TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT 38 страница

and shouted “ Expelliarmus! ”

It worked — the Disarming Spell made the spider drop him, but that meant that Harry fell twelve feet onto his already injured leg, which crumpled beneath him. Without pausing to think, he aimed high at the spider’s underbelly, as he had done with the

skrewt, and shouted “ Stupefy! ” just as Cedric yelled the same thing.

The two spells combined did what one alone had not: The spi- der keeled over sideways, flattening a nearby hedge, and strewing the path with a tangle of hairy legs.

“Harry! ” he heard Cedric shouting. “You all right? Did it fall on you? ”

“No, ” Harry called back, panting. He looked down at his leg. It was bleeding freely. He could see some sort of thick, gluey secre- tion from the spider’s pincers on his torn robes. He tried to get up, but his leg was shaking badly and did not want to support his weight. He leaned against the hedge, gasping for breath, and looked around.

Cedric was standing feet from the Triwizard Cup, which was gleaming behind him.

“Take it, then, ” Harry panted to Cedric. “Go on, take it. You’re there. ”

But Cedric didn’t move. He merely stood there, looking at Harry. Then he turned to stare at the cup. Harry saw the longing expression on his face in its golden light. Cedric looked around at Harry again, who was now holding onto the hedge to support him- self. Cedric took a deep breath.

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“You take it. You should win. That’s twice you’ve saved my neck in here. ”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work, ” Harry said. He felt an- gry; his leg was very painful, he was aching all over from trying to throw off the spider, and after all his efforts, Cedric had beaten him to it, just as he’d beaten Harry to ask Cho to the ball. “The one who reaches the cup first gets the points. That’s you. I’m telling you, I’m not going to win any races on this leg. ”

Cedric took a few paces nearer to the Stunned spider, away from the cup, shaking his head.

“No, ” he said.

“Stop being noble, ” said Harry irritably. “Just take it, then we can get out of here. ”

Cedric watched Harry steadying himself, holding tight to the hedge.

“You told me about the dragons, ” Cedric said. “I would’ve gone down in the first task if you hadn’t told me what was coming. ” “I had help on that too, ” Harry snapped, trying to mop up his bloody leg with his robes. “You helped me with the egg — we’re square. ”

“I had help on the egg in the first place, ” said Cedric. “We’re still square, ” said Harry, testing his leg gingerly; it shook violently as he put weight on it; he had sprained his ankle when the spider had dropped him.

“You should’ve got more points on the second task, ” said Cedric mulishly. “You stayed behind to get all the hostages. I should’ve done that. ”

“I was the only one who was thick enough to take that song se- riously! ” said Harry bitterly. “Just take the cup! ”

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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“No, ” said Cedric.

He stepped over the spider’s tangled legs to join Harry, who stared at him. Cedric was serious. He was walking away from the sort of glory Hufflepuff House hadn’t had in centuries.

“Go on, ” Cedric said. He looked as though this was costing him every ounce of resolution he had, but his face was set, his arms were folded, he seemed decided.

Harry looked from Cedric to the cup. For one shining moment, he saw himself emerging from the maze, holding it. He saw himself holding the Triwizard Cup aloft, heard the roar of the crowd, saw Cho’s face shining with admiration, more clearly than he had ever seen it before. . . and then the picture faded, and he found himself staring at Cedric’s shadowy, stubborn face.

“Both of us, ” Harry said.

“What? ”

“We’ll take it at the same time. It’s still a Hogwarts victory. We’ll tie for it. ”

Cedric stared at Harry. He unfolded his arms.

“You — you sure? ”

“Yeah, ” said Harry. “Yeah. . . we’ve helped each other out, haven’t we? We both got here. Let’s just take it together. ”

For a moment, Cedric looked as though he couldn’t believe his ears; then his face split in a grin.

“You’re on, ” he said. “Come here. ”

He grabbed Harry’s arm below the shoulder and helped Harry limp toward the plinth where the cup stood. When they had reached it, they both held a hand out over one of the cup’s gleam- ing handles.

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“On three, right? ” said Harry. “One — two — three —” He and Cedric both grasped a handle.

Instantly, Harry felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel. His feet had left the ground. He could not unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup; it was pulling him onward in a howl of wind and swirling color, Cedric at his side.

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FLESH, BLOOD, AND BONE

arry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured leg gave

way, and he fell forward; his hand let go of the Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head.

“Where are we? ” he said.

Cedric shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around.

They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obvi- ously traveled miles — perhaps hundreds of miles — for even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside.

Cedric looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry.

“Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey? ” he asked.

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“Nope, ” said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. “Is this supposed to be part of the task? ”

“I dunno, ” said Cedric. He sounded slightly nervous. “Wands out, d’you reckon? ”

“Yeah, ” said Harry, glad that Cedric had made the suggestion rather than him.

They pulled out their wands. Harry kept looking around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling that they were being watched.

“Someone’s coming, ” he said suddenly.

Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward them between the graves. Harry couldn’t make out a face, but from the way it was walking and holding its arms, he could tell that it was carrying something. Whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. And — several paces nearer, the gap between them closing all the time — Harry saw that the thing in the person’s arms looked like a baby. . . or was it merely a bundle of robes?

Harry lowered his wand slightly and glanced sideways at Cedric. Cedric shot him a quizzical look. They both turned back to watch the approaching figure.

It stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only six feet from them. For a second, Harry and Cedric and the short figure simply looked at one another.

And then, without warning, Harry’s scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life; his wand slipped

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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

from his fingers as he put his hands over his face; his knees buck- led; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head was about to split open.

From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold voice say,

“ Kill the spare. ”

A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched the words

to the night: “ Avada Kedavra! ”

A blast of green light blazed through Harry’s eyelids, and he heard something heavy fall to the ground beside him; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch that he retched, and then it dimin- ished; terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes.

Cedric was lying spread-eagled on the ground beside him. He was dead.

For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stared into Cedric’s face, at his open gray eyes, blank and expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, at his half-open mouth, which looked slightly surprised. And then, before Harry’s mind had ac- cepted what he was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet.

The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle, lit his wand, and was dragging Harry toward the marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon it flickering in the wandlight before he was forced around and slammed against it.

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The cloaked man was now conjuring tight cords around Harry, tying him from neck to ankles to the headstone. Harry could hear

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shallow, fast breathing from the depths of the hood; he struggled, and the man hit him — hit him with a hand that had a finger miss- ing. And Harry realized who was under the hood. It was Wormtail. “You! ” he gasped.

But Wormtail, who had finished conjuring the ropes, did not re- ply; he was busy checking the tightness of the cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, fumbling over the knots. Once sure that Harry was bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn’t move an inch, Wormtail drew a length of some black material from the inside of his cloak and stuffed it roughly into Harry’s mouth; then, without a word, he turned from Harry and hurried away. Harry couldn’t make a sound, nor could he see where Wormtail had gone; he couldn’t turn his head to see beyond the headstone; he could see only what was right in front of him.

Cedric’s body was lying some twenty feet away. Some way be- yond him, glinting in the starlight, lay the Triwizard Cup. Harry’s wand was on the ground at Cedric’s feet. The bundle of robes that Harry had thought was a baby was close by, at the foot of the grave. It seemed to be stirring fretfully. Harry watched it, and his scar seared with pain again. . . and he suddenly knew that he didn’t want to see what was in those robes. . . he didn’t want that bundle opened. . . .

He could hear noises at his feet. He looked down and saw a gigantic snake slithering through the grass, circling the headstone where he was tied. Wormtail’s fast, wheezy breathing was growing louder again. It sounded as though he was forcing something heavy across the ground. Then he came back within Harry’s range of vision, and Harry saw him pushing a stone cauldron to the foot of the grave. It was full of what seemed to be water — Harry could

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hear it slopping around — and it was larger than any cauldron Harry had ever used; a great stone belly large enough for a full- grown man to sit in.

The thing inside the bundle of robes on the ground was stirring more persistently, as though it was trying to free itself. Now Worm- tail was busying himself at the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. Suddenly there were crackling flames beneath it. The large snake slithered away into the darkness.

The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat very fast. The surface began not only to bubble, but to send out fiery sparks, as though it were on fire. Steam was thickening, blurring the outline of Worm- tail tending the fire. The movements beneath the robes became more agitated. And Harry heard the high, cold voice again.

“ Hurry! ”

The whole surface of the water was alight with sparks now. It might have been encrusted with diamonds.

“It is ready, Master. ”

“ Now. . . ” said the cold voice.

Wormtail pulled open the robes on the ground, revealing what was inside them, and Harry let out a yell that was strangled in the wad of material blocking his mouth.

It was as though Wormtail had flipped over a stone and revealed something ugly, slimy, and blind — but worse, a hundred times worse. The thing Wormtail had been carrying had the shape of a crouched human child, except that Harry had never seen anything less like a child. It was hairless and scaly-looking, a dark, raw, red- dish black. Its arms and legs were thin and feeble, and its face — no child alive ever had a face like that — flat and snakelike, with gleaming red eyes.

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The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its thin arms, put them around Wormtail’s neck, and Wormtail lifted it. As he did so, his hood fell back, and Harry saw the look of revulsion on Worm- tail’s weak, pale face in the firelight as he carried the creature to the rim of the cauldron. For one moment, Harry saw the evil, flat face illuminated in the sparks dancing on the surface of the potion. And then Wormtail lowered the creature into the cauldron; there was a hiss, and it vanished below the surface; Harry heard its frail body hit the bottom with a soft thud.

Let it drown, Harry thought, his scar burning almost past en-

durance, please. . . let it drown. . . .

Wormtail was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed frightened beyond his wits. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night.

“ Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son! ”

The surface of the grave at Harry’s feet cracked. Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Wormtail’s com- mand and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

And now Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His voice broke into petrified sobs.

“ Flesh — of the servant — w-willingly given — you will —

revive — your master. ”

He stretched his right hand out in front of him — the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward.

Harry realized what Wormtail was about to do a second before it

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happened — he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream that pierced the night, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail’s anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry couldn’t stand to look. . . but the potion had turned a burning red; the light of it shone through Harry’s closed eyelids. . . .

Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony. Not until Harry felt Wormtail’s anguished breath on his face did he realize that Wormtail was right in front of him.

“ B-blood of the enemy. . . forcibly taken. . . you will. . . resurrect

your foe. ”

Harry could do nothing to prevent it, he was tied too tightly. . . . Squinting down, struggling hopelessly at the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver dagger shaking in Wormtail’s remaining hand. He felt its point penetrate the crook of his right arm and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes. Wormtail, still panting with pain, fumbled in his pocket for a glass vial and held it to Harry’s cut, so that a dribble of blood fell into it.

He staggered back to the cauldron with Harry’s blood. He poured it inside. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.

The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety blackness. Nothing happened. . . .

Let it have drowned, Harry thought, let it have gone wrong. . . .

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And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn’t see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapor hang-

ing in the air. . . . It’s gone wrong, he thought . . . it’s drowned. . .

please. . . please let it be dead. . . .

But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

“Robe me, ” said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master’s head.

The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry. . . and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his night- mares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake’s with slits for nostrils. . . Lord Voldemort had risen again.

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THE DEATH EATERS

oldemort looked away from Harry and began examining

his own body. His hands were like large, pale spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face; the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cat’s, gleamed still more brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant. He took not the slightest notice of Wormtail, who lay twitching and bleeding on the ground, nor of the great snake, which had slithered back into sight and was cir- cling Harry again, hissing. Voldemort slipped one of those unnat- urally long-fingered hands into a deep pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Wormtail, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the headstone where Harry was tied; he fell to the foot of it and lay there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh.

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Wormtail’s robes were shining with blood now; he had wrapped the stump of his arm in them.

“My Lord. . . ” he choked, “my Lord. . . you promised. . . you did promise. . . ”

“Hold out your arm, ” said Voldemort lazily.

“Oh Master. . . thank you, Master. . . ”

He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again. “The other arm, Wormtail. ”

“Master, please. . . please. . . ”

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tat- too — a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth — the im- age that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping.

“It is back, ” he said softly, “they will all have noticed it. . . and now, we shall see. . . now we shall know. . . ”

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail’s arm.

The scar on Harry’s forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black.

A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard. “How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it? ” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away? ”

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He began to pace up and down before Harry and Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face.

“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father, ” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool. . . very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child. . . and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death. . . . ”

Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around him as he walked, and the snake continued to circle in the grass.

“You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was. . . . He didn’t like magic, my father. . .

“He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage. . . but I vowed to find him. . . I re-

venged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name. . . Tom

Riddle.. . . ”

Still he paced, his red eyes darting from grave to grave. “Listen to me, reliving family history. . . ” he said quietly, “why,

I am growing quite sentimental. . . . But look, Harry! My true fam-

ily returns. . . . ”

The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward. . . slowly, cautiously, as though they could

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hardly believe their eyes. Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled to- ward Voldemort, and kissed the hem of his black robes.

“Master. . . Master. . . ” he murmured.

The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of them ap- proaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle, which en- closed Tom Riddle’s grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing and twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind, a rustling seemed to run around the cir- cle, as though it had shivered.

“Welcome, Death Eaters, ” said Voldemort quietly. “Thirteen years. . . thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday. . . . We are still united under the Dark

Mark, then! Or are we? ”

He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening.

“I smell guilt, ” he said. “There is a stench of guilt upon the air. ” A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare, to step back from him.

“I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact — such prompt appearances! — and I ask myself. . . why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty? ”

No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding arm.

“And I answer myself, ” whispered Voldemort, “they must have

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believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment. . . .

“And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living?

“And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort. . . per- haps they now pay allegiance to another. . . perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore? ” At the mention of Dumbledore’s name, the members of the cir- cle stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them.

“It is a disappointment to me. . . I confess myself disap- pointed. . . . ”

One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort’s feet.

“Master! ” he shrieked, “Master, forgive me! Forgive us all! ” Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand.

“ Crucio! ”

The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked; Harry

was sure the sound must carry to the houses around. . . . Let the

police come, he thought desperately. . . anyone. . . anything. . .

Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured Death Eater lay flat upon the ground, gasping.

“Get up, Avery, ” said Voldemort softly. “Stand up. You ask for

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forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years. . . I want thirteen years’ repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail? ”

He looked down at Wormtail, who continued to sob. “You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don’t you? ”

“Yes, Master, ” moaned Wormtail, “please, Master. . . please. . . ” “Yet you helped return me to my body, ” said Voldemort coolly, watching Wormtail sob on the ground. “Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me. . . and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers. . . . ”

Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air. A streak of what looked like molten silver hung shining in the wand’s wake. Momentarily shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a gleaming replica of a human hand, bright as moon- light, which soared downward and fixed itself upon Wormtail’s bleeding wrist.

Wormtail’s sobbing stopped abruptly. His breathing harsh and ragged, he raised his head and stared in disbelief at the silver hand, now attached seamlessly to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling, picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it into powder.

“My Lord, ” he whispered. “Master. . . it is beautiful. . . thank

you. . . thank you. . . . ”

He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the hem of Volde- mort’s robes.

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“May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail, ” said Voldemort.

“No, my Lord. . . never, my Lord. . . ”

Wormtail stood up and took his place in the circle, staring at his powerful new hand, his face still shining with tears. Voldemort now approached the man on Wormtail’s right.

“Lucius, my slippery friend, ” he whispered, halting before him. “I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius. . . . Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay. . . but might not your energies have been bet- ter directed toward finding and aiding your master? ”