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Book 7 - various scenes
This is totally still a work in progress.
And then, out of nowhere, the pain in his scar peaked. As he clutched his forehead and closed his eyes, a voice screamed inside his head.
“You told me the problem would be solved by using another’s wand!”
And into his mind burst the vision of an emaciated old man lying in rags upon a stone floor, screaming, a horrible, drawn-out scream, a scream of unendurable agony. . . .
“No! No! I beg you, I beg you. . . .”
“You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander!”
“I did not. . . . I swear I did not. . . .”
“You sought to help Potter, to help him escape me!”
“I swear I did not. . . . I believed a different wand would work. . . .”
“Explain, then, what happened. Lucius’s wand is destroyed!”
“I cannot understand. . . . The connection . . . exists only . . . between your two wands. . . .”
“Lies!”
“Please. . . . I beg you. . . .”
And Harry saw the white hand raise its wand and felt Voldemort’s surge of vicious anger, saw the frail old man on the floor writhe in agony—
The pain in his scar was reaching a peak, burning as it had
back in the garden of the Burrow. Faintly he heard Hermione say
“I don’t want to be on my own. Could we use the sleeping bags
I’ve brought and camp in here tonight?”
He heard Ron agree. He could not fight the pain much longer.
He had to succumb.
“Bathroom,” he muttered, and he left the room as fast as he
could without running. He barely made it: Bolting the door behind
him with trembling hands, he grasped his pounding head and
fell to the floor, then in an explosion of agony, he felt the rage that
did not belong to him possess his soul, saw a long room lit only
by firelight, and the giant blond Death Eater on the floor, screaming
and writhing, and a slighter figure standing over him, wand
outstretched, while Harry spoke in a high, cold, merciless voice.
“More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord
Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time. . . . You called
me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again?
Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure. . . . Do it, or feel
my wrath yourself!”
A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a
terrified, pointed white face—with a sense of emerging from deep
water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes.
He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor, his nose
inches from one of the silver serpent tails that supported the large
bathtub. He sat up. Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed burned
on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen,
by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry jumped as Hermione’s
voice rang out.
“Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I’ve got it here.”
“Yeah, great, thanks,” he said, fighting to keep his voice casual
as he stood up to let her in.
“Give it to me, Gregorovitch.”
Harry’s voice was high, clear, and cold, his wand held in front
of him by a long-fingered white hand. The man at whom he was
pointing was suspended upside down in midair, though there were
no ropes holding him; he swung there, invisibly and eerily bound,
his limbs wrapped about him, his terrified face, on a level with
Harry’s, ruddy due to the blood that had rushed to his head. He
had pure-white hair and a thick, bushy beard: a trussed-up Father
Christmas.
“I have it not, I have it no more! It was, many years ago, stolen
from me!”
“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Gregorovitch. He knows. . . . He
always knows.”
The hanging man’s pupils were wide, dilated with fear, and they
seemed to swell, bigger and bigger until their blackness swallowed
Harry whole—
And now Harry was hurrying along a dark corridor in stout
little Gregorovitch’s wake as he held a lantern aloft: Gregorovitch
burst into the room at the end of the passage and his lantern
illuminated what looked like a workshop; wood shavings and gold
279
Chapter 14
gleamed in the swinging pool of light, and there on the window
ledge sat perched, like a giant bird, a young man with golden hair.
In the split second that the lantern’s light illuminated him, Harry
saw the delight upon his handsome face, then the intruder shot a
Stunning Spell from his wand and jumped neatly backwards out
of the window with a crow of laughter.
And Harry was hurtling back out of those wide, tunnel-like
pupils and Gregorovitch’s face was stricken with terror.
“Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?” said the high cold voice.
“I do not know, I never know, a young man—no—please—
PLEASE!”
A scream that went on and on and then a burst of green light—
Fragmented visions were
breaking across the surface of his mind—
—He was gliding around the high walls of the black fortress—
No, he was Harry, tied up and wandless, in grave danger—
—looking up, up to the topmost window, the highest tower—
He was Harry, and they were discussing his fate in low voices—
—Time to fly . . .
Harry’s scar seared again—
—and he rose into the night, flying straight up to the windows
at the very top of the tower—
—The window was the merest slit in the black rock, not big
enough for a man to enter. . . . A skeletal figure was just visible
through it, curled beneath a blanket. . . . Dead, or sleeping . . . ?
—as he forced himself through the slit of a window like a snake
and landed, lightly as vapor inside the cell-like room—
The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled
over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face. . . . The frail
man sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort,
and then he smiled. Most of his teeth were gone. . . .
“So, you have come. I thought you would . . . one day. But your
journey was pointless. I never had it.”
“You lie!”
“Kill me, then. Voldemort, I welcome death! But my death
will not bring you what you seek. . . . There is so much you do not
understand. . . .”
At once, Harry’s scar felt as though it had split open again.
His true surroundings vanished: He was Voldemort, and the skeletal
wizard before him was laughing toothlessly at him; he was enraged
at the summons he felt—he had warned them, he had told
them to summon him for nothing less than Potter. If they were
mistaken . . .
“Kill me, then!” demanded the old man. “You will not win,
you cannot win! That wand will never, ever be yours—“
And Voldemort’s fury broke: A burst of green light filled the
prison room and the frail old body was lifted from its hard bed
and then fell back, lifeless, and Voldemort returned to the window,
his wrath barely controllable. . . . They would suffer his retribution
if they had no good reason for calling him back. . . .
And then, out of nowhere, the pain in his scar peaked. As he clutched his forehead and closed his eyes, a voice screamed inside his head.
“You told me the problem would be solved by using another’s wand!”
And into his mind burst the vision of an emaciated old man lying in rags upon a stone floor, screaming, a horrible, drawn-out scream, a scream of unendurable agony. . . .
“No! No! I beg you, I beg you. . . .”
“You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander!”
“I did not. . . . I swear I did not. . . .”
“You sought to help Potter, to help him escape me!”
“I swear I did not. . . . I believed a different wand would work. . . .”
“Explain, then, what happened. Lucius’s wand is destroyed!”
“I cannot understand. . . . The connection . . . exists only . . . between your two wands. . . .”
“Lies!”
“Please. . . . I beg you. . . .”
And Harry saw the white hand raise its wand and felt Voldemort’s surge of vicious anger, saw the frail old man on the floor writhe in agony—
The pain in his scar was reaching a peak, burning as it had
back in the garden of the Burrow. Faintly he heard Hermione say
“I don’t want to be on my own. Could we use the sleeping bags
I’ve brought and camp in here tonight?”
He heard Ron agree. He could not fight the pain much longer.
He had to succumb.
“Bathroom,” he muttered, and he left the room as fast as he
could without running. He barely made it: Bolting the door behind
him with trembling hands, he grasped his pounding head and
fell to the floor, then in an explosion of agony, he felt the rage that
did not belong to him possess his soul, saw a long room lit only
by firelight, and the giant blond Death Eater on the floor, screaming
and writhing, and a slighter figure standing over him, wand
outstretched, while Harry spoke in a high, cold, merciless voice.
“More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord
Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time. . . . You called
me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again?
Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure. . . . Do it, or feel
my wrath yourself!”
A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a
terrified, pointed white face—with a sense of emerging from deep
water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes.
He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor, his nose
inches from one of the silver serpent tails that supported the large
bathtub. He sat up. Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed burned
on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen,
by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry jumped as Hermione’s
voice rang out.
“Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I’ve got it here.”
“Yeah, great, thanks,” he said, fighting to keep his voice casual
as he stood up to let her in.
“Give it to me, Gregorovitch.”
Harry’s voice was high, clear, and cold, his wand held in front
of him by a long-fingered white hand. The man at whom he was
pointing was suspended upside down in midair, though there were
no ropes holding him; he swung there, invisibly and eerily bound,
his limbs wrapped about him, his terrified face, on a level with
Harry’s, ruddy due to the blood that had rushed to his head. He
had pure-white hair and a thick, bushy beard: a trussed-up Father
Christmas.
“I have it not, I have it no more! It was, many years ago, stolen
from me!”
“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Gregorovitch. He knows. . . . He
always knows.”
The hanging man’s pupils were wide, dilated with fear, and they
seemed to swell, bigger and bigger until their blackness swallowed
Harry whole—
And now Harry was hurrying along a dark corridor in stout
little Gregorovitch’s wake as he held a lantern aloft: Gregorovitch
burst into the room at the end of the passage and his lantern
illuminated what looked like a workshop; wood shavings and gold
279
Chapter 14
gleamed in the swinging pool of light, and there on the window
ledge sat perched, like a giant bird, a young man with golden hair.
In the split second that the lantern’s light illuminated him, Harry
saw the delight upon his handsome face, then the intruder shot a
Stunning Spell from his wand and jumped neatly backwards out
of the window with a crow of laughter.
And Harry was hurtling back out of those wide, tunnel-like
pupils and Gregorovitch’s face was stricken with terror.
“Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?” said the high cold voice.
“I do not know, I never know, a young man—no—please—
PLEASE!”
A scream that went on and on and then a burst of green light—
Fragmented visions were
breaking across the surface of his mind—
—He was gliding around the high walls of the black fortress—
No, he was Harry, tied up and wandless, in grave danger—
—looking up, up to the topmost window, the highest tower—
He was Harry, and they were discussing his fate in low voices—
—Time to fly . . .
Harry’s scar seared again—
—and he rose into the night, flying straight up to the windows
at the very top of the tower—
—The window was the merest slit in the black rock, not big
enough for a man to enter. . . . A skeletal figure was just visible
through it, curled beneath a blanket. . . . Dead, or sleeping . . . ?
—as he forced himself through the slit of a window like a snake
and landed, lightly as vapor inside the cell-like room—
The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled
over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face. . . . The frail
man sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort,
and then he smiled. Most of his teeth were gone. . . .
“So, you have come. I thought you would . . . one day. But your
journey was pointless. I never had it.”
“You lie!”
“Kill me, then. Voldemort, I welcome death! But my death
will not bring you what you seek. . . . There is so much you do not
understand. . . .”
At once, Harry’s scar felt as though it had split open again.
His true surroundings vanished: He was Voldemort, and the skeletal
wizard before him was laughing toothlessly at him; he was enraged
at the summons he felt—he had warned them, he had told
them to summon him for nothing less than Potter. If they were
mistaken . . .
“Kill me, then!” demanded the old man. “You will not win,
you cannot win! That wand will never, ever be yours—“
And Voldemort’s fury broke: A burst of green light filled the
prison room and the frail old body was lifted from its hard bed
and then fell back, lifeless, and Voldemort returned to the window,
his wrath barely controllable. . . . They would suffer his retribution
if they had no good reason for calling him back. . . .