by
Catherine King
Hagrid was in the Great Hall, teaching Hermione how he fed Fluffy.
“Now, what I do, is first I sing Fluffy, ‘Hey, Ho, Nobody Home,’ which’ll put ’im ter sleep, then I put the ham in front ‘o his middle mouth, then I gets another one, puts it in front ‘o the right mouth, then I start singin’ again, whoops, there goes me ball - imaginary, ‘o course - ha ha…”
Then something happened that hadn’t happened before: the door on the far left, which was the other entrance to the third floor corridor (the forbidden one - musical theme, please), was pounding out. The dog in there, Fluffy, was trying to get out. A spike from one of his three collars had been poked out, and was now stuck in the door. Then a trapdoor, which had never been noticed before, was starting to quiver. It opened, and a giant, blue eye on a long, white cord was coming out of it. The voice, the voice that hadn’t been heard for so long, the voice that everyone thought was long gone, was back. And it was saying, “Why have I shifted for so long? Why have I shifted for so long?”
Hermione screamed and fainted, just as Harry came, sprinting, into the Hall. He stopped within a sixty-yard range of the eyeball. Just as Harry started wondering what was this - this thing, a pain, a sharp, horrifying pain hit his forehead like a gun. The eyeball was Voldemort. Voldemort turned around, and saw Harry. “Ah,” it said, “here is why I shifted for so long! Here is why I shifted for so long!”
Hagrid must have fainted, but Harry didn’t want to see. He did want to see the eyeball forming into a solid mist, and then out of the mist was the man who had killed Harry’s family and so many other innocent people and families.
Skin chalk-white, red eyes that were just snake eyes (not the gambling form). Black, billowing robes, long fingers, spider-like, which were clutching a wand.
“Expelliarmius!” Harry bellowed, pointing his wand at Voldemort’s. It flew out of his hands, but apparently Voldemort had his own tricks. He brought his wand down to his hand then he got back onto his feet. Voldemort and Harry pointed both of their wands at each other, and both yelled, “Expellarmius!” at the same time, making both wands fly into the air, far out of their owners’ reach.
Harry did not know just what to do, but the little voice inside his head, the one that always got him into trouble, was telling him, “Get him! He killed your parents, who died for you, and the lowest you can do is avenge them!” So Harry listened to that side, and under its lead, he leapt up and wrung his hands around Voldemort’s neck.
Voldemort started rising steadily in the air, and Harry’s grip on his neck became tighter, not just to choke Voldemort but for dear life. Harry was so busy, he didn’t realize how much his scar hurt. Now, it seemed, it felt like someone had taken a razor-sharp knife, the same shape and size as the scar, and plunged it into the scar. Harry then saw how much his neck hurt. He quickly realized that Voldemort was choking Harry, just like Harry was choking him… but through magic! Harry gave one great, final wring, with all his might, and then felt his grip weakening - he was falling - Voldemort had won - Harry’s life was flashing before his eyes, which were closed - he was going to die - he knew it. It was the end. He was pitched into total darkness - and Harry could see and hear no more.
