Hmmm, thought Harry. If Malfoy was trying to protect Ginny during the Quidditch game, what’s
he going to do now? And if he throws it, will she ever speak to him again? He thought of the
lose-lose situation Malfoy was in with pleasure; this was almost as good as dueling with him
personally.
They bowed to each other and took up their positions. Ginny didn’t move; neither did Malfoy.
It seemed like every breath in the hall was momentarily suspended, waiting. Then suddenly,
Ginny simply cried, “Expelliarmus!” and Malfoy went flying back into the Slytherins, knocking
them down like tenpins. But in spite of the unanimous vote, Ginny did not look happy. He’ll
have hell to pay later, Harry thought happily.
Another dozen or so dueling pairs faced off, and then Snape called “Malfoy!” again, followed
by, “Potter!”
Harry stepped forward; he’d been waiting for this. Malfoy joined him in the center of the circle,
eyes hooded, face expressionless. They barely bowed, watching each other the entire time.
They stepped back, wands at the ready, circling each other. Most other duelers jumped right in
before this point, but they waited and watched each other.
Suddenly, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry his face like a storm cloud, snarling, “HARA
KIRI!”
Harry heard Ron and Hermione gasp; they knew it was what he’d done to Karkaroff, since
now they both had heard about the dream. Harry couldn’t help going to his knees; oddly, his
own wand looked to him like a long, curving knife. It was quite beautiful, with a fork-tongued
dragon etched down the side, the handle being its tail. He’d never seen such a beautiful knife. It
was so beautiful, he knew he just had to plunge it inside himself...
He rammed it into his mid-section on the lower left, feeling his insides shudder with the invasion
of the cold metal. He drew it across his abdomen; the finely honed blade met no resistance, but
sliced through him cleanly, surely, beautifully. He looked down at his sliced robes, now dark red
with his blood. Then it happened; his insides started spilling out of him, and a river of blood, and
suddenly the pain hit him, the excruciating pain, worse, if possible than the Cruciatus Curse had
been....
No, a voice in his head said. This is not real. He remembered Moody saying, “It’s only pain.”
He closed his eyes and repeated that over and over, it’s only pain it’s only pain it’s only
pain it’s only pain...and he felt himself floating up again, seeing himself kneeling on the floor
with his eyes closed as if in prayer, Malfoy standing over him with a satisfied look on his face.
Harry looked down again; his robes were deepest black, uncut. His wand in his hand was his
wand again. He was all right and he knew it. He looked up at Malfoy, narrowing his eyes.
“Inverso!” he cried, pointing his wand at Malfoy from his position on the floor. Malfoy
responded as Ron had, only even more so.
“Aaah! What the hell have you done to me, Potter! Get me down now! I’m going to kill you!”
and he turned in circles, looking up, as though that were where Harry was. Harry stood calmly
and reached out and plucked his wand from him.
“Finite Incantatem,” he said calmly. Malfoy screamed as the spell terminated, then rubbed his
eyes and looked around frantically, seeing Harry in front of him, smiling.
“Nice try, Malfoy,” he said softly so the others couldn’t hear. “But the thing about using
that kind of curse on me is--I know the pain isn’t real.”
Malfoy looked at him, alarmed, as though he had metamorphasized into an otherworldly
creature. Actually, thought Harry, that’s the face I usually get from Aunt Petunia and Uncle
Vernon. How odd.
The vote was cast, and the duel went to Harry. The Slytherins had voted for Malfoy, but it
wasn’t enough to matter. Harry had noticed that Malfoy was getting along better with his
housemates since their conversation in the Trophy Room. Good, thought Harry. Better for his
cover; if he was planning to put his father in Azkaban, which Harry still doubted from time to
time.
He had had a good day. He had made Draco Malfoy panic because he thought he was hanging
upside down in the air, and he still had his perfect record. Harry noticed Snape giving him a
strange look as he left the Great Hall. Did he know the Hara Kiri curse? Was he wondering
why Harry had not screamed in agony?
Harry remembered dueling with him in the dungeon; he had looked at Harry with respect then.
He could not make out the older man’s expression now, but it almost seemed tinged with fear,
as though he thought Harry was not quite human. But then Harry remembered his Animagus
training and smiled to himself as he climbed the marble steps; well, part human and part golden
griffin....
* * * * *
Shining tile was everywhere; in some places it shone more than others; there was some dirt and
grime here and there, and a great many advertisements, it seemed. West End shows,
toothpaste, American films, vacations in France. The curving ceiling overhead gave a sheltering
feeling, like an oblong womb, like a tiled birth canal.
The Underground.
On the tube station platform were several dozen people, some alone, some in pairs or larger
groups. Mothers held the hands of small children, keeping them away from where the train
would be in a few minutes. Students in dirty, artfully torn jeans listed to one side under the
burden of rucksacks worn on one shoulder only. A cellist hugged her instrument case to her, a
precious thing, her life. Elderly matrons in babushkas held their handbags tightly, prepared to
give pickpockets and purse-snatchers a hard time of it. Men who worked in the City, Financial
Times under their arms, carried their umbrellas casually, yet prepared to make them weapons if
necessary.
They had no weapons to defend themselves against what was to come.
They all clutched the people around them and the objects they carried as though that would
protect them, as though that made them safe. They all had a common purpose; getting the train.
Each person had an individual mission after leaving the train; go home, make dinner, go to work,
do homework, perform at the opera house, give the children their tea and baths and tuck them
into bed. But the tube united them temporarily, gave them one goal and destiny, one purpose in
life.
One fate.
The train emerged from the tunnel, sliding slowly into the station. He couldn’t tell which station it
was; there was a sign, but it seemed to be gibberish. He couldn’t make it out. Then, he saw the
face.
Red eyes. Nostrils like slits. Not a human face. Not any more.
And then the world shattered into a million pieces....
* * * * *
