“Harry,” Hermione said, realisation in her voice, “isn’t that that guy from the game who beat that guy to get the thing?!”
Harry nodded.
“Yes, Hermione, I think that’s the guy.”
With a paper clip, Happy put this chapter together, and then reached for the other favourite…
The Harry Potter Literary Storm
Part Two: The Next Chapter About the Next Book About the Guy With the Thing
Chapter 23: A Dark Power Darkly Darkens the Day
Harry and Cedric looked around the graveyard.
“Wow,” said Cedric. “Harry, I think this is a graveyard.”
“Yeah,” agreed Harry. “I hope neither of us is soon to need a grave though. There’s an ominous air about this place.”
“Ominous is right!” shouted another voice. The two boys looked around, to see a hooded figure slouching towards them, carrying what looked to be a bundle of robes.
“Who are you?” demanded Cedric. The hooded figure did not answer, but yet another nasty voice filled the air. It was more unpleasant than any voice that had rung through the grave yard so far, and its tone spoke of a fate worse than death (possibly disembodiment).
“Kill the spare…” it hissed. The hooded figure looked at the bundle of robes.
“But master, how?” it asked.
“Use your wand, you imbecile,” replied the voice. The hooded figure nodded and pulled out a wand.
“Avada Kedavra!” shouted the figure. Harry gasped and looked toward Cedric, who gasped and looked back at Harry, both expecting the other to be limp, dead.
“Err “ play dead,” Harry told Cedric.
“No, you play dead. You’re the important one,” Cedric contradicted. “I’m the heroic looking one, who is handsome and the Champion of Hufflepuff!”
“But this is my fight!” argued Harry, “and you don’t have much time!” Cedric scowled at him.
“Alright, but if you’re in trouble, I’m going to charge in loyally and save you.”
Harry huffed.
“Fine. But not until I say the code word.”
“What’s the code word?” asked Cedric.
“Err “ ‘secret’,” Harry told him, thinking quickly. “Now play dead!”
Still not happy with the result, Cedric clutched his heart.
“Ack!” he cried tragically. “I’ve been cursed with a curse that kills ruthlessly and instantly!”
And he crumpled to the ground. Harry looked at the hooded figure.
“What are you playing at?” he demanded. The hooded figure, however, was looking from his wand to Cedric.
“It worked, my Lord! It worked! I knew I’d be able to pick up the gist of magic!”
“Yesss…” the horrible hissing voice replied. This reminded Harry of something…
“Can I ask you something, just quickly, before you kill me or torture me or raise Voldemort or whatever?” he asked.
“Just quickly,” accepted the hooded figure.
“Do you “ uh “ have a face on the back of your head?”
“No,” the hooded person told him. “I have a face on the front of my head, just like everybody else.”
“Enough!” shouted the hissing voice, which, Harry was sure, was the voice of Voldemort. It was body-less, and every word sounded like a strain. Somewhere in those crumpled robes, Harry was sure there must be some kind of demented figure, a desperate attempt at form after cheating death. “Tie him up…”
The hooded figure looked around for some rope.
“How, my Lord?”
“Fool!” snapped the voice of Voldemort. “Use your wand…” The hooded figure looked at his wand, and then at Harry, and, although he could not see the man’s face, Harry was sure his look was doubtful.
“Erm “ Abracadabra Rope!”
Harry just stared.
“Very well,” hissed the voice. “Give the wand to me. If this weakens me so that my transformation cannot be complete, I will hold you completely responsible…” The hooded figure gulped, and put the wand in the cloak.
Wordlessly, Voldemort, whatever form he was in, caused thin ropes to appear, and fasten Harry to the nearest tomb stone.
“Now,” hissed Voldemort. “Hurry up and perform the spell, before I grow any more impatient, weak or angry…”
“Three pounds of dirt, deliberately dug-up, you will become somewhat more important…” began the hooded figure, and awkwardly placed the wrapped form of Voldemort upon the ground to dig up three pounds of dirt, and place them in a large cauldron that Harry had not noticed before.
“Three drops of pumpkin juice, easily snatched, you will be added next…” chanted the hooded figure.
“I have a question,” said Harry.
“A question?” asked the hooded figure, adding pumpkin juice to the potion.
“Yes, a question,” Harry told him. “Well… maybe two. Who are you, and what are you doing?” The hooded figure paused.
“One moment,” he apologised. “Dead father’s favourite whiskey, cheaply bought, you will do some evil…” As the whiskey was being poured from the small-mouthed bottle, the hooded person addressed Harry once more. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Harry. “I assume you’re a Knight of Walpurgis, and you’re probably trying to give Voldemort a better form than whatever disgusting creature he is now…”
“When I get my body,” hissed Voldemort, “I will kill you horribly.”
“It’s not disgusting,” the hooded figure said. “Just mist and vapour. Here, I’ll show you.”
He poked the robes with a stick, and a small phial of white mist rolled out onto the ground.
“That’s really weird,” Harry told his two acquaintances. Voldemort’s voice hissed, infuriated.
“Don’t infuriate the Dark Lord!” snapped the hooded figure. “One more moment… Hair of the enemy, gained without much effort, you will resurrect your foe.” He chopped a section of Harry’s hair off, and Harry winced, unable to stop all this from happening.
“Who are you?!” he demanded again, newly frightened and angry.
“Who do you think?” inquired the hooded figure.
“I don’t know. But you’re really bad at magic, and kind of pathetic. Also, I get this vibe from you of guilt.”
“Right on the mark,” the hooded figure told him, and, having added the chunk of hair to the potion, approached Harry. “You want to know who I am?” he asked.
“Yes,” Harry told him, annoyed. “I have asked you several times now!”
The hooded figure withdrew his hood, to reveal…
A face that Harry barely recognised.
“You!” Harry exclaimed. It was the man from the Shrieking Shack. “I know you! You betrayed my parents!”
“Sort of,” admitted the man.
“Marty “ something!” Harry shouted angrily. “You vermin!”
“Martin Malovski Saint Clair,” corrected the self-acclaimed Martin Malovski Saint Clair.
“You demon!” accused Harry. “You weak, old coward!”
“I’m not weak!” Martin told Harry angrily, “I killed that boy over there, which is pretty good for a muggle! And I’m not old! I’m thirty-seven!” Harry cleared his throat, and tried to sound convincing.
“Yeah… uh, right. Killed him. You monstery… er “ monster person.”
“Hurry!” hissed Voldemort, from inside the small glass bottle. “I grow weak from lying here, and yet my anger grows stronger!”
Martin Malovski Saint Clair yelped, and got back to the potion.
“Flesh of servant, willingly given, you shall bring back your master…” He withdrew a long, dangerous looking knife, and Harry winced, squinting, because somehow he could not simply look away. Martin gritted his teeth, and drew back the weapon, ready to swipe…
And with it, he scraped the skin from one of his knuckles.
Whimpering, Martin Malovski Saint Clair approached the little glass vial.
“V-vapour of master, monotonously collected, y-you will be whole once more.”
He hobbled to the vial and grasped it in his good hand, and walked back to the potion. With a deep breath, he dropped it in…
Let it break, Harry thought desperately, please let it be broken, let the vapour escape or be poisoned…
But apparently Harry’s prayers were not to be answered this time, as the potion turned the bright orange of a pumpkin, or the head of a Weasley. From out of the potion emerged a head, with slits for a nose and vivid red eyes, and then a glowing white body.
Lord Voldemort had risen again.
He yawned deeply, terribly, like he had woken from a long sleep.
“Where are my robes?” he demanded, with a voice that could shatter the heart of a snake. Martin Malovski Saint Clair, still struggling not to whimper from his skinned knuckle, brought the robes to Voldemort, who put them on easily. “Ah. Robes. Do you know how long it has been since I wore robes?” he asked, a biting edge to his tone.
“Does when you were on the back of Professor Squirrel’s head count?” asked Harry, in a little, squeaky voice that could shatter the heart of a mouse.
“No!” snapped the Dark Lord.
“Then, no, I don’t know,” replied Harry.
“Of course not,” Voldemort told him. “Of course not.”
“Master,” begged Martin Malovski Saint Clair. “Master, you promised…”
Rolling his red eyes, Voldemort drew his wand. In the air, was forming something that looked like a metallic thimble. It turned and reformed, until it had formed a perfect, molten brass knuckle, and landed upon Martin’s hand. He admired it proudly.
“Now,” Voldemort got back down to business, “let’s see who will come when I call, after all these years…” He clapped his hands twice, and whistled.
Barely moments later, Knights of Walpurgis began to arrive, each at a different position in Voldemort’s circle. Each wore a dark cloak, that completely hid their identities,
“One, two, three…” counted Voldemort, turning around as he counted up the Knights. “Four, five, six, seven…” Tremors spread around the circle, as the Knights saw missing spaces amongst them, where Harry supposed more Knights would usually stand. “… twenty-three!”
Harry, personally, thought this number of loyal servants to be quite impressive.
“I know where they are,” Voldemort said. “Dead, imprisoned. The most faithful are not amongst us. And some of them are probably asleep, as I have learned that many of my Knights work night-shifts for the Ministry of Magic now…”
Murmurs spread around the circle.
“I am deeply troubled,” confessed Voldemort, “as I have learned that many of you are not loyal to me any longer. But that will change, won’t it? By coming here today, you have signed a magical contract which now calls for you to make up thirteen years of service, and I will hold you to it.”
“Mr Dark Lord,” began a Knight, raising one hand. “I’m sure we all want to know “ how are you here? Also, where is your nose?”
“Fool!” snapped Voldemort. “Evil knows no nose. Absolute evil, that is. That’s why I like snakes so much. Also pigs.”
“But Sir, pigs have very prominent noses“”
“Pigs have snouts!” shouted Voldemort, and all the Knights jumped. Harry would have jumped, except he was tied up. “And I cannot believe you are asking how I am here. You all know the steps that I have taken to achieve immortality… Well; technically you know that I have taken steps to achieve immortality. The rest I’m keeping to myself! And you have the nerve to ask how I have returned? Have you no faith?”
“Of course I have faith, my Lord. I’m sorry I asked…”
“So you should be!” snapped Voldemort. “I have it written in my journal “ that’s right, my journal!” he added dramatically, as the circle of Knights had quivered at the mention of Voldemort’s journal, “that you used to be very faithful, Nott. Quite faithful indeed. But if I discover differently…”
“No, my Lord, I am your most faithful“”
“Good!” interrupted Voldemort. “Good. Because you all know of my secret, and“”
Several tomb stones away, Cedric heard the code word and sprung to his feet.
“No, get down!” shouted Harry. Everyone looked at him, but more importantly, Cedric got down.
“Were you talking to me?” asked Voldemort.
“No!” Harry said, “No, I was talking to no one. Please continue.”
“As I was saying,” continued Voldemort, “you know I have a secret“”
Cedric arose again, wand at the ready.
“That wasn’t me!” shouted Harry, annoyed. Everyone looked at him again.
“I know,” Voldemort told him, irritation showing in his face, too. “I was talking to the Knights of Walpurgis. Why on Earth would I tell you my secret?”
“Sit down!” shouted Harry, as Cedric rose, once more.
“Are you ordering me around now, Potter?” demanded Voldemort. “You think that because, as a baby, you defeated me for so many years, you are the boss now?”
“No,” Harry told him, earnestly. “I just don’t want you to say ‘secret’“” Cedric rose, his face flushed from all this standing and sitting. “Sit down, you moron!” Harry yelled, face flushed from all this yelling.
Voldemort’s face didn’t flush because he was so pale, Harry thought he mustn’t contain blood. Still, he looked angry.
“What did you say to me?” he demanded, gritting his teeth.
“I said not to say ‘secret’,” Harry repeated, “Stop it!” he added to Cedric, who ducked down again.
“Why shouldn’t I say ‘secret’?” asked Voldemort, annoyed and a little confused, though he didn’t want Harry to know that.
“I said ‘sit’! You stupid “ dunderhead!” screamed Harry, frustrated. Cedric jumped heroically to his feet every time someone said the code word. Voldemort’s anger radiated like heat from a fire.
“Dunderhead?!” he demanded.
“Not you,” Harry told him.
“Who then?” Voldemort asked.
“Err “ no one,” Harry said. “Please, go on.” With one more suspicious look, Voldemort went back to his Knights.
“As I was saying, you all know of my secret, and“”
“Sit down, shut up and just stay STILL!” bellowed Harry to Cedric.
“How dare you order me around!” bellowed back Voldemort.
“Well, stop saying ‘secret’ then!” Harry told Voldemort. “It’s nothing!” he added, shouting to Cedric, who still incessantly rose every time someone mentioned the word. “Will you please just use your common sense?!” Voldemort hissed.
“Use my common sense, and do what? Follow your instructions?” he demanded. “Never, Potter! Secret, secret, SECRET!”
“Well fine!” yelled Harry to Cedric, who had risen, yet again. “Fine. Just do it then! Get yourself killed!”
“Are you threatening me, Potter?!” demanded Voldemort. “I, the Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard on this Earth?!” Cedric pointed to himself, and then down, with a questioning look on his face. Harry nodded, significantly.
At this point, Voldemort let out an aggravated roar.
“Very well, then!” he hissed at Harry. “Let’s see how you go in a duel! I will crush you like a boa constrictor crushes a rat!” With a wave of his wand, Harry’s bindings were gone.
“What did I do?” demanded Harry, who had just become relieved that Cedric had finally gotten the message and didn’t want to spoil that moment of calm. Violently, Voldemort threw Harry’s wand at him, and his own seemed to be emitting sparks, in reaction to his intense anger. Harry grabbed the wand, and Voldemort began to open his mouth.
Taking that as an invitation to hide, Harry ducked behind the grave stone he had been tied to, breathing heavily, and grasping his wand like a life-line. This was it.
“I knew it. You were bluffing,” accused Voldemort.
“I wasn’t bluffing about anything!” Harry told him truthfully.
“So you’re going to kill me from behind the grave stone?” inquired Voldemort.
Harry gritted his teeth. Voldemort didn’t expect him to come out, but… he had to. It was the most sensible thing. Come out before his enemy expected it.
“Err “ yeah!” he told Voldemort, his stomach writhing. “I’m making a potion as we speak.”
“A potion?” asked Voldemort, laughing. “What kind of potion? Going to give me the hiccups, Potter?”
“No,” Harry told him, “I’m going to “ uh…” He looked around him for inspiration. The grave before him read,
‘Mindy Boccanchini, died by way of a potion made by using the deadly spores of a poisonous cactus, which seeped instantaneously through her skin.’
“I’m going to turn you into a cactus!” he shouted to Voldemort. “And then I’m going to step on you!” Voldemort laughed.
“You can’t do that,” he told Harry.
“I can!” yelled Harry, “and it’ll be ready in five… four…” It was now or never. Jumping out before Voldemort would expect it, Harry hurled himself around the gravestone, screaming the first spell that came to mind, “You are ridiculous!” Well, humiliating Voldemort couldn’t hurt, right?
However, something very different happened. Voldemort’s reflexes were, apparently, fantastic, so he had shot a spell in the split second Harry had, and the spells had collided in the air. Instead of bouncing off from each other, however, as Harry expected, the spells sort of connected, so a long string of magic made its way from Harry’s wand to Voldemort’s wand…
Well, it didn’t get him out of there, but he was at least safe for the moment. Now, Voldemort didn’t have the upper hand… they were both freaked out.
Naturally, the letter from the publishers arrived barely an hour later, and not just because Happy owned and ran the company! The person who had written it seemed desperate to know what happened next.
Approximately two days following that momentous moment, ‘The Doomspell Tournament’ hit the shelves, and the fourth Harry Potter book took the world by surprise, rocketing the Harry Potter Literary Storm from a Category Three to a Category Four. Harry Potter was making history.
A jam-packed school year begins at the beginning and runs all the way to the end, as Harry gains several new friends and opponents, which threaten to both hinder and help him in his adventures. Will the assistance (and obstacles) of people who are beautiful, puffy, tall, just, unjust, very tall, old and untrustworthy get him through or get him out of this year’s organised challenges?
‘The Doomspell Tournament,’ the next book in J.K. Rowling’s ingenious series, following the acclaimed, ‘Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban’ will keep you on the edge of your metaphorical seat from beginning until about half-way, then you will completely fall into the drama of Harry Potter’s fourth year of schooling.