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‘Please,’ Begged Harry Pottater silently. ‘Let him burn in there. Let him die.’
But Harry’s prayers were to no avail. Slowly rising from the boiling water of the deep fryer which Wormtayto had thrown him into, French-frydemort was alive. “Clothe me,” he said, voice high and menacing. Wormtayto scurried over and reverently dipped his master in the ketchup dressing container next to the deep frier.
‘Root, Wormtayto,” commanded French-frydemort.
“Oh thank you, milord,” the sniveling tuber said, presenting the root which had been cut off.
“Other root, Wormatyto,” sneered French-frydemort.
Whimpering, Wormtayto handed over his other root, and French-frydemort pressed the tattoo on it. The oven releasing flames on it fluttered and shifted, and cracks were heard all around. Potato after potato arrived in the compost pile, looking around at the tombstones, otherwise silent. The Dark Spud’s Oveneaters, Puré-bloods from all over.
French-frydemort greeted them all, speaking kindly of most of those not present, accusatory of many there. He spoke of his fall, his struggles, and his plans to rise again, finally addressing Harry Pottater himself directly. Pulling out his peeler, French-frydemort forced Harry to bow, and then they dueled. Spells flashed all around them, crashing into headstones and whizzing past the surrounding Oveneaters.
Finally, gasping, Harry pointed his peeler at the same time French-frydemort did, and their peelers let out beams which met in a flash of light. Slowly, Harry forced the small bead of light back towards French-frydemort’s peeler, till suddenly it stuck to the end and the peelers began to vibrate worse than before. A potato chip flew out of French-frydemort’s peeler. A chip, returning from the grave even after having gone through the mysterious hinged doorway of The Oven.
More and more potato chips flew out, and suddenly Harry’s parents were there, somewhat flatter than in life but still vibrant. They spoke to him, and Scalloped Diggory begged him to grab his body. Harry swore he would. The potato chips flew towards French-frydemort and taking the opportunity gifted him by the chips, he rolled. He threw himself, barely managing to get a grip on both Scalloped Diggory’s body and the Trispudder Cup.
He was taken back, only to be greeted by cheers and blaring music, the tubers around him unaware of what had occurred. Wails rose as they began to realize Scalloped Diggory had been cooked. Harry was taken away by Mashed-Eye Moody.
Albus Gajodore rescued him from the clutches of the hidden enemy, and Harry was reunited with his friends. Ron Spudley had always been an excitable tuber, but now he was grim-faced, and sat with his roots crossed on the train. Hermione Mashedger had always been nervous, but now she was panicking, asking hundreds of questions to no one in particular.
Harry only knew one thing for sure. The Spudding world, the Kitchen that surrounded him, would never be the same.