Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Eight — The Killer and the Cynic

"I’ve seen a thousand people kneel in silence,

I’ve seen them face the rifles with their songs.

I always thought that we could end the killings —

But now I live in fear that I was wrong."

-Peter, Paul, and Mary, "Greenwood"

Sunday, November 2, 2003

Harold Black kicked his feet up on the table and leaned back on the couch, ignoring the death-glare his wife shot his way. "I’m tired," he whined. "The Lewis case is really picking up right now. I had to go through ten years worth of bank statements and audits, and I had to try to link Lewis’ campaign contributions to the Al Qaeda funds which are frozen. It’s been a long day!"

"And I haven’t had a long day?" Rachel countered. "I go back to work tomorrow. Why couldn’t you have taken a single day off work to spend with the baby and me? He’s two months on Tuesday!"

He nodded slowly and reached to ruffle his sleeping son’s mop of curly black hair. "I’m sorry, Rach, I’ll make it up to you. Dinner on Saturday? We can get the Walton’s girl to sit. Or if you wanted, we could drop her at your Mum’s and get Chinese take-away and watch one of those silly sappy movies you love with that Colin Firth git in them -"

"No matter how sexy I find that accent of yours, dear, you can never convince me that Colin Firth is anything but gorgeous! He’s just so -"

Harry grinned and cut her off. "Dark and brooding. Yes, you’ve told me, love." He ducked a playful whack and made a beeline for the kitchen. "Coffee or tea, Rach?"

"Coffee," she called back. "I can’t understand why you Brits drink that foul stuff."

"I’ve always wondered why you Yanks drink that coffee sludge," he countered, grinning to himself. He ran a hand through his scruffy hair as he dug through a drawer for a tea strainer. Instead of metal, however, his hand connected with a slim rod of wood. With a start, he pulled his wand from the kitchen drawer, staring at it in shock. "What in God’s name is this doing in here...?"

"What was that, hon?" Rachel called from the family room.

Harry shoved the wand into his pants pocket quickly and grabbed a teacup. "Nothing, Rach!" There was nothing magical in the house. Not a wizarding photograph nor a spellbook — not even his old Quidditch jersey bearing the Hogwarts crest. Everything which tied Harold Black to Harry James Potter had been left in a small flat in London four and a half years earlier. Everything but the wand.

The door slammed open in the front hall. Rachel’s voice rang out. "My God — who the hell are you?" Harry dropped the teacup, ignoring the shattering of porcelain across the floor, and dashed to the family room in panic.

"Why Mr. Potter," the low voice of Lord Voldemort managed to fill the room. The robed figure raised his wand to point at Rachel. "Mr. Potter, I’ve been looking for you."

"Ron, dude, you’re so pissed. If you try to Apparate home to LA, you’ll get splinched somewheres over Utah. All those Mormons would wake up tomorrow and see this arm and this ass-ugly head floating over the Great Salt Lake." The Cincinnati Charms Seeker, Jesse Gable, grabbed Ron’s shoulder as the inebriated Weasley lurched dangerously to the side.

With an over-exaggerated motion, Ron waved him aside. "I think is’my right t’get piss’d," he slurred, grabbing the back of a park bench to keep himself upright. The two Beaters laughed as he swayed to the side. "My big brothers went all psycho ‘n killed people, ‘n they’re dead too. And we won the Cup! Lemme go home!"

Jesse hated being the stable one. "C’mon. You can cry your eyes out on my couch. You’re not trying to Apparate like that." He took Ron’s shoulders and carefully turned him in the direction of the small block of houses across the park. "We’re almost there. Just don’t pass out before we get to the front step, okay? I don’t wanna lug your sorry ass inside."

Ron burst into a funeral-dirge rendition of the Hogwarts school song. It was tempting to throttle him, after hearing the same words a dozen times in the past hour, but Jesse held himself in check. "Hey, who lives’n the house next to you, Jesse?" Ron slurred after finishing his song.

He grabbed his friend’s arm to keep him upright as he lurched to the side. "Some Muggle guy. He’s a lawyer’s assistant, gotta wife and a little boy. Erm... Black? Harold Black. Why do you ask?"

"Mm. Guy in a robe just storm’d th’front door." Ron swayed again, then suddenly stood upright. "Harold Black? Bloody hell."

"Ron? C’mon, dude, you’re not sober. Let’s get you inside before you start seeing unicorns prancing down the street. This is suburban Cincinnati, dude." Ron started struggling against Jesse’s hold on his arm. "Fine. If you’re gonna be this way... you’ll just hate yourself when the hangover’s twice as bad..." Jesse pulled his wand. "Sobrieto."

Lurching to a halt, Ron blinked owlishly at Jesse. "Erm... thanks, Jess. How good are you at hexes?"

Jesse peered at Ron closely. "Umm... fair. Wasn’t my best subject at Salem. Why?"

Ron patted his pocket for his wand. "Because I think your neighbor is a good friend of mine from school. And I think a Death Eater just went in his front door."

A yelp of alarm filled the street as Jesse turned to stare at his neighbor’s house in horror. As if on cue, a flash of green light issued from the front windows, followed by a mournful cry and the sound of a baby screaming. Ron and Jesse took off toward the house in unison.

Harry whipped his wand from his pocket and leveled it at Voldemort. He could’ve sworn, just for a moment, that the sound of the Hogwarts school song, sung to a mournful dirge, filled the air. The tall figure only chuckled softly in response. "It’s me you want! Just leave her alone!" The baby was awake, sniffling and cradled in his mother’s arms.

‘Harold? What’s going on? Why are you -"

"I don’t think it’s your place to be making demands, Mr. Potter." Red eyes glinted, the thin mouth curved in a final triumph. "By the looks of this disgusting hole, you haven’t practiced magic in years. I could easily kill your wife before you could send off a single spell."

Rachel glanced to Harry blankly. "Magic? Who’s Mr. Potter?"

Voldemort kept chuckling, grinning broadly. "You didn’t tell her who you are. Why doesn’t it surprise me in the least?" He turned just slightly to face Rachel. "Your husband is the famous Harry James Potter. Never heard of him? He thought he defeated me when he was only a baby, barely older than your little one."

"Why won’t you leave me alone!? I want nothing to do with magic or Death Eaters or the Light Side or the Dark Side! I left it behind! Why can’t you leave me in peace!?" Harry stepped forward, wand hand shaking in his desperation.

"Now, now, Harry," Voldemort hissed, grin broadening, "this scene is so familiar to me. You look so like your father... he shook in fear before I took his life. And your lovely wife — the hair color is wrong, of course, but the curls are familiar. I’ll bet the child looks just like you."

Rachel carefully set James on the couch behind her and moved to place herself between the baby and Voldemort. "Harold, I thought your parents died in a car crash."

"No, love," Harry murmured, breathing deeply to keep from throwing himself at the Dark Lord in a fit of rage. "He killed them. I’m sorry, Rachel." One last chance. "Stupe -"

Voldemort was faster. "Expelliarmus!" he cried, sending Harry’s wand in one direction and his body in the other. He hit the wall with a smack, crying out in pain as one knee smashed against a table. The lamp rocked and fell forward, smashing loudly on the wooden floor. Rachel screamed and the baby burst into tears. Harry was too blinded by pain to decide on a course of action.

"Now then, Muggle," Voldemort continued, as if oblivious to his enemy’s pain, "if you’re lucky, your son would be like your husband and I — powerful beyond any of your wildest imaginings. It’s too bad, really, that you chose to marry Potter and profane the wizarding blood the way you have."

Harry struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his uninjured leg and shaking his head wildly. "Don’t do it! You gave my mum the chance to get out — kill me, torture me, it doesn’t matter, just leave my wife alone!"

Rachel turned slowly to meet his gaze, putting her back to Voldemort. She knew. Her own death was reflected in the unshed tears glistening in her brown eyes. "I love you, Harry."

"No... Rachel..." Emotion caught his breath in his throat. He only had a moment before it was too late. "Love you, Rach."

"Avada Kedavra." The dread words echoed, followed by a flash of hideous green light. Harry choked on the tears already flowing down his face as he was forced to watch his wife crumple to the ground. The Dark Lord smiled coldly. "Your little son, then? I bet his name is James. Too bad you profaned the blood rather than finding a nice witch to marry — if you’d been smart, your son’s blood would carry the same protections as yours."

Harry swallowed his tears. "Why me? What makes it so important that you destroy me?"

"You’re the weapon that could be used to stop me, of course. Dumbledore knew it — too bad he’s dead. You left and the wizarding world crumbled under my foot. I should thank you, Potter, for making my victory so easy." Voldemort kept grinning, turning the wand from the baby to Harry. "This is too easy. Like taking candy from a child. Why don’t you fight me, Potter? Why don’t you offer your life for your son’s? Your father did."

"My father thought there might be a chance, I suppose. I know better." Harry stood tall, straightening his button-down shirt absentmindedly. "If you’re going to do it, get it over with. Rachel’s waiting."

A hint of a frown appeared. "No pleading? No screams? I expected more, Potter. Maybe we should try this one more time... Crucio."

White-hot bolts of agony, pain more terrible than he’d ever experienced. Harry dropped to his knees, screaming at the sensations. There was no need to play it brave, after all. Death waited, no matter his reaction.

Vaguely, he heard the door to the house slamming forward before the agony stopped. He heard a familiar voice cry out his name, he heard Voldemort shout out, "Morsmordra!" and the pop of someone Apparating away.

With shaking legs and spasms of muscle, Harry pulled himself to his feet to look forlornly at his would-be rescuers, a goatee-faced redhead and a blonde. No words were uttered as he stumbled to his wife’s side and sunk to the floor, pulling her body into his arms. "Rachel," he whispered, utterly lost.