Harry Potter & Hell\'s Assassin

Chapter 2







“So what is it you wanted to tell me?” Harry asked, shifting from foot to foot under the large tree. He kept staring all around him, worried that someone would show up and see his godfather. He peered into the bushes on the far side of the park with wide eyes. Someone could be hiding in them. A swing creaked as the rusty chain swung in the slight breeze and his head whipped around. He glared at every car that passed on the road, even if it was over fifty feet from where they stood. Sirius and Remus had made short work of his bloody face and, with the promise of a long talk later, let Harry ask the burning question.



By now, Sirius could not hold back the large grin that had encompassed his face. He looked to Remus and his friend nodded slightly in encouragement. So the dark haired man reach into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a shrunken news paper, enlarged it, and held it out to his restless godson.



Harry took the paper quickly, glaring one last time at the bushes for good measure, and then concentrated fully on the paper. Finally, he would know what Hermione was talking about in her letter. He, too, would know the exciting news that Mr. Weasley had waited to reveal until they were all together. But a moment of confusion overtook him as the warm parchment slid into his hands. If it was good news and it was about Sirius then why was it in the paper…?



His brain made the connection a split second before it registered the short headline for what it was.



The paper falling from his suddenly slack fingers, hitting the ground with a small ‘thump’, alerted Harry to the fact that he was not breathing. He forced air past his teeth and into his lungs and tried to blink away the dancing black spots in front of his eyes.



“Easy, Harry. Sit down on the grass here…that’s it…”



The Boy Who Lived let the calm, soothing voice of his old professor wash over his lethargic senses as his poor, shocked brain tried to sort thought the information it had just received.



‘Free…he’s free…Sirius is FREE!’



Blinking a few times to clear his suspiciously blurry vision, Harry somehow managed to pivot on his bum and launch himself into his godfather’s arms. A soft ‘omph!’ came from Sirius when he was pinned beneath his godson in a bone-crushing hug, strength he would not have expected from a boy that size.



“See,” Remus said smugly, regarding the scene with a smile, “I told you he’d be happy.”



Harry was in such a euphoric state that he didn’t even think to reprimand his godfather for thinking, even for a second, that Harry could not be happy to hear such news.



“This is the best birthday present I could ever get, Sirius…” Harry mumbled into the chest beneath him. He felt long fingers tangle themselves in his hair and a hard stomach contract as Sirius raised the top half of his body to press a kiss to his godson’s temple.



* * * *



It had been three days since he had received the news of Sirius’ pardon. Three days in which he could not count the number of letters he had written to his friends. Three days that he had spent restlessly and tortuously waiting for the go-ahead from Dumbledore, informing him that he had fulfilled his required amount of time at the Dursleys and that he could move in with Sirius and Remus. This was the end of the third day and Harry was trying to keep himself busy. Luckily his aunt had left him a list of chores to do that morning when she left for whatever it was she did during the day, so he had no trouble finding things to do.



Harry was putting away the last of the dishes when he heard his cousin Dudley come stomping into the kitchen.



“Where’s mum?” he growled out viciously, as if Harry had gone and hidden her in some unknown closet somewhere.



Harry scowled, “I don’t know. She left this morning and I haven‘t seen her since. I promise I didn’t magic her away or anything.”



Dudley grumbled as he walked out of the kitchen, dissatisfied with the answer Harry had given him. With a roll of his eyes, the dark haired boy closed the cupboard door and turned to go up to his room. It was getting late and he was tired from the chores he had been doing all day. As he himself began to wonder where his aunt was at this late hour (Vernon often didn’t even come home some nights), Harry felt a cool breeze ghost over his face.



He looked up and froze mid stride, his heart skipping a beat. The front door was open.



Annoyance bubbled in the pit of his stomach and he strode towards the open door.



“Jesus, Dudley, can’t you even remember to close the damn door!”



Harry shoved the thing violently as he walked past, heading for the stairs. He had just skipped over the one squeaky stair when he slowed and stopped. The door had not slammed. There had not been a sound. He held his breath and tried to ignore the cool sensation of pins and needles crawling up his spine. Forcing his legs to move, he turned on the narrow step and felt his blood turn to ice in his veins.



Dudley Dursley lay in the still open doorway. His body rigid looking and still as stone. His face had turned the same shade as the concrete of the step on which his head rested. Harry felt bile rise in his throat as he stared at the gaping, bloody chasm that was his cousin’s torso and he pressed trembling hands over his mouth, leaning against the wall for support. He closed his eyes.



“Didn’t you always say he was too fat?”



He wanted to scream, even went so far as to open his mouth behind his hands, but no sound came out. He recognized that voice. Lucius Malfoy stood, beside Dudley’s mutilated corpse, in all his glory. His long, silver hair illuminated by the street light flooding through the door, casting an eerie orange glow into the hallway. He bestowed a look of purest triumph upon Harry’s quivering form.



“Your aunt is dead, Potter.” The man gave the explanation before Harry’s brain could even formulate the question. “It was so horribly simple that we had overlooked it these past years.” He smirked, “Not anymore. Petunia Dursley is dead, and by default, so is the protection your mother left in you.”



Harry became aware of dark shapes shifting within the shadows of the living room and hall. Small creeks could be heard on the landing and the soft padding of footsteps reached his hypersensitive ears.



The house was surrounded, infested, overcome with Death Eaters.



He didn’t even consider his wand. It still lay under his pillow, where he slept with it every night. He managed to level a shaky glare at Malfoy as the man smiled benignly.



“Now,” he purred dangerously, “We can do this the easy way, wherein you come quietly, or…we can do it the other way...”



Harry felt two cold hands grab him at the elbows from behind and he tensed. This may be a hopeless situation, but he knew one thing: he wasn’t going without a fight. He was going to make them work for this prize.



“You know me,” he snarled, finding his voice, though it trembled horribly, “I like to make things as difficult as possible”



And before the other man could put in his two, snarky, cents, Harry bent at the waist and pitched his body forward, rolling the body behind him over his back and down the stairs. Luckily the man had been on the smaller side, otherwise that might not have worked. The Death Eater tumbled down the stairs with a lot of loud cracks, until he hit the bottom landing and lay still.



However, no one had paused long enough to watch the whole thing play out. As soon as he was free, Harry had leapt over the banister and into the hallway below. He prepared himself for the impact of the height but ended up landing on top of another person, crushing them beneath him and breaking his fall. His hand closed about the fallen man’s wand and he leaped from the floor and away from his attackers.



Another figure blocked his path and, not knowing if it was going to work, Harry thrust the wand before him and yelled, “Stupefy!”



Relieved, he leaped over the body and into the kitchen, closing and locking the door behind him. It was blasted off its hinges within seconds, but that was enough time for him to grab the steak knife from the cutting board, and in the few more seconds it took for the smoke of the blast to clear, Harry positioned himself by the door.



Time slowed.



The wand lay discarded on the counter. He cared only for one thing now. Blood was dripping down his face; the blast had sent splinters flying in every direction and he could feel the small bits of wood embedded in his skin. The pain kept him grounded to reality and kept him sane. He was focused, determined.



He was ready to take some lives if it meant saving his.



His bloody hand clenched around the handle of the blade like iron as he drew it back, the faint outline of silver hair swaying from left to right as the Death Eater strode into the kitchen, wand thrust before him.



Lucius Malfoy hadn’t stood a chance. Ready for a magical attack, he looked beyond the blade as it connected with his throat. A terrible squelching noise cut through the air as metal cut open the Death Eater’s windpipe and he fell to the floor. His normally perfect hair disheveled and blood soaked. Before the democrat had even hit the floor, Harry’s knife was hilt deep in someone else’ stomach. The rest of them wore masks – their identity unknown - and he supposed that may have made it easier in a way.



He was being overwhelmed now, he realized, as he swung the blade up into the next Death Eater’s jugular. No sooner had the thought entered his mind that Harry was tackled to the floor by a spell.



Ragged breathing; curse words; cries of pain and bloody, dying gurgles filled the smoky air of the kitchen, and Harry lay there, on the floor, panting. His aunt was dead, his cousin too, and he could only assume his uncle had suffered the same fate. He was about to be brought to Voldemort himself.



Harry’s scattered and traumatized mind spit forth gruesome images of torture chambers, shackles and prison cells even as he was enveloped into darkness.



* * * *



Albus Dumbledore watched as the most important members in the Order of the Phoenix assembled themselves around the table before him. What had taken place only an hour ago was a tragic and horrible affair, and there would be no easy way to deliver the news. He knew this, and yet his eyes found one man in particular, taking in the toothy grin, the shaven face and clean hair. Just months ago this man had been a complete wreck and now…now he was a new man. Albus knew what he was about to announce would ruin him once more and he wished he could give the man a few more days of happiness. He wished there was some way he could delay this tragedy.



Once everyone was seated, Dumbledore stood, resting his wrinkled hands atop a table as old and worn as he.



“I regret to inform you that you have not been called on a count of good news.” His voice was tense and poignant, a reflection of his thoughts and emotions.



Albus felt his heart fall with the faces of the others but he forced himself to speak, “There is no easy way to tell you…” He faltered here and saw alarm flash through several pairs of eyes. They knew it for what it was now. But still…how could he tell them? Inhaling through his nose in a fruitless attempt to calm his mind, Albus ploughed on, “Harry Potter has been kidnapped.”



An unexpected silence greeted this statement and the wizened old man stared around, from face to face, and saw features slack with shock or crumpled with skepticism. Finally someone from farther down the table asked the question, “What?”



Seating himself, Albus prepared for a long meeting and began the explanation.



“After a disruption in the wards surrounding and protecting Harry’s house, Ministry officials were dispatched immediately. Upon arrival, however, the Aurors were met with resistance. Anti-Apparition spells had been placed securely around the perimeter of the structure and Death Eaters stood posted everywhere.” He paused here, a reprieve in his mechanic recount. “No spells were fired from the Death Eaters, but witness officials say they heard noises from within the house.”



“What did they hear?” Tonks, her voice sounding small in the large room, had asked the question.



“They, that is to say the Death Eaters, were laughing. There were screams as well. A witness in the report said they had seen a body lying in the doorway of the house…”



Hands flew to mouths and cries of alarm rang through the air.



“It wasn’t Harry!”



“Was it Harry?!”



“Who was screaming?!”



“How did this happen?”



“The body,” Dumbledore spoke, his voice rising above the others and quieting them at once, “Belonged to Dudley Dursley, Harry’s cousin. Of the screams, we cannot be sure, but the witness was questioned about the entire event and said that the screams did not sound like those of a teenager, but someone older.”



“What does that mean?” Asked Kingsley, his dark brows furrowed in worry.



Albus took pause before he decided to tell them his theory. “The only people in that house were Harry and the Death Eaters. If the screams were not Harry’s then we must assume they belonged to Voldemort’s followers.”



“That boy never was one to go down without a fight.”



Solid nods and sad murmurs of agreement were all that met Moody’s statement.



“Unfortunately, by the time the spell and curse breakers had managed to get through the surfeit of enchantments, the Death Eaters had already fled the house; bringing Harry with them.” He heaved a sigh, “Minister Fudge has, so far, been able to keep all this out of the press. His methods are questionable, however. Some of the Aurors on the scene do not seem to recall the event at all, which leads me to believe Fudge has had some of his men Obliviated. This causes some concern, as it suggests that the Aurors and the Minister do not trust one other.” Albus leaned back in his chair, “But that is neither here nor there. Vernon, Petunia and Dudley Dursley were all found dead …”



At the very end of the table, where no one’s attention was focused, Sirius Black cradled his face in his hands and cried for the first time in fourteen years.





* * * *



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