Chapter Eighteen
"Catalyst"
Shadows and smoke . . . the ethereal, menacing flicker of green and black smoke . . . She knew this well, knew how those wraithlike fingers of the potion's curling smoke penetrated her and disembodied her spirit. The scene spread out before her as it always did, as she knew it would.
The cauldron bubbled and frothed, licking at the rim, eagerly awaiting the blood to be spilt. Wormtail's silver hand, his mark of betrayal, flickered and glowed as he ladled the potion for his master. She knew exactly how he did it, how he would always do it, and how Voldemort would receive it. The Dark Lord stood tall and thin, a sliver, against the senseless play of green and black fog, his eyes glowing crimson as he stared rabidly into her.
His spidery hands found her, clasped her, and the pain came. It always came. She always knew she still could fight it, could still refuse him, and then he would fail.
But she did not. She never did. She never would.
The pain wrenched. She couldn't scream.
She never could. Never would.
But the pain would always rip through her, always tear to her very core—twist and shred until it finally ended. Until she was nothing.
She would always be nothing.
And then she would watch, unable to feel because the pain had taken everything. She saw him bleed, as she always did. The green in his eyes—real green, not this evil green—would fade, the blood would eventually stop, and then everything would stop. It always did.
She watched Voldemort drink the life from Harry as she always did. She might have stopped it, but she did not, could not.
But then she screamed.
The screaming woke him.
But the moment Harry's eyes opened, it stopped. I imagined it, he thought. The only sound was the pounding of his heart, but his ears rang as if something had erupted beside him. Someone had screamed. Was it him? He hadn't been dreaming. Or at least he didn't think so.
Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. He looked around the room. It was still night. Air, heavy from the thunder rolling in off the ocean, bowed the walls. The storm seemed to be waiting as it had when he'd first drifted off to sleep. Sweat trickled down his spine where it'd gathered as he'd slept on his stomach. Goosebumps crawled up his back to replace the beads of sweat.
He shivered and reached for a discarded t-shirt. As he pulled it over his head, he heard a muffled whimper and froze.
" . . . H-Harry . . . nooo . . ."
Ginny.
Letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, Harry ran a hand through his hair and got up for the door. Out in the little corridor, Renee was rubbing a fist into her eye as she peeked her wildly bed-tossed head around her door.
"Harry—wha's goin' on?" she mumbled.
"Er—I think Ginny's having a nightmare," Harry muttered, not quite looking at Renee. He was glad for the darkness. She's having a nightmare about me, he thought, edging for the closed closet door. Like in the hotel. Why is she having a nightmare about me?
"Wha—"
"Ssh." Harry shook his head. He put a hand around the doorknob, took a deep breath, then opened it and stepped inside the closet.
The faint, eerie purple glow from the rope light cast the tiny room into ghostlike shadow. Curled into a ball, her body entwined in white sheets, Ginny was sobbing chokingly into her knees. Long, tangled and sweat-matted hair draped like vines around her. He couldn't tell if she was awake or still trapped in whatever horrible visions had made her scream, but it disturbed him. She shivered violently despite the stifling air.
"Ginny?" Harry said softly. His chest was tight. He wiped his palms on his t-shirt. "Ginny? Are you all right? Er—awake?"
She let out a long, painful moan worse than her sobs. Harry clenched his fists, then forced them to relax as he crept forward to the edge of the bed. He cautiously knelt down, and gingerly reached out to touch her shoulder. "Ginny?" he said again, his fingers brushing clammy skin.
She gasped and snapped up, wild, knotted hair falling over her face. Reddened, glossy eyes stared at him. Her white lips moved soundlessly for a moment. She started trembling violently.
"H-Harry?" she rasped in a small voice. "Y-you're—a-a-alive?"
"Yes—oof!"
Ginny suddenly launched at him, her arms coming forcefully, painfully around his neck. "You're not dead!" she cried hysterically, making his ear twinge in pain as he tried to right himself under her sudden weight. "You're alive! You're not dead! I didn't kill you! Harry, Harry, Harry . . ."
What the HELL? "Er . . . Ginny?" Harry would have shaken his head in bewilderment, but he could barely move for the vice sobbing wretchedly around his neck. Trying to breathe, he put a bracing arm around her and tried to balance on the bed. He could barely think through the reverberating, incoherent mumbling going on, but was very conscience of the last time Ginny had been so close to him in this mad state.
"It's all right, Ginny," he tried to soothe, once he'd settled on the edge of the bed. "Sssh, it's all right. I'm alive. See? Harry breathing. Sort of. I'm not dead. You just had a nightmare. It's fine now . . ."
He trailed off. She didn't seem to be listening, really, just gradually crushing his neck and closing off his air passage. Shifting slightly, he tried to free his neck a bit. She held tighter. Giving up, he sat very still, an arm around the small of her back, the other bracing him under her deadened weight. After a couple of minutes, she seemed to quiet and slump against him. Her breathing on the back of his neck evened out, but he still had goosebumps.
This would be great, he thought absently, his eyes getting heavy, if my limbs weren't going numb.
Relaxing a bit, Harry couldn't help but be aware of every part of Ginny touching him. The air, already stifling, became hotter, and he tried not to think about how thin her little faded nightdress was or how he suddenly wished he hadn't put on his t-shirt. Potter, you perve. This is very serious.
But he couldn't stop the idea of only having to lean back onto the bed with a comatose Ginny. She seemed to be asleep, he didn't want to disturb her, and he could very easily close his eyes here, the heat be damned. But then he remembered very clearly how Ginny reacted to any close contact like that, and Harry knew he'd pay for it in the morning.
Swallowing this idea, he moved to lay her down and then leave, but as he shifted, she started and pulled back. Her eyes widened in horror and her jaw tensed. That defensive mask slammed over her face.
"Ginny?"
She jerked away, her back hitting the wall.
Harry gaped—stunned. "Sorry, I—what the—Ginny—" He instinctively reached for her shoulder, but she leaned away from him.
"Don't touch me!" she snapped angrily.
"Wha—"
"Just don't, Harry," said Ginny, wiping at her eyes. Her shoulders were hunched as she turned away from him, her forehead pressed to the wall. "I can't stand it."
Harry mouthed, fishlike, for a moment. It felt as if she'd slapped him across the face. What the hell had he done? What the hell was making her like this? Two nights of severe nightmares, one where she confessed to killing a Death Eater, and just a moment before she'd been ecstatic to see him alive (didn't she mention she killed him or some such thing?), and now she seemed right brassed off that he was even here. What did she expect him to do, anyway? Everyone else freaked out whenever he had a bloody nightmare, and it was all perfectly fine for them to rush in, yelling at him to recount every vivid, painful detail, but he wasn't allowed to show concern when Ginny screamed as if she were under the Cruciatus?
"Fine," he said, sounding more irritable than he meant to. "I'm going." He got up to leave.
"No! Wait!" she cried desperately, suddenly lunging at him. Ginny snatched his hand, her slender fingers crushing his knuckles.
"Ginny, what the bloody—"
She shook her head, eyes cast down on the mattress. "You were dead."
Harry tried not to be disturbed by this. "That was just a dream. I'm alive. Or I'm a very confused ghost—"
"Shut up."
"Sorry."
Harry stood dumbly, trying not to wince from her tight grip. Ginny continued to avoid his gaze, hiding behind her tangled mane. After a moment, he sighed and asked, "What do you want me to do?" He was confused, tired, and a little bit wary.
Ginny startled, and glanced up blinkingly. Her skin was very pale in the faint purple light, making her freckles show almost blackly. Dark shadows filled the hollow of her eyes and her cheeks were streaked from just dried tears. She looked lost, ghostly, and defeated.
"I . . . don't know," she whispered, looking at his elbow. "If I go back to sleep, I'll think you're d-dead. I'll dream it again. And if you leave, I'll still think it."
Harry wiped his brow with his free hand. "All right." Did she want to stay up, then?
"But I'm so tired," she mumbled, as if to herself. Her head tilted to the side and her eyes blinked ponderously. She looked as if she were going to collapse.
"You should probably sleep, then," Harry said lamely.
Ginny swayed slightly. Harry, his hand still trapped in hers, thought about making for the door, but she tightened her grip and whispered, "Please stay, Harry. If you don't, I'll know I killed you."
"Er . . . all right." Bewildered, Harry lowered himself until he was kneeling beside the bed, level with Ginny. She wouldn't look at him, but lied down as far from him as possible, her back to the wall, and kept hold of his hand. She said nothing as she curled up again and tucked her other hand under her pillow. After a moment, her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted slightly as her breathing deepened.
Harry stared at Ginny for a long moment, utterly confused. Then he tried to situate himself on the floor so that he might sleep in a semi-comfortable position next to the bed. In the end, he leaned against the bed, his right arm stretched out to Ginny, his head somewhat pillowed against the mattress. He knew he'd be very sore in the morning.
Ginny slept fitfully. Voldemort cackled in her ears, filled her mind with dripping blood, paling lips, and accusing eyes. He knew, she knew, and she could not escape it. Snakes coiled euphorically around her, entwining her in their sinister, joyous hisses. You betrayed him. You are one of us. Stupid girl. We know. You are weak. You betrayed him.
When she finally woke, she felt drugged and sore. Her skin itched painfully from the soft cotton of her nightdress; the mattress felt like rock. Groggily, she became aware of a dead weight stretched across the mattress, ending in live heat. Slowly she forced her eyes open to sleep-blurred vision.
He's not dead. I didn't kill him.
But I almost did.
She could feel the little thumps of blood pumping through his thumb, the slight twitch in his palm, but all she could see was Harry, dead, the last of his blood flowing into Voldemort's boiling cauldron. Heavy cold crept up her spine as her vision cleared to find him watching her through drowsy eyes and messy fringe.
"'Morning," he mumbled, blinking slowly.
She couldn't speak. His thumb moved almost lazily under her palm. Ginny jerked her hand from Harry's, as if burned, and she pushed herself up. She tightly wrapped her arms around herself, shivering from the cold she knew all too well.
I killed him, I killed him, I killed him.
"Ginny?"
I betrayed him. Betrayed. I'm a traitor. He'll hate me.
"Please, Ginny—"
"Just go away, Harry," she said through gritted teeth. Her stomach clenched. I'm going to be sick . . . "Please, damn it!"
"What's the matter with you?"
Ginny stiffened. Harry sounded crossed between angry and concerned; both crawled under her skin. She wanted to scream at him, but her throat closed. He waited a minute before letting out a frustrated grunt and stood up.
"Fine. Whatever."
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him open the door and shut it harder than necessary. Tears started to blur her vision, but she blinked them away rapidly and gripped her knees tightly. The urge to toss her stomach on the sheets intensified, but she had nothing to help it along. Groaning, she tried to control the tension tightening every muscle in her body.
He was getting fed up with her. Maybe he'd hate her soon. Without even knowing what she'd done. Maybe that would make it all easier.
"I should've left," she told her bed linen. But what good would that have done? Saved Harry the headache.
There seemed to be nothing she could do without screwing it up for someone else. Or herself. Sighing, she rolled off the bed, grabbed some fresh clothes, and made for the shower, hoping Harry would be out of sight, bent on avoiding her. In the brief dart from closet to bathroom, Ginny heard Renee's voice, but no one stopped her.
She showered long, switching from burning hot to suffocating cold, trying to burn and shock herself into control. When she couldn't take it any longer, she stepped out into the steamy mist. Then she slowly untangled her hair, carefully using her fingers to untwine the long, water-slicked locks. The foggy veil gradually parted, leaving moisture droplets on the mirror and sink. Ginny tried not to think or feel but concentrated on the physical world of her fingers working through her hair. She felt on edge, as if only a simple breeze would push her over.
When she couldn't delay any longer, she abandoned the damp cocoon and crept into the open kitchen. Immediately she tensed up, every muscle contracting, caging something dangerous inside her.
Harry was washing the breakfast dishes, his back to her. She could tell by the tension in his shoulders that he knew she was there. Renee was nowhere to be found. Ginny peered through the living room to the sliding doors and balcony. Dark, low storm clouds pressed down on the trees and rooftops. Rain splattered against the glass and leaves tossed and swirled around. Although the ocean was obscured from view, she could well imagine tumultuous whitecaps smashing against the craggy rocks of the shore.
Good. A day to suit me, she thought, brushing cold, wet hair away from her eyes.
Thunder rolled overhead. Ginny turned away from the windows and watched Harry for a moment. He was on the last dish, a cereal bowl, and seemed to be extra concerned for its cleanliness. Biting back a frustrated sigh, Ginny went to the fridge for some orange juice. Her stomach ached for food, but she couldn't eat, not with this tension. But the lack of food made her lightheaded.
As she poured herself a glass, Harry set the bowl down and pulled the sink drainer. Her throat was so parched and closed she could barely swallow. What did make it down burned. Maybe orange juice wasn't such a good choice . . .
"So, what happened with Dean?"
Ginny spluttered and dropped the glass. It smashed on the floor. Choking, she managed to gasp, "What?"
Harry watched the water being sucked out of the sink, his back still to her. "I said, what happened with Dean?" He had a tight edge to his voice. Like an afterthought, he reached for his wand and flicked it, without turning, at the shattered glass. "Reparo."
Ginny stared, flabbergasted. She couldn't have been more shocked or horrified if Harry had been sporting a tutu. Now she was glad she hadn't swallowed much juice.
"I—I don't want to talk about it," she bit out.
"I used to think it was something he did," Harry went on, sounding strangely determined. He reached for the dishtowel, and turned slowly, drying his hands. "But now I'm thinking he broke up with you, because of the way you've been acting."
"And just how have I been acting, Harry?" Ginny snapped, her fists clenched at her sides. What the hell was going on? Since when was Harry confrontational with her, and why was he so harped up on Dean? Shouldn't he be asking what happened last night?
"Not like you," said Harry, frowning. "No one knows how the hell to act around you, because you act like you're going to burst at any moment. And then one minute you're like yourself and the next you're all cold and different. Bloody hell, Ginny, you're acting like I did in fifth year—just more bipolar or something. What are you doing here? And with me— because you clearly don't want anything to do with me."
He stopped and took a deep breath, his eyes darting away for a second before fastening on her again. "So," he said, "what happened with Dean?"
Ginny closed her eyes, unable to look Harry in the eye. She clenched her fists, willing her body not to tremble. Blood rushed to her face. She wanted to shout that he had no right to ask her these questions or say those things or raise his voice, but part of her knew he was right and deserved an answer. If only she could find one.
At least she was certain on Dean.
"What happened with Dean?" she said tiredly. "Same thing that happened in fifth year, really."
Harry's brow furrowed. "You dated him to get at Ron?"
Ginny almost laughed, but felt too strung out for that. "No. I guess it's more of a Michael Corner thing . . ." She kept her eyes trained on the countertop and wished she had the energy to hide her blush. "I dated him to push something away . . . And I wasn't really dating Dean. I was just pretending—trying to be normal. To push it away. On Halloween I tried to forget it, but I couldn't, I just couldn't. So I tried to replace it with Dean."
"Ginny, about that night—"
"Don't say it, Harry!" Ginny looked at him sharply, then down at the counter top. She clenched her fists. "We said we were going to forget about it. Why can't you just forget about it?"
Harry's mouth hardened. "Why couldn't you just let me say it? And I can't forget about it. It's rather out there."
"Because I couldn't let you!" she snapped. Panicked he might say it again, she ran a hand through her hair, and cast her eyes elsewhere, blindly hoping for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
"Why?" Harry demanded, taking a step forward. She backed up with a squeak.
"I just couldn't," she said weakly. "And I still can't. We can only be friends. If even that."
Harry stared at her, the dishtowel still caught in his hands. Finally, his shoulders slumped a little and he shook his head, looking defeated. "If that's what you want . . ."
"Of course it isn't," Ginny muttered under her breath.
But he heard her and leaped on it. "Then why—"
"I'm not healthy for you, Harry," she sighed, looking around him. I shouldn't have come here. I should have stayed away from you.
"What does that mean?" said Harry, obviously confused. "You've always been good for me." He suddenly turned red, looking wholly embarrassed for saying so. "I mean," he said quickly, the edge gone from his voice as he stumbled over his words, "I mean, you're good at pulling my head out of my arse and stuff. Or joking around when everyone else is too busy coddling me, or—"
"But I'm not that girl anymore!" Ginny snapped angrily. "I haven't been for a long time! And, anyway, she was just a little delusional pretender. Or maybe I really was her for awhile, but now I don't know, I just don't know!"
"Ginny, what—?"
But she waved him off and turned away. An odd buzzing seemed to be passing through her body, rattling her bones, droning in her ears. The floor tilted dangerously. Her lungs contracted, tightening. She saw a flash of evil green smoke, red eyes, and blood. Blinking hard, she tried not to cry out or stumble. I'm awake, it was all a nightmare. I'm awake. But the floor continued to shift, and the panicked vibration ravaged under her skin. It burned. Her eyes, her throat, her skin.
Oh my god, I'm going to explode, she thought wildly, reeling away from the wall toward the door.
She thought she heard her name, startled and scared, but she was stumbling out into the corridor. She had to get out—away. At any moment she was going to scream or burst. The nightmare wrapped around her, cold and searing at once, trapping her like the cell. She wanted frostbite grass stabbing her bare feet, hypothermia stopping her in an empty street, anything but here, like this . . .
"Hullo, love," said number two, heading for the front doors. "Nasty bit of—"
Ginny brushed past him for the back door to the enclosed garden. The handle slammed painfully into her hip as she pushed against the glass, but the door gave way, dumping her in torrential escape. Rain lashed at her, falling heavier than a moment before, as if heeding her desperate plea. The wind howled, roaring through her ears, sweeping the buzzing out of her ears. Lighting flashed bright and sharp overhead, followed instantly by a crack of thunder. Leaves, shocked by such summer aggression, smacked into her.
But it was warm. All this savageness was warm. She wanted ice.
Tears stung her eyes as she let the wind push her further into the garden. She swayed weakly with it, allowing the gushes to carry her wherever they wished. Why couldn't it be cold? Just this once? She wanted it numb. Deathly numb. Then she could soak in it, drown for a bit, pay a little more penance. Even now, after all of this time, she just wanted to go back in time to that cell; not to fight the good fight, but to end it all quickly. Surrender faster and end all of this. Then everyone would have known and she wouldn't have to deal with it.
Choking back the sob she knew she wanted to let out, Ginny tilted her head back, looking up at the storm that battered the garden's central tree. Her favorite sort of storm clouds, all deep, dark blue and black gray, like angry bruises laced with sharp shoots of pain. She'd missed Hogwarts' violent storms.
Someone shouted behind her, words lost in the wind's gusto. Ginny didn't turn or push against the wind as she sensed him approach. Thoroughly soaked now, the wind chilled her heavy clothes, conceding to Ginny's want. But it wasn't enough. She wanted to freeze.
"Ginny," Harry said, breathlessly trying to speak over the wind. He was at her shoulder, soaked, dark, leaning against the storm.
She stiffened, feeling tight, white-hot resentment bracing her. She wanted to kill every righteous bit about him, see him step back and let the storm take her. This has to end now, she realized. I can't go on like this.
"Come on, Ginny!" Harry shouted, reaching for her. "You're going to get sick out here!"
Ginny shook her head and stepped away from him, nearly stumbling to the ground. Her soaked, heavy skirt tangled around her legs. Harry reached out for her, but she swatted his hand away. Lightning struck dangerously close, flashing the world white for a brief moment before plunging it into crashing dark. She jumped. Her lungs forgot their purpose. The ground tipped again, threatening to dump her into the sky. Ice fought with fiery pain. She saw, just beyond the garden in another flash of lightning, Harry bleeding into the cauldron as Voldemort drank his blood.
"Ginny!" Harry shouted, desperate, snapping her back as another ear-splitting thunderclap pounded the air and ground.
She felt it in her body. Turning, she stared up at Harry, and everything around her stilled, went silent. She saw the tossing trees, felt the lashing of wind and rain, but a loud silence befell her. Harry stood before her, white and dripping, swaying in the storm, his messy hair plastered and clinging over his eyes blinking furiously against the storm.
"I thought I'd die for you," she said softly.
"What?" Harry shouted.
Her string, pulled so tightly from the bow, was released.
"I thought I'd die for you, Harry!" she shouted, her throat exploding, her lungs flexing. "I thought I'd endure endless agony for you! How wrong I was—how delusional! Oh, I would have died—for MYSELF! I wanted to die for ME! So I didn't have to feel the pain! I couldn't take it, Harry, and I still can't take it! I've had it with pain!"
"Ginny, what are you talking about?" Harry yelled back, his flinching face perplexed.
"I KILLED you, Harry!" The wind abruptly switched directions, sending her sprawling forward into Harry. He stumbled back, his hands fumbling at her arms, but she broke away, shoving him in the chest. "I bloody KILLED you! I didn't die for you! I wasn't strong enough!"
"What are you talking about? Ginny, I'm ALIVE!"
Ginny drew herself up, the storm billowing with her, sweeping her into its rage. He had to hate her, had to know, had to leave her here. "Don't you get it, Harry?" she spat angrily. "Don't you see? I BETRAYED you! Voldemort wanted me to betray you, so he could kill you and me and become immortal! I SAW you DIE! And I didn't care! I just wanted to die, to have the pain end! I wanted to die for me, not for you. I GAVE myself to Voldemort. I saw him suck the life and blood out of you, watched you die—and I didn't care! I didn't care you were dying, that he had won! I was dead, I was gone."
The wind suddenly died down, the rain falling vertical instead of attacking from the sides. Overhead the brooding navy of the clouds were retreating under the force of low hanging deep gray. The rage boiling in her seemed to recede with the fading thunder, settling to something cold and weak and unsteady.
She felt her body grow limp under the enormous weight of her drenched clothes.
"I thought I could stop it, Harry," she said, unable to shout now. She thought she might be crying; she couldn't see his face anymore. Only blurred shapes. "The second time. I could be wiser, you know, stronger after the Chamber of Secrets. I thought that maybe you and Dumbledore were right, that it wasn't my fault, that I wasn't weak. Oh no, I'm weak. Dumbledore knew I was weak. He put that spell on me. But I was still too weak. I couldn't stop it. Didn't want to stop it. I just wanted to end my pain." Her knees gave out and she surrendered, falling to the wet, muddied earth.
Digging her nails into the grass, the mud, she croaked, "I loved you and I couldn't even die for you!" Cool mud seeped under her fingernails. "How stupid of me to think I would be strong enough—worthy enough. I watched you die. I wanted to give myself to him. I surrendered. I told myself I'd never do it again. But I did. All it took was a little pain. Just a little pain."
Then she stopped. She couldn't say any more. Rain slid over her, colder now than moments before, each drop weighing her down. Maybe I can melt into the ground. Can you drown here? In the wet grass?
Somewhere in her wet, draining sense, she felt Harry shift toward her. She flinched, drawing herself tighter into the comforting curtain of rain. She wanted a cave under a waterfall, somewhere to get away and escape, just for a moment. Cold stone floor, cold all around, pounding water between her and the rest of the world . . .
"Ginny."
He sounded strained, uneasy, and too close.
"Is . . . is this why you've been like . . . like this?" he said, somewhere outside the rain. She could tell he wanted in, but she dug deeper into the grass and closed her eyes tighter. Pain split under her fingernails as more mud pushed under them. "You're feeling, er, guilty because he t—because that bastard t-tortured you until you wanted to—well, to end?"
"You don't get it, do you?" she snapped, wrenched from her liquid hollow. Blinking through soaked lashes, Ginny glared at Harry, every muscle in her body trembling. "I betrayed you, Harry. Willingly. He needed my betrayal, and I gave it to him. I knew you'd die. I knew everyone would die. But I didn't care, because I just wanted to die. The only reason he didn't get it was because Draco had a grudge against his father. Otherwise I would be dead, and you would be dead, and so would everyone else I love."
Harry blinked at her, his face slack and blank, green eyes dark with emotion as he tried to comprehend. Finally, he looked away, probably unable to bear the sight of her. She watched, for the moment, emotionless, as he pushed curling strands of hair away from his eyes. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
"Now you know why," she said quietly. The vague numbness was temporary. She knew it would fade soon, succumb to what she'd been holding back, what she could no longer hold inside. It was too much, fighting it these two years, and now being with Harry and knowing that now he knew, and now it was all over.
"Go on," Ginny said tightly, ripping out the grass as she stood. "Hate me," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"What--?" Harry's head shot up, but Ginny didn't hear him. A rapid pounding was rushing up, making her dizzy as she thrust her hand into her skirt pocket for her wand. She'd thought she'd need to see the hate in Harry's eyes, hear the disgust in his voice. But she didn't. Couldn't. She didn't want to be around for this ending.
She lifted her wand, focused the cliff in her mind, and gave the wand a twist. Sudden panic flashed across Harry's face in that brief second before she Disapparated.