Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from Harry Potter.

Warnings: Non-con (in the sense of non-consensual intrusion into a person's mind, altercation of their memories, and curses; there is no physical rape in this story), torture, though honestly nothing worse than what you'd find in the books

Chapter 1

Harry Potter, wounded and alone, didn't know what to do. Cedric was lying so still, perhaps even dead, and Peter Pettigrew had bound Harry so tightly he couldn't move an inch while the spider poison throbbed in his injured leg. Not that spider poison was the worst of his worries at that moment. Wormtail was going to bring Voldemort back to life. It was happening now, in this graveyard far from all Harry's friends and guardians, far from anyone who could help, and there was absolutely nothing Harry could do to stop it.

"Bone of the ancestor, unknowingly given, you will renew your son."

Pettigrew took a bone from a grave and put it within the giant cauldron which had just claimed the grotesque, infantile thing that was Voldemort. The bone still had dirt and bits of cloth clinging to it and Harry had a momentary and rather bizarre thought of what Professor Snape would say about potion ingredients and contamination, and despite the way his very blood felt frozen in his veins, he had to fight the urge not to break out into mad laughter.

"Flesh of the enemy, willingly given, you will revive your foe."

Hearing the need for 'flesh of the enemy' greatly helped in ending his inappropriate mirth, as Pettigrew pulled out a sharp silver knife. He didn't approach Harry with it, though. Instead, he held his own arm over the cauldron, his hand held in a tight fist, and to Harry's shock the knife sliced through his wrist in one quick move, sending the fist into the cauldron and a spurt of blood strong enough to splatter an angel several feet away.

Harry had shut his eyes just in time to miss the actual cut but nothing could disguise the plop of the hand in the liquid, just half a second before Pettigrew screamed, and then screamed again. Harry opened his eyes and saw the blood splatter, saw the dark stain on Pettigrew's robes where his arm was huddled, somehow blacker than black. Pettigrew's face was white and twisted in such agony that Harry couldn't help but feel he should feel a bit sorry for him. Instead, all Harry could think was that if that was what Pettigrew had to do to himself, how much worse would he be doing to Harry? The writhing form of Peter Pettigrew was crawling towards him, knife still in hand.

"Blood of the friend, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your ally."

The knife was so sharp that Harry barely felt the cut. Pettigrew's words danced around his head. Ally? Friend? In no way could Harry ever be considered a friend to Voldemort. And Pettigrew had called himself an enemy. Could it be that he had messed up the words to this horrible ritual? Would it be enough to ruin the results? Please let it be enough.

Pettigrew poured Harry's blood into the cauldron and the entire concoction started sparking. This was followed an eruption of white steam. And then, from the steam, a form emerged rising from the cauldron. It was as tall as a man, flesh white, almost skeletal thin.

"Robe me," said a voice, a man's voice, deep and commanding but somewhat hoarse as though it had been used too much, or, possibly, as though it hadn't been used for a very long time. Wormtail took a black robe from the ground, flailing a bit as he tried to get it over his master's head. By the time the figure was clothed, most of the white mist had dissipated.

It was Tom Riddle grown up. He was emaciated, but still a man, not a grown form of the grotesque snake-like thing he had grown from. He had dark hair and dark, hard eyes and he radiated with an inner power that belied his sickly, wasted form.

Voldemort was back.

Voldemort looked at Harry, an insane grin marring what might have been handsome features, and then he turned away to marvel at his new body, flexing his fingers and running them over his face, his nose, his hair.

"It worked!" he cried. "The old fool! His very actions aided me in the most impossible ritual known to magic. A willing enemy? An unwilling friend? And yet here I stand, a man in my prime, no half measures, no more cursed life."

"Master," gurgled Pettigrew, now curled pathetically on the ground at his feet, his robe soaked through with blood, "Master…please. You promised…"

Voldemort stopped in his gleeful monologue to look down at him, his face twisting rapidly from rapture to disgust.

"I suppose I should thank you," he said. "I am myself because of you. And yet, the very fact that Magic accepted your sacrifice is absolute proof of your disloyalty. If you did not consider me your enemy, your flesh would not have worked. Still… I can't have you dying for it."

He drew a wand from the pocket of his robe, a look of ecstasy taking him over before his features settled into something slightly less insane. He pointed the wand at Pettigrew, gesturing an unknown silent spell, and Pettigrew went from rigid agony to slumped unconsciousness. For all Harry knew, he had killed him, though the light hadn't been green like the killing curse.

Voldemort bent over the still form and grabbed up an arm. It turned out to be the stump, no longer gushing out blood, and Harry saw his face grimace with disgust before he dropped the arm, shoving the man over with his foot so he could grab the left one instead. The sleeve to his robe slipped down as the arm was lifted up, revealing a grotesque tattoo. Voldemort touched his finger to it and then let the arm fall. Then, almost as an afterthought, he used a similar spell to the one Pettigrew must have used on Harry earlier, trussing the unconscious man up with ropes.

And then Voldemort was looking at Harry again, stepping over the still form of Wormtail to walk right up to him.

"You must be quite confused and horrified at this moment," the man said. "The blood of a friend, forcibly taken." His wand delicately moved towards Harry's arm and the place where Pettigrew had sliced. There was an almost benign expression on his face as a warm blue light flowed into the wound, and what little pain had made it through the icy feeling in Harry's chest eased away.

"The 'friend' and 'ally' bit actually refers to your parents, of course. I know you don't consider us either, but the very fact you carry their blood is enough for it to work. And of course, if we had been compatriots, as we should have been, the blood couldn't have been 'forcibly taken' to resurrect me. It wouldn't matter if you said 'yes' or 'no', Magic would have known you wanted it done, and your blood would have been rejected. So many conditions that should have been impossible…I had a backup plan, of course, but not a satisfying one, and it would have left me half cursed, at best, little better than that creature I had been reduced to before."

Harry glared, wanting nothing more than to shout curses at the man, but Wormtail had been thorough in tying him up, including a gag. His parents had never been allied to Voldemort. They had certainly never been friends. Voldemort had murdered them. Being unable to answer, he settled on a strong and defiant glare.

Instead of growing annoyed or retaliating, Voldemort threw his head back and laughed.

"Poor misguided child," he said, which garnered an even harsher glare. "You would tell me how your parents were heroes, fighting against the big bad bogeyman of the magical world, how they couldn't have been my friends. It's a fairytale, child, a lie you would want to believe. Things are never so black and white as stories would tell us. Yes, your parents were heroes. Yes, they fought against a monster. But that monster was never me."

There was a sound, like air being displaced very quickly, and then again and again. They weren't alone. People cloaked in robes and masks filled the graveyard. They stood in silence, just looking at the scene. Voldemort turned and faced them. At least one of them took a startled half step back, and two of them dropped to their knees. Harry thought he even heard one of them choking back a sob, though whether they reacted from joy or horror it was hard to tell through the masks.

"My loyal Deatheaters," Voldemort said, his own voice triumphant. Those still standing dropped to their knees as well, and they crawled on the ground until they formed a circle around him, albeit a circle with some large gaps, as though waiting for more people to join them. Voldemort walked around them, pausing to call each by name. He paused at the gaps as well, remarking upon those missing. Some were imprisoned. Some were dead. And some…

"Three missing here," Voldemort said. "One too afraid to return, I will need him brought to me before I can decide what is to be done with him. One who I fear is lost to us; we will save him if we can. And one most loyal of my servants, without whom I never could have returned. It is he who sent me the Dark Lord's pawn."

And he turned once again to Harry, smiling manically, before his face transformed abruptly to fury, a hint of insanity in the abrupt change as he spun back around to face his followers.

"And why did I need him to fetch away the child of Lily and James Potter?" he demanded. "Why do my loyal followers stand here, free to come or to go, and it took a traitor of both sides and a half mad, long imprisoned child to aid me in my return? Where were all of you when I was cast adrift as a bodiless spirit, unable to do more than wander the wilds? Where were you when a child of our circle was stolen away, left to grow up alone and ignorant of all our ways, left to the whims of the darkest wizard of our age?!"

"We tried," the cloaked figure Voldemort had revealed to be Malfoy answered, still on his knees. "I applied to the ministry as a blood relative of Potter. I was denied by Dumbledore's machinations. He used blood magic none could counter to hide the boy."

"I cast the strongest scrying charms I could manage for the both of you," a second death eater cried, a woman's voice this time, who Harry thought vaguely had been referred to as 'Goyle'. "No sign could be discovered. The best I could discover was that you were not dead!"

"Ha!" Voldemort answered, and then he swayed, the closest of his death eaters jerking towards him instinctively to help, before drawing back again, obviously uncertain. Voldemort bowed his head as he steadied himself. "I apologize. I may still be a bit…off kilter from the ritual."

The death eaters continued to kneel in their circle for a moment longer, just looking at their leader, and then Malfoy slowly pulled himself to his feet, going to Voldemort and cautiously placing a hand on the man's shoulder. Harry waited for Voldemort to react with the same ferocious insanity he had been showing up to that point, for him to curse the man for his daring, but no such attack came. If anything, Voldemort slumped towards Malfoy, allowing him to take some of his weight.

"My master," Malfoy said, his voice soft, gentle. "My friend. You are returned to us. The Potters' boy is among us at last. Let us take him, take you, to my manor. Even now, it is beyond the dark lord's reach. There, you will be able to regain your strength."

"There is still so much to be done," Voldemort murmured. "Azkaban must be emptied. The remainder of my followers must be returned. The boy must be taught…untaught…checked for dark curses…" He sounded exhausted. Weak. Human. Not the way Harry ever imagined such an evil man could sound.

"All will be done," Malfoy answered. "But a miracle has occurred on this day. You have been returned to us. Let us make sure this miracle can't be undone first. If Severus were here, he'd already be forcing potions down your throat."

"If Severus were here, that would be one less worry for me to attend to, one less atrocity to be avenged," Voldemort answered back. "Impertinent brat." Then he sighed, leaning even further into Malfoy even as a second death eater leapt to his feet and came to his other side.

Harry felt a bit off kilter himself, going from abject terror, to horror, to confusion. Why did they keep talking about him like someone to be saved? And was this how Voldemort acted among his followers, how his followers acted towards him? Nothing was happening as it should be. Voldemort should be gloating over his triumph. Voldemort should have been the sort of person who would rather keel over than accept help. Voldemort should have been raging or lording it over everyone, perhaps casting crucio at his groveling and terrified followers. This…this was all wrong.

Unwillingly, Harry felt something stirring deep within him: doubt. It fought with everything he believed, everything he knew, everything he had learned for the past four years, and yet like a weed it took hold, and refused to be rooted out. It was watered and fed by the fact that it would not be the first time what 'everyone knew' turned out to be completely wrong. His godfather was not the betrayer of his parents, after all. But if the story hadn't unfolded as he had been told the first time, nor the changed version of the second, what was the truth? Sirius certainly believed Pettigrew had betrayed his parents to Voldemort, and here Pettigrew was to suggest that was true. Surely that meant Voldemort killed his parents. So why did they keep referring to the Potters as one of them?

Thus Harry had rather mixed feelings when a white faced but very much alive Cedric Diggory suddenly popped up from behind the gravestone, grabbed Harry's arm, and called, 'Accio cup!'

Harry had just enough time to see Voldemort's expression of shock before the portkey jerked them away and slammed them back in the maze. Harry's fingers dug into the earth, his heart beating hard, while he waited for the world to feel right again. The ropes had been left behind he noted, but somehow he still couldn't make his limbs work properly to lift himself up. It was as though his body was reacting to the entirety of everything that had just happened all at once, and the addition of being jolted about by a portkey was simply too much on top of everything else. His leg, which he had almost forgotten about up to that point, was suddenly in agony, throbbing with his heartbeat.

Cedric lay next to him, his hand squeezing his arm so hard that it would probably bruise, his lungs wheezing in quick gasps.

"Harry?" a voice cried, and Dumbledore was there, warm hands grasping Harry's shoulders.

But that's not right, Harry thought a bit muzzily. It wasn't even that he half feared the man might not be the benevolent grandfatherly figure Harry had always supposed him to be. It was much simpler than that: why was the headmaster checking on one of his students and ignoring the other completely?

"Is Harry alright?" Cedric gasped out weakly, still clinging tightly to Harry and the cup as he slowly recovered from the ordeal. "It was You Know Who…You Know Who was there. Stunned me with something. Woke up and saw Harry, tied up, bloody. Cup was a portkey. Had to get us back."

"Boy's talking absolute nonsense," said a new voice; Minister Fudge had joined them. "What is going on?"

That is something Harry very much wanted to know. Dumbledore kept trying to make him look at him, concern etched across his face, but Harry couldn't quite manage to look the man in the eye. Too many doubts now festered inside him, too much confusion. It made him feel at once distrustful and guilty for feeling distrustful, and for both reasons he turned his head instead to look at Cedric. Cedric was sitting up, looking back, his face pale with horror and tight with pain. Whether that pain came from whatever had been used to stun him in the graveyard, or something from the maze, Harry didn't know.

"You're not dead," Harry said, a bit surprised himself at how gruff his voice sounded. He supposed it came from being forced to wear a gag for so long. His mouth felt cottony and dried out, his throat ragged. "I thought you might be dead."

"I thought I might be, too," Cedric answered. There was a growing crowd around them, professors mostly, though Harry could hear students in the background, a sea of worried questions whispering in the distance. Someone was trying to get Cedric to let go of the cup, to let go of Harry, but Cedric didn't seem capable of doing either. Harry couldn't blame him. After all that had happened, it felt good to be tethered to something solid.

"Voldemort is back," he said out loud. "But he didn't kill us." He still didn't make any move to sit up, feeling unaccountably tired, his head still muzzy. In fact, it was starting to throb along with his leg, right where his scar was located.

"Potter?" said a voice, and then there were more voices, McGonagall trying to call attention to Harry's leg, someone else suggesting the hospital wing, Dumbledore telling him once again to look at him.

"Drink this," a cold voice ordered, shoving a vial at Harry's lips while another hand abruptly tilted his head upwards, and then a potion was being poured down his throat and Harry found himself swallowing it reflexively before he could decide whether that was actually a good idea or not. The hand holding his head dropped it as soon as the potion was downed.

"And you," the voice ordered, thrusting a second vial at Cedric, and Harry thought it was good that at least one of the professors seemed as concerned with Cedric as he was with Harry. That was about all he had time to think before whatever was in the potion started to take effect. Whatever it was, it had a soporific property to it and instead of his head growing clearer, he could feel the world falling away. That was nice because the pain in his spider bite was suddenly agonizing and the chance to escape that was one he'd gladly take.

"Harry? Harry!" someone called, but to no avail, because the last of his awareness fell away and he was asleep.