The stone Harry was hiding behind blew up. He rolled instantly out of the way and scrambled to his feet. Pettigrew was clutching his bloodied hand to his side, but he had an expression of grim determination on his face that told Harry he wouldn't give up, no matter how much of a coward he might be.
Someone else seemed to be there. At least, Harry heard a voice saying something. But he focused on Pettigrew, who was the real threat.
"Frangere ossa!"
The Bone-Breaking Curse flew straight and true. Harry heard one of Pettigrew's kneecaps smash, and he went down, screaming. Harry charged madly towards him, having the idea that he could get Pettigrew's wand away from him if he got close enough.
But Pettigrew was still armed, down or not. "Avada Kedavra!" he croaked.
"No, you fool!" said that other, darker voice.
Harry had already ducked under the Killing Curse, though, and he came up sure that his wand was aimed in the right direction this time. "Diffindo!" he incanted again, and he didn't much care if he cut Pettigrew's wand or his hand.
The Severing Charm flew; Harry thought he could see the faint disturbance in the air around it as it moved, like a whipping blade. Pettigrew was moving, scrambling back from it, and lifted his hand to shield his face.
The Severing Charm went in underneath that, and slashed his throat open.
Harry stared as blood poured out of the wound, jetting, gushing, with enough force that he knew he must have sliced something vital. He had the absurd impulse to say that he hadn't meant it, not like that, but he could do nothing but stand there, as shocked as he had been when he first learned of the Horcrux in St. Mungo's.
Pettigrew toppled over, his wand coming free at last from his damaged hand. Harry was left frozen. He should move, he knew that. He should run to the edge of the graveyard and see if he could get away, or if he was near enough Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade for someone to find him.
But he couldn't move. Wormtail was dead.
Harry was a murderer.
"Harry Potter."
Harry glanced up, every move he made feeling as if he was encased in syrup. He could still hear the bell calling shrilly from his back, but that didn't seem important. He stared at the huge snake crawling towards him, and the baby-like figure seated on its back. It had burning red eyes that he abruptly realized were familiar. From the dreams he couldn't really remember, but had been having more frequently as time wore on.
"Harry Potter," the being, Voldemort, sighed. "You have cost me my servant. But you will still serve, in place of him, until I no longer have need of you."
Abruptly, the little figure turned its head, and one stubby arm waved in the air. Then it laughed like a frog being boiled to death. "Or perhaps not. Even now, another servant of mine comes."
The air seemed to shiver and crack apart, and then Father was there.
He looked insane. His eyes were bright and narrow, and his face was the color of bone, so that Harry almost thought for a minute he was wearing a white mask. He clutched his wand in his right hand, and a lion charm with a madly ringing bell in the other. Even as Harry watched, the bell fell silent, and so did the one in the middle of his back.
"Lucius," Voldemort greeted, nodding to him from his seat on the back of the snake. "You are prompt. Bind the boy and tie him to a headstone. Then fetch—"
"Ignis inferiae."
The fire shivered like the air had with Father's Apparition, and came roaring out of his wand. Harry found himself diving to the ground and rolling away without even thinking about it, the heat or the danger breaking through his numb shock at last.
He saw—he didn't think he was imagining it—curving claws and fangs forming in the fire and stabbing forwards. The snake uttered a thin, high noise, a shriek of Parseltongue that made Harry claw at his ears. He also heard a higher sound than that, one so shrill that it rapidly passed out of hearing range.
Something black and mucky touched him, and Harry sobbed. He was being buried in a bog, he was losing the last of his hope and life, he was—
Strong arms seized him and held him close, and Harry heard the roaring fire dim to a small noise. Father smashed Harry into his chest and asked many questions in a low, rumbling voice. Harry had a hard time distinguishing them. But he managed to make out that one of them was, "Are you all right, Henry?"
No. I'm a murderer. I think Voldemort touched me. I don't know what's going on. I'm a murderer.
He nodded.
"The snake is dead," Father whispered into his ear. "The wraith is gone. I am sorry that I could not capture it, but I have not studied on such spells. I was looking instead for things that would kill a Horcrux, and I took the chance that the fire that would do that would also take care of the snake and at least the body the spirit had possessed." He stroked Harry's back. "What happened?"
"Moody—threw a Portkey at me," Harry managed to say, although he didn't know how. "And I killed—I killed—I killed—"
"Hush. I know. We'll deal with it."
At least Father wasn't saying that he was proud of Harry or something like that, which Harry had been half-afraid he would say. He clung tightly to Father as the man stood and Apparated.
....
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