Fully illustrated! After his name came out of the Goblet of Fire, Harry woke to a disturbing reality. The wizarding world only saw him as an expendable pawn, his carefree attitude towards studying left him struggling to survive, and he had never tru...
Even through his delirium and the agony which wracked his body, Harry forced himself to keep his eyes and ears focused. He remembered every detail of Voldemort's sordid tale of his past, of his suffering, and of his plans. He remembered the names and faces of every Death Eater as they stood there, sending smug little glances his way. Harry knew that he would probably die tonight, but he kept himself sane by thinking: If I survive, I'll make you regret it. The plans you so casually exposed. The masked faces that I now know. The laughter. The pain. Everything.
Hermione would probably be proud of him for making plans and lists even upon his deathbed.
Hermione, he thought soullessly, would probably be the only one who missed him when he died. Oh, and Sirius. And poor Dobby. What would they do without him?
When Wormtail untied him at last and gave him back his wand, Harry's head spun and his vision grew blurry as he collapsed to the ground. He closed his eyes in pain and when he opened them again, he thought that he could see Hermione reaching out to him from the blur of darkness, desperately shoving past the throng of Death Eaters in search of him.
Harry raised his own hand feebly in return but the vision of Hermione shook and disappeared like a mirage that had never been there.
Hoppsan! Denna bild följer inte våra riktliner för innehåll. Försök att ta bort den eller ladda upp en annan bild för att fortsätta.
But then it came again. When he stood facing Voldemort on shaky feet and his torture induced state of exhaustion, he thought he could hear Hermione screaming in his ears: Wake up!Don't give up just yet! What have you learned this year? Make the first damn move!
So he did. He didn't wait for Voldemort to throw him around like a rag roll with various unforgivables until finishing him off with the killing curse. Harry chose one of the many staple offensive spells he had a list of, half not even caring if it was diffindo or something else that came out of his lips. Not when the spell itself made no difference.
No, all that mattered was that he raised his wand first and fired the spell in time to watch Voldemort's smile fade as he was forced to respond. If Harry was going to die, he would die with his dignity intact. On his own terms.
And then the miracle happened. He remembered telling Hermione that he always survived because he was a lucky bastard, but this... this was something else. As both Voldemort and he were raised into the air, as the phoenix song started and he forced the bead of light towards Voldemort's wand, as he was confronted with the smoky, greyish forms of his mother and father... all of his exhaustion fled. There was a fire in him now, growing stronger by the second. He didn't even need his father to tell him: "... you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts."
From the moment he had been raised into the air, he had already been surveying the scene around him, making plans and outlining the best route back to the Triwizard Cup.
No matter what obstacles were in his way.
This time—Harry gritted his teeth as he broke off his connection with Voldemort's wand and started to run—there would be no hesitation.
