Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter 22: Resurrection

“Cedric…run!”

Those were the only words Harry could get out as he fell to his knees, both hands squeezing his skull. His head felt it had been cleaved in two. He fell forward, then rolled onto his side, desperately trying to stop the pain, his legs twitching and flailing as he bit back a scream.

“I’m not leaving you here, Harry!” Cedric yelled at him. His voice seemed to be coming from a long distance away. “What’s wrong with you? Where are we? Why are you-”

“He’s here,” Harry gasped, fingers clawing at his scar almost involuntarily. “You have to go…get help…now!”

“Who’s here, Potter?” Cedric growled, kneeling beside him, staring hard into the younger boy’s eyes. “I’m not going to just abandon you. I won’t-”

“What’s this?” a horrible, cackling voice spoke from a short distance away. “Two ickle babies?”

“Go…” Harry hissed. “Please, GO!” he practically shrieked. He knew what was coming next, what had to happen next. Cedric had just left his field of vision as he squeezed his eyes shut. He heard what he thought were the signs of feet pounding on the ground, what might have been a scuffle, incoherent screaming, and then Cedric’s bone-chilling shriek of agony.

Harry finally succumbed, and fell into the abyss…

As he slowly awoke, Harry became aware that someone was dragging him across the ground. A pair of firm hands looped under his armpits, and his feet bounced as they were pulled across the uneven ground. He tried to force his eyes open. His body was horribly weak, almost paralyzed. He was unable to resist as he was shoved against a hard, flat surface, and then felt ropes being wrapped around his torso, holding his arms to his sides. Almost as an afterthought, the cloaked figure that he just finished binding him pulled the phoenix-feather wand from his wrist holster, shoving it into his robes. Harry glanced up for a moment, and caught a brief glance of the terrified, but determined visage of Peter Pettigrew.

“Sorry, Potter,” he said. Harry wasn’t sure if he really meant it.

He tried to take in the scene around him. He realized that he was in a graveyard, and that the object he was bound to was almost certainly a tombstone. Several meters in front of him was a yew tree, with more tombstones pushing up through the ground in the distance. This graveyard was not a pre-planned collection of graves, arranged in regular rows and columns. This graveyard was older, one abandoned to the ravages of time.

Harry desperately tried to make sense of this even as he attempted to take stock of his surroundings. As he did, Pettigrew dragged a large cauldron into view, setting it up next to the strange tombstone. Liquid sloshed over the side as he maneuvered it into place. He lit a fire beneath it, and the contents immediately came to a boil.

Harry was suddenly struck by a terrible thought. A cascade of questions slammed down on him. What had happened to Cedric? Who was that woman? Why was he here? What was that cauldron for?

“Faster, Wormtail,” a sickeningly familiar voice hissed. “My time approaches…”

The voice seemed to have come from a previously-unnoticed bundle of cloth at the base of the yew tree. Harry was immediately assaulted by flashbacks of Bertha Jorkins’s murder, of the long, thin, black-and-red scaled arm that had directed the snake…that had directed him to bite the helpless woman, only after wielding a wand to torture her into consciousness. Was that what was concealed inside the bundle? Harry wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to find out.

The burning in his scar had been reduced from a sharp pain to a dull throbbing one, and his mind began to clear. He was bound to a marble headstone, the cords around his arms and legs tied so tightly that they were close to cutting off his circulation. His range of movement was extremely limited. Unable to do anything to improve his situation, Harry was compelled to simply watch as the macabre ritual unfolded before him. He felt as if he was covered in a cold, wet blanket of magic that kept him from using his own abilities.

Peter seemed hurried, yet unusually focused. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as if expecting the presence of another. It didn’t make all that much sense until Harry saw Cedric Diggory’s body shoved roughly onto the ground. He moved slowly, moaning softly, telling Harry that he was still alive. He glanced up at the hooded figure that came up behind the fallen Hufflepuff, a wand clutched in an almost-skeletal hand. Another hand emerged, and together they pulled back the cowl of the figure’s hood. It fell behind the head, revealing…

Another surge of revulsion. Standing over the body of Harry’s friend, the flickering light from the fire burning beneath the cauldron casting her features into demonic relief, was a tall, slender woman with a face that Harry had only seen in books of magical history, but whose tendencies and crimes he was intimately familiar with. Now he knew where that awful voice had come from.

Bellatrix Black Lestrange had once been beautiful, but a lifetime of Dark magic and chronic malnourishment during her long captivity in Azkaban had robbed her of that beauty. Her black hair was tangled and cast lazily over her shoulders, her heavily lidded eyes sunk back into her skull, her skin deathly pale in the moonlight. She laughed as she saw him sitting there, revealing a mouthful of broken teeth yellow with rot.

Her presence here baffled him more than anything else about these strange and horrifying circumstances. As far as she knew, she was still incarcerated in the Maximum Security Wing of Azkaban prison, with only the disinterested guards, her tormented comrades, and the Dementors themselves for company.

Clearly, his knowledge was a bit out of date.

As if sensing his confusion, she smiled at him. “Surprised to see me, aren’t you, ickle baby Potter?” Her voice took on a horrifying child-like tone, an innocent high-pitched quality that made his blood freeze in its veins.

After Evan Rosier, Bellatrix Lestrange had been the Dark Lord’s most trusted advisor and feared enforcer. Her cruelty and brutality were legendary, as was her talent with wand and magic. One of the finest duelists of her era, she had defeated more than a dozen Aurors, subjecting them to untold horrors before they were finally executed. To those that knew of her, her role as the ring-leader of the group that had attacked and tortured the Longbottoms following Voldemort’s fall had come as no surprise. She had outright refused to renounce her allegiance to her departed master, and had gone to Azkaban upright and proud. So too had her husband by a loveless arranged marriage, and her brother-in-law. The capture of the Lestranges had been a tremendous victory for the Light, and, coming in the wake of the fall of Voldemort himself, had probably been the impulse that drove the remaining Death Eaters underground, either into hiding or back into the public eye, bringing with them frightful tales of being forced to commit unspeakable acts while under the Imperius Curse. The new and opportunistic government that won control of the Ministry of Magic under the leadership of Cornelius Fudge had jumped at the chance to sweep the remnants of Voldemort’s reign of terror under the rug…upon the receipt of the appropriate bribes, of course. Dumbledore and the others could do little about the unforgivable breach of justice. The wizarding world was sick of war and death, and perfectly willing to accept their new Ministry’s assurances that Voldemort and his followers had been vanquished.

“The Dark Lord is very generous to those that serve him faithfully,” she said speaking in a harsh whisper. “A lifetime of loyalty…and a need for my services was all it took.” She laughed again. “It’s quite a joy to finally be free. Captivity isn’t all that bad, but after a while, you just start to miss the feeling of controlling your own destiny.”

“Bella,” a voice hissed in warning. A slight scowl crossed the woman’s face, but it was gone in an instant. Almost absentmindedly she kicked Cedric in the side, causing him to cry out in pain.

Peter’s preparations were now complete. Taking a deep breath, the traitor moved to the bundle of robes, lifting it from the ground. Harry thought he’d be prepared for what met his eyes as the robes fell away, but the hideous, red-scaled, skeletal infant that Peter gently carried in his shaking arms still made him feel like he was going to be sick. Pettigrew held the tiny form over the cauldron, and for an instant, a pair of crimson slits locked with Harry’s own eyes, sending a stab of blinding pain through his scar. Then Peter lowered the form in, eventually dropping the hideous mockery into the potion with a loud splash. Peter jolted back in terror, but he calmed as no punishment came for his error. Somehow Harry knew that his prayers that the abomination might be drowned by the frothing solution would go unanswered.

Bellatrix had shoved Cedric’s body up against the yew tree and joined Peter on the other side of the cauldron. “Shall we begin?” she asked.

Before Peter even had the chance to answer, Lestrange had raised her wand. She took a deep, exaggerated breath, then spoke in lazy, almost bored tone. “Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!” Her shriek echoed into the night, and Harry felt Dark magic permeate the air, swirling around him faster and faster, building to a crescendo. The air stank with the odor of burnt flesh.

The ground in front of Harry cracked, and a thin stream of pale dust emerged from the ground, floating in front of him, before at Bellatrix’s direction, it flung itself into the cauldron where it crackled and emitted a bright blue flash. Harry noticed out of the corner of his eye that Cedric was stirring again. His eyes gradually opened, abruptly widening in horror at the sight before him. His body stiffened, and he began slowly moving away, using his arms and legs to push himself backwards, trying to avoid detection. At the last, he failed.

Bellatrix calmly strode over to him, a look of irritated contempt on her face, and spat, “Petrificus Corpus!”

Cedric’s body was frozen in mid-movement, his eyes instantly seeking out Harry’s, wide with fear. “I won’t have you interrupting such a momentous occasion, boy,” she hissed. “You will watch and you will wait, like the well-behaved child that your parents raised, just like Potter over there. Feel fortunate that I have not yet decided to put you out of your misery.”

Her task accomplished, she moved back to the cauldron, nearly knocking over Wormtail as she passed him. The man was utterly terrified, both of what he was doing and of the people involved. “Your turn,” she said, turning to him.

“But I thought we agreed…”

“Consider it a test of your loyalty, Wormtail,” the cold voice hissed. It was coming from inside the cauldron.

The quaking man gave a jerky nod, then pulled a knife from his robes, holding it unsteadily in his left hand. He stared at Bellatrix, as if seeking approval. She nodded, a demonic smile cracking her face. She was enjoying this.

“F-f-flesh of the servant, w-w-willingly g-g-given — you will — r-r-revive — your master!” Wormtail finished the oath with a gasp, then gripped the dagger tightly in his left hand and swung it upward. Harry closed his eyes almost involuntarily as he figured out what Wormtail was about to do, not opening them until after the man’s shrill cry of pain had split the night, until after the sickening splash of his severed right hand plunging into the cauldron. A blinding, burning red flash nearly blinded him all over again as he forced his eyes open, and Wormtail fell back, sobbing as he held his bleeding wrist to his chest, gasping and moaning as he fought back another cry of pain. The Dark magic again been to swirl faster and faster, permeating the air, corrupt, dirty, and malevolent. Bellatrix threw Wormtail a disgusted look, then turned her eyes to Harry. A malicious smile lit her face.

She moved around the cauldron, coming toward him. Soon she was looming over him, as he tried to force his head backward so that he could see her face. She bent down in front of him and roughly yanked his right hand away from his side. Then she drew back and slashed his palm with a claw-like hand, breaking the skin. Warm blood flowed over his fingers, and she pushed a small rag into his injured palm, soaking up as much blood as possible.

She stared into his eyes as she spoke. “Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe!”

She got to her feet, even as Harry strained against his restraints, fighting back his own cry of anguish. The Dark magic howled louder now, almost blinding his senses. The wounds on his hands burned as if there had been some kind of mild poison on Bellatrix’s nails. Which, knowing the woman’s reputation, was a perfectly reasonable assumption. Regardless of the reasons, it hurt.

But any pain he might have been in from his bleeding palm was immediately forgotten as Bellatrix wrung the blood-soaked rag out over the cauldron, allowing several drops of his blood to hit the boiling contents. Her cry of ecstasy and exhilaration rang out into the darkness as the cauldron flashed a blinding white, blacking out the night around them. The Dark magic finally came to a climax, and for an instant, all of his senses were cut off. A frigid chill fell over the graveyard, and he shivered uncontrollably.

A surge of steam erupted from the cauldron, blocking out his view of Cedric, of Wormtail, of Bellatrix, of all of his immediate surroundings. And then a silhouette began to rise out of the cauldron, a thin figure shooting higher and higher into the night. Harry’s scar exploded, the pain again blocking out his other senses. He bit back a scream.

Through a haze of pain and half-closed eyes, he saw the skeletal figure step out of the cauldron, his naked body glistening in the moonlight. Harry’s mind tried to deny what he was seeing, tried to somehow rationalize that the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries had not just risen from the ashes nearly thirteen years after he had been presumed dead.

“Robe me.”

Gently, almost lovingly, Bellatrix retrieved the bundle of black cloth at the base of the yew tree and helped her master into them. She pulled back shyly, as if she was reluctant to be so physically close to her Lord.

The man stretched out his new body for the first time, running his spider-like hands over his chest, then turned sharply to face Harry, who remained helplessly bound against the tombstone. His skin was pale, white as chalk. “My wand,” he said, still staring at the boy before him. His face was flat and snake-like, his eyes brightly-burning red slits that seemed to stab into Harry like a pair of sharp fangs. Harry’s body was frozen in its current position, a burning pain slowly growing inside his forehead. He could not speak, even if he had wanted to. He was completely captivated by the visage of the Dark Lord, unable to resist the macabre lure of his serpentine features and the aura of his tremendous power.

Bellatrix returned to his view, reverently carrying a slender shaft of wood in her hands, and delicately handed it to Voldemort. Pettigrew continued to hide in the background, turned away from the action, horrified by what he had been a party to. But this did not escape the Dark Lord’s notice, as he might have hoped. “Come closer, Wormtail. Witness our triumph.” He finally broke eye contact with Harry, relinquishing his hold on the Boy-Who-Lived’s body. His eyes instead found the frozen form of Cedric Diggory, lying stiffly beside the yew tree. Harry could see the terror creeping into those defiant blue eyes. “And who is this?” he asked. “I asked only for only one. I wanted Potter, of course.”

“An unintended witness, my Lord,” Bellatrix said. “I felt it proper to continue with the ceremony despite his presence. If you so wish, I shall dispose of him.”

“Not yet, Bella,” Voldemort said. Harry had an awful feeling about where this was going. “What is his name?” he demanded, turning to Harry.

His lips moved on their own, despite his conscious resistance. “Cedric Diggory,” his voice groaned. Harry tried to build up his Occlumency shields, to fight the Dark Lord’s control of his mind, but it was a losing effort. He was too strong, and Harry was far too weak.

“Diggory?” Voldemort repeated. “I know that name. A fine lineage of Light wizards. A line of weak-minded servants to the Ministry. So this is the latest of them? A pity. You are a strong, handsome young man, Cedric.” He laughed darkly. “Be honored, boy. My magic is tired and untested.”

He lazily waved his wand at the frozen Hufflepuff. “Finite.”

Free of the Body-Freezing Spell, Cedric immediately recoiled and began backpedaling away from the risen Dark Lord. Bellatrix was behind him in a flash, yanking him up by the back of his robes, forcing him onto his knees. He resisted, but stilled as she brought a knife to his throat, whispering something in his ear.

Harry watched helplessly as Voldemort carefully examined his wand, searching for imperfections or flaws. Finding none, he drew his arm back, the tip of his wand pointed at Cedric’s chest. Harry looked into Cedric’s eyes and saw anger and defiance, but more than a little fear. His body was stiff and upright. “I’m not afraid of you!” he declared, though his shaking voice said otherwise. Bellatrix slapped him hard, jarring his head to the side. Harry raged silently at Cedric for not remaining quiet. What happened next was eminently predictable.

“Really?” Voldemort hissed, sounding irritated. “You should be. Avada Kedavra!”

A sickly green jet of light exploded from the tip of his yew and phoenix feather wand, striking the Hufflepuff in the chest. He stiffened, and there was a strange flash behind his eyes. Then his body went limp in Bellatrix’s grasp. The woman released her grip, and the lifeless corpse slumped forward. Voldemort casually levitated the body and sent it soaring into the night, discarding it like an unwanted piece of rubbish. It landed with a soft thump some distance away.

Harry’s body was frozen, unable to react, unable to accept what was happening. The anger and despair caused by Cedric’s death fought for their release, but Harry held them back, unwilling to give the man the emotional display he desired.

A massive snake slithered into view, moving around the feet of his master, welcoming him back into this life. He paid it little heed. “Such is the fate of those that defy me, Harry,” he hissed softly. “His defiance earned him nothing but a swift end to his pathetic life. Surely you will not also need to learn that lesson.”

“Bastard,” Harry hissed. His head was forced upward at an uncomfortable angle, and he shut his mouth. The grip was released, but he continued to glare daggers at the man — if he could still be called that — while also looking for possible avenues of escape. His ordeal, he knew, was just beginning.

“Come here, Wormtail,” he said. The frightened man stumbled into view, and Harry saw a brief flash of disappointment in Bellatrix’s cold eyes as he stopped in front of their master. “Give me your arm.”

Peter offered the bleeding stump, shaking violently.

Voldemort hissed tiredly. “The other arm, fool.”

Peter held out his left arm. Voldemort turned it over, forcing the sleeve of his robes back past the elbow, then stabbed a white forefinger violently at the skin, into the reddish-black tattoo of a snake slithering from the mouth of a skull. Harry’s scar caught fire, and his own strangled cries joined those of James and Lily’s betrayer as Voldemort held a slender finger against the man’s Dark Mark. Powerful Dark magic flashed outwards, calling out to the faithful. He released Wormtail’s arm, and before the man stumbled away, Harry saw that his Mark was now a jet black.

He turned to Bellatrix. “Already, one of my closest servants has rejoined me. I brought her here, releasing her from her prison, because another had already failed. I could hardly entrust Wormtail with a task of such tremendous importance.” He looked at Harry now. “There is another, of course. The one that arranged for you to be here tonight. The one that still waits at Hogwarts, awaiting my orders.”

It couldn’t be Snape, Harry knew, and Karkaroff was out of the question as well. He’d never survive a reunion with the men and women who had been imprisoned by his frightened testimony. Even if he still admired or respected Voldemort, the fear for his own life would keep him away from working for the man. Someone else had infiltrated them, someone tasked with finishing what Crouch had begun. Someone else had turned the Triwizard Cup into a portkey, and placed the Imperius Curse upon Viktor Krum, the latter most likely done to incapacitate both him and Cedric and insure that Harry reached the Cup first. Perhaps Fleur’s encounter with the boggart had also been pre-arranged. Or perhaps they’d wanted to see if Harry would stop to help Cedric, and what he would be willing to do to an ally like Krum to stop him.

It was all a test, Harry knew. Blaise had been more right than he could have possibly imagined.

And to his intense dismay, Harry now knew that he had passed that test.

Now, he faced a far more daunting task. He would need to survive, alone, helpless, at the mercy of the Dark Lord and the flock of his followers that were at the very moment on their way here, to answer their master’s call.

“Do you know where you are, Harry? Do you understand why you are here, of all places? It is because you sit upon the grave of my father, a cowardly, foolish Muggle. A man who cast out his wife when he learned that she was a witch, and that she was pregnant with his son.”

Voldemort paced in front of him. Bellatrix’s eyes followed his every movement. The depth of her devotion went beyond intense loyalty, beyond obsession. She was in love with the man…well, to the extent that a woman as cold and cruel as she could feel love. She wasn’t just willing to die for him, but would do it gladly. But as he revealed the secret of his parentage, Harry caught a brief flicker of shock in those eyes. No, she hadn’t been expecting that.

By contrast, Peter had fallen to the ground, sobbing weakly, cradling the stump of his right wrist. Voldemort ignored him. He looked like a lost, frightened child, rolling around on the ground. It was a truly pitiful sight.

“My father was useless to me in life, but in death he has at least proved worthy of my attention. I never laid eyes upon him until the day he fell to my wand, shortly after I discovered my true identity. My mother died giving birth to me. I was left to grow up friendless and alone in a Muggle orphanage. It was some time before I learned that I was different from all the other children. My rise to power began with my journey to Hogwarts, and my introduction to the wizarding world itself. I never looked back.”

His eyes flashed with cold fury. “Your mother died to save you, Potter. And my father, though long dead, played his own role in bringing me back from the dead, though he never knew it.”

Harry refused to speak. “From the moment I was old enough to understand, I swore that I would find him and kill him for allowing my mother to perish as she did. I swore that I would erase his presence from this earth. I began by taking on a new, more fitting name than the one that my poor mother gave me. My father’s name,” he spat. “Tom Riddle. A plain name. A common name. A Muggle name. A name unworthy of the greatest Dark Lord that this world has seen for centuries. And so Lord Voldemort came to be.”

The snake slithered through the grass, its tail passing close to his feet before it once again disappeared into the darkness.

He smiled, pacing back and forth again. “I find myself growing sentimental, reliving my own family history. But in the end, it does not matter. Watch, Harry, as my true family returns…”

Multiple pops and cracks of displaced air sounded all around them, as black-cloaked and silver-masked figures materialized out of thin air. They quickly moved to form a circle around their master. Several of them started to move forward. One of them knelt before him, then bent down and kissed the hem of his robes, murmuring an apology. Voldemort roughly jerked his robes away, letting the man fall to the earth, hissing disgustedly. “Get up, Lucius,” he commanded. The man did as he was asked, rejoining the circle.

Voldemort surveyed the witches and wizards arrayed around him. Bellatrix and Peter had not yet moved to join them, as if unwilling to associate themselves with those that had renounced their master, those that had betrayed him.

“I am disappointed,” he said. “Many of you are missing from the ranks. And those that are present stink of guilt and betrayal.”

“Master, we felt it proper-” one of them began.

“Silence! Crucio!” Voldemort hissed. The man fell to the ground, writhing in pain, screaming. The other men recoiled backwards, terrified by the possibility that they would soon all face the same ordeal. Finally, Voldemort lifted his wand, releasing the fallen Death Eater.

“I do not wish to hear excuses, Avery,” Voldemort said. “From any of you,” he amended. “Thirteen years ago, we stood united. No longer, it seems. Your ranks are thinned, by death, by imprisonment, and by betrayal. But you are fortunate; today has been a fine day indeed, and I am feeling unusually merciful. I will not tolerate any further lapses of loyalty. Lord Voldemort does not forgive. But I am willing to forget the sins of the past…for now.”

This news seemed to come as a tremendous relief to the men, who began quietly murmuring thanks. “Still, I find myself surprised that you have come here now, when none of you thought to search for me after my reported fall. I find myself somewhat baffled by the fact that one of my most reluctant servants was the first to find me, and bring me back.”

“I never gave up hope, master,” Bellatrix whispered quietly. “I always believed. There has never been one greater than you. If anyone could have conquered death, you could have managed it.”

“Indeed, Bella,” Voldemort said, his voice betraying a bit of affection. “Your loyalty to me remains unquestioned. I cannot say the same of the rest of you. Perhaps, in your crisis of faith, you sought out other masters? Such as that Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore?”

The assembled Death Eaters let loose a cacophony of denials and curses, each assuring their master that they would never consider such a grievous betrayal of his trust. Whether Voldemort actually believed them wasn’t entirely clear.

“My faith in you is further eroded by the knowledge that instead of rallying around it, you ran from the Dark Mark at the World Cup this summer. For if you had sworn your undying loyalty to me, why would you not rejoice at this symbol of my power?”

“Master,” Lucius hissed, coming forward. “We did not run from you.”

“Indeed?” Voldemort asked. “From whom, then, were you running?”

“The Grey Maiden and others set an ambush,” Avery whispered. “We were routed, shamed. We were unprepared to fight.”

Voldemort let loose a high, chilling laugh. “So you fear admitting disloyalty, and instead offer cowardice as an excuse for your actions?”

“Master, we-”

“I have heard enough,” Voldemort said. “I no longer care about your reasons, about you explanations, about your excuses. It is past. It is done. It is forgotten, if not forgiven.” He surveyed the masked men. “This time will be different. You will serve me, or you and your families will pay the price. Failure shall not be tolerated. Do you understand?”

They did.

“Now, it seems that in your rush to ensure my forgiveness, you have failed to notice my special guest. Yes, he is here. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. As an infant, he was credited with my downfall.”

Harry’s stared into the night, almost hoping that if he didn’t notice them, they might not notice him. But the eyes of the assembled Death Eaters were now drawn to where he sat against the tombstone, and more than one of them laughed at him as he struggled against his bonds.

“My Lord, how did you manage this miracle?” Lucius asked. “How did you return to us?”

“It is a long, fascinating story, Lucius,” Voldemort said. “One that begins…and ends, with my young friend here. I came for Potter that night, thirteen years ago. I came to end his life, because I had reason to believe that he posed a threat to my power. I killed his father with little effort. His mother begged me to spare her son, to take her own, filthy Mudblood life instead. The foolish, desperate cries of a mother, I thought. I was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. After disposing of her, I turned my wand upon young Harry here, seeking to finish the job.”

Silence echoed through the graveyard. Even Wormtail’s moans of pain had stopped. Harry could hear nothing but his own breathing.

“It is impossible to describe what happened next. I felt pain beyond anything I had ever experienced, ever imagined possible. I was torn from this world, torn from my body, cast out as a weakened and powerless spirit.”

Again, he paused. The silence was deafening.

“His mother’s sacrifice left traces of protection upon him. Protection that I neither understood nor could overcome. From the moment that Lily Potter’s soul left her body, I could not touch her son. Until now, that is.”

He moved to Harry, and his scar began burning fiercely, pain tearing through his entire body. He fought to stay aware, to watch the scene in front of him. A thin, skeletal hand reached for his face, and the same forefinger that had activated Wormtail’s Dark Mark traced across his skin.

Harry had never known such pain. His flesh seemed to be dissolving at the Dark Lord’s touch. He could not contain his reaction, and let loose a shriek of agony that shattered the stillness of the night. The Death Eaters laughed, none more than Bellatrix, who cackled with glee at his suffering. Voldemort pulled back the finger. “As you can see, that has changed.”

There was more laughter from his servants, who were probably grateful to no longer be the focus of the Dark Lord’s attention.

“But in the end, my friends the work I had already untaken proved my salvation. You knew my goal then, to conquer death, to live forever. Though I suffered greatly, I had already transformed myself into something that could not truly die. My soul was capable of remaining in this world without a body to hold it. But I was powerless, impotent as the meanest ghost. I had to flee Britain, to find a place where I could regain my magic and find a way to return to body.”

He pulled out his wand, examining it again. “Tools such as this were useless to me, for in my weakened state I could not use a wand. I could not even grasp it, not without a corporeal form. But I found that I still had one power. I could possess the minds of others, feed off of their life energies, control them like puppets. First, I possessed animals, but they did not last long. Then, as I waited in vain for my loyal servants to return to me, Fate smiled upon me. A weak, idealistic wizard was drawn to my hiding place by tales told by the locals. I seized his mind, and we became one. It was all the more fortunate that this man just happened to be a teacher at Hogwarts. I learned from him that the Philosopher’s Stone was to be hidden within Hogwarts. At last, a means to reach immortality was at hand.”

He sighed, almost in regret. “Alas, it was not to be. For despite my preparations, despite my presence within the school itself, my efforts were thwarted. Not by Dumbledore, who was unwilling to take action despite the fact that he was surrounded by signs of my imminent return. No, once more I was stopped by Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived…again. I must admit I underestimated him. I never expected a Potter to wear the colors of my own House, even one raised by the Grey Maiden herself. I did not think him capable of penetrating the defenses surrounding the Stone even with the help of his Mudblood friend. Despite my error, I very nearly succeeded, until the luck that had got me to the precipice of my triumph was at once reversed. My Killing Curse would have disposed of Potter had it not struck the very Stone he was trying to deny me. In the end, I paid dearly for mistakes. I was forced to abandon my host, and in my haste I destroyed the very item that I had coveted. And Harry Potter lived to fight another day.”

He threw a glare at Harry, one that sent a fresh stab of pain through his forehead. “I returned to the Dark Forest once more, to heal, biding my time. For two years I waited, until I received the most unexpected of surprises. Wormtail, here, who had already faked his own death to escape justice, who had already botched his own attempt to abduct Potter, came to me, hoping that I might at last provide him with protection, in exchange for his services. I agreed, as his body was ill-suited for possession. But Wormtail was more than capable of following basic instructions. And so, with the help of a few obscure Dark rituals and potions, a bit of unicorn blood, and some venom from Nagini, I became well enough to travel. That was when Wormtail made what might have been a fatal mistake. He encountered a Ministry Witch, Bertha Jorkins. He managed to convince her to accompany him, then overpowered her and brought her to me. I learned much from her. I learned not only of the Triwizard Tournament that was to be held that year, but also of an unexpected asset that I could use to put my plans into action. Despite her…damaged state, I kept her alive in the hope that she might yet be of some use to me.”

“Finally, my preparations were complete. Wormtail, with the help of a few old friends, transported me back to Britain, along with our unconscious captive. I took up residence in my father’s old Manor. As I gained strength, I began to plan the events that would lead to this night. With the help of Bertha Jorkins’s information, I freed a former servant from his father’s captivity, and in exchange, he agreed to help me. He successfully infiltrated Hogwarts, placed Potter’s name in the Goblet of Fire, and ensured his participation in the Tournament.”

Again, the Dark Lord turned his crimson eyes to Harry. “You might be wondering what I wished to accomplish by this, Harry. After all, with my agent in place, would it not be easier to simply order your death? But I decided against such rash action. I was too weak to reveal my presence on the continent. I had heard much about your accomplishments, heard rumors of the power you possessed…and how you had come to possess that power. In the end, I decided to test you for myself. I instructed my agent to raise the stakes of each task, to make the tasks more dangerous for you personally. If you were killed, then the problem would be dealt with. After all, I have many enemies. There was little point in obtaining your blood for this occasion if you proved too weak to survive my tests. But survive you did, Harry, despite all of the odds being stacked against you.”

Voldemort broke his eye contact, and Harry took a deep, gasping breath. He’d found it nearly impossible to breathe while the man had been speaking to him. He didn’t understand how Voldemort was so easily manipulating his body. Voldemort paced again, surveying the Death Eaters. “It seems that once again I failed to learn from my past mistakes. Bartemius Crouch Junior was powerful and intelligent. But he was also unbalanced. And he was frightened of what I might do to him if he failed. He decided to take matters into his own hands, and nearly single-handedly destroyed the entire operation when he attempted to kill Potter himself, and was captured. Fortunately, I had considered the possibility that age might have wizened Dumbledore, and took steps to insure that his capture would not lead to my own. But with my agent dead, it seemed that the entire operation might unravel before I had a chance to stop it. However, I had one last servant, a woman who was both more than willing and capable of serving my needs.”

“It seems that I am once again in debt to you, Wormtail. As foolish and ill-fated as your attempt to abduct Potter was last year, your actions still left me with one more servant than would have otherwise had. And because of that, the original plan was able to go ahead…with some alterations.”

Pettigrew was on his feet now, but he was still shaking as he accepted his master’s praise. He seemed decidedly out of place amongst these hardened and experienced Dark witches and wizards. He was not an unwilling accomplice, for he had participated out of his own self-interest. But he wasn’t comfortable with his role either.

“I have told you before, Wormtail, that the Dark Lord rewards those that serve him well. And though you may have blundered your way to this moment, I am in your gratitude. Consider this as a token of my appreciation.”

Voldemort waved his wand, and a brilliant ball of molten silver formed in the air. Harry watched as it molded and shaped itself into a hand. It flew to Wormtail’s arm, and seamlessly attached itself to the stump of his wrist. Wormtail stared down at it in wonder. “Thank you, Master!” he cried, nearly weeping with joy. Any pity Harry might have felt for the man vanished at that instant. He dropped to the ground and kissed Voldemort’s robes, before getting back up and moving into the circle of Death Eaters. Bellatrix remained firmly inside the circle, at her master’s right side. Harry was all too aware that Voldemort’s long-winded explanation was fast approaching its end, and that the man would soon turn his attention to his bound captive. Again, he strained against the cords that held him, but they wouldn’t budge. And he felt far too weak to perform even the most basic magic. Voldemort’s cold, wet blanket of power was suffocating him, dampening his own talents and leaving Harry terrified and defenseless.

“And at last my long tale of misfortune comes to its triumphant end. Alecto Carrow performed the task I set aside for her. She transformed the Triwizard Cup into a Portkey, and then arranged one last test for Harry. He passed it. And as I expected, Harry Potter reached the cup alive and intact. He brought an unexpected companion, who was easily dealt with.”

The memory of Cedric’s murder flashed in Harry’s mind, and he closed his eyes, trying to ward off the disturbing images.

“Bellatrix was able to escape captivity, as I had already regained control of the Dementors. One of their number was in fact waiting for me upon my arrival. As the reigning Dark Lord, their loyalty was assured from the beginning; they are my natural allies. The stage was set. The overture is now over. And now, my friends, the main act begins. In front of all of you, on this very special night, I shall vanquish my foe.”

He abruptly turned and slashed at Harry with his wand. Harry braced himself for the end. But rather than ripping his guts open, the motion merely severed the restraints binding him. He was on his feet in an instant, adrenaline flowing through his system. Of course, without a wand, and surrounded by people that wanted him dead, there was precious little he could do but stand there defiantly. “Give him his wand, Wormtail,” Voldemort commanded. The short man stumbled over to Harry, and the fourteen-year old snatched the proffered item from his grasp. Harry said nothing. What was there to say, anyway?

The circle of Death Eaters began to move back, opening up a small arena for the Dark Lord and his wounded, frightened challenger. Harry knew that the odds of him surviving this confrontation were close to nil. Voldemort had the edge in skill, training, and raw power. He didn’t even need his wand to bring Harry to his knees. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going down without a fight. His pride wouldn’t allow him to, if nothing else.

Voldemort had also taken several paces backwards, and Bellatrix had evidently rejoined her fellow Death Eaters, because it was now just the two of them inside the formation. “Surely the ward of Daphne Dressler knows how to duel,” he said. When Harry didn’t respond, he spoke again. “We begin with a bow, Harry.” He spoke to his adversary as if he was a small child.

Harry took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, trying to let his fear out with it. Maybe he was going to die. But he was going to die on his feet, fighting the bastard that had murdered his parents and ruined his guardian’s life. He held his wand out in front of him, but would not meet Voldemort’s eyes. He bent down ever so slightly, slowly, carefully. Voldemort looked somewhat surprised at this, and returned the gesture.

Harry had just pulled his wand back to deliver a Slicing Curse when he was hit with the Dark Lord’s silent Cruciatus Curse. He dropped to his knees, and then fell to the ground, gnashing his teeth together, writhing on the ground as his body burned.

Voldemort lifted the curse, leaving him panting and nauseous. Almost as an afterthought, Harry’s scar continued to burn dully. The Death Eaters’ laughter filled his ears, echoing through the night. Harry slowly got back to his feet, his knees shaking, glaring daggers at his opponent.

“Disappointing…” Voldemort hissed. “Crucio!”

Harry had already begun his dive, and the blast of white light missed him, slamming into the ground with a bright flash. Harry slashed his wand hard at the Dark Lord, shrieking the incantation for the Slicing Curse. Voldemort slapped his curse aside with incredible ease. Harry fired again, this time a Blasting Curse at the reborn Dark Lord’s feet, followed quickly by the most powerful Severing Curse he could muster. None of them even got close before they vanished into Voldemort’s Servos Shield, which glowed a deep green as it consumed the energy of Harry’s spells.

Harry leapt back to his feet, waiting for the Dark Lord’s assault. He didn’t wait long. The supercharged Cruciatus Curse, fed mostly by Harry’s own magic, tore into his body and shattered his conjured shield like it wasn’t even there. Harry was hurled backwards, slamming into the wall of Death Eaters, bouncing off them and landing in the muddy grass, where he writhed in exquisite agony. He prayed for death at that moment. It simply could not be worse than the pain he was experiencing. He couldn’t even hear his own screams.

Then the pain vanished, as Voldemort once again released him. This wasn’t a duel, Harry realized, emerging from his pain-induced haze. He was toying with Harry, humiliating him, using Harry as an example of what happened to those that defied him.

“To your feet, Potter,” he hissed. Slowly, wondering how much more his abused and weakened body could take, Harry complied. He shook his bangs out of his eyes. It had begun to rain, and the ground was quickly becoming more treacherous.

“What do you want from me?” Harry demanded. “You’ve got me right here; you could just kill me and be done with it!” Taunting the man probably wasn’t the best idea, but Harry wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer death to enduring another dose of Voldemort’s Cruciatus. And escape was all but impossible.

Voldemort didn’t respond with words. Instead he blasted several more Cruciatus Curses at Harry, who managed to dodge all of them, and even got off a Striking Curse, as useless as it proved. Voldemort lazily waved his wand to block it.

At that instant, he saw it. Just ahead and to the right of him, a crack in the line of Death Eaters. He could only hope that they were too distracted by the duel between him and their master to react. He fired a Slicing Curse at Voldemort’s head, then spun around, aiming his wand at the break. “EVANBERO!” he bellowed. The supercharged Bludgeoning Curse smacked into the living wall, sending three or four unsuspecting Death Eaters flying into the air, and Harry took off for the gap he’d just created even as the others hurried to close it. He slipped through the breach, running for his life. He heard Voldemort’s cry of rage, felt the heat from a curse on his neck as it missed him by centimeters. He wasn’t sure how far he’d made it before he was hit in the back by the worst Cruciatus yet. His wand slipped from his fingertips as he collapsed forward onto the ground, his body going into uncontrolled spasms, his throat burning as he vomited. He felt blood dripping from his nose and ears. That can’t be good.

By the time it was over, and he was once again released, Voldemort was standing over him, and the formation of Death Eaters had reformed around them. Harry was no better off than he’d been before he’d attempted the mad stunt. Again, he prayed for death. His mind was fuzzy, his body hurt everywhere. He fumbled around for his wand, finally finding it half-embedded in the mud beneath him, as Voldemort began to taunt him again.

“That was foolish, Potter,” he hissed. “Leaving the dueling ring is a great dishonor, you know. You paid the price. Now get to your feet, and we shall finish this. The only escape is death. You are a wizard, Potter. Do not dishonor your heritage by expiring in the dirt like some common Mudblood. I am giving you the chance to die on your feet. You should be thanking me for-”

“Abrumpo!”

Voldemort did not cry out in pain. He hissed, and his eyes locked with Harry’s, causing his scar to erupt in blinding pain that threatened to tear his mind to fragments. Harry hadn’t yet recovered from the mental assault when the Dark Lord retaliated. His right arm, still outstretched, provided an obvious target.

“Diripio!”

A swarm of tiny razor-sharp blades tore into his arm, slicing through the fabric of his robes, his flesh, tendons, ligaments, even bones. The Flesh-Shredding Curse worked its way all the way up his forearm before expending its energy, but the damage was already done. Harry let out another shriek of pain, instinctively diving onto his wounded arm, which did little but cause him even more agony. He lay there, groaning, hissing, moaning, cursing. His eyes burned with tears. He waited for the end. It did not come.

“…as I was saying, you should be thanking me for allowing you to die a gallant death,” Voldemort continued, as if he’d never been interrupted. “A pity your body will be so badly scarred when I am done with it. I daresay your friends might not even recognize you. You have disfigured me, Potter. You have left your mark on my new body. And you will be made to regret that. Get up, boy. Get up and face your destiny.”

All I have to thank you for is pain, Harry thought. At that moment, knowing that he was about to die, a terrible rage overwhelmed all other conscious thought. He embraced it, and for an instant, he felt nothing. He made his decision, and forced his muscles to start working. He ignored the pain of his shredded forearm, the discomfort of his rain, sweat, vomit, and blood-soaked body. He ignored the fear, the feelings of helplessness that had threatened to overwhelm him. He focused every particle of his being on nothing but his hatred for Lord Voldemort, for everything that he stood for. Tucking his ruined right arm to his chest, grasping his wand in his left hand, Harry rose to his feet, magic pulsing through his body. Voldemort drew his wand back for what was sure to be the killing blow.

Not like this! Harry raged in his mind. Not like this!If I’m going out I’m taking this bastard with me!

“Avada Kedavra!”

“CONFRIGO!”

Two enormous blasts of energy burst out of the end of their wands at the same instant and collided in mid-air. But rather than the Killing Curse overwhelming the Demolition Curse and continuing on, rather than the energy of each spell canceling the other out, rather than a tremendous explosive release of magical energy resulting from the collision of two immensely powerful spells, fired by two immensely powerful wizards, there was instead a blinding flash of golden light. The sound of Phoenix song filled the air, and a thin golden streak of light now connected the wands of Harry and Voldemort. He felt himself being lifted off the ground, and saw that Voldemort was also being levitated, as the Death Eaters swarmed beneath them, desperately trying to aid their master. But the spells they fired into the sky at him vanished upon contact with the expanding golden sphere that now enveloped the two duelists, as they hovered at least fifteen meters above the ground.

A expression of stunned disbelief was etched upon Voldemort’s face. Beads of light began to form along the connection between their wands. And at that instant, Harry began to understand what was happening. Ollivander’s caution played again through his mind, though the voice seemed to be coming from a long distance away…

“It is indeed curious that this would be your wand when its brother gave you that scar.”

Shared wand cores. Extremely rare. Extremely unpredictable. And now that connection was all that held Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort high in the air, sealed inside some kind of impenetrable bubble. Harry knew that if this connection was broken, he’d most likely fall to his death. Even if he survived, he’d be too badly injured to fight back. He’d be literally torn to pieces.

Distracted by his contemplation of the events that had just transpired, Harry had failed to notice that the beads of light that he’d previously dismissed as unimportant had drawn alarmingly close. He was almost out of time. He didn’t know what would happen if those beads touched his wand, but he couldn’t imagine that whatever it was would be beneficial to his health.

Harry closed his eyes, and reached deep into his body, drawing his power outward, emptying his magical core. Instinctively, he began to channel raw energy along the connection. A grayish cloud pushed out from his body, forcing the beads back. Voldemort’s eyes went wide with alarm as he saw what Harry was doing, and he began to push back. A black cloud in the shape of a serpent wrapped itself around his end of the connection, and quickly slithered up it, meeting the oncoming beads that were being shoved back by Harry’s magic. The gap grew smaller, and smaller, and then their essences touched…

Harry didn’t fully remember what happened next. All he knew was that he was suddenly being blasted through the air, his body feeling like it was on fire, surrounded by a colorful conflagration of light, as if the air itself was ablaze. He barely even felt the impact as he hit the ground, saved by an instinctive Cushioning Charm. His landing was almost gentle, but his energy was fading fast. He forced his eyes open, unable to understand what was happening, and rolled over, staring off into the distance. He saw a brilliant inferno burning on a hill some distance away, and silhouettes against it, he saw more than a dozen black figures charging down that hill at his position, letting loose incoherent screams of rage. He recognized one of the voices He reached back with his left hand, and touched cold flesh.

Cedric.

That meant he was back at the yew tree, near the cauldron, near the headstone. Near the…

He rolled over so that he could wrap his left arm around Cedric’s, and discovered by some miracle that he wand was still clenched, intact, in his left hand. Aiming blindly into the darkness, he summoned the last of his magical reserves.

“Accio Triwizard Cup!” he cried. He stuffed his wand down the front of his robes, praying to some unknown divinity that he’d been successful. A glowing blue object came soaring through the air and met his waiting hand. His fingers closed around the handle. He felt a jerk behind his navel, and he was in the air again, flying away from his own personal hell, holding onto his dead friend and the cold metal of the cup’s handle as if his life depended on it.

Which, of course, it did.

He closed his eyes as he hit the ground again. He briefly heard screaming, shouting, saw orange flashes through his closed eyelids. But his body could no longer take the strain, and his mind needed its own time to heal.

Harry Potter knew no more.