The Killing Curse

Chapter Five - The Killing Curse

Horrified, disgusted, revolted, and completely horror-struck, all three of them forced out variations of a scream. Harry's in rage, Hermione's in shock, and Charles' in sheer, unadulterated grief.

The boy grinned, but there was no mirth behind the smile -- only a holier-than-thou grimace of pure satisfaction and pride. Suddenly, the boy sprang on the balls of his feet, and shot, running past Hermione, to the front of the cabin.

"For Heaven's sake, Harry! Stop him!" Hermione shouted. Harry ran at full sprint toward the forward compartment.

The din and confusion settling, Hermione looked down at the crumpled heap of the girl lying nearly at her feet. She heard a small, plaintive, and pathetic moan from her right side, where the pilot had been. "This is his daughter," she suspected.

Hermione surveyed the damage to the girl's throat. It laid flayed open in a ribbon of blood, now pooling up around the girl's red pigtailed hair. The girl's breathing was extremely labored, and Hermione heard a distinct wheeze coming from her throat.

"Oh, God Almighty, no! God, God, God, please no, not Kellie!" Charles was wailing and keening in abject despair and grief.

Now on her knees next to Charles, Hermione laid a hand on his shoulder. "Believe it or not, sir, she will be alright."

Charles blinked heavily and rapidly through his tears. "You! This is your fault! You and your damn snake charmin' husband! How can you possibly say that -- that -- that -- that she'll be alright?" His sentence trailed off in a whimper. "We're hundreds of miles in the air, no doctor in sight!" Charles' panic was building as his eyes darted around the quiet cabin. "And all these people are," Charles gestured wildly, "They're...they're..."

"Stunned," said Hermione calmly, her eyes full of sympathy, "Just stunned, it'll wear off."

"And that boy," Charles continued, pointing. "That thing, that bastard just," he swallowed, "cut my daughter's throat." Charles gave a great heavy sob, his anger ebbing away. "She's dying, Mrs. Potter, and there's nothing you, or I or anyone else can do about it."

With that, Hermione retrieved the small flask of phoenix tears yet again. She held the vial up to the light and shook it. "Only a few left," she thought, "but enough." Showing him the flask, and begging permission from Charles with her eyes, Hermione opened the flask and poured with precision the remainder of its contents into little Kellie's angry, gaping wound.

When nothing happened immediately, Charles broke down in increased and heartier sobs, burying his head in his hands. Charles began to shake uncontrollably and spasm with constant sobs of grief.

"Daddy?" Came a small, hoarse voice.

Hermione let out a squeal of delight and clasped her hands to her mouth. Charles, in utter disbelief, raised his tear streaked and face out of his bloodied hands and stared.

"Daddy, are you okay? Why are you crying, Daddy? Did somebody break your plane, Daddy?" Kellie was not only healed, but she had broken through the stunning charm. Hearing Kellie's incessant questions, Charles gave a quite unmanly squawk and bundled his daughter up in his strong arms, rocking her.

"Strong girl you have there, sir." Hermione laughed, fighting back her own tears.

"Runs in the family, Ms. Potter."

"Please, sir, call me Hermione."

Charles laughed, still wiping tears. "Then you, Hermione, call me Charles...and please, for the love of Pete, stop calling me sir!" Charles laughed again, and then became serious. "Hermione, I don't know quite exactly how you did this. But, thank you." He paused, clapping Hermione on the shoulder. "Now, let's get out of here and land this plane, whaddya say?"

*************

Harry's eyes darted left and right - seeking, searching, and trying with all his wizardly might to simply sense the boy. No, Harry thought, not the "boy," the "killer" -- the horrible, hateful, murdering bastard of a man who dared kill a young innocent girl in spite of Harry -- not to mention in front of the girl's own father. Despite the language barrier, clearly, this cretin could tell from the pilot's body language that he loved her very much.

It took every inch of Harry's resolve not to sing-song, "Come out, come out wherever you are....you little weasel." Harry scoured up and down the aisles, checking beneath the chairs, peering in the open lavatories, and...

"Shit," Harry murmured. The cabin door to the cockpit was wide open.

Harry jumped. There was a muffled "twhip" noise coming from the cockpit. If Harry was not mistaken, he had heard that noise on a spy TV show he saw as a kid - a silencer. "Oh, no...." Harry ran toward the front of the plane and flung the door the rest of the way open. The boy had killed again - he had shot the co-pilot point-blank in the chest. As Harry caught him, the boy was making to mete out the same fate to the navigator.

"Stop, you!" Harry bellowed.

Abandoning the gun in his hand, the killer ran back again toward the coach cabin, only to be stopped by Hermione, brandishing her wand. As she walked forward, the killer took a great and risky chance. He ran into Hermione full-on, knocking her down, and proceeding to rapidly pummel her in the face with his fists.

Harry couldn't get to her fast enough. "Hermione!" He screamed.

No answer. Hermione was out cold. Charles materialized behind the curtain where Hermione had been standing. "What's going on out here!" Charles demanded.

Now trapped between the pilot and the end of Harry's wand, the killer began panting, his prior hubris being quickly replaced by abject fear.

Seeing Hermione lie motionless on the floor, Harry's higher brain ceased to function properly. He lost all sense of himself, all sense of his Auror training, all sense of right and wrong, and all sense of the possible consequences of his actions. Mostly, Harry wanted this whole standoff to be over. He wanted this boy, this man, this thing, this whatever he was, dead. Simply dead. Other than his godfather's murderer -- and Voldemort -- Harry had never, until now, wished anyone dead, let alone tried to purposefully kill anyone.

"Not going anywhere now, are you, boy?" Harry sneered. "Who do you think you are? Who do you think you're dealing with?" Harry heard himself give a low, threatening growl. "I, my friend, am not one to be trifled with. And you have done quite enough trifling for one day, haven't you?"

The boy stood mystified, continuing to shiver, and obviously beginning to see the error in beating Hermione to a pulp.

Harry brandished his wand anew. He continued, no longer aware that the boy could not understand a single word he said. "You, boy, are not going to hurt any more children, or women. Your little plot to resurrect September 11 has just fallen flat on its face, hasn't it?" Harry's voice dripped with uncharacteristic malice. "Just try and run now. Try and hurt someone else. Try anything, you little worthless git, and you will die." Harry's voice trailed off. "Hell, boy, if I have my say, you just may die anyways."

Harry heard the pilot's voice in some distant place. "But Mr. Potter! Don't do it! She's okay! Don't kill him! He's unarmed!"

Harry noticed immediately that the pilot was wrong. Very wrong. As the boy began to scuttle between the center seats, Harry noticed a glint of steel protruding from his back pocket. As the boy reached the other aisle, Harry saw him reach for the steel - "That damn revolver again," Harry thought. As quickly as the boy reached for the gun and aimed it, Harry reacted.

It was an incantation Harry had never used, never even intended to use, on anyone before. Harry did not even realize or understand how or why these particular words were forming in his chest, only to be pushed out his throat and carried out over his lips. It was as if Harry, not the plane, was the one on autopilot -- and he could not shut it off.

Hermione roused from her beating, but Harry did not notice. Harry did not even hear Hermione's desperate pleas to "Stop, Harry!" and "Please, don't do it, Harry!"

Still in his rage-induced haze, Harry breathed the words, "A...a...Avada... Kedavra," practicing them in a harsh, guttural, unworldly, almost snake-like voice. Now having tested - even tasted - these powerful words in his mouth, Harry recited them quietly again, "Avada Kedavra," relishing their bittersweet flavor even more the second time.

Hermione, still reeling, knew at once that she had to stop Harry. This curse, the "Killing Curse" was highly illegal. Its use was automatically punishable by a life sentence in the horrific wizarding prison, Azkaban. Trying to protect Harry from this fate, Hermione weakly raised her wand to disarm him, but the spell, "Expelliarmus," came too late.

Simultaneously, Harry took in a great breath, raised and aimed his wand at the boy, and gave a drawn out, hateful, and roaring, "Avada Kedavra!"

Hermione and Charles recoiled, arms over eyes, as a heavy, thick, blast of green light and sparks shot out of the end of Harry's wand and hit the boy square in the chest. The force of the spell threw the boy backwards and forced him upwards against the bulkhead. As suddenly as it began, the green light stopped, and all was silent. The boy's body fell from the bulkhead, lifeless across a row of seats.

Recovering their senses, Hermione and Charles, mouths agape and bodies shuddering, turned back to view Harry, horrified. Hermione immediately noticed that Harry's face had turned a sickening, ashen color. Harry turned to Hermione weakly, with a frightened, "what have I done?" look on his face.

Suddenly, Harry began gritting his teeth, and Hermione saw a familiar, yet frightening look on his face. Harry's lips and nose curled, and his eyes scrunched up with what Hermione recognized as incredible pain - scar pain. Wand still in hand, Harry clutched at his scar, and fell to his knees, bending over in agony. Still kneeling, Harry removed his hands from his face, and his eyes rolled upwards. He gave a small, quiet groan, and then slouched, unconscious, to the floor.

Chapter Six - Awakening, Awareness, and A Weasley

Harry's mind likened to a dimmer switch. The "on" button was engaged, but the slider was at the very bottom, providing only very dim light. As the dimmer was brought up, Harry's first sensation was a sharp, twangy pain in his right hand. As he instinctively balled up his fist, he could feel a long, thin, tube-like object move in the vein on the back of his hand. He could also feel something sticky, like tape, pulling painfully at the hairs as the skin moved under it.

Harry's lights came on a bit further. Next, he heard a muffled, yet high-pitched "beep....beep....beep....beep." His mind wandered momentarily to a time one summer when he was forced to sit in the emergency room next to a screaming, crying, and hysterical Dudley. A kindly young doctor was stitching up a cut knee after Dudley had a rather nasty skateboarding mishap.

More light. "Serves you right, you stupid sod." Harry tried to say, but he couldn't get his mouth to work. All that spilled from his mouth was a jumble of consonants and a long "oohhhh." Harry's mouth was dry as parchment, and his tongue felt as if he had just eaten a whole box of the Weasley Twins' famous Ton Tongue Toffees from Harry's favorite wizarding joke shop.

Hermione, perched on an armchair next to Harry's bed, sprang forward, leaning her arms on Harry's bare chest. "Harry? Harry, darling!" She started to cry. "Harry, talk to me, love, please!"

Harry could hear Hermione clearly now. He still, however, could not open his eyes, and he still struggled to form words. His mouth simply would not cooperate, producing only a load of mumbly gibberish. As the lights brightened further, Harry heard more and more voices in the room. The increasing din began to pound and richochet around in his head. Harry could have sworn, filtering out Hermione's pleas to wake up, the nurse's barky orders, and the television blaring, that he heard the unmistakable voice of his life-long friend, Ron Weasley.

Harry moved his right hand -- the only part of his body to cooperate thus far -- slowly and deliberately across his bare chest, clasping Hermione's tightly. "Her-mi-ne," he was finally able to say, "Water."

Hermione immediately obliged him, offering him a cup with a long straw full of icy-cool, sweet, delicious water. "Can you open your eyes, Harry?"

Harry heard the voice again. "Stupid git was always gropin' around in the dark before, why whould anything change? Flippin' melodramatic all the time, he is." Harry felt a large, calloused hand clap him on the left thigh. "How're you feeling, Harry?"

Harry smiled weakly. Finally able to open his eyes, he blinked rapidly, soaking in the bright, sterile white light.

A smiling nurse in baby pink scrubs came in briefly to check on Harry, saying only, "Well, good morning, Sunshine!" and "Welcome back, Mr. Potter." Harry was barely aware of her, even as she scoured his chart and continued through her medical paces. The nurse winked at Harry, tweaked his nose, and left the room, closing the heavy-glass door behind her.

Ron rolled his eyes in mock disgust. Hermione gingerly placed Harry's glasses on his face, moving aside the oxygen cannula.

"Ron's here?" Harry mumbled. "Where am I?"

"The Cleveland Clinic, Harry, in America." Hermione replied. "You're in hospital."

"How long?" Harry looked concerned.

"Four days. Sweets, you've been in a coma for four days."

For the first time since he opened his eyes, Harry saw an angry purple, black, and yellow blossom of bruise about Hermione's right jawline and left cheekbone. She also wore two small butterfly bandages, one on her bottom lip, and one under her left eye. "Hermione?" Confused, Harry raised his left hand to touch her face - to see if the bruises and cuts were real. Instinctively, Hermione recoiled, but then allowed him to stroke her sore, still-swollen face.

"Too many Muggles saw my condition after the flight, Harry, after I was beaten. These, I'll have to let heal on their own, at least for now."

Bruises... cuts... hospital... four days... America... flight... coma... Harry tried to make sense of what he heard and saw, tried to remember what could possibly have landed him in a Muggle hospital - what could possibly have ravaged Hermione's beautiful features.

"Got yourself into a bit of a scrape there, you did." Ron chimed in. "Even Hermione's try at the old 'Ennervate' charm didn't work to wake you up. You had us dead worried there for a while. Mum and Ginny back in the Burrow are still all a-twitter with worry about you, and Dad's knackered for lack of three nights' sleep!"

Ron paused, suddenly beaming with pride. "Harry, you're a hero, you know? You and Hermione both." Ron's grip on Harry's thigh tightened momentarily. "I just got here, and Hermione's not told me everything yet, but you should see the press coverage you're getting." Ron chuckled, leaning in to whisper at Harry. "Muggle press this time, mate."

Harry studied his Best Man for a moment. Ron's hair was still as carrot-red as it was at Hogwarts, but now glinting with the occasional sun-highlight. It was longer than when they were kids, tied up at the nape of his neck in a small band. Ron's face was ruddy from outdoor work -- suntanned, and healthy, with a small growth of reddish stubble around his chin.

"What happened?" Harry felt as if he were pulling his memories through a cauldron of Mrs. Weasely's pea soup. Before Hermione could explain, Harry heard a distinct, and vaguely familiar American voice coming from the television above.

"Harry and Hermione Potter - heck, they were the real heroes, here. If it wasn't for them, we'd sure have another 9-11 on our hands. They were in first class -- they were the only ones, other'n myself and the cockpit crew, to stay awake after the terrorists gassed coach." Charles continued. "If it wasn't for Harry's quick thinking, we'd all be dead, and Congress would be homeless."

The reporter cut in. "How do you feel about the deaths that did occur on your plane, Captain?"

"I'm sad about the loss of my co-pilot, Danny Michelson, but, I suppose, big picture -- it could have been much worse." He paused. Harry saw him look directly into the camera. "As for that terrorist kid that died, that Sariens boy - I'm too angry yet to fully comment on that." He went on, however. "I can say - you know, he took my plane, killed my best friend and attacked my daughter -- nearly killed her. Good riddance."

"Enough said, Shep. In the meantime, the three other hijackers will be facing the judge in their arraignments tomorrow morning in Federal Court here in Ohio. Back to you in the studio from the Cleveland Clinic. This is Richard Simonson for Fox News."

The anchorman Harry presumed was "Shep" continued the commentary. "Thanks, Rick." Shep turned casually toward a camera to his left. A happy photograph of Harry and Hermione, taken on their honeymoon, showed in the upper right corner of the screen. Harry was taken aback at seeing his own face on television.

"Some good news folks. Fox News has just received word that Harry Potter is now awake and talking for the first time in four days, since the hijacking incident occurred. As we've told you before, paramedics found Mr. Potter unconscious when they entered the plane after it made its emergency landing in Cleveland. Doctors at the Cleveland Clinic are still baffled by Mr. Potter's condition."

"Cor!" Ron exclaimed "News here travels fast, don't it?" Harry did not respond. He remained glued to the television, in complete shock, and racking his brain to try and jog a memory.

Shep turned to another camera, and a picture of the killer-boy appeared. "In related news, the Cuyahoga County Coroner reported today that autopsy results for eighteen-year-old hijacker, Peter Sariens of Evanston, Illinois, were inconclusive. According to the Coroner," Shep continued, "Sariens' body showed no apparent signs of injury, and the cause of his death remains a mystery." Stay tuned to the Fox Report with Shepard Smith for more -- right after we take care of some business." After some dramatic music and graphics, the television went to commercial.

Hermione picked up the remote and clicked the television off, waving her hand dismissively. "This hijacking. It's all we've been hearing for the past four days, Harry."

Harry's mind mulled over what he had just heard. He felt a sudden wave of worry, and questions upon questions came pouring from his mouth. "Who was that pilot, and how did he know me? Who was that kid? How did we...what did we do? How did I think quickly? Why are people dead? What did I do?" He dug the heel of his left hand into his forehead. "Blast! I wish I could remember! Did we use...."

Hermione leaned close to Harry, whispering. "Magic?" She continued darkly, "Yes, Harry, we did. We did." She cleared her throat. "You certainly did." There was an unmistakably strange tone in Hermione's voice. "But never mind that now, Harry." She said flippantly.

Harry couldn't help but feel that Hermione was keeping something from him - something serious, something important, something, he thought, devastating.

"Hermione," Harry's worry intensified as his mind continued to work. "That boy the pilot was talking about and the Coroner - dead but no injury. Hermione - did I..." Harry stammered, his chin beginning to quiver. "Did I kill him?" His scar prickled slightly.

"Harry, Harry." Hermione sounded nervous, her eyes darting about. "We shouldn't talk about these horrible, horrible, horrible things now, right? I mean with all we've been through, and you being so sick, Harry, and just waking up and all." She put on a concealing smile. "I'm just glad you're ok, Harry. I was so worried."

Harry opened his mouth in protest, and tried to sit up. The nurse peered in through the glass door. Hermione, catching the nurse's gaze, guided Harry back down again. "Stay in bed, Harry. You're too weak. You need to build up your strength. You..."

Harry felt a sudden rush of strength in his growing panic. "Hermione, I'm fine!" He shouted, shrugging off her hands. The nurse in the next room stood up, craning her neck to see in Harry's room. "But I need to know, Hermione." Harry's voice lowered to a whisper, shaking heavily. "Did I kill him? Did I ... Did I give the...the..."

Ron listened with rapt attention. Both Ron and Harry sought an answer in Hermione's face. She did not shake her head. Hermione, in fact, showed no sign of denial whatsoever.

Harry continued. "The Killing Curse?"

Silence --long, drawn out, pregnant silence.

Ron's lips pursed, his face blanched, and his eyes darted from Harry, to Hermione, and back to Harry again. Ron scrubbed at his face, and looked back at Harry with new, frightened, and horrified eyes.

Hermione sighed, stood up, and placed her hands lovingly on either side of Harry's face. She stared intently into his bloodshot eyes. "Harry." Her hands pressed firmer, and she spoke in a harsh whisper. "Don't you ever, ever, ever say that. Don't you ever! Don't even think it. Up there in that plane, no one down here knew -- no one can ever know what truly happened."

Hermione moved her hands to Harry's shoulders, still hovering over him. "As far as I'm concerned, it never happened. Charles won't say anything -- trust me. I know Ron won't either." Hermione cast a glare in Ron's direction. Ron merely continued to gawk, nonplussed.

"Harry, if you can't remember it, no one will truly know. I've even taken care of erasing the curse from your wand. So, -- don't you ever remember what happened up there. Don't even try. Don't even think on it for one more minute, Harry Potter."

But Harry couldn't help but think on it. Now, it was all he could think about. He labored anew to remember, but simply couldn't.

This Unforgiveable Curse -- this was the kind of thing, Harry thought, that only Voldemort or his followers, the "Death Eaters," would do. In the last fourteen years of his life, Harry did everything he could to distance himself from Voldemort's attempts at influence, anything to separate himself from the Dark Lord who had killed his parents, and tried, and failed, to take Harry's life when he was just a baby.

Since graduating Hogwarts, and becoming an Auror - the bane of every dark wizard's existence -- Harry was confident that he was nothing like the Dark Lord. Nothing at all like Voldemort. More importantly, he was absolutely sure that he would never, ever, become a dark wizard like Voldemort.

For the first time in seven years, however, Harry was not so sure.