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TWENTY-ONE
——TEAR ME APART, RIP UP MY HEART
THE FIRST THING SHE REGISTERED TO WHEN SHE AWOKE WAS THE DULL, NUMBING SENSATION FROM HER ARMS. Effie later realized it was because of the ropes binding her wrists behind her.
However, that didn't mean she was entirely powerless. Effie managed to grab a sharp pebble after slicing her palms open a few times, beginning to work through it.
Cedric's body was lying some twenty feet away. Some way beyond her, glinting in the starlight, lay the Triwizard Cup. Potter's wand was on the ground at Cedric's feet, and Potter... Potter was bounded a few feet away from her, her wand at his feet which he kicked conspicuously to her once he noticed she was awake.
Fortunately, Effie had stepped on it by the time the unknown man—Cedric's murderer—turned to look at Potter before going back to what he was doing. However, due to always being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and unfortunately getting dragged into the shits that Potter got himself into, she realized Cedric's murderer was Peter Pettigrew.
And somehow, Cedric's death hasn't gotten to her. . . yet. All she could think of was to get herself and Potter out of this alive.
Through the mist in front of her, she saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron. What—What the fuck?
"Robe me," The high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master's head.
The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Potter. . . and Potter stared back, just as pale with horror. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake's with slits for nostrils. . .
Lord Voldemort had risen again.
Bloody hell, she thinks, numb with resignation as she got her ties somewhat loose. Of all the fucking hells I got stuck in—this is where my fate sticks me in.
His hands were like large, pale spiders, his long white fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face—the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cat's, gleamed still more brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant.
Wormtail was a writhing and whimpering mess of pain behind him, while a snake slithers again, encircling around Potter and hissed.
Voldemort slipped one of those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently too, and then he raised it, and pointed it at Wormtail, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the headstone where Potter was tied.
Wormtail fell to the foot of it and lay there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Potter, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh.
Wormtail's robes were shining with blood now—he had wrapped the stump of his arm in them. "My Lord. . . " he choked, "my Lord. . . you promised. . . you did promise. . . "
"Hold out your arm," Voldemort says lazily.
"Oh Master. . . thank you, Master. . . "
He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again. "The other arm, Wormtail."
"Master, please. . . please. . . "
Effie's lips curled up in a snarl, a bead of sweat mixing with the blood smeared on her temple as she focused on setting herself free. Somehow, freeing her feet seemed more easier than her hands.
I have a better task to do than listen to the pleas of a goddamned mewling quim, she thought.
It went on for minutes, before her ankles were finally free and her fingers were stinging (probably bleeding as well) from the intense effort she placed.
"How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?" Voldemort whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. "And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?"
He began to pace up and down before Potter and Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while (how the fuck did he not notice her yet?). After a minute or so, he looked down at Potter again, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face.
"You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father," he hissed softly. "A Muggle and a fool. . . very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child. . . and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death. . . "
Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around him as he walked, and the snake continued to circle in the grass.
"You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was. . . He didn't like magic, my father. . . "
"He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage—but I vowed to find him. . . I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name. . . Tom Riddle. . . "
The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward. . . slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes. Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort, and kissed the hem of his black robes. "Master. . . Master. . . "
The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle's grave, Potter, Voldemort, Effie (who was even surprised she's been included when they'd been ignoring her pointblank, the past minutes straight), and the sobbing and twitching heap that was Wormtail.
Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind, a rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered.
"Welcome, Death Eaters," Voldemort said quietly. "Thirteen years. . . thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday. . . We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?"
That second, Effie swore she would fight fire with fire. Her mind had already been broken once, and if Effie had any mercy left for the threats against her family, this would take the gold medal.
She would be silent, cunning and sly as a snake. And she would be kind, she would be conniving, and she swears that Voldemort will fall, be it by Potter's sake, or her own hands.
I will be brutal, she promises herself. That one, she won't break.
"I smell guilt," Voldemort prattled on. "There is a stench of guilt upon the air."
A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare, to step back from him.
"I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact such prompt appearances!—and I ask myself. . . why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?"
No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding arm.
"And I answer myself," Voldemort whispers, "they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment. . . "
How dramatic, she thinks boredly. With a jolt, she furrowed her brows, surprised at her attitude, but then relaxed. Must've been the dark side speaking.
(She was very grateful she forced her dad to teach her Occlumency or else Voldemort would've had her head if he heard everything she was monologuing in her head.)
One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort's feet. "Master!" he shrieked, "Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!"
Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand. "Crucio!"
The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked. Effie felt helpless, but for Potter's sake, she didn't let that show. She ignored the monologue again, not in the mood for this. . . this self-proclaimed failure of a god's maudlin theatrics.
Effie did remember Lucius Malfoy speaking even if she didn't listen. ". . . The Lestranges should stand here," Voldemort said quietly. "But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me. . . When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us. . . they are our natural allies. . . we will recall the banished giants. . . I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear. . . "
Effie made a mental note of all he said. Every name, everything. . . Macnair, Crabbe and Goyle Seniors, Nott Sr., then his tale of regeneration. Only one thing flashed in Effie's mind—horcruxes.
She recalled reading that from somewhere, but she didn't know why it flashed in her mind, and how connected it is to this.
And as it went on, she was right. Something was going on, and Bertha Jorkins' murder was connected to it. Crouch—Crouch is pointblank in the middle. The death eater stationed at Hogwarts. . . Snape was out of the question, Karkaroff's a coward, and that left Crouch's son. . . who was out and about, a death eater as well.
The last piece of information connected in Effie's head regarding the Cruciatus attack in the maze earlier—Moody was an impostor, who the school has been seeing was Crouch Jr all along.
"Crucio!" Potter's screams filled the air.
Effie, having had enough, jolted up. "Enough! Stop, please! Stop it!"
Voldemort stares at her curiously as nettles pricked her knees, but managed to get to Potter. "You okay?" She whispers.
"Are you?" He gasps out.
Effie nods, and then Voldemort lets out a chilling laugh again. "Paige Devereaux's daughter," He says with fascination, beady red eyes staring at her. "The trickster did have a child then."
Alright, Effie, time to be your inner manipulator. "Yes. . . my Lord."
Potter's head snapped towards her as she bowed, his eyes wide in alarm. Effie sneers at him under the cover of her hair, mouthing just go with it, I'm saving our arses.
"It seems she's been raising you well until her death, under the influence of me," Voldemort says quietly. "Why are you defending your master's enemy?"
When Effie looked up again, her eyes were cold, unfeeling. This was the calculative manipulator she's been hiding all along. The dark side behind that red door has come out to play. "If anyone were to find us, and Potter is dead in my presence, I will be ruined, my Lord."
"You see, I've been immersing myself in Dark Arts, my Lord, and if my father's reputation is tainted, everyone could easily suspect us, but in silence, no one would," Effie says bluntly, her calculating mind racing. "The Dark Lord is merciful, and I beg of you to spare me—and in service, I give you my word that I shall keep my silence to the public of you, allowing you room to work for your glory undetected. . . "
"And when everyone has turned a blind-eye for your existence. . . " The look of a cold-blooded killer fits her expression, unnerving some of the death eaters in the circle. "Then will be the easiest path of glory for you."
Silence.
Voldemort laughs coldly, "You remind me of your mother, child. Cunning, calculative. . . Wormtail, untie the child. She shall join my ranks in due time, and never again will I take a trickster for granted."
Soon enough, Effie was standing alongside them, and her wand in her grip. She gave Potter a look that only he could translate as trust me, a twisted smirk playing on her lips.
Voldemort should've never trusted a fox twice.
Potter was being made to fight against Voldemort, and a plan was already unfolding in Effie's mind. What a hell of a murder board she would make if—when. . . when she gets out of here. The nightmares had probably broken Effie by how she was acting this time.
The Death Eaters closed ranks, forming a tighter circle around Potter and Voldemort, so that the gaps where the missing Death Eaters should have stood were filled.
"We bow to each other, Harry," Voldemort said, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Potter. "Come, the niceties must be observed. . . Dumbledore would like you to show manners. . . Bow to death, Harry. . . "
The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemort's lipless mouth was smiling. Effie was smirking, but it was more like she was baring her teeth. She should've played along—but that's what she would've done instead.
"I said, bow," Voldemort said, raising his wand—and Potter curved as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever.
"Very good," Voldemort said softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon Potter lifted too. "And now you face me, like a man. . . straight-backed and proud, the way your father died. . . "
"And now—we duel."
Before Potter could even move, Voldemort casted Cruciatus on him again. Effie grimaced, clenching her jaw as Potter screamed. The next time Voldemort attacked, Potter threw himself put of the way like the Quidditch player he is.
He hid behind a tombstone (Effie wanted to facepalm, but then again, she wouldn't blame him). And as attention grew on him, Effie slinked away, using the shadows to her advantage.
Potter then shouted, "Expelliarmus!"
Voldemort cried, "Avada Kedavra!"
A jet of green light issued from Voldemort's wand just as a jet of red light blasted from Potter's—they met in midair—and suddenly Potter's wand was vibrating as though an electric charge were surging through it—his hand seized up around it, he couldn't have released it if he'd wanted to—and a narrow beam of light connected the two wands, neither red nor green, but bright, deep gold.
Effie's mouth fell open in surprise as Potter and Voldemort were both being raised into the air, their wands still connected by that thread of shimmering golden light. They glided away from the tombstone of Voldemort's father and then came to rest on a patch of ground that was clear and free of graves. . . The Death Eaters were shouting—they were asking Voldemort for instructions—
The golden thread connecting Potter and Voldemort splintered—though the wands remained connected, a thousand more beams arced high over Potter and Voldemort, crisscrossing all around them, until they were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage of light, beyond which the Death Eaters circled like jackals, their cries strangely muffled now—
Effie managed to snag the illusion of darkness, covering herself with it (she almost scared Pansy half to death when she tried this), and began shooting silent dark spells from the people nearest to her.
She started from the back, where they crumbled to her feet effectively unconscious—thankfully, the noise covered up their thuds.
It was laughable, really. The Dark Lord's army, being dismantled by a teenage girl. But in her defense, they weren't fighting either—they didn't even realize they were being attacked from behind.
Wasn't really a fair fight but Effie would take what she could get. Ghosts were appearing—the spirits of the people Voldemort's wand has murdered, surrounding them. They were all shouting at Potter not to let go.
He tried not to get distracted, hold on, because he could see what Effie was doing. She was getting closer and closer to Cedric's body—she was plowing a way as a few death eaters were left standing.
Effie kept glancing at him with an inquisitive stare, grasping Cedric's wrist. Her lips quivered as she felt his cold skin, staring Potter down.
"NOW!" Potter screamed, and broke the connection. The cage of light died away, but the shadowy spirits of Voldemort's victims performed a smokescreen as Potter ran for her and Cedric, zigzagging tombstones. He collapsed near them, his hand encircling Cedric's other wrist.
"Accio!" Potter yelled, pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup. It flew into the air and soared toward him. He caught it by the handle—
A tear fell down Effie's cheek as she heard Voldemort's scream of fury at the same moment that she felt the jerk behind her navel that meant the Portkey had worked—it was speeding them away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric along with them. . . They were going back.
The one object that led to his momentary glory was his downfall after all.
A torrent of sound deafened and filled her ears, there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams. . . Effie sat up shakily. Potter remained down, she wouldn't blame him. She was trembling over, and she must look god-awful with all that blood. Cedric Diggory was dead.
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