“He took stuff from his father’s grave, and from Wormtail, and me,” said Harry. His head felt clearer; his scar wasn’t hurting so badly; he could now see Moody’s face distinctly, even though the office was dark. He could still hear screaming and shouting from the distant Quidditch field.

“What did the Dark Lord take from you?” said Moody.

“Blood,” said Harry, raising his arm. His sleeve was ripped where Wormtail’s dagger had torn it.

Moody let out his breath in a long, low hiss.

“And the Death Eaters? They returned?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Loads of them . . . ”

“How did he treat them?” Moody asked quietly. “Did he forgive them?”

But Harry had suddenly remembered. He should have told Dumbledore, he should have said it straightaway—

“There’s a Death Eater at Hogwarts! There’s a Death Eater here—they put my name in the Goblet of Fire, they made sure I got through to the end—”

Harry tried to get up, but Moody pushed him back down.

“I know who the Death Eater is,” he said quietly.

“Karkaroff?” said Harry wildly. “Where is he? Have you got him? Is he locked up?”

“Karkaroff?” said Moody with an odd laugh. “Karkaroff fled tonight, when he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them . . . but I doubt he will get far. The Dark Lord has ways of tracking his enemies.”

“Karkaroff’s gone? He ran away? But then—he didn’t put my name in the goblet?”

“No,” said Moody slowly. “No, he didn’t. It was I who did that.”

Harry heard, but didn’t believe.

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t do that . . . you can’t have done . . . ”

“I assure you I did,” said Moody, and his magical eye swung around and fixed upon the door, and Harry knew he was making sure that there was no one outside it. At the same time, Moody drew out his wand and pointed it at Harry.

“He forgave them, then?” he said. “The Death Eaters who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?”

“What?” said Harry.

He was looking at the wand Moody was pointing at him. This was a bad joke, it had to be.

“I asked you,” said Moody quietly, “whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn’t even brave Azkaban for him. The faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort in masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky.”

“You fired . . . What are you talking about . . . ? ”