“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.
35. 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?”
“Diggory’s 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 Diggory’s 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…
“It’s 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 Harry’s 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 Moody’s 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.”
“You fired… What are you talking about…?”
“I told you, Harry… I told you. If there’s one thing I hate more than any other, it’s a Death Eater who walked free. They turned their backs on my master when he needed them most. I expected him to punish them. I expected him to torture them. Tell me he hurt them, Harry…” Moody’s face was suddenly lit with an insane smile. “Tell me he told them that I, I alone remained faithful… prepared to risk everything to deliver to him the one thing he wanted above all… you.”
“You didn’t… it—it can’t be you…”
“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire, under the name of a different school? I did. Who frightened off every person I thought might try to hurt you or prevent you from winning the tournament? I did. Who nudged Hagrid into showing you the dragons? I did. Who helped you see the only way you could beat the dragon? I did.”
Moody’s magical eye had now left the door. It was fixed upon Harry. His lopsided mouth leered more widely than ever.
“It hasn’t been easy, Harry, guiding you through these tasks without arousing suspicion. I have had to use every ounce of cunning I possess, so that my hand would not be detectable in your success. Dumbledore would have been very suspicious if you had managed everything too easily. As long as you got into that maze, preferably with a decent head start—then, I knew, I would have a chance of getting rid of the other champions and leaving your way clear. But I also had to contend with your stupidity. The second task… that was when I was most afraid we would fail. I was keeping watch on you, Potter. I knew you hadn’t worked out the egg’s clue, so I had to give you another hint—”
“You didn’t,” Harry said hoarsely. “Cedric gave me the clue—”
“Who told Cedric to open it underwater? I did. I trusted that he would pass the information on to you. Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Potter. I was sure Cedric would want to repay you for telling him about the dragons, and so he did. But even then, Potter, even then you seemed likely to fail. I was watching all the time… all those hours in the library. Didn’t you realize that the book you needed was in your dormitory all along? I planted it there early on, I gave it to the Longbottom boy, don’t you remember? Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean. It would have told you all you needed to know about gillyweed. I expected you to ask everyone and anyone you could for help. Longbottom would have told you in an instant. But you did not… you did not… You have a streak of pride and independence that might have ruined all.
“So what could I do? Feed you information from another innocent source. You told me at the Yule Ball a house-elf called Dobby had given you a Christmas present. I called the elf to the staffroom to collect some robes for cleaning. I staged a loud conversation with Professor McGonagall about the hostages who had been taken, and whether Potter would think to use gillyweed. And your little elf friend ran straight to Snape’s office and then hurried to find you…”
Moody’s wand was still pointing directly at Harry’s heart. Over his shoulder, foggy shapes were moving in the Foe-Glass on the wall.
“You were so long in that lake, Potter, I thought you had drowned. But luckily, Dumbledore took your idiocy for nobility, and marked you high for it. I breathed again.
“You had an easier time of it than you should have in that maze tonight, of course,” said Moody. “I was patrolling around it, able to see through the outer hedges, able to curse many obstacles out of your way. I Stunned Fleur Delacour as she passed. I put the Imperius Curse on Krum, so that he would finish Diggory and leave your path to the cup clear.”
Harry stared at Moody. He just didn’t see how this could be… Dumbledore’s friend, the famous Auror… the one who had caught so many Death Eaters… It made no sense… no sense at all…
The foggy shapes in the Foe-Glass were sharpening, had become more distinct. Harry could see the outlines of three people over Moody’s shoulder, moving closer and closer. But Moody wasn’t watching them. His magical eye was upon Harry.
“The Dark Lord didn’t manage to kill you, Potter, and he so wanted to,” whispered Moody. “Imagine how he will reward me when he finds I have done it for him. I gave you to him—the thing he needed above all to regenerate—and then I killed you for him. I will be honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I will be his dearest, his closest supporter… closer than a son…”
Moody’s normal eye was bulging, the magical eye fixed upon Harry. The door was barred, and Harry knew he would never reach his own wand in time…
“The Dark Lord and I,” said Moody, and he looked completely insane now, towering over Harry, leering down at him, “have much in common. Both of us, for instance, had very disappointing fathers… very disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. And both of us had the pleasure… the very great pleasure… of killing our fathers to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!”
“You’re mad,” Harry said—he couldn’t stop himself—“you’re mad!”
“Mad, am I?” said Moody, his voice rising uncontrollably. “We’ll see! We’ll see who’s mad, now that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! He is back, Harry Potter, you did not conquer him—and now—I conquer you!”
Moody raised
his wand, he opened his mouth; Harry plunged his own hand into his robes—
“Stupefy!” There was a blinding flash of red light, and with a great splintering and crashing, the door of Moody’s office was blasted apart—
Moody was thrown backward onto the office floor. Harry, still staring at the place where Moody’s face had been, saw Albus Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and Professor McGonagall looking back at him out of the Foe-Glass. He looked around and saw the three of them standing in the doorway, Dumbledore in front, his wand outstretched.
At that moment, Harry fully understood for the first time why people said Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared. The look upon Dumbledore’s face as he stared down at the unconscious form of Mad-Eye Moody was more terrible than Harry could have ever imagined. There was no benign smile upon Dumbledore’s face, no twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of power radiated from Dumbledore as though he were giving off burning heat.
He stepped into the office, placed a foot underneath Moody’s unconscious body, and kicked him over onto his back, so that his face was visible. Snape followed him, looking into the Foe-Glass, where his own face was still visible, glaring into the room. Professor McGonagall went straight to Harry.
“Come along, Potter,” she whispered. The thin line of her mouth was twitching as though she was about to cry. “Come along… hospital wing…”
“No,” said Dumbledore sharply.
“Dumbledore, he ought to—look at him—he’s been through enough tonight—”
“He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to understand,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered tonight, and why.”
“Moody,” Harry said. He was still in a state of complete disbelief. “How can it have been Moody?”
“This is not Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore quietly. “You have never known Alastor Moody. The real Moody would not have removed you from my sight after what happened tonight. The moment he took you, I knew—and I followed.”
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