Chapter Eighty-Five - Priori Incantatem

Harry braced his feet against the broken stone base of the tomb as Wormtail approached him. Using his new silver hand, he pulled away the wad of material gagging Harry. Then, with one swipe, he cut through Harry's bonds. The ropes he had conjured fell away and evaporated from sight.

For a fraction of a second, Harry considered running away. But the Death Eaters had closed ranks, blocking any egress. Behind one of the hooded forms lay the Triwizard Cup. Harry saw its gleaming silver handles shining in the moonlight before it was blocked from view. Without it, Harry had no hope of returning to Hogwarts alive.

He turned his attention back to Snape, glaring at him as if this whole situation were his fault alone. But Snape had resumed his impassive stare at Voldemort. He refused to meet Harry's eye.

Wormtail had returned with Harry's wand, which he thrust roughly into his hand. He too avoided Harry's gaze. Now that he was free to speak, Harry whispered into Wormtail's ear, "I hope that new hand of yours chokes you in your sleep."

Wormtail nearly tripped over his own robes as he stumbled away from Harry, as if fearing his words had truly cursed him. He resumed his place among the circle of Death Eaters, flexing the fingers of his silver hand nervously.

He would have liked to direct a similar curse at Snape as well, but he didn't have the chance. Voldemort was staring at him from only a few feet away. Harry made a bold decision, then. If he was going to die, he would not die like a coward. He would be like his mother and father and face Voldemort without backing down.

"You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?" Voldemort asked in his sickly-soft voice.

Unbidden, Harry's thoughts rushed back to the dueling club started by Gilderoy Lockhart during his second year. With only one session ever held, the club had not been a resounding success. All Harry had learned from the experience had been the Disarming Spell. He'd been forced to demonstrate it in front of his peers. Harry remembered with a sudden twisting sensation in his stomach that it had been Snape who had volunteered him.

Of course, he had learned many more curses and jinxes from Millie over the past four years, but he knew that no mere hex would help him now. He knew what he was about to face. Like Professor Moody had taught them many months ago, there was no spell that could block the Killing Curse.

"We bow to each other, Harry," Voldemort continued when Harry remained silent. He gave a very shallow bow, barely bending at the waist. He kept his snake-like face upturned to Harry. "Come, the niceties must be observed. Dumbledore would like you to show manners. Bow to your death, Harry…"

The Death Eaters were laughing again, all except for Snape, who was once again staring Harry in the face. He mouthed another word to him… Bow.

But Harry would not bow. He was done listening to Snape ,and he would not give Voldemort the satisfaction of playing with him before killing him, like a cat toying with a mouse.

"I said bow," Voldemort repeated, raising his wand. Harry felt as though an invisible string had been wrapped around his spine, pulling him forward. He tried to resist, but it was over as quickly as it started.

"Very good," said Voldemort, "And now you face me, like a man, the way your father died…"

Voldemort raised his wand once more. Harry braced himself for the Killing Curse. He had not expected Voldemort to attack with the Cruciatus Curse a second time, but Voldemort was not done torturing him. He wanted to make an example of Harry, and the lesson he sought to teach would be lost if he killed him quickly.

There was nothing Harry could do to fight against the pain. It consumed every nerve and cell in his body. He no longer knew who or where he was. All there was was pain... Pain that he knew would never end. He could do nothing but scream and scream…

It stopped. Harry rolled over. He was on the ground. He had no sense of how much time had passed. Seconds… Hours… He scrambled to his feet, shaking uncontrollably. By some miracle, he still had his wand in his hand. He tried to raise it against Voldemort, all while knowing he was helpless, but his arm trembled too badly to aim.

"Do you need a break?" Voldemort taunted, "That hurt, didn't it, Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?"

Voldemort wanted him to beg, but Harry had had enough. He wasn't going to plead with his murderer like a spineless wretch. His silence infuriated the Dark Lord. Though he hid his anger behind his soft voice, Harry could feel it in the tingling pain that rippled through his scar. After the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, the throbbing of Voldemort's anger felt small by comparison.

"I asked you whether you want me to do that again?" Voldemort said, "Answer me! Imperio!"

It was not pain that overwhelmed him this time, but a wonderful absence of all thought and sensation. Harry felt very calm. It was as if he were floating, free from his body… What a relief to not have to worry…

Just answer me… whispered a voice somewhere distant... Just answer no… Say no… And all will be well…

But a stronger voice in Harry's mind answered back. I won't. I won't answer you.

Just say no…

I'm not speaking to you.

Just say no...

"FUCK YOU!"

The words burst from Harry's mouth, surprising him as much as they surprised the surrounding Death Eaters. The veil of the dreamlike state was lifted, and Harry was once more in the graveyard, feeling sore and exhausted, but with his mind free and clear. In spite of everything, Harry smiled to himself. Sometimes a Muggle curse was just as powerful as a magical one.

Voldemort's thin, snake-like nostrils flared in anger. "Such language, Harry. I shall have to teach you some manners before you die. Since you refuse to obey me, perhaps a little more pain..."

He raised his wand to perform the Cruciatus Curse again, but this time Harry was ready. With reflexes born from his Quidditch training, he dove behind the nearest headstone, hearing it crack as the curse missed him.

"We are not playing hide and seek, Harry!" Voldemort called as the Death Eaters laughed again. "You cannot hide from me... Does this mean you forfeit our duel? Are you ready at last to meet your end?"

Harry was angry. Very angry. He was angry that Snape had lied. He was angry that he had played right into Voldemort's hands. He was angry at Wormtail and Malfoy and the whole crew of Death Eaters, waiting around to watch a teenage boy be murdered.

His anger propelled him forward. He had made a decision before, and he would stick to it. He would not go down without a fight. He wouldn't let Voldemort kill him without firing a single spell. He would die on his feet, not cowering behind a gravestone. He would die trying to defend himself, even if defense was impossible.

Before Voldemort could taunt him any farther, Harry rolled out from behind the headstone and jumped to his feet. Voldemort was ready for him, but so was Harry. As the dark wizard shouted the incantation for the Killing Curse, Harry screamed back, "Expelliarmus!"

He didn't know what made him think of the Disarming Spell before all others. Perhaps it was the memory of the dueling club that Voldemort had resurfaced. Whatever the case, the spells collided midair, and something very unexpected happened. Harry's wand began vibrating, as though an electric charge were surging through it. He felt his hand seize up and knew that he couldn't let go even if he tried. A narrow beam of light connected his wand with Voldemort's, neither red nor green, but a bright gold. Harry traced the path with his eyes, and saw that Voldemort was shaking as well, his hand gripping his own wand tightly.

The Death Eaters fell back in silent shock as the thread of light snapped and popped, sending more sparks of light shooting outward. They arched over Harry and Voldemort, trapping them inside a web of light.

Voldemort commanded his followers not to interfere, but he needn't have bothered. The Death Eaters stood on the other side of the domed web, watching the action play out in shocked silence, as if waiting to see what would happen next… And who would emerge victorious...

Harry was not dead. Voldemort had fired an unblockable curse… And failed again. Harry could sense that the Death Eaters were beginning to doubt their great leader… And that for the first time that night, it was Voldemort who was afraid.

The thought gave Harry confidence. The fact that Voldemort was just as confused as him meant he still had a chance. The threads of light had started to hum, surrounding them with an unearthly and beautiful song. Harry thought he recognized the melody, though he couldn't quite place it. He saw that Voldemort was trying to break the connection that held their wands, but to Harry it was a lifeline. He gripped his wand with both hands, and focused all of his energy on keeping them tethered.

Beads of light began to dance along the golden thread. They slid up and down the tether of light before slowly shifting, gliding down toward the end of Harry's wand. The closer they moved toward him, the more his wand shuddered in his grip. The wood itself grew hot, as if it would burst into flames. Harry was certain that his wand would not survive the contact if one of those beads touched it. He began to focus his thoughts on forcing the light back toward Voldemort.

His ears were full of music, but his eyes were focused, fixed intently on the lights now gliding gradually toward Voldemort's wand, which had begun to shake violently. There was no question of it now. Voldemort was afraid. Harry drew strength from his foe's fear, and he used the energy it gave him to push one of the beads of light an inch further, until it touched the tip of Voldemort's wand.

He didn't know what he expected to happen, but the instant the light touched Voldemort's wand, a ghostly shadow of a hand, like the one he created for Wormtail, burst forth in a cloud of dark gray smoke. It dissipated in the air, then a second shadowy form followed it. It looked like an old man, and as the smokey form gained substance, Harry thought he recognized the stranger from one of the dreams he'd had last summer.

The specter surveyed the scene before him with mild surprise. He was leaning on a walking stick.

"He was a real sorcerer, then?" said the shadow, or perhaps the ghost, of the old man. His eyes were on Voldemort. "Killed me, that one did… You fight him, son… Don't let him win!"

Already, another form was emerging from Voldemort's wand. This time it was a woman. Harry had seen her face in the Daily Prophet, and once in another dream. It was Bertha Jorkins.

"Don't let go!" she cried, her voice echoing in the same eerie way the old man's had, "Don't let him get you, Harry!"

By now, Harry had guessed what was happening. As another head emerged from the tip of Voldemort's wand, he knew who it would be even before her ghostly feet touched the ground.

It was his mother. She was young, as young as she had been the day she died. Her long hair seemed to float on an inexistent breeze as she walked close to Harry. Her voice was the same distant, echoing voice as the others, but she spoke to him quietly, so that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear, could not hear what she said.

"Your father is coming…" she whispered, "He wants to see you… Just hold on… It will be alright…"

Harry didn't know if this was the ghost of his mother, or only a memory, like the shade of Tom Riddle he'd seen conjured by the cursed diary. But he trusted her. She had saved him from Voldemort once. She would do so again.

The phantom of his mother was closely followed by a man with untidy hair and glasses. He looked like a slightly older version of Harry, though not by much. It hurt Harry to realize just how young they had been when they died. Only twenty, twenty-one at most…

Voldemort's other victims were circling him now, hissing reproaches at him, fearless now that they were already dead and beyond his wrath. While they distracted the Dark Lord, James joined Lily at Harry's side and murmured into his ear, "When the connection is broken, we will linger for only a moment… We will give you time… You must get back to the portkey… It will return you to Hogwarts… Do you understand, son?"

Harry nodded, fighting back the tears that were now stinging his eyes. He didn't want them to leave. He was scared of being alone again. What if he couldn't reach the portkey in time?

"We'll protect you, Harry," James whispered, "We'll never leave your side."

"Do it now, Harry," urged Lily, "Be ready to run. Don't think, just let go… Now!"

Harry broke free. He couldn't have held on a moment longer if he tried. Pulling his wand upward, he severed the golden thread. The dome of light vanished, and the song it hummed died. But the shadowy figures of Voldemort's victims did not fade so easily. They rushed upon Voldemort, their dark forms obscuring him from view as Harry ran.

He knocked two Death Eaters aside, not knowing who among the group they were. He weaved among the headstones, dodging their curses as he ran. He was running harder than he ever had in his life… But it was no good. The cup had rolled farther away than had judged, and the Death Eaters were gaining on him. He would never reach it in time.

Thinking quickly, he extended his wand toward the Cup. Perhaps he could summon it… But before the spell could leave his mouth, the cup was already flying off the ground. It rushed straight toward Harry. Without thinking, Harry lifted his free hand, catching one of the silver handles before the Cup could strike him in the face.

The moment his fingers brushed the surface, he felt the familiar tugging sensation behind his navel that meant the portkey had worked. His hand was glued to the surface, his feet lifting off the ground. Harry was whisked away in a whirl of wind and color, the angry screams of Voldemort still ringing in his ears…