At these words Harry remembered, as though from a former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had attended briefly two years ago . . . All he had learned there was the Disarming Spell, “Expelliarmus” . . . and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? He had never learned anything that could possibly fit him for this. He knew he was facing the thing against which Moody had always warned . . . the un-blockable Avada Kedavra curse—and Voldemort was right—his mother was not here to die for him this time . . . He was quite unprotected . . .

“We bow to each other, Harry,” said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. “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. Harry did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him . . . he was not going to give him that satisfaction . . .

“I said, bow,” Voldemort said, raising his wand—and Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever.

“Very good,” said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted too. “And now you face me, like a man . . . straight-backed and proud, the way your father died . . .

“And now—we duel.”

Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was . . . White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he’d ever screamed in his life—

And then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort.

“A little break,” said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement, “a little pause . . . That hurt, didn’t it, Harry? You don’t want me to do that again, do you?”

Harry didn’t answer. He was going to die like Cedric, those pitiless red eyes were telling him so . . . he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it . . . but he wasn’t going to play along. He wasn’t going to obey Voldemort . . . he wasn’t going to beg . . .

“I asked you whether you want me to do that again,” said Voldemort softly. “Answer me! Imperio!”