Harry felt the rough touch of the cold stone digging into his back. He was sure that the headstone he was tied to had the name 'Tom Riddle' inscribed onto it; he had glimpsed the name even in the dim moonlight in the moments before he had been tied up, but how was that possible? He had met Tom Riddle… Lord Voldemort, the man was still alive (in a fashion) and even were he not, it was hard to imagine that anyone would have wanted to give him a funeral let alone bury him with such an ornate and expensive headstone. Furthermore, Harry was sure that the repulsive humanoid creature that Wormtail had just dropped into the large cauldron bore the same name as the grave, equally as he was sure that he didn't want Voldemort to ever surface from the boiling potion.
His eyes were squeezed shut as tight as he could bear, desperate to block out the sight that Wormtail's agonized sobs confirmed waited before him. Indeed, Harry was so focused on blocking out the events unfolding in front of him, that he did not feel Wormtail approach until he felt the man's putrid breath upon his face.
"Blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will…. resurrect your foe."
Harry snapped his eyes open to see the foul man raising a glinting silver dagger to his right arm, but he was tied so tightly that he could do nothing to prevent his blood being collected in the small vial that Wormtail clumsily procured from the depths of his robes.
The man lurched back towards the cauldron, and Harry's thoughts raced across his head as he searched frantically for a way to stop this from happening. In his desperation, he did the only thing he could and seized upon the words spoken by Wormtail, 'blood… forcibly taken." An idea flashed across his mind and with the few seconds left to him he attempted to subvert the wording of the incantation. Although he held little hope for its having any effect, Harry pushed aside all horror at the thought of the Dark Lord's return and gave his blood willingly. It was harder than clearing his mind for occlumency, but he fought hard to push away all memory of Voldemort's reign of terror, focusing on the idea of giving his lifeblood to Tom Riddle and pursuing the idea as avidly as he would a snitch racing just before his outstretched hand.
He was forced to watch helplessly as the blood was added to the bubbling cauldron , its contents instantly transforming to a white so blinding it cast all else into darkness. It bubbled and sparked merrily as Wormtail fell to the ground beside it, and agonizing moans floated across the graveyard as he clutched his bloody stump. Harry felt something within him stir, his magic binding him to the ritual just as his whole body exploded with pain.
Distantly, he registered tortured screams piercing the air around him, but was only vaguely aware that they were his lost as he was in the haze of pain. It felt like his body was trying to tear itself apart from the inside, as if his muscles were ripping themselves apart with the very effort of trying to stay together. Then, as quickly as it had started, it ended and Harry slumped in his bonds breathing heavily. He had failed, the cauldron was billowing out masses of white steam, within which a tall shadowy figure was rising. Harry tasted bile in his throat, sick with horror as he watched Wormtail pick up the bundle of robes and the smoky ghost take them from him before pulling them over its head.
The man stepped out of the cauldron, shrouded in shadows and obscured by steam he was barely distinguishable against the murky sky that framed him. Wormtail stepped back with apprehension on his waxy face, still clutching his mutilated arm close to his body. Voldemort paused looking intently at the pathetic man before reaching out to delicately take his left forearm and pressing against it with his other hand. Wormtail howled once more with pain but the Dark Lord ignored him, taking the wand that had killed Cedric from the floor before straightening to look directly at Harry for the first time.
Slowly, he stalked towards the bound boy on the headstone, cutting through the white steam settling around the cauldron in a wide swath that send little spirals in every direction. He was close before Harry could see him clearly, and shock ran like an electric current through every fibre of his being as his eyes identified a face he had never thought he would see again after the events of his second year. Tom Riddle stopped before him. A small part of Harry's mind noted that it was rather ridiculous that he identified the younger version of the man as Tom rather than Voldemort, but he had known the memory as Tom primarily, and this man was the mirror image; he didn't look like he'd aged even a day.
The teenage Dark Lord regarded Harry with the same cold and intelligent gaze that he remembered so vividly. Harry studied him, eyes touching on everything from the easy, arrogant way that he held himself to the familiar dark hair that was so much neater than his own. The young man's handsome face was unchanged but for the weary drawn cast it now held; apparently being reborn as one's sixteen year old self was not a relaxing experience.
"Who are you?"
Harry was struck dumb by the question, before a laugh exploded from his chest, scaring him slightly by how insane he sounded.
"What?" was all the reply his tired mind could muster.
"Excuse me," Riddle corrected abruptly. Harry merely looked at him blankly.
"The correct way to ask someone to repeat themselves would be 'excuse me', and I asked you what your name was, I suggest you do not make me ask a third time."
Harry bit back the crazy urge to laugh once more, since when did the terror of the wizarding world give him grammar lessons? Yet, apparently the Dark Lord truly did not remember his name, for there was no recognition in that intense scrutiny. Harry made his decision in an instant,
"Neville Longbottom," he replied, the alias he had used on the Knight Bus last year the first name that came into his mind.
Voldemort regarded him a moment further before his dark eyes turned icy,
"You're lying," he all but growled.
"No -," Harry began with slightly too much desperation in his voice. A cruel smile graced the face of the teenager before him, making him seem much older.
"That's alright," the Dark Lord cut across him, "we'll just do it the hard way."
Thankfully Harry was spared from finding out just exactly what the 'hard way' was when loud 'cracks' stared echoing across the silent graveyard as wizards began teleporting in and Voldemort turned to watch their arrival with curiosity penetrating his gaze.
Wizards in dark robes and horrific white masks were pouring into the graveyard, the foremost among them stalking straight towards the two teenagers with a menacing step.
"Well look what we have here boys," he called back to the others who drew closer with every passing second, Harry felt a chill run down his spine as he identified the voice as that on Macnair, the executioner that had been supposed to end the life of Buckbeak the hippogriff only a year ago.
"Harry Potter, and wrapped up like a Christmas present as well! Oh, and you've brought a friend as entertainment, how kind!" Even though the white mask obscured his face, Harry could clearly hear the perverse grin through the wicked glee that permeated his voice, "I'm sure you can keep us occupied while we wait for our master, boy…"
The young Dark Lord studied the approaching men with an inscrutable expression on his handsome face. Before he could make a move Macnair, clearly unaware that he faced the very master he was referring to, attacked;
"CRUCIO" he shouted confidently, anticipation evident in his stance.
Without so much as a hair stirring the young man before Harry sidestepped the curse, skilfully disarming the death eater as he moved. With his next breath Riddle sent a dark curse that Harry couldn't identify that left his opponent rolling on the cold ground, groaning in pain and gasping for breath.
The other Death Eaters abandoned their lazy approach, drawing their wands almost as one they slipped into a more defensive stance, slowly approaching the gravestone to which Harry was still bound.
"I am Lord Voldemort," Riddle's voice rang across the graveyard, echoing among the old bones with authority that Harry had never heard from anyone else, "I would not suggest you anger me, or you may just find yourself in a worse position than your friend there." The death eaters faltered in their approach.
"He lies," one of the masked men hissed from towards the back of the crowd.
"Our Lord would know us," a more authoritative voice drawled, this one Harry recognised as Lucius Malfoy, not even remotely surprised to see the man in such a company as this, "I believe you will rather regret impersonating the Dark Lord, boy, the penalty for such an offence is death… and a most slow and painful one at that." The Death Eaters laughed cruelly and began their advance once more.
The young man beside Harry apparently abandoned the hope of convincing them of his identity, recognising it as a lost cause. While keeping his wand on the advancing crowd, he glanced at Harry obviously evaluating whether he was likely to be of any use in a fight. Harry saw his one chance to escape the situation with his life, as much as he was loathe to take it with the young man it was attached to. The group of Death Eater's were getting close however and Harry had to take any possible course that might result in him still living at the end of the night.
"I know where there's a portkey," he said, meeting Riddle's gaze defiantly. The young Dark Lord made his decision almost instantly. With a sharp swipe of his wand and a quickly muttered incantation Harry was free of his bonds and falling heavily to the ground.
"Where?" The cultured voice demanded as a hand hauled him to a standing position beside the taller boy.
"This way," Harry shouted as he took off towards the spot where Cedric now lay, the cup having rolled not far away when his body had hit the floor. Harry tried his best not to look back at the crowd of Death Eaters pursuing the two of them as they weaved and dodged the spells sent after them, using the graves as cover when needed. The sky was illuminated by many-coloured sparks as spells with likely horrible effects burst as they hit the hard stone around them, often missing the two runners by mere inches. Harry was slightly surprised to discover that he was the faster of the two of them, despite his shorter stature, a distant part of his mind musing that all those evenings running from Dudley and his gang of thugs had definitely paid off.
He reached the area first, but, indicating the portkey to Riddle, veered right towards Cedric's body unable to leave it with the Death Eaters. Grabbing Cedric's wrist in one hand and his wand in the other he whirled around to where the cup had lain. He was too late, the older boy had already reached it. Harry's blood ran cold as he realised he was about to be left to face the Death Eaters alone, Cedric was too heavy to carry and even if he managed it there was no way he could get there before the Dark Lord was gone, along with Harry's only hope of salvation.
Harry's eyes met Riddles, illuminated by the flashing light of spells buzzing deadly across the graveyard. Then, much to Harry's astonishment, Riddle was sprinting across the few yards between them, the second he reached the younger boy, Harry felt the cold metal against his skin and a rough jerk behind his navel sending him spinning back towards safety. In Little Hangleton, the shouts of the death eaters rang across a now otherwise empty graveyard as they reached the spot the boys had stood only moments before.