Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
My thanks go to beta readers ParseltonguePhoenix, Fenraellis, and Vlad the Inhaler. And for those who have taken the time to read and review.
I wish to apologize in advance for back-to-back cliffhangers. Those who don't like them might wish to delay reading for a few days until I publish the final chapter of this story, Chapter 17.
CHAPTER 16
Resurrection
The two land in the Great Hall and Harry falls awkwardly onto his hands and knees. Red-faced, he stumbles to his feet. Percy Weasley, acting in Crouch's stead, announces over the din an awards ceremony in an hour's time and the two champions are carted to the infirmary on canary yellow litters that the Headmaster conjures.
His wounds dressed, Harry limps back to the Great Hall with a retinue of Albus, Remus, and Sirius, in dog form. Harry leans heavily on Remus, the damage to his thigh from the vampire's blade proving difficult to heal.
As they pass through the doors to the Hall, Harry is surprised and slightly annoyed to hear loud cheers from the assembly of students and spectators, the self-same students who ostracized and taunted him a day before. Dumbledore whispers smugly, “Smile, Harry. As I said, today you are their hero and you must act the part.” Disgusted, Harry manages a wooden smile, saccharine, and waves, an action which elicits more cheers.
Albus leaves Harry to go speak with the other Headmaster and Headmistress. Shortly afterwards, Sirius growls as Percy Weasley approaches with Bagman and four aurors in tow, the Ministry officials dressed in deep blue robes with gold accents. The escort includes the same pair who had questioned Harry after the first task, a quiet, broad-shouldered man of African descent and a junior auror, Tonks, whose hair flashes through a range of colors. Tonks winks cheekily and gives Harry a small wave. Bagman, Harry notices, looks genuinely happy and relaxed, the first time Harry has seen him so since before the first task. He starts to move forward to shake Harry's hand, but Percy intercedes, stepping in front of the larger man.
The former Head Boy crosses his arms self-righteously. “Mr. Harry James Potter, though the rules committee...” He turns his head and frowns at Bagman. “...have chosen not to act on my recommendation to invalidate your questionable victory, in my capacity as Acting Undersecretary for the Ministry, I ask that you remain after the ceremony for questioning over your liberal use of dark and at least one Unforgivable curse in the final task. As well as your role in the release of several dark creatures into the maze, one of which caused grave injury to one of your fellow champions....” He peers over the rims of his glasses at Dumbledore, whose back is turned.
Harry shakes his head in disbelief. “Whatever, Perce. Do I have a choice in the matter?”
“No, Potter.” He bristles at Harry's use of his family nickname.
“Then why phrase it as if I do? Fine, I'll chat with the nice aurors after your little show, though I expect us also to discuss how Peter Pettigrew was out there tonight and not dead, like the rest of the world thinks.”
“Don't be preposterous...” Percy stops as Padfoot starts to growl at him. Harry catches the eye of the youngest auror and blinks as her face morphs into that of Percy's, complete with waggling eyebrows, before turning back into the pink-haired woman.
“Percy, if you'll excuse me...” He pushes past and limps up the stairs and onto the makeshift stage that has been erected. Harry settles onto a steel folding chair between Fleur, who is speaking to her young sister and Viktor Krum, now conscious, with bloodshot eyes and shaking limbs. Harry smiles at Fleur, who answers with her own shy smile and places her hand in his for moment before pulling it back onto her lap. Gabrielle smiles broadly at Harry and giggles.
“Harry Potter.” Harry turns toward Krum. “Vould like to tank you. Dey say you saving me from torture and dementor.” Krum's voice is ragged, his earlier screams having ruptured his vocal cords.
Harry shrugs. “Are you going to be okay--will this affect your ability to play Quidditch?”
“Vill be fine.” He coughs. “Two, three months, den back to beating England. Question Potter--you haff my vand?”
Harry shakes his head. “No. I lost mine too and we couldn't find Cedric's either. I think Pettigrew or Moody got them.” Krum nods gruffly.
Amos Diggory, seated to the other side of Krum and standing in for his catatonic son, looks over at Harry at the mention of Cedric's name. Harry leans forward and says to the man, “I'm sorry, sir, that I couldn't get there faster and, um, for your loss...”
He answers with a curt nod, his face a mask of devastation and dolour.
Percy Weasley strides confidently to the oak podium erected at the front of the stage. In his left arm, he holds four black velvet boxes, each resembling what Harry had once seen his Aunt receive from her jeweler. Under his right is a wide, rolled up parchment. The three champions and Amos Diggory sit in a semi-circle to the right of the podium and the Headmasters and Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, sit to the left upon comfortable armchairs.
Harry realizes to his annoyance that his own seat, a steel folding chair, lacks padding. With his left thigh wrapped tightly in bandages, he cannot bend his leg very far and must hold it in an awkward position that numbs his foot and leg. He regrets having removed his armor when Poppy had treated his wounds--he could use the extra padding now.
Percy sets the boxes onto a small shelf built into the the podium and clears his throat loudly before unrolling the parchment and flattening it on the angled surface. He places a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, accented in gold, upon his nose, pulls out a pocket watch, and places it open upon the podium.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of the Ministry of Magic..."
"Weatherby!" Fudge whispers loudly.
Percy turns and sees the Minister pointing to his throat and mouthing a word. After several tries, understanding dawns on the junior official's face and, with a blush, he turns back to the crowd.
"Sonorous. Sorry. Thank you, Minister. Ladies and Gentleman, on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, we wish to welcome you to this ceremony, which marks the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament and which will culminate with the formal presentation of awards. Indeed, The Tri-Wizard Tournament is a momentous event, one which has evidenced the highest level of sportsmanship and ability among the champions and schools..."
Harry's attention wanders from the droning as he scans the crowd, a vague sense of malaise growing in the back of his mind. Most of the students from the three schools have gathered and appear as bored as he is by the speech. Scattered throughout the crowd are several Ministry officials and prominent members of British magical society. His face warms as he takes in the size of the assembly and connects that datum with what the twins had told him about how a "bigger than life" Harry Potter was seen by all to drop his trousers.
"...Indeed, the competitiveness of our champions evinces the virtues that our societies collectively hold dear and they provide us with a metric by which we may measure our own less auspicious accomplishments..."
Harry glances to the right and sees Krum's eyelids dropping, the Bulgarian succumbing to the same bone-weariness that Harry feels. Looking to the left, he meets Fleur's eyes and they exchange uncomfortable smiles. Like him, her injuries have been treated and her tattered, ruined robes have been replaced by a fresh, powder-blue, Beauxbatons uniform. Her left arm is set in a splint and she sports bandages on her neck and face. Her eyes, bloodshot before from the effects of the Cruciatus curse, are much clearer.
"...though this event has not been unmarked by tragedy, and our condolences go out to the Lovegood and the Diggory families, the sacrifices made by Miss Lovegood and Mr. Diggory will not be forgotten. Indeed, their fate underscores the need for aggressive, proactive measures to be taken with regard to the freedoms we afford half-bred creatures, sub-human species, and including and especially, dark creatures..."
Harry sits bolt upright at that. How dare the Ministry try to score cheap points off Luna and Cedric! He glances at Remus, who stands near the front of the stage; the werewolf seethes. Beside him is Sirius, in dog form, with teeth bared. Harry also notices Ron Weasley in the front row near the two with an absent look on his face, as if waiting for something. Harry is perplexed by this behavior, but the muted applause marking the end of Percy's speech interrupts his thoughts. Harry claps politely and nudges Viktor with his elbow. The seeker starts, his doze interrupted, and he nods to Harry his thanks.
"I ask the champions to please step forward." Fudge now stands at the front of the podium and Percy is holding the boxes to the side. The Minister addresses them, "These medallions, which you are about to receive, recognize your remarkable accomplishments. Weatherby here will put a charm on each so that only you may wear them. First, let us recognize our first-ever Tri-Wizard co-champions, Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy, and Harry Potter of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Champions?" Harry and Fleur step forward, Harry limping painfully on his gimpy leg, and they stand next to one another at the front of the stage near Percy. Harry's starts to feel a strong sense of unease and he wishes he were wearing his armor or holding a wand.
Percy shakes Fleur's hand formally and says, "Congratulations, Miss Delacour." He opens a box and takes out a round, two-toned golden medallion on a fine, white gold chain. The medallion is yellow and white gold, embossed with an imprint in the shape of the Goblet of Fire. He drapes the medal over Fleur's head and touches his wand to it, muttering an incantation. It glows briefly with a faint green light and Harry sees the inscription along the bottom of the medallion change to include her name and the date.
Percy then steps in front of Harry. "Potter," he says with disgust. He places a similar medallion over Harry's head and touches his wand to it. Meeting Harry's eyes, he sneers, "Portus."
Panic ensues as Harry vanishes. The small contingent of aurors rush the stage as the Headmaster bolts from his chair, his hand slipping within the breast of his robes. Percy turns his wand upon himself before the Headmaster can draw his wand and get a spell off. He touches its tip to his forehead and says, "obliviate." Eyes roll back into his head as a pencil-thin ray of red buries into his back and he collapses to the stage, unconscious.
Ron steps forward, his wand aimed at his prone brother. "Avad..."
With a snarl, Padfoot leaps upon the boy and closes powerful jaws around his wand hand. Metacarpals snap and Ron screams as he fall to the ground. Snatching the dropped wand in its mouth, the dog twists its head and flings it away, then lunges at the boy's torso and pins him beneath its bulk. Baring its teeth, it growls savagely, its nose inches from the boy's face.
“S-Sirius Black?!” he stammers in surprise as the Headmaster's second stunner leaves him unconscious.
“Wakey, wakey.”
Harry is shaken roughly. Opening his eyes, he finds himself in a cemetery bound to a tall, white marble tombstone. Nearby is an abandoned stone chapel, its windows boarded, its facade crumbling with age and weather, next to a gnarled yew tree. A ruined manor stands in the distance atop a small hill, two of the narrow, upper floor windows flickering amber with candlelight inside.
A short, obese man with grey, untrimmed hair, brown teeth, and the sour stink of old sweat pats Harry on the cheek with pudgy fingers. “Wakey, Potter, it's time,” his voice rasps. The man's flabby jowls and heavy lips slur his speech. He is robed in black and has a dagger with a bone pommel, stained yellow, tucked in his belt. Harry can see several runes carved into the hilt and the object exudes a thick aura of darkness.
“Time for what?” he coughs.
“You'll see.” The man ambles to a cauldron set in the center of a clearing. Several of the headstones have been arranged in a circle to create a standing stones configuration that Harry recognizes as common to many ancient rituals, light and dark. Harry can see the glow of a magical binding about the area, a circular border several meters in diameter with faint natal lines crisscrossing the circle and binding the stones. Glowing runes have been carved onto several of the markers and have been sealed with blood. Harry is bound to the largest, most prominent stone, which lies at the head of a modified pentalpha.
“Bone of father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son,” the man chants and nods to another short man, Pettigrew, who stumbles to the edge of the circle carrying a femur in his right hand. Harry feels a small amount of gratification upon seeing that Pettigrew is still missing his left.
“Selwynn, how long will this take?” he whispers. The obese man glares at the other as he seizes the bone and drops it into the cauldron, stirring the contents with a long, glass rod and chanting in a low voice.
After several minutes, the clouds part and a full moon beams onto the cemetery. Selwynn waddles to Pettigrew, taking care not to step outside the circle, and points at the man's feet, where three small bundles lie. Pettigrew hands them gently to Selwynn, who crosses back to the cauldron.
“Life blood of twain, shed in summer's moon, you shall anchor his soul.” He unwraps the bundles and Harry panics as he sees they contain twin baby girls, unconscious and silent, spellbound.
“No!” he shouts as he struggles against his bindings. Pettigrew silences him with a spell and he can only watch in horror as Selwynn draws his dagger. He raises the first child and holds her by her neck over the cauldron. Placing the tip of his dagger on her chest and chanting softly, he plunges it into the child's breast. After a handful of spurts, blood ceases to flow. He repeats the process with the second and carelessly tosses the lifeless bodies outside the circle. Brown vapor rises from the cauldron and Harry sees it come almost alive, making half-formed, demonic shapes. Thick magical ribbons of dark red flail from the cauldron and attach to two of the headstones in the circle. Harry can barely make out the faded letters, “Riddle” on the nearest, possibly an ancestor of Voldemort's.
Barty Crouch Jr., having shed his costume as the grizzled ex-auror, appears. He is a lanky man with short, dark hair, angular face and wild, darting eyes. He plucks the two tiny corpses from the ground and crams them into a burlap bag. Like Pettigrew and Selwynn, he too is robed in black. He catches Pettigrew's eye and whispers, “Reckon Nagini will like the snack?” Peter sickens visibly at his words.
“Scale of Serpent King, shed in mortal conflict, lend him your strength!” Selwyn reaches into a pouch at his waist and withdraws a reptilian scale about the size of Harry's hand and drops it into the cauldron. From his vantage, it looks to Harry as if it may have come from the basilisk he slew two years prior. Is there another way into the Chamber of Secrets?
Smoke rises from the cauldron rim, turning blue and acrid. Harry feels a steady draw upon his magic. He looks down and sees a gossamer lisle of dark grey connecting his chest over his heart, where he had set his focus rune, to the prominent sigil inscribed on the side of the cauldron. He looks with alarm to Selwynn.
“Noticed it, did yer?” The man chuckles, the kind of contented belly laugh one expects at a family dinner, not the darkest of necromantic rituals. The man's face, colored crimson from the flames, is demonic.
“Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master!” He nods at Peter, who steps forward, tears trailing down his face, his severed left hand and wrist in his right hand. He drops the flaccid limb into the cauldron and Harry hears a loud burble as the liquid froths vigorously. Pettigrew stumbles backward, falling onto his bum, and crab-walks backwards out of the circle.
“Idiot! Watch yourself.” Selwynn hisses, bending at the waist to inspect the ground where Pettigrew had landed and Harry notes more runes scratched into the dirt around the cauldron. They are of a form Harry cannot decipher, but resemble the death and rebirth glyphs found on Egyptian sarcophagi. Selwynn draws his dagger and scores additional marks into the ground.
“Fang of daemon, beast of old. We bathe thee in venom from a serpent sated on the flesh of the pure. Lend thy kin power over darkness.” Selwynn drips yellow liquid from a small vial onto a thumb-sized, serrated tooth that he drops into the cauldron. Three more natal ribbons, copper in color, lash out from the cauldron to fasten onto nearby headstones. The pull on Harry's magic becomes acute and he collapses against his bindings, his knees buckled. He lifts his head slowly and he sees Selwynn next to him, dagger drawn.
“And now for the good part,” he wheezes, gathering his breath. He shouts, dramatically, “Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you shall resurrect your foe!” He makes an incision on Harry's left arm near the crook of his elbow and a trickle of blood flows down his arm. Selwynn captures the spilled blood in a small glass vial. He fills a second vial and stashes it in his pouch. “Just in case.” He winks, patting Harry gently on the cheek and waddles back to the cauldron, where he adds the contents of the first vial.
As the first drop touches the surface, the strand connecting Harry to the cauldron thickens to the diameter of his wrist and pulses brightly. Harry feels a withering pain rack his body. His mouth, a rictus of agony, his eyes clenched tightly, Harry misses seeing Selwynn splash the contents of the third bundle into the cauldron.
A deep rumbling sounds as the liquid bubbles violently. The circle is suddenly bathed in moonlight, as if a spotlight were turned on from the heavens. Each natal line solidifies and brightens as beams of crystalline light connect the stones about the edge of the circle. White smoke rises just above the rim of the cauldron, becoming progressively thicker, more substantial. Harry's chest hollows from the oppressive pull on his magic.
In a moment, the smoke fades and a crouched, humanoid shape is left. It straightens and steps over the rim of the cauldron. Standing more than two meters tall, it is slender and powerful, its hands ending in long, snake-like fingers with sharp, knife-like talons. Its skin, covered in places by fine scales, has a network of faintly glowing glyphs, including a agglutination of what Harry recognizes as power enhancement runes covering its bald head and running down its neck to the small of its back. Harry sees that the magical strand that before had connected his chest to the cauldron now joins at the base of the creature's spine, its bright glow making a halo in the moonlight.
“Robe me.” A high-pitched voice rasps. Selwynn reaches up to drape dark, silken robes about its shoulders. The creature inspects its arms, its hands, its body, then throws its head back and laughs maniacally. It looks down to the necromancer and smiles wickedly, baring sharp teeth. “Well done, my faithful servant. You have proven your quality today.”
It turns toward Harry and glares at him with terrifying, serpentine eyes--irises of crimson and slitted pupils. Harry's breath catches as his eyes meet those of his arch-nemesis. With his enhanced sight, he recognizes the runic cluster on Voldemort's face in an unbroken line across the front of its head. Its flattened nose, mere twin slits, provides a flat expanse of skin that enables continuity of the complex runes. No wonder he did that to his face--he wanted an unbroken Ptolemic cluster around his head. Merlin, the power he must have....
“Wand.” Pettigrew stumbles forward, genuflecting, and kneels clumsily to offer a black, yew wand to Voldemort. “Rise, Wormtail.” The quivering man does so. “Give me your arm.” Shaking in fear, he offers his left arm to his Lord. Voldemort makes a casual flick and Pettigrew's robes and bandages covering his stump disappear. He touches the tip of his wand to the Dark Mark near the man's elbow and the flesh glows red and then inky black. Peter whimpers as Selwynn and Crouch reflexively grab their forearms and gasp at pain they haven't felt in more than a decade. Harry screams as his scar flares and his head feels as if it were cleaved in two.
The Dark Lord looks up at the sound. “Potter,” he hisses, his snake-like tongue flicking over his teeth. “Your precious mother is not here to save you--her protection will no longer avail. Tonight, as I ascend to my destiny, your corpse shall lie unmarked and unheralded.”
Popping surrounds as black-robed Death Eaters answer their master's call. Upon arriving, they kneel before their Lord and unmask. Harry recognizes several--Lucius Malfoy, the elder Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott, Walden McNair.
They watch, amused, as Voldemort places an index finger upon Harry's scar. It smokes and sears and Harry thrashes his head as he tries unsuccessfully to evade the man's touch. Voldemort draws his hand back and traces the runes on Harry's face with leathery fingers.
Scoffing, he steps back. “I see that the old fool has been teaching you, Potter. No matter--you shall die all the same. Crucio.” A thick, crimson beam arcs from his wand and strikes Harry in the chest. Harry thrashes against his bindings as excruciation of an intensity he had never before felt tears through him. After several seconds of white-hot knives, the curse lifts. Harry feels himself on the verge of losing consciousness, his reservoir of magical energy draining rapidly.
Energized, Voldemort looks up at those who have assembled. “Loyal servants, many of you have heeded my call, yet others stayed away....” Harry watches as Voldemort paces before the cowering group. Though he cannot hear the words, over the next several minutes, he sees the Dark Lord speak with each, torturing some, stroking the faces of others. Malfoy, Harry is pleased to see, receives a particularly long exposure to the Cruciatus curse, as does Pettigrew, though afterward Voldemort creates a silver hand for the traitor. Throughout, Voldemort's presence is commanding and terrible, the fear he incites in his followers, palpable.
Voldemort laughs, a high pitched cackle, and returns to where Harry is bound. Harry feels the tug on his magic strengthen as Voldemort nears. “Untie him, Wormtail, and return his wand.” He addresses his Death Eaters, “You were wrong to fear this boy over me, as I shall demonstrate. You have been taught to duel, haven't you, Potter?”
“I said, “Bow!”” Voldemort snarls as Harry lurches forward onto hands and knees. A moment before, after he had thrown off the Dark Lord's Imperius curse, Harry had allowed himself to feel a moment of triumph, a respite curtailed by the awesome force of Voldemort's next spells. Simultaneous casting, invisible bludgeoning curses to my stomach, behind my shoulders, even the backs of my knees--Merlin, I am so outmatched....
Harry stands slowly, his chin fixed in defiance, and he assumes a dueling stance: body sideways, legs slightly bent, weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet.
Voldemort sneers at him, sibilantly extruding his 'S's, “So you have had training on the subject, yet you do not recognize the nicetiesss? I had expected better from Dumbledore's... apprentice.”
Harry's sense of foreboding flares and he hastily raises a shield as his adversary hurls yellow flame from his wand, a blasting curse of incredible power and speed. The curse crashes into his shield with a shower of sparks and Harry is hurled back against the headstone to which he was bound. He glances up at the stone and reads “Thomas L. Riddle.” Beneath the lettering, a crude, angry rune is gouged into the marble. Attached to the rune is a gossamer thread of magic, similar to the one joining him and Voldemort, that binds him to the headstone.
“Yes, Potter, the grave of my muggle father,” he says quietly, so that only the two can hear. “This site has seen the deaths of both Tom Riddles and, twice, the birth of Lord Voldemort. It shall also be your undoing.” He hurls a violet scythe of energy, a dark cutting curse, which Harry dodges, but only barely, its edge shredding Harry's robes. The curse doesn't shatter the headstone, but instead the rune glows for a second as the curse dissipates. At the same time, a wave of dizziness passes over Harry and he feels a drain upon his magic.
Rolling out of his lunge, Harry stands and slashes his wand, uttering, “sectumsempra.” Voldemort absently flicks the severing curse away, where it cleaves apart one of the grave markers outside the circle.
“Mildly intriguing, Potter.” His voice drips with condescension as he folds his arms.
Harry screams the incantation for an over-powered blasting curse, his aura flaring. In a blur of movement, Voldemort deflects the strike, sending it toward the row of Death Eater spectators. Most dodge or shield, though Crabbe is struck by the brunt of the curse. It blows him backwards, imploding his shield and crushing his head.
“A visible aura?” he taunts. “Magical flatulence. Surely you've learned better control than that from the old....”
“Stupefy.” A thick bolt, the diameter of Harry's thigh, flies toward his opponent. Harry finishes his spell with a wrist flick that creates a conical streamer allowing the hex to penetrate most magical shields. Disgusted, Voldemort slaps the hex into the ground. Harry staggers as he feels himself weaken.
“A stunner?” he japes. “I suppose you'll try to disarm me next?”
Harry narrows his eyes and twists his wand, quietly uttering, “tromero fotia mastigio.” A long lash of green flame snakes out of Harry's wand. He draws it back slowly and then whips the lash over his shoulder. The crack thunders through the graveyard. Voldemort answers with a slashing, looping motion of his wand. To Harry's dismay, the flame whip snips from his wand and tangles in his clothing, lighting his robes on fire. As he freezes the flames, he realizes that with the runic links intact, each spell syphons more energy from him and directs it into the wards and his opponent.
“You do have a slight bit of skill, Potter, though I am mildly disappointed that you pose no greater test of my ability. Now it is my turn.” Harry's precognition erupts and he tries to dodge to the side. However, as Voldemort casts his severing curse, he simultaneously and silently transfigures a patch of grass near Harry's feet into a venomous, brambly vine that binds his opponent's left leg. Harry gasps as he finds himself unable to avoid the oncoming scythe of energy. The violet bolt knifes into his abdomen just below the ribcage on his right side. Blood splashes out of the fresh wound.
“Avada Kedavra,” Voldemort intones, an edge to his voice. From his prone position, Harry cannot dodge, so he hastily erects a transhield. The killing curse shatters the shield and sprays Harry's face with hot shards of marble. A jagged, yellow beam follows, and Harry rolls away from it, still bound. Instead of striking him mortally on the head, the bone-breaking curse shatters his left clavicle and several of his ribs on his back.
“Crucio.” Harry's body incinerates in a pyre of white flame and his teeth bite through something soft. He struggles valiantly through the agony to raise his wand, but finds his wand arm bound by brambly vines as well--more simultaneous casting.
Voldemort steps closer to lord over his immobilized opponent. “Tsk, tsk. Done in so quickly. Goodbye, Potter. Avada Kedavra.”
Bound as he is, Harry knows he has no chance to dodge and even if his arm were free, it would be futile to attempt a transhield--at such close range he would be crushed by the slab.
In desperation, he chances that while the runic circle prevents him from Apparating away, he might, in fact, move to a different location within the circle. As Voldmort's wand glows sickly green with the onrushing curse, he disappears with a quiet “pop” and reappears on Voldemort's flank near the headstone to which he had been bound. The curse chars the ground beneath where he was.
“Potter!” Voldemort roars, scanning for the boy. “It is unthinkable cowardice to Apparate from an honor duel!”
Harry knows that he cannot continue, that the leeching of his magic from the runic circle has left him barely enough strength for a last spell.
Standing, he gathers to the fore all of the misery, the anger, the despair he has felt over his life as a result of the beast before him. He raises his wand, his bloodied arm only barely obeying. His strength is spent, his defeat to his newly resurrected foe, imminent. Drawing a rattling breath, he focuses on his hatred of Voldemort and utters two words he had never expected would pass his lips in anger.
“Avada Kedavra.”
A sickly green bolt writhes from the end of his wand and slams into its target. As it does, Harry feels a profound emptiness, as if a part of him has just died.