Chapter 90: 7-2

Author Note: Due to word count constraints, what would have been three pages has been condensed into one. If you wish to enjoy the original flow, please visit pixiv.

It’s a graveyard. I know this place. I know Tom Riddle’s grave.

Clutching the necklace, I scan my surroundings like a tin doll in dire need of oil. Unkempt graves and overgrown earth. In the distance, a church floats like a cold, lifeless speck. An old manor. I know this.

Certain now that this is the Little Hangleton graveyard, I stare at the necklace in my hand. Why—why was this turned into a Portkey? Exactly when, and where—?

Then I realize. There is no fire within the gemstone. A dummy... the necklace was a cleverly crafted fake.

Why? Where? Who? How?

The answer is singular: it was the work of Barty Crouch Jr. disguised as Mad-Eye Moody.

When did he target me? The Yule Ball.

When did he replicate it? When I was summoned as a hostage for the Second Task.

How? He has Harry’s Marauder’s Map. It would have been easy for him to intercept me.

But why—? Why...?

Why did he need to bring me here too? I don’t carry a mother’s sacrificial protection. My blood shouldn't have any value. Why—no, I see. Voldemort doesn't know.

I stomp on the imitation necklace that has served its purpose as a Portkey. The sound of shattering glass is pathetically hollow. I take a deep breath—and look up at Tom Riddle’s grand yet miserable headstone.

“Constant vigilance—you’d fail as an Auror, Harry.”

There was a heavy thud as someone collapsed. The Triwizard Cup rolled across the weed-choked ground. Two boys lay tangled together nearby. Two of them.

“Harry! Why?!”

It was almost a scream. Why—why did you let him touch the Cup! Are you—am I—going to repeat the same mistake again!

“Maria...?”

“Where are we...?”

The two boys, knowing nothing, look around the graveyard defencelessly. They are so innocent it feels out of place. This is bad—he's coming—he'll be here—at this rate—

“Both of you, get your wands out. Now! Hurry!”

“Maria? What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

“Is this part of the Task too?”

“Get up!”

“Wait, Maria—Ouch!”

Harry groaned. One of his legs was bleeding profusely. Looking closely, Cedric was also covered in wounds. When it was "me," I wasn't hurt this badly. Is something different from "last time"—?

“Cedric, lend me your wand.”

“What are you talking about? You’re holding your wand right now.”

“I can’t use this one properly. Please, there’s no time!”

I force the wand from a suspicious Cedric and cast Episkey on the two of them. It’s only first aid, but better than nothing. If they can’t even stand, we’re finished.

“That’ll do. Here’s your wand back, Cedric. Thank you. Both of you, do not let go of your wands. Stay alert. Don't even think about fighting back—just focus on running and staying alive. Understood?”

“Maria—? What’s—?”

Footsteps. A short figure, heavily cloaked. He was cradling something in his arms. Like a bundle of robes—like a... baby...

“Va—gh, aaaaarrgh!!”

“Harry!? Maria, Harry is—Maria?”

I'm scared.

The sound vanished.

I'm scared.

Everything is darkness.

I'm scared.

That thing.

I'm scared. Scared, scared—I'm scared!

No. Don't show me.

Don't force me to watch.

There was nothing I could do. It was impossible for "me."

It can't be helped, can it? You—I can't save you! It can't be me!

It’s impossible!

“—Maria!”

“Kill the spare.”

That voice—the one that binds the soul for eternity. That cold voice. I know it. I know it!

“Cedric—!”

“Avada Kedavra!”

The flash of death was unleashed—and struck the headstone behind Cedric, dispersing.

“—Cedric! Cedric, are you alive!?”

“Y-yeah... that guy... just now...”

Cedric, pinned beneath me, stared wide-eyed at the cloaked man—Peter Pettigrew. Pettigrew’s wand hand was trembling as he gnashed his teeth.

Ah—he’s alive. Cedric is alive!

“M-Master—I am sorry—”

“Enough. It seems she has no intention of interfering. Isn't that right, Maria Potter? Now, take the boy. If we have the boy, the girl is useless.”

Pettigrew, though fumbling, restrains Harry, who is unable to move from the searing pain in his scar. Cedric and I can only grip our wands and watch.

“Maria... Maria, Harry is...”

“Don't.”

“Maria...!”

“You can’t! I won't lose you!”

Cedric looked at me in disbelief.

Twice—to see that look on your face—to see you die with that innocent face, caught up in something you didn't understand—I can't bear it.

Harry won't die. He won't. Isn't that right? "I" was made to walk this path specifically so he could die at the right time!

Pettigrew, though shaking, silently proceeds with the ritual. He sinks "him" into the cauldron and drops in the bone of the father. Pettigrew’s hand is sacrificed, and then—Harry’s blood is added.

“Ah... ah...”

Cedric, understanding instinctively that something monstrous is coming, trembles with terror. I can do nothing but hold his hand.

“Robe me.”

"He" spoke. Red eyes with pupils like slits, a nose as flat as a snake’s with slits for nostrils. Lipless mouth. Livid skin and unnaturally long, spider-like fingers.

The Dark Lord Voldemort had risen.

Voldemort speaks, his eyes fixed only on Harry. About his father—his mother—the Death Eaters.

I can't move. I understand. The part of "me" that has lived closer to death than anyone else is screaming: if you move now, you die.

Led by the Dark Mark on Pettigrew—Wormtail’s—arm, the Death Eaters assemble. A silver hand is bestowed upon Wormtail. ...None of that matters.

Ah, I didn't want to see this. I didn't want to be forced to realize in this way that everything was in vain.

“Lucius—ah, my friend.”

Lucius Malfoy was kneeling before Voldemort, as always.

“Lucius? How is your son?”

Lucius’s shoulder gave a tiny, involuntary twitch.

“He is well. A most disappointing—an immature and shameful child, hardly fit to stand before my Lord.”

His voice was detached. As if there wasn't a shred of affection in it—

“I see. He must be quite a burden, then? It is said that in every world, a father frets over his child. Though I would not know.”

With a dark laugh, Voldemort converses with his Death Eaters. Everyone wears a mask of an expression. It was a grotesque sight. Actors merely playing their assigned roles. Loyal dolls without souls or lives. All of it, born of fear.

Voldemort’s speech shifts to Harry and himself. His resentment and struggles until his resurrection—his plan to lure Harry from Hogwarts—the lucky sacrifice that was Bertha Jorkins—

Voldemort’s loquacity eventually ceases, and his wand is pointed at Harry. Instantly, the tension peaks.

“Crucio!”

Harry’s screams echo through the graveyard that has now become the depths of hell. I taste blood. I’ve bitten my lip so hard it’s split. My palms are wet. My nails have pierced the skin of my clenched fists.

This is—that is—"me."

“Now, Wormtail? Untie our young friend. And give him back his wand. He is the greatest contributor to my resurrection. We must treat him... accordingly.”

Vile mockery filled the air. This is it.

“Cedric—take care of Harry.”

I look at Harry, then at the Triwizard Cup Portkey, and signal to the boy beside me.

“Maria—? What are you—”

“Voldemort.”

The laughter stopped. Movement—even the sound of breathing—seemed to vanish.

“...Eager for death, little girl?”

“I claim to be Harry’s sister, after all. Whether that's true or not, I don't know... but my pride won't allow this to go any further.”

Slowly, I move away from Cedric, away from Harry. Draw them in—I need to capture the eyes and attention of every single one of them!

“Sister—sister, is it? Heh... did you hear that, my friends! What beautiful sibling devotion... a touching story. The sister who survived by sacrificing her brother stands before us.”

“...What?”

Wand held straight, I froze at the revealed truth.

“Poor Maria—you were both just babies. You wouldn't know the tragedy of that night. Have you never wondered? Why your brother was left with a scar while you were unscathed? Why you survived?”

“That’s...”

“Let me tell you. It is because you were behind your brother. It was nothing more than that. A mere coincidence. And once again, you have offered your beloved brother to me.”

Ah. I see. It’s simple and clear—he’s right.

I—Maria—have truly lived by using Harry as a shield.

“Now, Maria. The pitiful sister who lives behind her brother’s shield. Let us have a duel. You’ve been taught the procedure, haven't you? Bow. Bow to death. Do it like a sister should, in front of your brother.”

Obnoxious laughter rang out. This is good. Everyone is looking at me. They want to make me a laughingstock. They want to sneer at my pathetic death. Yes. That’s fine. Let no one notice that Harry is free!

“Crucio!”

“Protego!”

I flick my wand. But there is no sensation of a shield forming. Acting on reflex, I transition to wandless magic. As I thought, even now, this wand will not protect me.

“Ho...? Is that wand merely an ornament? You cannot call yourself a witch by playing the conductor, Maria Potter!”

“Bombarda! Confringo!”

I detonate the shards of the shattered headstone, creating a blinding explosion to heighten the distraction. I don't need to win. Just stall—and draw their attention! That’s all!

“Incarcerous!”

“Emancipare!”

“Nebulus! Diffindo—Stupefy!”

Red flashes of light pierce through the mist I created. I see him!

“Hide-and-seek is over. Avada Kedavra!”

“Expelliarmus!”

The encroaching green and red lights connected. Harry’s wand and Voldemort’s wand were joined.

“Maria! Are you alright!?”

“Ha... ha, thank you, Cedric.”

“Same here. ...What is that, with Harry?”

“Don't interfere. It’s okay.”

As I stop Cedric from going to Harry, Voldemort also forbids the Death Eaters from intervening. The light binding Voldemort and Harry shimmered in gold, blowing away the mist and burning the eyes. It seemed misplaced in its beauty.

A cage of light wove itself around the two, lifting them into the air. The song of a phoenix tore through the darkness. And as the equilibrium of light began to break—Voldemort’s wand began the reverse-spell effect.

Emancipare—Crucio—Wormtail’s silver arm—and Avada Kedavra.

An old man appeared. “Get him, boy!”

Bertha Jorkins spoke. “Don’t let go of the wand! Don’t you dare!”

Harry’s eyes widened. I just watched.

“Your father is coming...”

She was beautiful. A woman with thick red hair and beautiful emerald eyes.

“Harry.”

A soft voice whispered. A man with untidy hair and round glasses—he looked exactly like Harry.

““Now, go. Children.””

““Yes!””

The connection between the wands broke. We ran. Toward the Triwizard Cup Portkey. Leaving the dead behind, kicking aside the bewildered Death Eaters, using headstones as shields. We ran. Ran. Ran—!

Just a little more.

Harry was beside me.

Just a little more.

Cedric caught up.

Just a little more.

I reached out my fingers.

Just a little more.

See, we’re going to rea—

Ah.

Thump. He smiled with his usual kind face.

Maria. Maria. Let go.

Shut up.

Let him go.

Shut up.

Maria—come now, you must rest.

Shut up.

Maria. Cedric is... already...

SHUT UP!!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

Clinging to cold arms, his smile wouldn't fade, the green light was closing in from behind and he pushed me so he was therefore he was because because because—it’s my fault.

I should have been the one running at the back.

I should have used Accio the moment the three of us were together.

I should have run faster.

I should have entered the tournament in Harry’s place.

I should have stopped Cedric—no matter what.

I killed him.

“Harry.”

Someone wraps their arms around me. That person was covered in blood. He had been cut up unreasonably. His blonde hair, usually perfectly styled, was a mess. Ice-blue eyes were looking at me.

“Harry.”

He whispers.

“Let’s sleep. After all—you are alive.”

The blood is warm. The heartbeat is gentle. The voice does not blame me.

How... cruel.

『Harry, are you going to die?』

Ah, I’m dying, aren't I? I thought. It was quite sudden. This is the end for the man everyone hailed as a hero. ...Well, it’s not bad. I feel that way.

It seems you really can sense when your time is up. For example, even if I were given treatment immediately—it’s no use. I know it's no use.

I’m dying.

Tracing the sensation as it vanishes from my fingertips, I converse with my barely functioning brain. It was so carefree—so peaceful.

I’m dying.

It can't be helped. There’s a faint loneliness in having no one to see me off—but at least, in my final moments, I didn't have to let my loved ones see me in such a pathetic state.

I’m dying.

Is it time? You really are quite unlucky sometimes.

See—I’ve been found.