The Goblet of Fire

by J. K. Rowling

  ‘Not yet!’ cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. ‘Wait, I have more!’

  Harry could see him sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard.

  ‘Snape!’ he shouted. ‘Severus Snape!’

  ‘Snape has been cleared by this council,’ said Crouch coldly. ‘He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains which bound him to the chair. ‘I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!’

  Dumbledore had got to his feet. ‘I have given evidence already on this matter,’ he said calmly. ‘Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort’s downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am.’

  Harry turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a look of deep scepticism behind Dumbledore’s back.

  ‘Very well, Karkaroff,’ Crouch said coldly, ‘you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime …’

  Mr Crouch’s voice faded. Harry looked around; the dungeon was dissolving as though it was made of smoke; everything was fading, he could see only his own body, all else was swirling darkness …

  And then, the dungeon returned. Harry was sitting in a different seat; still on the highest bench, but now to the left side of Mr Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite different; relaxed, even cheerful. The witches and wizards all around the walls were talking to each other, almost as though they were at some sort of sporting event. A witch halfway up the rows of benches opposite caught Harry’s eye. She had short blonde hair, was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakeably, a younger Rita Skeeter. Harry looked around; Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing different robes. Mr Crouch looked tireder and somehow fiercer, gaunter … Harry understood. It was a different memory, a different day … a different trial.

  The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman walked into the room.

  This was not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed, but a Ludo Bagman who was clearly at the height of his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn’t broken now; he was tall and lean and muscly. Bagman looked nervous as he sat down in the chained chair, but it did not bind him there, as it had bound Karkaroff, and Bagman, perhaps taking heart from this, glanced around at the watching crowd, waved at a couple of them, and managed a small smile.

  ‘Ludo Bagman, you have been brought here in front of the Council of Magical Law to answer charges relating to the activities of the Death Eaters,’ said Mr Crouch. ‘We have heard the evidence against you, and are about to reach our verdict. Do you have anything to add to your testimony before we pronounce judgement?’

  Harry couldn’t believe his ears. Ludo Bagman, a Death Eater?

  ‘Only,’ said Bagman, smiling awkwardly, ‘well – I know I’ve been a bit of an idiot –’

  One or two wizards and witches in the surrounding seats smiled indulgently. Mr Crouch did not appear to share their feelings. He was staring down at Ludo Bagman with an expression of the utmost severity and dislike.

  ‘You never spoke a truer word, boy,’ someone muttered drily to Dumbledore behind Harry. He looked around, and saw Moody sitting there again. ‘If I didn’t know he’d always been dim, I’d have said some of those Bludgers had permanently affected his brain …’

  ‘Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing information to Lord Voldemort’s supporters,’ said Mr Crouch. ‘For this, I suggest a term of imprisonment in Azkaban lasting no less than –’

  But there was an angry outcry from the surrounding benches. Several of the witches and wizards around the walls stood up, shaking their heads, and even their fists, at Mr Crouch.

  ‘But I’ve told you, I had no idea!’ Bagman called earnestly over the crowd’s babble, his round blue eyes widening. ‘None at all! Old Rookwood was a friend of my dad’s … never crossed my mind he was in with You-Know-Who! I thought I was collecting information for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting me a job in the Ministry later on … once my Quidditch days are over, you know … I mean, I can’t keep getting hit by Bludgers for the rest of my life, can I?’

  There were titters from the crowd.

  ‘It will be put to the vote,’ said Mr Crouch coldly. He turned to the right-hand side of the dungeon. ‘The jury will please raise their hands … those in favour of imprisonment …’

  Harry looked towards the right-hand side of the dungeon. Not one person raised their hand. Many of the witches and wizards around the walls began to clap. One of the witches on the jury stood up.

  ‘Yes?’ barked Crouch.

  ‘We’d just like to congratulate Mr Bagman on his splendid performance for England in the Quidditch match against Turkey last Saturday,’ the witch said breathlessly.

  Mr Crouch looked furious. The dungeon was ringing with applause now. Bagman got to his feet and bowed, beaming.

  ‘Despicable,’ Mr Crouch spat at Dumbledore, sitting down as Bagman walked out of the dungeon. ‘Rookwood get him a job indeed … the day Ludo Bagman joins us will be a very sad day for the Ministry …’

  And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had returned, Harry looked around. He and Dumbledore were still sitting beside Mr Crouch, but the atmosphere could not have been more different. There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her mouth with trembling hands. Harry looked up at Crouch, and saw that he looked gaunter, and greyer than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple.

  ‘Bring them in,’ he said, and his voice echoed through the silent dungeon.

  The door in the corner opened yet again. Six Dementors entered this time, flanking a group of four people. Harry saw the people in the crowd turn to look up at Mr Crouch. A few of them whispered to each other.

  The Dementors placed each of the four people in the four chairs with chained arms which now stood on the dungeon floor. There was a thickset man who stared blankly up at Crouch, a thinner and more nervous-looking man, whose eyes were darting around the crowd, a woman, with thick, shining dark hair, and heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the chained chair as though it were a throne, and a boy in his late teens, who looked nothing short of petrified. He was shivering, his straw-coloured hair all over his face, his freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside Crouch began to rock backwards and forwards in her seat, whimpering into her handkerchief.

  Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face.

  ‘You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law,’ he said clearly, ‘so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous –’

  ‘Father,’ said the boy with the straw-coloured hair. ‘Father … please …’

  ‘– that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court,’ said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son’s voice. ‘We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror – Frank Longbottom – and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He Who Must Not Be Named –’

  ‘Father, I didn’t!’ shrieked the boy in chains below. ‘I didn’t, I swear it, Father, don’t send me back to the Dementors –’

  ‘You are further accused,’ bellowed Mr Crouch, ‘of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom’s wife, when he would not give you information. You planned to restore He Who Must Not Be Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury –’

  ‘Mother!’ screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me!’

  ‘I now ask the jury,’ shouted Mr Crouch, ‘to raise
their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban.’

  In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the walls began to clap as it had for Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph. The boy began to scream.

  ‘No! Mother, no! I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t know! Don’t send me there, don’t let him!’

  The Dementors were gliding back into the room. The boy’s three companions rose quietly from their seats; the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at Crouch and called, ‘The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban, we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!’

  But the boy was trying to fight the Dementors off, even though Harry could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him. The crowd were jeering, some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle.

  ‘I’m your son!’ he screamed up at Crouch. ‘I’m your son!’

  ‘You are no son of mine!’ bellowed Mr Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. ‘I have no son!’

  The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp, and slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed.

  ‘Take them away!’ Crouch roared at the Dementors, spit flying from his mouth. ‘Take them away, and may they rot there!’

  ‘Father! Father, I wasn’t involved! No! No! Father, please!’

  ‘I think, Harry, it is time to return to my office,’ said a quiet voice in Harry’s ear.

  Harry started. He looked around. Then he looked on his other side.

  There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on his right, watching Crouch’s son being dragged away by the Dementors – and there was an Albus Dumbledore on his left, looking right at him.

  ‘Come,’ said the Dumbledore on his left, and he put his hand under Harry’s elbow. Harry felt himself rising into the air; the dungeon dissolved around him; for a moment, all was blackness, and then he felt as though he had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on his feet, in what seemed like the dazzling light of Dumbledore’s sunlit office. The stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of him, and Albus Dumbledore was standing beside him.

  ‘Professor,’ Harry gasped, ‘I know I shouldn’t’ve – I didn’t mean – the cabinet door was sort of open and –’

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Dumbledore. He lifted the basin, carried it over to his desk, placed it upon the polished top, and sat down in the chair behind it. He motioned Harry to sit down opposite him.

  Harry did so, staring at the stone basin. The contents had returned to their original, silvery white state, swirling and rippling beneath his gaze.

  ‘What is it?’ Harry asked shakily.

  ‘This? It is called a Pensieve,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind.’

  ‘Er,’ said Harry, who couldn’t truthfully say that he had ever felt anything of the sort.

  ‘At these times,’ said Dumbledore, indicating the stone basin, ‘I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one’s mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one’s leisure. It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand, when they are in this form.’

  ‘You mean … that stuff’s your thoughts?’ Harry said, staring at the swirling white substance in the basin.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Let me show you.’

  Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside of his robes, and placed the tip into his own silvery hair, near his temple. When he took the wand away, hair seemed to be clinging to it – but then Harry saw that it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strange, silvery white substance that filled the Pensieve. Dumbledore added this fresh thought to the basin, and Harry, astonished, saw his own face swimming around the surface of the bowl.

  Dumbledore placed his long hands on either side of the Pensieve and swirled it, rather as a gold prospector would swirl for fragments of gold … and Harry saw his own face change smoothly into Snape’s, who opened his mouth, and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly. ‘It’s coming back … Karkaroff’s too … stronger and clearer than ever …’

  ‘A connection I could have made without assistance,’ Dumbledore sighed, ‘but never mind.’ He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Harry, who was gaping at Snape’s face, which was continuing to swirl around the bowl. ‘I was using the Pensieve when Mr Fudge arrived for our meeting, and put it away rather hastily. Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door properly. Naturally, it would have attracted your attention.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry mumbled.

  Dumbledore shook his head.

  ‘Curiosity is not a sin,’ he said. ‘But we should exercise caution with our curiosity … yes, indeed …’

  Frowning slightly, he prodded the thoughts within the basin with the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose out of it, a plump, scowling girl of around sixteen, who began to revolve slowly, with her feet still in the basin. She took no notice whatsoever of Harry or Professor Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed as Snape’s had done, as though it was coming from the depths of the stone basin: ‘He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said I’d seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday …’

  ‘But why, Bertha,’ said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently revolving girl, ‘why did you have to follow him in the first place?’

  ‘Bertha?’ Harry whispered, looking up at her. ‘Is that – was that Bertha Jorkins?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the basin again; Bertha sank back into them, and they became silvery and opaque once more. ‘That was Bertha as I remember her at school.’

  The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated Dumbledore’s face, and it struck Harry suddenly how very old he was looking. He knew, of course, that Dumbledore was getting on in years, but somehow he never really thought of Dumbledore as an old man.

  ‘So, Harry,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘Before you got lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me something.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘Professor – I was in Divination just now, and – er – I fell asleep.’

  He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was coming, but Dumbledore merely said, ‘Quite understandable. Continue.’

  ‘Well, I had a dream,’ said Harry. ‘A dream about Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail … you know who Wormtail –’

  ‘I do know,’ said Dumbledore, promptly. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said something like, Wormtail’s blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said, Wormtail wouldn’t be fed to the snake – there was a snake beside his chair. He said – he said he’d be feeding me to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail – and my scar hurt,’ Harry said. ‘It woke me up, it hurt so badly.’

  Dumbledore merely looked at him.

  ‘Er – that’s all,’ said Harry.

  ‘I see,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?’

  ‘No, I – how did you know it woke me up over the summer?’ said Harry, astonished.

  ‘You are not Sirius’ only correspondent,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I have also been in contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who suggested the mountainside cave as the safest place for him to stay.’

  Dumbledore got up, and began walking up and down behind his desk. Every now and then, he placed his wand tip to his temple, removed another shining silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve. The thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that Harry couldn’t make out anythi
ng clearly; it was merely a blur of colour.

  ‘Professor?’ he said quietly, after a couple of minutes.

  Dumbledore stopped pacing, and looked at Harry.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said quietly. He sat back down at his desk.

  ‘D’you – d’you know why my scar’s hurting me?’

  Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry for a moment, and then said, ‘I have a theory, no more than that … It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.’

  ‘But … why?’

  ‘Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed,’ said Dumbledore. ‘That is no ordinary scar.’

  ‘So you think … that dream … did it really happen?’

  ‘It is possible,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I would say – probable. Harry – did you see Voldemort?’

  ‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Just the back of his chair. But – there wouldn’t have been anything to see, would there? I mean, he hasn’t got a body, has he? But … but then how could he have held the wand?’ Harry said slowly.

  ‘How indeed?’ muttered Dumbledore. ‘How indeed …’

  Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while. Dumbledore was gazing across the room, every now and then placing his wand tip to his temple, and adding another shining, silver thought to the seething mass within the Pensieve.

  ‘Professor,’ Harry said at last, ‘do you think he’s getting stronger?’

  ‘Voldemort?’ said Dumbledore, looking at Harry over the Pensieve. It was the characteristic, piercing look Dumbledore had given him on other occasions, and always made Harry feel as though Dumbledore was seeing right through him, in a way that even Moody’s magical eye could not. ‘Once again, Harry, I can only give you my suspicions.’

  Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and wearier, than ever.

  ‘The years of Voldemort’s ascent to power,’ he said, ‘were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins has vanished without trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last. Mr Crouch, too, has disappeared … within these very grounds. And there was a third disappearance, one which the Ministry, I regret to say, does not consider of any importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort’s father grew up, and he has not been seen since last August. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers, unlike most of my Ministry friends.’