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J.K.Rîwling >> Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (page 73)If ever Harry might have released his wand from shock, it would have been then, but instinct kept him clutching his wand tightly, so that the thread of golden light remained unbroken, even though the thick gray ghost of Cedric Diggory (was it a ghost? it looked so solid) emerged in its entirety from the end of Voldemort s wand, as though it were squeezing itself out of a very narrow tunnel... and this shade of Cedric stood up, and looked up and down the golden thread of light, and spoke. “Hold on. Harry,” it said. Its voice was distant and echoing. Harry looked at Voldemort ...his wide red eyes were still shocked ...he had no more expected this than Harry had... and, very dimly. Harry heard the frightened yells of the Death Eaters, prowling around the edges of the golden dome.. More screams of pain from the wand... and then something else emerged from its tip ...the dense shadow of a second head, quickly followed by arms and torso ...an old man Harry had seen only in a dream was now pushing himself out of the end of the wand just as Cedric had done... and his ghost, or his shadow, or whatever it was, fell next to Cedric's, and surveyed Harry and Voldemort, and the golden web, and the connected wands, with mild surprise, leaning on his walking stick... “He was a real wizard, then?” the old man said, his eyes on Voldemort. “Killed me, that one did... You fight him, boy...” But already, yet another head was emerging ...and this head, gray as a smoky statue, was a woman's... Harry, both arms shaking now as he fought to keep his wand still, saw her drop to the ground and straighten up like the others, staring... The shadow of Bertha Jorkins surveyed the battle before her with wide eyes. “Don't let go, now!” she cried, and her voice echoed like Cedrics as though from very far away. “Don't let him get you, Harry—don't let go!” She and the other two shadowy figures began to pace around the inner walls of the golden web, while the Death Eaters flitted around the outside of it... and Voldemort's dead victims whispered as they circled the duelers, whispered words of encouragement to Harry, and hissed words Harry couldn't hear to Voldemort. And now another head was emerging from the tip of Voldemorts wand... and Harry knew when he saw it who it would be ...he knew, as though he had expected it from the moment when Cedric had appeared from the wand... knew, because the man appearing was the one he'd thought of more than any other tonight... The smoky shadow of a tall man with untidy hair fell to the ground as Bertha had done, straightened up, and looked at him... and Harry, his arms shaking madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his father. “Your mother's coming...” he said quietly. “She wants to see you ...it will be all right... hold on...” And she came... first her head, then her body... a young woman with long hair, the smoky, shadowy form of Lily Potter blossomed from the end of Voldemort's wand, fell to the ground, and straightened like her husband. She walked close to Harry, looking down at him, and she spoke in the same distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear as his victims prowled around him, could not hear... “When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments... but we will give you time... you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts ...do you understand, Harry?” “Yes,” Harry gasped, fighting now to keep a hold on his wand, which was slipping and sliding beneath his fingers. “Harry...” whispered the figure of Cedric, “take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents, ...” “I will,” said Harry, his face screwed up with the effort of holding the wand. “Do it now,” whispered his father's voice, “be ready to run... do it now...” “NOW!” Harry yelled; he didn't think he could have held on for another moment anyway—he pulled his wand upward with an almighty wrench, and the golden thread broke; the cage of light vanished, the phoenix song died—but the shadowy figures of Voldemort's victims did not disappear—they were closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Harry from his gaze— And Harry ran as he had never run in his life, knocking two stunned Death Eaters aside as he passed; he zigzagged behind headstones, feeling their curses following him, hearing them hit the headstones—he was dodging curses and graves, pelting toward Cedric's body, no longer aware of the pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what he had to do— “Stun him!” he heard Voldemort scream. Ten feet from Cedric, Harry dived behind a marble angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of its wing shatter as the spells hit it. Gripping his wand more tightly, he dashed out from behind the angel— “Impedimenta!” he bellowed, pointing his wand wildly over his shoulder at the Death Eaters running at him. From a muffled yell, he thought he had stopped at least one of them, but there was no time to stop and look; he jumped over the cup and dived as he heard more wand blasts behind him; more jets of light flew over his head as he fell, stretching out his hand to grab Cedric's arm... “Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!” shrieked Voldemort. Harry's hand had closed on Cedric's wrist; one tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, but Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was out of reach— Voldemort's red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry saw his mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his wand. “Accio!” Harry yelled, pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup. It flew into the air and soared toward him. Harry caught it by the handle— He heard Voldemort s scream of fury at the same moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that meant the Portkey had worked—it was speeding him away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric along with him... They were going back. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE VERITASERUM Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face was pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him were swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup and Cedric's body. He felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting... waiting for someone to do something... something to happen... and all the while, his scar burned dully on his forehead... A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams... He remained where he was, his face screwed up against the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would pass... Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over. “Harry! Harry!” He opened his eyes. He was looking up at the starry sky, and Albus Dumbledore was crouched over him. The dark shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around them, pushing nearer; Harry felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps. He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could see the stands rising above him, the shapes of people moving in them, the stars above. Harry let go of the cup, but he clutched Cedric to him even more tightly. He raised his free hand and seized Dumbledore's wrist, while Dumbledore's face swam in and out of focus. “He's back,” Harry whispered. “He's back. Voldemort.” “What's going on? What's happened?” The face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down over Harry; it looked white, appalled. “My God—Diggory!” it whispered. “Dumbledore—he's dead!” The words were repeated, the shadowy figures pressing in on them gasped it to those around them... and then others shouted it—screeched it—into the night—”He's dead!” “He's dead!” “Cedric Diggory! Dead!” “Harry, let go of him,” he heard Fudge's voice say, and he felt fingers trying to pry him from Cedric's limp body, but Harry wouldn't let him go. Then Dumbledore's face, which was still blurred and misted, came closer. “Harry, you can't help him now. It's over. Let go.” “He wanted me to bring him back,” Harry muttered—it seemed important to explain this. “He wanted me to bring him back to his parents...” “That's right. Harry... just let go now...” Dumbledore bent down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised Harry from the ground and set -him on his feet. Harry swayed. His head was pounding. His injured leg would no longer support his weight. The crowd around them jostled, fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him—”What's happened?” “What's wrong with him?” “Diggorys dead!” “He'll need to go to the hospital wing!” Fudge was saying loudly. “He's ill, he's injured—Dumbledore, Diggory's parents, they're here, they're in the stands...” “I'll take Harry, Dumbledore, I'll take him—” “No, I would prefer-” “Dumbledore, Amos Diggorys running... he's coming over... Don't you think you should tell him—before he sees—?” “Harry, stay here—” Girls were screaming, sobbing hysterically... The scene flickered oddly before Harry's eyes... “Its all right, son, I've got you... come on ...hospital wing...” “Dumbledore said stay,” said Harry thickly, the pounding in his scar making him feel as though he was about to throw up; his vision was blurring worse than ever. “You need to lie down... Come on now...” Someone larger and stronger than he was was half pulling, half carrying him through the frightened crowd. Harry heard people gasping, screaming, and shouting as the man supporting him pushed a path through them, taking him back to the castle. Across the lawn, past the lake and the Durmstrang ship, Harry heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the man helping him walk. “What happened. Harry?” the man asked at last as he lifted Harry up the stone steps. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. It was Mad-Eye Moody. “Cup was a Portkey,” said Harry as they crossed the entrance hall. “Took me and Cedric to a graveyard... and Voldemort was there... Lord Voldemort...” Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Up the marble stairs... “The Dark Lord was there? What happened then?” “Killed Cedric... they killed Cedric...” “And then?” Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Along the corridor... “Made a potion... got his body back...” “The Dark Lord got his body back? He's returned?” “And the Death Eaters came... and then we dueled...” “You dueled with the Dark Lord?” “Got away... my wand... did something funny... I saw my mum and dad... they came out of his wand...” “In here. Harry ...in here, and sit down... You'll be all right now... drink this...” Harry heard a key scrape in a lock and felt a cup being pushed into his hands. “Drink it... you'll feel better... come on, now. Harry, I need to know exactly what happened...” Moody helped tip the stuff down Harrys throat; he coughed, a peppery taste burning his throat. Moody's office came into sharper focus, and so did Moody himself... He looked as white as Fudge had looked, and both eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Harry's face. “Voldemort's back, Harry? You're sure he's back? How did he do it?” “He took stuff from his father's grave, and from Wormtail, and me,” said Harry. His head felt clearer; his scar wasn't hurting so badly; he could now see Moodys face distinctly, even though the office was dark. He could still hear screaming and shouting from the distant Quidditch field. “What did the Dark Lord take from you?” said Moody. “Blood,” said Harry, raising his arm. His sleeve was ripped where Wormtail's dagger had torn it. Moody let out his breath in a long, low hiss. “And the Death Eaters? They returned?” “Yes,” said Harry. “Loads of them...” “How did he treat them?” Moody asked quietly. “Did he forgive them?” But Harry had suddenly remembered. He should have told Dumbledore, he should have said it straightaway— “There's a Death Eater at Hogwarts! There's a Death Eater here—they put my name in the Goblet of Fire, they made sure I got through to the end—” Harry tried to get up, but Moody pushed him back down. “I know who the Death Eater is,” he said quietly. “Karkaroff?” said Harry wildly. “Where is he? Have you got him? Is he locked up?” “Karkaroff?” said Moody with an odd laugh. “Karkaroff fled tonight, when he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them... but I doubt he will get far. The Dark Lord has ways of tracking his enemies.” “Karkaroff's gone? He ran away? But then—he didn't put my name in the goblet?” “No,” said Moody slowly. “No, he didn't. It was I who did that.” Harry heard, but didn't believe. “No, you didn't,” he said. “You didn't do that... you can't have done...” “I assure you I did,” said Moody, and his magical eye swung around and fixed upon the door, and Harry knew he was making sure that there was no one outside it. At the same time, Moody drew out his wand and pointed it at Harry. “He forgave them, then?” he said. “The Death Eaters who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?” “What?” said Harry. He was looking at the wand Moody was pointing at him. This was a bad joke, it had to be. “I asked you,” said Moody quietly, “whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn't even brave Azkaban for him. The faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort in masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky.” |
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