my call whether he wants to have a go.”
Harry looks up at his professor. “What do you mean, Professor.”
“I mean, Potter,” he turns to Harry, a feral gleam in his biological eye, “that if you want a shot at the trifecta, a chance to prove to yourself that you can beat all three Unforgivables, then you'll have to give me your explicit permission. I don't fancy gumming my food in Azkaban, if you catch my meaning, Boy.”
Harry looks at the crippled man for a long time and blows out an angry sigh.
“I didn't think you wanted a go,” Moody says, turning away from Harry.
“Let's go,” Harry says icily as he walks to the front of the classroom. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and silently transfigures it into a terry cloth towel, which he rolls into a gag. “Let's do it. 'I give you my permission to cast the Cruciatus on me.' Everyone here is a witness.” Harry knows that, by virtue of his apprentice status, he has been formally emancipated and that his permission absolves Moody from prosecution for use the curse.
The class erupts in alarm. Hermione appears as if she's going to cry and pleads desperately with the stoic pair to reconsider. Malfoy looks like Christmas has come early. Ron is just confused. No change from the norm there--the git will probably just get jealous and find a way to say that I “hogged the spotlight” again. Neville gets up and races for the door.
Harry and Moody clear out space near the front of the room and the students in the front rows move toward the back to avoid getting hit by any stray reflected curses. Harry puts the gag in his mouth.
Moody regards him for a moment, then snarls, “Crucio.” A bright red bolt writhes out the end of his wand and arcs to Harry's chest, dropping him onto his back with a muffled scream. God this HURTS! Harry's glasses fall off as his body convulses. Every nerve ending is over-stimulated, white-hot knives piercing his flesh everywhere. He struggles for thirty seconds longer, his body shuddering in wave after wave of agony. Eventually, he manages to get his fingers around the handle of his wand, but he can't seem to pull it out--it keeps snagging on the pocket of his robes.
The door to the classroom crashes open and the Headmaster and his deputy enter, Neville trailing behind. “Alastor!” the Headmaster booms, “What are you doing!?”
“Teaching,” he says, petulantly, as he drops the curse and folds his arms.
Harry fights the involuntary shaking of his limbs and stands slowly. He removes the bloody towel from his mouth--the lining of his mouth having started bleeding. “I... gave him... permission... Professor,” he pants, his hands on his knees. “I need to know... that I can beat it....”
“Oh, Harry,” Professor McGonagall exclaims, looking ill.
“Harry, this is not the place....” The Headmaster approaches Harry.
“Spare me, sir.” He stares piercingly at the older man and continues, quietly enough that only his mentor can hear his words. “You know what I face, why I have to know.” Hermione opens her mouth to chastise Harry, but reconsiders when she sees the grim look on Harry's face and the nod and resigned sigh from his tutor. Harry takes several deep breaths, no longer gasping as if he's run a mile, and turns to the ex-auror. “Again, Moody.”
“Alastor, don't. He's just a student....”
“He's a consenting adult, Minerva. It's his right if he wants to, and I'll damn well help him if he does.” He turns to Harry. “You're absolutely sure about this, Boy?”
“Again!” He places the gag back into his mouth and stares at Moody defiantly.
Moody regards him a moment, then grumbles, “Crucio.”
The bolt slams into his abdomen with what feels like the force of the Hogwarts Express, but Harry has braced himself. He collapses, as before, yet somehow manages to retain a firmer grip on coherence. After several seconds that feel like an eternity, his shaking hands reach his wand and he draws it. Though his vision is converging from the edges, blackness claiming sight and sense, he raises his wand arm. With a Heraclean effort, he overcomes the convulsions and manages a vaguely slashing motion with the wand tip, thinking “diffindo” in his head. Not the cleanest job I've done, but at least Sirius isn't here to criticize. An orange ribbon flies upward from his wand and strikes Moody in the right arm, cutting him deeply from wrist to elbow. The pain stops as Moody's wand chatters on the floor.
“Fuck me!” Moody mutters, grasping his disabled arm tightly above the elbow to stem the flow of arterial blood. The room falls eerily silent, save for weeping heard from the Gryffindor and most of the Slytherin witches and the soft “pat, pat, pat” of Moody's blood falling to the floor. The Headmaster's jaw is open. A tear wells in the corner of one of Professor McGonagall's eyes as she casts a quick healing charm on Moody's arm.
With a struggle, Harry stumbles to his feet, limbs shaking violently, as if struck by palsy. Leaning on desks as he goes, he staggers to the rear of the classroom and collapses into his chair. After several deep breaths, he opens his eyes to glare at at those who gawk at him, essentially everyone in the room. Neville's face in particular is a rictus of horror.
“Potter, anything you wish to tell the class about what you just experienced?”
“Hurts. Bad. Avoid it if you can.”
“Understatement, if I've ever heard one.” Moody's laugh sounds like a cough. “Class dismissed.” The students leave in shocked silence, none saying a word as they pass Harry, who remains in his seat. Moody approaches. “Good work there, Potter. I'd give you house points, but it somehow doesn't seem appropriate. You'd better get yourself over to Pomfrey or you'll be hurting for weeks. I know from experience.” He limps toward the door.
Pausing just before the exit, he turns back. “We put every auror trainee through the Cruciatus before they finish the program, just to see how they handle it. I've yet to see anyone break it like you, kid, and trust me, I've trained the best. If you don't join the corps after Hogwarts, it'll be a goddamned shame.”
A/N: Moody's parting comments about house points were inspired by a similar exchange in jbern's The Lie I Lived.
Regarding the rating: Moody's expletive is one of a budget of two before the story rating goes to 'M'. (It will go there before that because of the content of one of the upcoming chapters).
There may be a slight delay for chapter five. On the advice of early readers, I've decided to add a couple of scenes.