Unforgivably Cursed

Chapter Two: Undone

"Do not stand upon the blood of your people." - Leviticus 19:26

**

It was finally less than an hour before midnight. 11:02 to be exact. Harry's knuckles were white and trembling, his heartbeat racing so fast he truly felt it was going to burst out of his chest. Though Harry was indisputably an incredibly brave person, most of his previous life-or-death encounters were not preplanned for exact calendar dates long in advance. Usually they came at odds spontaneously, and as though Harry were inexplicably cursed, the only "notice'' he'd ever received were the five seconds in which he generally had to readily face his unexpected assailant. This time was entirely different, however, because he'd had a great length of time to dread the occasion, and now at last the oncoming disaster was arriving in mere minutes!

Harry kept telling himself that all he could do was wait and see what happened, but that caveat left him far from comforted (to say the least). Every second he felt queasier, more lightheaded, and ultimately more susceptible to disconcertion as his anxieties piled sweat across his forehead and chilling Goosebumps through his skin. The monumental midnight hour was seriously dawning alas, daunting and overpowering as can be --

Sensing himself grow a bit too panicky at the thought, Harry grunted irritably, and then abruptly decided to venture downstairs for a glass of cool water. If he was lucky he'd get a peek at what the Dursleys (particularly Aunt Petunia of course) were meanwhile up to. Slowly descending the stairs as quietly as possible, Harry then crept under dim chandelier light across the hallway and through the kitchen door unnoticed. But then immediately Harry was taken aback -- shuddered senseless in fact -- as he unsuspectingly strode right into face-to-face proximity with Aunt Petunia, who was a startling mere three feet in front of him the second he entered the room!

They both ambled to a frizzled halt right away, each taking in the sudden sight of the other. First to react, Aunt Petunia let out a slight gasp. "What are you doing down here, boy?!" she whispered impatiently, her breathless voice left guttural.

Harry flinched a fair few inches back, surprised by her hardened tone given they'd reached something of a truce just hours ago. "...Reckoned I'd have a glass of water, that's all," he answered simply, intent on sounding totally innocent. Then, looking up at her confidently, Harry --- speaking in a dry tone of voice that remained unfailingly quiet no less -- forwardly posed the question, "So how are you holding up, then?"

Aunt Petunia tripped a slight step back at this, clearly second-guessing her every movement. Surprisingly conceding to come across brisk of all things, and rather dispensing of her tense approach thus, too, she swallowed a climatic gulp before finally answering, "...Fine. Just fine." But as she folded her arms at her chest, her whole frame tightening apprehensively, Aunt Petunia looked far from fine.

Harry gulped painfully, a sudden lump having materialized in his throat. "Ah," he murmured hoarsely. Paling chalk-white, Harry opened his mouth to say something more only to then find himself lost for speech; it seemed that all the fear, suspense and dread tormenting his insides had stolen from him the strength needed to say anything beyond that.

Aunt Petunia surveyed him up and down unsubtly, not able to hide the twinkle of horror in her wide, alerted gaze. Flashing an utmost prudent stare his way, she drew in a long, weary sigh before at last addressing him in an actually hesitant, unassertive voice. "Just try to keep it together, Harry -- all right?" his aunt desperately emphasized, a soothing, unfamiliar compassion dressing her tone for the second time this evening (and the second time for Harry EVER, too!). And though she sounded at least somewhat puzzled for the right words at this instant, Aunt Petunia's extending hand of caring guidance said it all for Harry, who could only be left transfixed by this never-before-offered warmheartedness from his aunt...

But then, all the sudden and without any warning whatsoever, there came a sudden definite, tackling Pop! -- And then none other than Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared within one impossible moment in the space between Harry and Aunt Petunia. Immediately taking action, the surreal, towering figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, with those massive biceps of his and that ever-intimidating sharpness, seized a commanding hold on each of them, wrapping a fist around either of their forearms. Finally, in just the next split-second that crossed -- in a breathtaking blur that overtook them in which reality seemed to just momentously disfigure -- Kingsley's grip on each of them tightened intensely, and then no less miraculously the three of them had simultaneously vanished without a trace from Privet Drive.

**

Remus Lupin sped across the pitch-black, starless skies on his Nimbus 2001 straight toward Little Whinging, the little town where Harry Potter, who would be in urgent need of rescuing at precisely midnight tonight, was waiting. Flying alongside his path was Tonks, Mad-Eye Moody, and arguably the bravest of all, Kingsley Shacklebolt, who as an Auror for the Ministry was literally risking everything for Harry's sake tonight. Evenly trailing behind the four of them at defensive positions across the night sky were several other Order members, none less eager to spare Harry from a pitiful death in vain.

In the present moment however, the fleet was just focused on making it to Privet Drive before the Ministry or Voldemort did. Midnight, 12:00 exactly, would only come once after all, upon the very moment at which Harry would turn seventeen and officially be of age by wizarding standard. The second the clock ticked midnight, thus, the fool-proof, rare-as-ever magic that fully protected Harry from danger as long as he remained at Number Four, Privet Drive (thanks of course to his poor mother's dying to save him) would instantaneously exterminate. So if they didn't beat the Ministry and, worst of all, Voldemort to the punch, Harry would mere seconds later be, at best, arrested by the corrupted Ministry, and at worst, mercilessly murdered at the hands of Lord Voldemort himself. The Order simply could not let the Dark Lord have the satisfaction and glory of killing Harry once and for all...

Remus suddenly felt a sting of fear run through him at the thought. It really made him realize how much he'd truly grown to care about Harry, the son of his tragically lost best friend, infamous James Potter (as he so was back in their Hogwarts years, anyway). 'Stay focused, Remus, mustn't let your guard down if you sincerely intend to save Harry against all odds', he mulled to himself, sorting his thoughts. There were so many factors to take into consideration, so much deadly danger potentially waiting at the corner of their eyes at all given moments, tonight more than ever. Still, Remus intently tried shaking off such negative thoughts, promising himself that if nothing else, it would without uncertainty be that with blood and sweat stained at his fingertips he, Remus Lupin, had fought his greatest fight yet.

At this one resolute thought, Remus lifted his chin up as he prudently navigated the teetering night sky, confidently zooming at maximum speed on his Nimbus straight towards Little Whinging...

At last they were beginning to close in on Little Whinging. Running on pure reflex, Remus double-checked his watch immediately, pleased to see they were making great time. They had a solid sixteen minutes to all together form the ultimate cooperative diversion by which to most strategically approach Number Four, Privet Drive at last. Slowing down as his comrades caught up in pace, Remus glanced alertly at Tonks, Kingsley, and Mad-Eye sidelong him. Their protective guard was in some way soothing for him, because Remus at very least knew he could rely if nothing else on the three's skills to be damn near formidable. Nodding assertively their ways, in secret, magically silenced communication they as the three forerunners of this Order operation quickly calculated their all-determining next moves.

And to his surprising, sweet relief, once they'd quickly devised their future maneuvers with great precision, Remus actually felt quite impressed by their job well done. Hence, as he led their suspenseful descent into Little Whinging, it was with a confident hope mollifying him just a bit. They were now within the five-minute countdown. The ultimate all-dreaded moment was suddenly arriving at what felt like the speed of light; inevitably, the closer it got to game time seemingly was the more his guarded composure disintegrated.

Nonetheless, still Remus reminded himself to not let such rash thoughts consume him, thinking reassuringly, 'We've got experienced duelers with mighty skill and utmost determination on our side who will lead us straight to success. Remember, Remus, this is about Harry,not you or anyone else.'And at that Remus Lupin's focus was sharply re-attended to, his passion and every extraordinary feeling of thrill, adrenaline and dedication epitomized inside him, intoxicating almost...

First a flash, a blinding blur suddenly manifested, then a pack of three-dimensional figures in dark cloaks, faces hidden behind equally dark hoods, all at once obstructed the silent, peaceful average summer night. Luckily, every hidden Order member present was already equipped with his or her wand, so without wasting even a millisecond they all together revealed themselves in one heart-jerking, unhesitating dive straight into the battle. Based on the relentlessness of their actions and the seeming fearlessness of their passionate entry, it easily could have been speculated that every one of these brave wizards and witches had prepared for their most blood-curdling duel yet!

Nevertheless, in less than a blink of an eye deadly spells were casting in every direction nonstop. Thirty seconds in Remus had twice already dodged two firings of the Killing Curse ('Avada Kedavra') by mere centimeters. Notwithstanding, the part werewolf, equally capable wizard maintained his steady breath as he flew across the horizon wildly uncoordinated, shifting direction every other second for, first, bare survival, and, second, strategy. Ascending a solid twenty feet from the center of the (soon-to-be) murderous dueling, Remus effectively was able to point his wand, despite trembles, at a Death Eater whom, if the glimpse out of the corner of his eyes was fortunate, he recognized as Avery. Passionately focusing on his enemy, Remus whispered as quietly as possible, "Stupefy!"

At once sparks emitted from his wand and at intense speeds bulls-eyed on Avery, luckily striking him right at chest-level before brutally tossing him right off his broomstick fifteen feet below to the cold, hard-hitting ground.

But Remus had no time to take a good look, nor to at all second-guess his move or even appreciate his own success. Cautiously reverting his full attention back to the battle's front line, Remus knew his next action could be his last if misguided, and was quick to think on his feet as he flew closer in. Maneuvering himself on top his Nimbus in a zigzagging puzzle of mostly diagonal swerves, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible Remus sped up in his pace, heading straightforward towards a Death Eater whom, again if his briefest glance did not deceive him, he recognized as Bellatrix Lestrange.

For a split-second a brief mental distraction passed him by, a spontaneous thought surfacing out of his subconscious, which of course was otherwise absent from all things tonight: indeed, for at best but a split-second Remus appreciated the bittersweet moment, thinking wonderingly to himself. 'Here we go again, I gather...'

**

Harry Potter squinted open his eyes and immediately winced as both the feeling of killing nausea and having the wind knocked out of him momentarily pained him. He was lying on his side on a cold, hard stone floor. Feeling a sting, he lifted himself up from the hard, granite-like surface. His first view of his new home, however, devastated his awed eyes: he was trapped inside a small holding cell behind iron bars which faced an identical row of cells opposite him, separated from by a narrow passageway. The entire area was similarly made of stone and looked similarly granite-like, although Harry eyed only what unsubstantial torchlight permitted. The air was also perverted with a blistering heat, which led Harry to believe he was trapped in a dungeon somewhere.

His wand and glasses were gone, although his clothes remained unchanged. No message was written anywhere for Harry, and he was without a bed, toilet, food, water, or tools of any kind whatsoever. His head unhelpfully ached excruciatingly, threatening to leave him unconscious again. Harry barely could handle the realization that he was going to be a prisoner in inhumane isolation, maybe even for the rest of his life, too...

Two hours passed as this solitary confinement chilled him to the bone like a disquieting ghost. Finally Harry heard echoing footsteps descend some remote stairway. Surprise left him trembling anxiously as the footsteps grew louder and louder. Staying very aware and curious as the mysterious someone's shadow approached, Harry was doubly shocked upon facing the person: it was Kingsley Shacklebolt again, former Order member (obviously) and shameless traitor. Harry glared daggers at him, and in full-on disgust spat, "YOU BLOODY TRAITOR!" Harry was taken off guard as he, surprised by how raspy his voice sounded, realized how out-of-breath he truly was. Alas, only now did Harry realize how dry his throat was -- now as he became conscious of the piercing pain manifesting every time he swallowed, to be specific -- and immediately craved water, which he suspected he'd, by now, been long deprived of.

Petrified motionless, any words further failed Harry as he tried hiding the anxiety that currently ripped him apart. He had already completely failed to withhold from sight his vulnerable, uncontainable hatred, which remained animatedly written all over his face. But before he could say more, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the previously admirable Auror he'd been acquainted with two years ago at Sirius' house, in another extraordinary, miraculous moment began quickly morphing into a totally different man, one of different stature, race, and facial features, but a man no less recognizable to Harry:

Cornelius Fudge. Yes, unbelievable as it was, facing Harry was the infamous former minister himself, wearing the same pinstripe attire and staggering, demeaning presence which he'd always attempted to play off (no less confident even despite his total public, career-ending downfall, apparently); yes, the power-hungry coward who'd been sacked after covering up Voldemort's return for over a year despite critical foreknowledge, slandering Harry and Dumbledore after the two had repeatedly warned and, in the Headmaster's case, admonished him, now audaciously confronted Harry once again.

Incredulous beyond belief, Harry felt his heart skip several beats, and before he knew it he was flinching several feet aback. The intake of the shocking realization that he'd been devastatingly tricked by Fudge's use of Polyjuice Potion was just too much. Fury, confusion scourged him, but most of all a mortifying sense of desperation inundated him inside all at once. Then, recoiling extra defensive, the shocked adolescent yelled viciously, "Fudge, you incredible bastard!" Harry then jumped forward and put his hands around the iron bars enchaining him, a pointless move in his fit of madness given escape was clearly impossible; instead, the only thing he received were Goosebumps that sizzled through his clammy skin, caught by the surprise of how freezing the iron bars were.

In response, Fudge simply laughed at Harry's fruitless attempts. Grinning delightfully at Harry, the cruel, defamed former minister (apparently vehement to reveal how utterly corrupt he now obviously was, seemingly) patronizingly remarked, "Stop embarrassing yourself, Harry. There is no way to outwit the flawless magic keeping you in your cage like the animal you are. It's the precise place you belong--"

But at this Harry could take it no longer. Interjecting, he, galvanized by all his inner rage, felt his teeth grinding and muscles seriously vibrating in the heat of the passion as he screamed scathingly, "WHERE I BELONG?! I reckon you've gone bloody mad, man! I beg your pardon, good fellow, but the one who truly deserves to spend the rest of his life inside an Azkaban cell, key thrown in the dustbins too might I suggest, is SNAPE! Severus Snape, he murdered Dumbledore!" Losing his breath again, Harry paused, inadvertently forced despite his impassioned tirade to anxiously inhale several life-preserving breaths. And then, mildly recuperated, he urged the Minister more calmly to see reason, more resigned and less threatening as he persuasively began. "Mr. Fudge, please, please listen to me. I am telling you the truth. The single-handed reason I performed the Cruciatus Curse was for the sake of an, in end, failed attempt to prevent Snape from fleeing, Scot-free from justice. That's it." His firm words couldn't have been conveyed more compellingly, an undeniable integrity lingered in his tone the entire time.

But if Harry truly thought his cunning talent of persuasion was any second now going to make the sort of game-changing impact that it had on so many previous occasions, he was very sadly mistaken.

Fudge smiled no less unsympathetically at him, again with an air of condescension arming his demeanor. In fact, as the evil man looked Harry up and down, repulsion transfixed in his eyes, Cornelius Fudge may just as well have been gazing upon the likes of some filthy, contaminant undesirable, at least based on the snarky, stuck-up look ingrained on the ex-minister's face, that is. Finally, following several hanging, suspense-filled seconds in which Harry hoped for vindication, Fudge, startling Harry, let out a carefree bout of compassionless laughter before briskly responding, "Nice try, Potter, but attempts at coercing me are purposeless. You, boy, are at last being brought down from your sensationalized pedestal. Finally, following years of your unpunished antics, I, Cornelius Fudge, former Minister of Magic and newly-appointed Elite Prosecutor to the Ministry's Justice Department - am going to demolish you, leave you falling, screaming as you beg for mercy in your shameful descent." The man, whose chilling words had just confirmed his new position of empowerment, abruptly ceased his eloquent, fear-inducing monologue to conclude in just a few shuddering, all-telling horrific words, "Harry James Potter, you are going to Azkaban for the rest of your pathetic life."

And then with a long, loud venomous laugh, the new Elite Prosecutor to the Ministry (a newly-exposed entitlement which took several tortuous, grim moments to really sink into Harry) spontaneously turned away from his forlorn prisoner, and then with a stamp of his alligator cowboy boots strode off and away without once looking back.

**