Chapter 47

QUARRY

Only the excruciating, unbearable, nauseating pain of hanging doubled-over a flying broom handle kept Harry from slipping into unconsciousness as Wilhelm Avery angled up into the sky. When his abductor swerved to avoid the Confessing Conifer, Harry's glasses slid off his nose, catching precariously in his tangled hair. The world became a blurry, gray murk.

I must fight back. Harry concentrated his will on regaining control of his muscles. Sweat froze on his forehead. Still, he couldn't muster so much as a twitch. His stiff, useless limbs whipped about, banging into Ariel Daine's with every jiggle and jog of Avery's lackadaisical flying.

At least, I can keep my bearings. Recalling the lazy way Avery sought the Golden Snitch at Quidditch, Harry was certain the Slytherin was wasting no movement now on trying to confuse his captives' sense of direction. But soon sheer lack of sensory clues—other than the wind roaring in his ears, stinging his eyes, and freezing his skin—destroyed all hope of determining what that direction might be.

Just when Harry thought things couldn't get any worse, the storm hit.

When the first volley of sleet hit them, Avery swore. With a mumbled spell, he rigged a bubble over himself that left Harry's feet at the mercy of the ice and snow. A gust buffeted the broom, and Avery swore some more.

What if he loses control? Dizzying fear swept over Harry as he pictured them plunging to bloody, mangled deaths. Then desperate hope swelled inside him. If they fell from the broom, Avery would lose his grip on his Petrificus spell. Released, Harry could use the magic of Wudang Shen. He could race across the sky. He could grab hold of Ariel Daine. He could pilot them safely to the ground. Cho would be so proud . . . .

Unknown hours later, long after the blizzard had subsided into pitch-black night, Harry's fantasies were cut short by Avery's descent. The broom swooped through what appeared to his near-sighted vision to be a large broken window. Vague shouts greeted them. Avery leaned into a wide curve, circling a cavernous room that looked like the inside of an abandoned factory.

A victory lap.

Suddenly, Harry felt his old scar catch fire. He nearly passed out from the raging pain. Then he summoned the mental discipline he'd practiced so hard with Cho. Straining with his last ounce of willpower, he shrank the torment to a manageable ache. Cho's musical voice rippled through his mind. Bond with the natural energy of the Universe. It surrounds us always. Harry forced himself to embrace the fierce throbbing in his scar. The enemy is near. Thanks for the warning.

Avery bumped down. Harry caught an out-of-focus glimpse of hooded men crowding around—as well as a slight, white-robed figure standing stock-still a few feet back. Then he toppled off the broom onto a cold, dank slab. A second later, Professor Daine plopped on top of him, grinding his nose against the cement. Mentally damping this new source of pain, he concentrated on listening. The excited congratulations—that had to be Avery senior. The grudging "Well-done"—that sounded like Malfoy senior.

Then another man silenced the others. The refined, Oxford voice was kind and reassuring—if just a trifle too high. White-hot agony pierced Harry's head. Voldemort.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. We have guests. And one of them is a lady—or should I say the lady who is going to facilitate the fulfillment of our plans. Let us be gracious."

Harry felt Ariel Daine float up from his back.

"Wilhelm, I really must protest," the villain continued. "You've allowed the poor dear to muss her hair. Me, oh my. The tribulations of crosscountry travel. Ah, just as well—all the more poignant a sight to the one we seek." He paused. "And our other guest?"

Harry's mouth went dry.

"My lord," Wilhelm began in a manner that managed to be both fawning and gloating, "A most fabulous accident, an unexpected windfall, a fortuitous—"

"Raise him," Voldemort interrupted with a hint of annoyance.

Harry jerked up like a trout on a hook. His glasses, still knotted in his hair, banged against his neck. With a swift glance, he saw that Professor Daine was still out cold. Quickly, he counted the semi-circle of assembled wizards and witches—twelve, not counting Avery. The white robed person off to the side concerned him. How did a young Muggle girl fit into this picture?

The man in the center pulled back his hood. Resolutely, Harry narrowed his eyes to stare back. Despite his fuzzy vision, he could see that Tom Riddle had transformed himself yet again. Noting the villain's jolly, golden-haired, rosy-cheeked façade, Harry hoped some poor university don wasn't stuck in a crate somewhere—an ongoing supply of specimens for polyjuice potion.

"Oh," Voldemort observed airily. "It's that one."

Harry willed his breathing to stay calm and even. The last time he'd faced the Dark Lord, he had been the prize—captured through a lengthy, contrived, overly-complicated set of maneuvers to provide an element of Voldemort's rejuvenation potion and to fight a duel Harry had managed to escape. This time he wasn't the end of Voldemort's means. Would the Dark Lord keep him alive to toy with him—or was he now the spare that Cedric had been, a nuisance to dispose of with an offhand curse?

With his last shred of resolve, Harry mustered his best insults. Creep. World ruler wannabe. A face not even a father could love. Parasite. An arse a baby could kick. Toady magnet. He didn't know whether Voldemort could hear his thoughts, but he hoped his disdain showed on his face. He had to make himself interesting enough for his nemesis to prefer a long, drawn-out plan for his death. The more ingenious and convoluted the scheme, the more chance Harry would have of wriggling out of it.

"Yes, Wilhelm—this one may provide some sport." A hint of malice spoiled the Dark Lord's civilized tone. "Indeed, despite some lamentable slips, my inclination to let you complete our little circle does not appear ill-advised."

"Thank you, my lord. My only question is, how soon?" The junior Avery looked meaningfully toward the young girl.

Voldemort seemed to pout. "If your flight plan had been a bit more efficient, we might have held the ceremony tonight. The initiation must begin at a minute past midnight. Ah, well. We haven't long to wait for the appropriate moment to come 'round again."

Initiation. A sick feeling twisted Harry's stomach. He darted a glance at the girl in white. She was to be the sacrifice that would launch Avery's Death Eater career. No. He had to save her.

At that thought, a deeper magic stirred within him. Harry sensed it welling up from deep inside his subconscious. An unexpected energy vibrated through his limbs. More primordial than his willpower, more compelling than his resolve, this profound magic struggled against the Petrificus Spell—gaining strength until it took hold of his vocal cords and wrestled them free.

"Sport?" Harry squeaked.

Voldemort jerked his head toward him.

"Sport," Harry rasped again. "I'll give you . . . if you're not . . . too cowardly . . . a contest for the girl . . . her life." He paused, panting. Resisting a hex was hard going.

Despite the feebleness of his defiance, the Dark Lord looked disturbed. Would he dispatch him to avoid any more bother, or would he return the challenge?

Voldemort cocked his head. "Imagine that. Our quarry wants a tussle. How about it, Wilhelm? A final series of tests to prove you're ready to join the big boys. This evening, then. Before the ceremony."

"My lord, I look forward to it." Avery's uncertain glance at Harry didn't match the confidence of his words.

Harry was glad the Petrificus Spell kept his delight from leaping to his face. Compete against Avery? The girl was as good as saved. Barring ambushes and snagged pullovers, he could beat that lazy Slytherin any day of the week. And if he stayed on his toes, he'd save Ariel Daine and himself as well.

In a few minutes, Harry was finally able to reach up, disentangle his glasses from his matted hair, and settle them squarely on his nose. He focused on Avery smirking at him.

"Sport." Snickering, the Slytherin shut the door to Storage Locker Number Nine, Harry's makeshift cell. A bolt clanked.

Harry shuddered with relief. True to form, Voldemort wanted to play. Why else would he have told Avery to lift the Petrificus spell once Harry was locked up? His stomach hurt. His head ached. His throat burned. When he took a step in his soggy boots, he nearly tripped over his numb feet. Even so, he smiled. I can move again. I have a chance.

So Harry set out to examine his prison. With eyes, fingertips, and ears he sought a possible exit. He whispered every spell he could think of that conceivably might help. Without his wand, his words lacked focus and power, but his basic, innate magic was in them. But everywhere he turned, that magic bumped up against unseen barriers—some force he couldn't quite penetrate.

Poking into a shadowy corner, Harry touched something squishy. Hastily, he pulled back his hand. Mastering his squeamishness, he kicked the thing toward the door. Illuminated by a narrow crack of light, the lump looked pink and shiny—like flesh with the skin peeled off. Swallowing hard, he bent down to peer at it.

When he realized what it was, his eyes widened. Then he groaned. A rubber chicken. A Death Eater practical joke against a hungry, helpless prisoner. Ha, ha. Very funny. But we'll see who has the last laugh.

A long while later, Harry sank to the cold cement floor. All he had to show for his painstaking search was a handful of Muggle pranks: the rubber chicken with its flaccid cock's comb, revoltingly realistic fake vomit, a plastic watch that could squirt water (but which was empty), a box of itching powder, and a cloth snake that sprang out of a peanut tin. He shifted uneasily, desperate for an idea of what to do next.

Then he remembered his Lockit Pocket.

Okay, I've been told this Voldemort is out-of-character. But… for the first few books he seemed to be pretty much a different character each additional time we saw him. Yes, no?