New chapter, a bit longer than usual! Enjoy it, and make sure to review!
–
A crunch echoed through Castle Dracula's throne room as an Eric Potter-shaped missile slammed into the wall and slowly slid to the floor.
In the center of the room stood Harold. Unlike the day they had met on the balcony, he was once more wearing his overcoat and cloak, the latter of which was hiding most of his body from view. As Eric groaned and pushed himself to his feet, Harold's hand came out from within within his cloak, and he started inspecting his fingernails.
"You know, I was expecting to at least break a sweat in a duel against you," he commented off-handedly, which got him a glare from his younger brother.
"Give me a break..." Eric hissed, clutching at his ribs, two of which Harold had broken. "You're way stronger than me... When I said I wanted you to train me, I didn't mean that as permission to use me as a punching bag... If you're not going to teach me anything... I might as well leave..."
Harold raised an eyebrow at that. Then, his hand shot out at an incredible speed, firing a spell at Eric. The Boy-Who-Lived didn't know what it was, but the sickly purple color of the spell did not bode well, so he quickly dodged it. It splashed against the wall behind him, and Eric's eyes widened when he saw the spell corroding the stone.
"ARE YOU CRAZY?!" Eric barked, his head snapping toward Harold. "You could have killed me!"
"But I did not," Harold commented simply. "Before I even considered teaching you how to fight, Eric, I first had to teach you how to survive."
All anger in Eric bled away at this comment, to be replaced by confusion as he blinked at his brother.
"Did you think I used these last two weeks simply to hurt you?" the Count asked with a small glare. "I have been teaching you to hone your reflexes and instincts. You have, since we started, learned to instinctively react whenever I make a threatening movement. You have learned to take in your surroundings to know which way to dodge. You can react faster. You can even move faster."
Eric's mouth opened, and then shut again. Harold continued.
"I could teach you how to fight. I could teach you how to battle a hundred men at once. But none of those skills would mean anything... anything... if you could not survive long enough to use them."
"Oh..." was the only thing Eric could say to this revelation. "Sorry..."
Harold closed his eyes and turned his back on Eric.
"Offensive spells. List them."
Eric jumped at the order and thought hard.
"Oh, um... Well, I can Stun, I can Disarm, er... Reducto is a spell I'm kinda good at..."
Harold hummed at that, raising a hand to stroke his now fully grown and groomed goatee. After a moment, he turned to Eric and raised his hand to point at where his earlier spell had hit the wall.
"Eric, would you like to know how to do that?"
Eric turned to look at the wall, which was still corroding, as though acid had been splashed on it. Harold could tell that he was thinking about all the different creatures that spell would be useful against. Finally, after about half a minute of thought, Eric looked back at Harold and nodded.
"Alright."
He moved over to Harold, who smirked, very pleased that Eric wasn't the type of man who would ask if the spell was Dark before trying to learn it.
"By the way, I hope you're going to heal all my injuries first."
"Enduring pain is also an important part of surviving."
Eric glared at his brother. Then he seemed to remember something, and he gave Harold a curious stare.
"By the way, you being so informed and all, do you know why Dumbledore suddenly seems a bit... older?"
Harold paused for a moment, sizing Eric up and contemplating what to tell him. Finally, he settled for smirking slightly.
"There is more to Albus Dumbledore than the benevolent headmaster who has a fondness for lemon sherberts, Eric," he said with a small chuckle. "Perhaps it would be best to leave it at that?"
"You found out something, didn't you?" Eric asked, peering at Harold shrewdly. "You know something about Dumbledore."
Harold's laughter echoed through the throne room.
"I know all about Albus Dumbledore. More than most would want to know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, if you do not want your view of Dumbledore to change, we will leave it at this, and start focusing on the spell."
Eric harrumphed, but complied nonetheless. In all honesty, Harold didn't want Eric more involved in his machinations than he already was. Whether it was because he was attached to Eric, or because he didn't want to get attached to him, Harold didn't know. In any case, he did not want to talk about Dumbledore with his brother.
–
On June the twenty-fourth, Eric was feeling rather ill. He was confident, that was for sure, at least after his training with Harold, who was a harsh trainer, but a very good one, but all the same, he still felt a bit ill... It was just nerves, he supposed...
Hermione had just rushed off somewhere, and Eric was picking at his food, not really hungry at all. He was exempt from the end-of-term tests as a Triwizard champion. He had spent the exams either reading up on various spells and hexes, or training with Harold.
"Calm down," Eric muttered to himself, so quietly that not even Ron could hear him. He was reciting what Harold had told him during training while flinging curses at him. "Hesitate, and you die. Flinch, and you die. Fear, and you die. Calm down..."
As Eric was muttering, McGonagall was making her way along the Gryffindor table toward him.
"Potter, the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast," she said.
"But... the task's not till tonight," Eric mumbled in surprise. Had he mistaken the time?
"I'm aware of that, Potter," McGonagall said. "The champions' families are invited to watch the final task, you know. This is simply a chance for you to greet them."
She moved away, and Eric knew the reason for being allowed to greet the families. Back in the day, people died during the tournament. He supposed the tradition remained for the champions to see their loved ones a final time before the third task. Thankfully, there wasn't really a chance of Eric dying.
Maybe just getting really, really hurt...
Eric finished his breakfast, watching as Fleur got up from the Ravenclaw table and joined Cedric as he crossed to the side chamber and entered. Krum slouched off to join them shortly afterward. Eric cleared his throat and stood up, straightening out his robes. For some reason, he really wished that Harold would be waiting to greet him. But undoubtedly Lily and James Potter were there, which meant that Harold was probably not going to show up.
As he entered the side chamber, he found Cedric and his parents just inside the door. Viktor Krum was over in a corner, conversing with his dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian. He had inherited his father's hooked nose. On the other side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French to her mother, who looked a bit upset about something. Fleur's little sister, Gabrielle, was holding her mother's hand, looking between her mother and sister like a spectator of a tennis match.
Then, Eric saw his parents, Sirius, and Remus standing in front of the fireplace, beaming at him.
"Eric!" Lily said excitedly, wrapping her arms around Eric in a hug as he approached them, grinning broadly.
"You feeling alright, Eric?" James asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Not nervous?"
"Hm, a bit," Eric admitted.
"Well, there's no need to be afraid," Lily said, but Eric heard that she was sounding a bit nervous as well. "You know, they've taken every precaution. Don't be afraid you'll die or any-"
"I'm not afraid of death," Eric interrupted, smiling. "Being afraid of death is silly. Humans die, that's the way it is. Eventually it comes for us all. However, it would be foolish not to respect it."
"Oh, wow..." Sirius commented, sharing a surprised look with the other adults. "That... sounded like a quote from a book. Who said that?"
"Harold."
As expected, both Potters flinched slightly, and Sirius and Remus tensed, at the mention of Eric's older brother, and their gazes saddened a bit.
"You... You've seen him?" Lily whispered, to which Eric nodded.
"Almost every day for the last three weeks or so. He's been training me for the third exam."
Suddenly, Eric felt a hand on his shoulder, and a cold voice said, "He is a quick learner."
Lily, James, Sirius, and Remus were staring, wide-eyed, at the person behind Eric, whose voice the Boy-Who-Lived recognized as Harold's, which made him spin around in surprise.
"Harold!" Eric said in amazement. "I didn't think you'd come."
"I almost didn't," Harold said. "However, I thought about what Dumbledore said regarding my comments about Snape, and I realized he was right. I will not be overcome by bitterness as he was. I am a Dracul, after all."
"Harold..." Lily whispered, and Harold turned to look at her and James.
"Do not be mistaken, this is not forgiveness. However, I am willing to behave in a civilized manner."
Eric was looking back and forth between Harold and their parents, feeling kind of tense. Tears were building up in Lily's eyes.
"Harold," Remus said softly. "It's good to see you again."
"Remus," Harold said, shaking his hand. "It has been a while, has it not?"
"That it has."
"I came to give you this, Eric," Harold said, turning toward his brother and reaching into his overcoat, taking out silver necklace, which was very thin. Hanging from it was a rather small silver disk. Engraved on the disk was a dragon. Unlike the dragons on Harold's waistcoat, this dragon looked very fearsome, its mouth open in a roar.
Eric took the necklace, giving Harold a curious look.
"That is Putere, the Protector. The House of Dracul has long worn clothing or jewelry bearing his depiction, believing it would bring them luck," Harold explained.
"Oh, wow..." Eric uttered, still very surprised as he put on the necklace. "Thanks, Harold."
"I would have given you a music box, but you are not quite as interested in such things as I am," Harold said with a smirk. "Now, if you will excuse me for a moment..."
Harold walked off, and Eric saw that he was heading for Fleur, who was waving him over.
"What's he going over there for?" Sirius asked.
"They fancy each other," Eric explained, which made Lily and James go wide-eyed.
Meanwhile, Harold had reached Fleur and her family. Fleur's father was nowhere in sight, and it was only her mother and Gabrielle.
"Fleur," Harold said, taking her hand and kissing it, "I wish you the best of luck in the third task."
"Zank you, 'Arold," Fleur said, beaming at him. "'Arold, zis is my muzzer, Apolline, and you already know Gabrielle."
"Madame," Harold said, taking Apolline's hand and kissing it, before doing the same to Gabrielle's. "Gabrielle, always a pleasure."
"Fleur 'as told me about you, Count Dracula," Apolline said, gazing at Harold curiously, as though she didn't know quite what to think of him yet, while Gabrielle turned bright red and buried her face in her mother's robes.
"Only good things, I hope," Harold said with a charming smile.
"Indeed, alzough I am afraid 'er opinion may be a bit biased."
"Opinions always are," Harold said simply. Apolline stared at him again, contemplating what to say from the look on her face.
"You should know, Count, zat veela are no friends of vampires. If you continue seeing my daughter, you must know zey will never approve of you."
"Maman!" Fleur said with a glare directed at her mother.
"Thankfully, madame, there is only one veela whose approval I need," Harold said, gesturing for Fleur. "And I believe I already have it."
Fleur beamed at Harold again, which caused him to smile back at her. Apolline looked Harold over again, then looked from him to Fleur, then back to Harold again.
"Well, 'aving met you in person, it is clear zat my muzzer was greatly exaggerating when it came to you," she said finally. "She spoke of you as some sort of monster. I 'ope I 'aven't offended you wiz zis revelation?"
"It is no surprise that some would see me as a monster," Harold admitted. "My family has a history, after all."
"Indeed... Now, I 'ope you do not mind, but I would like to speak to Fleur in private, please."
"Of course," Harold said, giving a bow of his head, before turning to Fleur, cupping her cheek and smiling softly at her. "Again, good luck."
"I will see you when it is over," Fleur said, leaning into his hand.
Harold gave the three veela a bow, then turned and headed back to the Potters.
"Charmer," Eric teased. "Kissing their hands and all..."
"I do not expect you to grasp the concept of charm, Eric," Harold said with a smirk. "It is simply too difficult for you to comprehend."
Eric didn't respond to the insult. Instead, he changed the subject.
"You'll watch the task, won't you?"
Harold's smirk widened.
"Wouldn't miss it."
–
It was time. Eric was standing with the other champions on the Quidditch field, which was now completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot high hedge ran all the way around the edge of it. There was a gap right in front of them, the entrance to the maze. The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy. Harold had told him that vampires could see in the dark. Eric would have really wanted that ability now...
Five minutes later, the stands had begun to fill. The air was full of excited voices and the rumbling of feet as the hundreds of students filed into their seats. The sky was a deep, clear blue now, and the first stars were starting to appear. Hagrid, Moody, McGonagall, and Flitwick came walking onto the stadium and approached Bagman and the champions. They were wearing large, red, luminous stars on their hats, all except Hagrid, who had his on the back of his moleskin vest.
"We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze," McGonagall told the champions. "If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?"
The champions nodded.
"Off you go, then!" Bagman said brightly to the four patrollers.
"Good luck, Eric," Hagrid whispered, and the four of them walked away in different directions, to station themselves around the maze. Bagman now pointed his wand at his throat, muttered, "Sonorus," and his magically magnified voice echoed into the stands.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! In first place, with eighty-nine points, Mr. Eric Potter, of Hogwarts School!" The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. "In second place, with eighty-five points, Mr. Cedric Diggory, also of Hogwarts School!" Again, the cheers were powerful, just as loud as they had been for Eric. "In third place, with eighty points, Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!" More applause. "And in fourth place, Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!"
Eric could just make out his parents, Sirius, Remus, Ron, and Hermione applauding Fleur politely, halfway up the stands. He waved up at them, and they waved back, beaming, but he couldn't see Harold anywhere.
"So... on my whistle, Eric!" Bagman said. "Three... two... one..."
He gave a short blast on his whistle, and Eric hurried forward into the maze.
Meanwhile, Harold stood in the shadows by the stands, completely unseen, with his arms crossed, watching as Eric rushed into the maze. He didn't know quite how he felt right now. It was a bit confusing. However, he had a plan, and it would be followed to the letter.
"So?" he spoke up suddenly, and a cloud of black mist behind him materialized into Eleesia, who had her head bowed.
"All the preparations are finished. Voldemort is waiting in the graveyard for his prize. He knows the truth. He expects you to save your brother. He wants your blood."
"As expected," Harold said with a chuckle. "Voldemort would not forget whether he tried to kill a four-year old or a one-year old. But if I do not come, he will settle for Eric."
"Are you sure, master?" Eleesia asked. "You are betting this whole plan on this..."
Harold glanced back at her.
"Voldemort has waited thirteen years, and has been planning this for a long time. He will not let this opportunity to get a real body go to waste."
The fourth whistle sounded, and Harold watched as Fleur, the last champion, rushed into the maze. And now would come the moment where Voldemort's agent would make sure that Eric was the first to the cup... The wait was probably the worst... It was so... boring...
Harold didn't know how long he waited, but suddenly, his sensitive ears picked up on a scream through the chatter of the crowd in the stands. He would know that voice anywhere. It was Fleur's voice, without a doubt.
Not even hesitating for a second, not even thinking a single thought, Harold disappeared in an explosion of black mist.
When he rematerialized, he was in the maze. In front of him, he could see Fleur on the ground, screaming and writhing in pain. Above her stood Viktor Krum, obviously holding her with a Cruciatus Curse. Harold strode over, making Krum look up at him. From the glazed look in his eyes, Krum was under the Imperius Curse, but that didn't matter to Harold, who grabbed Krum by the collar and flung him away.
Krum flew through the air, crashing through several hedges and disappearing into the darkness. Harold glared into the Krum-sized hole in the hedge, but then turned his attention to Fleur, who was shivering and staring up at the sky with unblinking eyes.
"Fleur," Harold spoke softly, kneeling beside her and cradling her gently. She had tears in her eyes, and she didn't appear to be registering Harold's presence. "Fleur!"
Fleur flinched at the force in Harold's voice and turned her head to him, her eyes widening in recognition.
"It's alright," Harold said. "I took care of Krum. My appearance in the maze would no doubt be frowned upon, so I cannot take you out of here, but I will make sure someone comes and gets you."
Harold leaned down and gave Fleur a soft kiss, then laid her down in the grass again and raised his hand. Red sparks flew straight up into the air from his fingertips, and then he disappeared in an explosion of black mist, only to reappear in the very center of the maze, standing in the darkened corner of the square area, in the center of which stood the gleaming Triwizard Cup.
It was a long while, probably an hour, maybe two, before Harold's ears picked up on the sound of footsteps approaching. The scent in the air told him that it was Eric.
True enough, Eric soon came running into view, not spotting Harold, who was hidden in the shadows. While the Boy-Who-Lived had always claimed to have no real interest in participating in the Triwizard Tournament, even he was incapable of getting a triumphant look in his eye as he reached out and grabbed the cup.
Then, he vanished. This made Harold smirked, and then he disappeared as well, as silently as he had arrived.
–
Harold reappeared in a dark graveyard. He knew exactly where he was, Little Hangleton, Lord Voldemort's father's home town. The vampire sat down on one of the headstones and watched, in the distance, as Eric looked around in confusion. The cup lay forgotten at his feet, and he slowly took out his wand, looking ready for anything.
A person, wearing a hooded cloak, came walking through the graveyard toward Eric. He was short, and Harold's sharp eyes picked up on the slight trembling of the new arrival.
He was holding a bundle of robes his his arms, which was moving slightly. From within, Harold's ears picked up on a hissing, labored breathing.
Amateur, Harold thought with a shake of his head when he saw Eric lower his wand slightly. He was still on guard, but there were so many openings in his stance... Then, Eric flinched suddenly, and his free hand came up to clutch the upside-down L-shaped scar on his cheek. This was the stranger's chance, and he didn't waste it.
"Expelliarmus!" the stranger screeched. There was a flash of red light, and Eric's wand went flying out of his hand.
Harold was surprised. He knew that his scar gave him a connection to Lord Voldemort, but he had never expected that some residual magic had latched onto Eric as well... That had to have been why his scar hurt.
The stranger waved his wand, and Harold watched as Eric was flung up against a marble headstone, which read: 'Tom Riddle.' With another wave of the stranger's wand, tight cords wrapped around Eric, tying him from neck to ankles to the headstone.
Eric struggled against his bonds, and was rewarded with a backhand from the stranger, who was missing a finger on the hand he had hit him with.
"You!" Eric gasped, no doubt recognizing Peter Pettigrew, the man known as Wormtail to his former friends, who didn't reply, instead checking the tightness of the cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, fumbling over the knots. Then, he shoved a piece of cloth into Eric's mouth, silencing him.
Harold smirked, knowing what would be coming next. Then his ears picked up on a noise, and he looked down in time to see a massive snake, its neck about as thick as a grown man's thigh, lunging at him with its mouth open and ready to bite him.
Harold's hand lashed out, an a cloud of what appeared to be smoke and blood materialized, taking the form of a sword, which pierced the snake right through the gob, killing it instantly.
"Hush," Harold whispered softly, the smokey sword disappearing, and the snake dropping to the ground. When he looked back toward Eric, he saw Wormtail pushing a stone cauldron to the full of the grave, breathing wheezily. The cauldron was massive, its stone belly easily large enough for a full-grown man to sit in.
The thing inside the bundle of robes on the ground was stirring persistently, as though it was trying to free itself. Now Wormtail was busying himself at the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. Suddenly, there were crackling flames beneath it, but luckily not large enough to light up Harold.
The liquid in the cauldron heated up very fast. The surface began not only to bubble, but send out fiery sparks, as though it were on fire. Steam was thickening, blurring the outline of Wormtail, who was tending the fire.
For a moment, there was silence, and then Wormtail shakily whispered, "H-He's not coming, my Lord..."
"Never mind, then!" a cold voice hissed from within the bundle on the ground. "Use the boy! Hurry!"
The whole surface of the liquid was alight with sparks now. Wormtail pulled open the robes on the ground, revealing the ugly, slimy, baby-like creature within. It raised its thin arms, put them around Wormtail's neck, and Wormtail lifted it. As he did so, his hood fell back, and Harold saw the look of revulsion on his weak, pale face in the firelight as he carried the creature to the rim of the cauldron. Then, the creature was lowered into it. There was a hiss, and it vanished below the surface, a dull thud sounding as it his the bottom of the cauldron.
Wormtail started speaking. His voice shook, and he seemed frightened beyond his wits as he raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night.
"Bones of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
The surface of the grave at Eric's feet cracked. Looking horrified, Eric watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Wormtail's command and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed. It sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.
And now, Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His voice broke into petrified sobs.
"Flesh... of the servant... w-willingly given... you will... revive... your master."
He stretched his right hand out in front of him, the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward.
Harold watched in amusement as the incredibly sharp dagger sliced through Wormtail's arm, causing the man to scream in pain and anguish, a splash heard as his cut-off hand was dropped into the cauldron. The potion turned a burning red now.
Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony as he slowly moved up to Eric.
"B-Blood of the enemy... forcibly taken... you will... resurrect your foe."
Wormtail's dagger cut deeply into the crook of Eric's right arm, blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes.
The scent of both Wormtail and Eric's blood filled the air, and it made Harold's own blood boil as he felt the hunger inside him. It would have been so easy to just attack now, drain them dry when they least expected it.
But it was not part of the plan, so Harold would not allow himself to be ruled by impulse.
By now, Wormtail had managed to fish a glass vial out of his pocket and filled it with Eric's blood, and he staggered back to the cauldron, pouring the blood into it. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.
The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety blackness. Harold even had to raise his hand to shield his sensitive eyes from it.
Suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obscuring Wormtail and Eric from Harold's view.
Then, through the mist, Harold could see the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.
"Robe me," the high, cold voice said from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master's head.
The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Eric, who stared back in complete and utter shock. Harold, meanwhile, scrunched up his nose at the man's appearance. He had hoped that the thin man would look better than his baby-form, but it wasn't much... his face was whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes, and a nose that was flat as a snake's with slits for nostrils.
Lord Voldemort had finally risen again.
Harold crossed his arms, watching in amusement as Voldemort looked away from Eric and began examining his own body. His hands were like large, pale spider. His long fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face, and the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cat's, gleamed still more brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant.
"I wonder..." Harold whispered to himself as he watched Lord Voldemort take out his want, gently caressing it and pointing it at Wormtail, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the headstone where Eric was tied, "...will he remember?"
Voldemort turned his eyes upon Eric, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh.
"My Lord..." Wormtail choked out, having wrapped the stump of his arm in his robes, "my Lord... you promised... you did promise..."
"Hold out your arm," Voldemort said lazily.
"Oh, master... thank you, master..."
He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again.
"The other arm, Wormtail."
"Master, please... please..."
Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail's left arm. He forced the sleeve of Wormtail's robes up past his elbow, revealing the Dark Mark tattooed on the inside of his forearm. It was a vivid red, looking almost like it was glowing with heat.
"It is back," he said softly, "they will all have noticed it... and now, we shall see... now we shall know..."
He pressed his long, white index finger to the brand on Wormtail's arm.
Harold was greatly surprised when the scar on his forehead suddenly started burning. He gave a hiss of pain, flinching slightly in surprise. Eric also looked pained, which further supported Harold's theory that he also had Voldemort's magic in his scar.
As Voldemort removed his finger from Wormtail's mark, Harold could see that the mark had turned jet black. With a look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw his head back, and stared around at the dark graveyard, somehow looking straight toward Harold and completely missing him.
"How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?" he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. "And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?"
He began to pace up and down before Eric and Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, he looked at Eric again, a cruel smile twisting his snake-like face.
"You stand, Eric Potter, upon the remains of my late father," he hissed softly. "A Muggle and a fool, very much like your dear mother. But he had his use, I suppose. Look how useful he has proved himself, in death..."
Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around him as he walked.
"You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was... He didn't like magic, my father... He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage... but I vowed to find him... I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name... Tom Riddle..."
Harold was getting bored, to be honest. He wanted all of Voldemort's followers there when he revealed himself, to make a bit of a lasting impression, to solidify his cover as Eric's protector and an ally of Dumbledore... And so, he had to listen to Voldemort's bragging and incredibly boring story-telling...
"Listen to me, reliving family history," Voldemort said quietly, "why, I am growing quite sentimental... But look, Eric! My true family returns..."
The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between the graves, behind the nearby yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward... slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes. Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort, and kissed the hem of his black robes.
"Master... Master..." he murmured.
The Death Eaters behind him did the same, each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle's grave, Eric, Voldemort, and the sobbing and twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind, a rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered.
"Welcome, Death Eaters," Voldemort said quietly. "Thirteen years... thirteen years since we last met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday... We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?"
He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening.
"I smell guilt," he said. "There is a stench of guilt upon the air."
A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare, to step back from him.
"I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact... such prompt appearances! And I ask myself... why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?"
Harold's hands tightened on his biceps. He wanted to fight Voldemort. The smell of blood in the air was so thick... His instincts were roaring at him to just get in there and start fighting.
But he needed to wait... Needed to see if Voldemort would reveal the lie...
"And I answer myself," Voldemort whispered when no one spoke, "they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment...
"And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living?
"And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort... perhaps they now pay allegiance to another... perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?"
At the mention of Dumbledore's name, the members of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them.
"It is a disappointment to me... I confess myself disappointed..."
"Say it..." Harold whispered to himself, his eyes narrowing as one of the Death Eaters threw himself at Voldemort's feet and started begging for forgiveness. "Get it over with... Reveal it..."
The man's shrieks as Voldemort put him under the Cruciatus Curse were music to Harold's ears. They did nothing to dampen his bloodlust, but rather amplified it. It took all his willpower not to charge in there right now and tear the Death Eaters to shreds.
But he couldn't... If Voldemort and his Death Eaters died now, there would be no war. Harold needed the war, he needed Voldemort and Dumbledore to weaken each other...
"Yes," Harold heard Voldemort's voice, and he realized that the Dark Lord had been going around talking to the Death Eaters without Harold noticing it. Was his bloodlust that intense, that he could become so forgetful? "Eric Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. While he was not the one I was hoping for, he still remains my guest of honor."
There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the right of Wormtail stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy's voice spoke from under the mask.
"Master, we crave to know... we beg you to tell us... how you have achieved this... this miracle... how you managed to return to us..."
"Ah, what a story it is, Lucius," Voldemort said. "And it begins, and ends, with a young Potter... You know, of course, that they have called this boy my downfall?" he said softly as he walked up to stand next to Eric, so that the eyes of the whole circle were upon the two of them. "You all know that on the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him. That, my friends... is a lie."
Complete silence. Nobody even moved.
"I lost my powers that night. I tried to kill a boy... but it was not Eric Potter... No... The boy I tried to kill was the older boy, the stronger..." Voldemort hissed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. "How well I remember it... those eyes that were so much like my own, staring defiantly back at me... He protected his brother, and my curse rebounded upon myself. Aaah... pain beyond pain, my friends. Nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost... but still, I was alive. What I was, even I do not know... I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality. You know my goal, to conquer death. And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or more of my experiments had worked... for I had not been killed, though the curse should have done it. Nevertheless, I was as powerless as the weakest creature alive, and without the means to help myself... for I had no body, and every spell that might have helped me required the use of a wand..."
Harold's eyes drifted shut as a wide smirk appeared on his face. Voldemort said it. He revealed it. Eric knew now, and so did the Death Eaters. This would lower the morale of the light, and raise that of the dark. The Death Eaters would be outnumbered, but they would be inspired, knowing that the true 'Boy-Who-Lived' disliked the light. If Harold stepped in now, they would fear him. Voldemort would see him as Eric's protector, and given time, he would try to convince Harold to switch sides.
It seemed that Harold had once more drifted into his own thoughts and missed Voldemort's monologue, but who could blame him? The man was incredibly boring, and seemed to love the sound of his own voice.
"Crucio!" Voldemort's voice reached his ears, and he focused on the scene again to see that Voldemort had ripped the cloth out of Eric's mouth and put him under the Cruciatus Curse.
Eric screamed and squirmed as much as he could in his bonds. His head was throwing back and forth so hard that his neck was on the verge of snapping.
Then, Voldemort raised his wand, and Eric's convulsions stopped. He was hanging limply in the ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort's father, looking up into Voldemort's eyes. The night was ringing with the Death Eaters' laughter.
"Eric Potter may not have been my initial target, but he has certainly been a thorn in my side," Voldemort said coldly. "I am going to kill him here and now, when there is no Dumbledore to protect him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight. Now, untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand."
Wormtail approached Eric, raising his new silver hand, and with one swipe of his wand cut through the bonds tying the boy to the headstone.
The Death Eaters closed ranks, forming a tighter circle around Eric and Voldemort, so that the gaps where the missing Death Eaters should have stood were filled. Wormtail fished Eric's wand out of his pocket and thrust it into Eric's hand without looking at him, before resuming his place in the circle of watching Death Eaters.
"You have been taught how to duel, Eric Potter?" Voldemort said softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness.
Before Eric could speak, Harold had enough. He appeared in front of his brother in a swirl of black mist, which caused Voldemort's eyes to widen in complete and utter surprise.
The Dark Lord collected himself quickly, however, and his shocked eyes calmed.
"Well, well, Harry Potter," he hissed softly. "Although I hear you prefer Harold Dracula these days. I was expecting you earlier."
"I apologize for my lateness," Harold said, his voice equally soft as Voldemort's but somehow infinitely colder. He was barely suppressing his bloodlust. "I was delayed."
"Harold..." Eric muttered behind him.
"I am no Putere, Eric, but I hope I will be enough," Harold said without taking his eyes off Voldemort. "Get to the cup, go back to Hogwarts. I will deal with this."
"Harold, do you honestly believe I would let-" Voldemort started, but stopped when Harold's gaze sharpened, his eyes shining like a wolf's in the starlight.
"Anyone who attempts to stop Eric will die. Quite painfully, I might add."
"Could you really bring yourself to do that?" Voldemort questioned with a cruel smirk. "You are Dumbledore's pet, after all."
"I pay no allegiance to Dumbledore," Harold hissed. "Quite unlike him, I have no intention of granting second chances or offering redemption. Anyone who goes against me dies. You wanted me, so here I am. Eric will play no further part in tonight's... unpleasantries."
"Harold, I'm not leaving you here alone," Eric protested, which made Harold sigh, especially since Voldemort showed no intention of honoring Harold's wish.
"Fine," Harold said. Still not taking his eyes off Voldemort, he reached back and grabbed Eric by the collar. Then, he lifted him up and threw him through the air.
Eric yelped as he flew over the Death Eaters, landing hard on the ground and tumbling into a headstone. A spectator might have thought it was by mere chance, but Harold had aimed, so it came as no surprise as Eric slumped against the Triwizard Cup on the ground, and disappeared as the portkey activated.
"Just you and me no-"
Harold was interrupted as a Killing Curse was flung at him, impacting with his chest with enough force to lift him off his feet, flinging him back and sending him tumbling across the grass, until he came to a stop on his back, his eyes staring unblinkingly up at the sky.
"This was... disappointing," Voldemort confessed slowly. "With all the talk about Count Dracula, I was expecting more of a fight."
He turned around, but froze when a chuckle echoed through the graveyard. It was Harold's chuckle, and his supposed corpse was shaking with laughter.
"How amusing," Harold spoke as he sat up, then rose to his feet. "You are an avid fan of the Killing Curse, but it is obvious that you know not how it truly works."
"How the...?" Voldemort hissed, staring at Harold in shock.
"The Killing Curse is a curse that stops the victim's heart," Harold explained, a smirk spreading on his face. "Why would you use it on a man without a heartbeat?"
While Voldemort stared in shock, Harold closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"The air is thick with the smell of blood... It fills me with excitement... I can barely hold myself back, but proper etiquette must be observed... Formal introductions are necessary."
Harold's eyes opened, and he gave Voldemort a courteous bow.
"Count Harold Dracula, at your service," he said in cold amusement. "Come, Lord Voldemort. It has been a while since I had a proper dance!"
Voldemort hissed in anger, and suddenly, three curses came flying at Harold, who nimbly dodged. The Death Eaters in the circle threw themselves out of the way of the curses as well. A fourth curse rushed at him, but Harold burst into a black mist, the curse passing harmlessly through him.
When Harold rematerialized, he snapped his fingers with a smirk. Five balls of fire, each the size of a quaffle, formed in front of him, and suddenly flew at Voldemort with incredible speed.
Voldemort conjured a shimmering silver shield, blocking the fireballs with relative ease. Then, he conjured a dagger, which flew at Harold, who once more dodged.
Voldemort gritted his teeth. He had evidently not been expecting to actually try hard in a duel tonight. His powers weren't at their peak, as they had just returned to him. It would take a while for him to get used to them again. Nonetheless, the Dark Lord conjured a massive amount of daggers, which all were launched at the vampire, who dodged them all with a sort of flowing grace, as though he was dancing to a tune.
The grace was sort of ruined when one of the daggers hit their mark, burying itself into Harold's shoulder and making him grunt. Voldemort took this opportunity to launch five more daggers. Each of them hit Harold, four embedding themselves in his chest, and the fifth slamming into his forehead and throwing his head back.
However, he did not fall...
Harold chuckled again. The chuckle turned into a cold laughter that sent a shiver running through the Death Eaters around them, some of whom had just recovered from dodging Voldemort's daggers.
Harold's head snapped forward, showing that it was no illusion or anything of the sort. A wide grin was on his face, which had blood pouring from the wound caused by the dagger still embedded in his forehead. His blood red eyes were shining in excitement.
"This is great!" Harold hissed, looking quite out of his mind. "You have only just recovered your powers and your body, yet your speed is still this amazing! Wonderful, Lord Voldemort! Truly wonderful! Keep this up!"
Harold threw his hands forward, completely ignoring the daggers in his body. Four crescent moons of green energy were launched from his hands at Voldemort, who once more conjured a shield. However, his eyes widened when the first arch of energy sliced right through it, and he dodged to the side to avoid it. Behind him, Walden McNair was sliced into several pieces as the attacks cut through him, which caused the Death Eaters to scatter in fear.
Voldemort flung several more curses at Harold, but the young Count merely batted them out of the air with the back of his hands. This caused Voldemort to growl, and he waved his wand in an intricate pattern. A spark appeared in front of him. This spark quickly grew into a flame, which quickly shifted into a massive snake, which charged at Harold on Voldemort's order.
Harold stood quite still, letting the snake smash straight into him, completely eradicating him.
Voldemort let out a breath when the fire died down, revealing nothing but a pair of legs in riding boots that had been burned off at the knees. Before he could speak, however, Harold's chuckles once more echoed across the graveyard. He looked around wildly, trying to locate the disembodied chuckle, which yet again turned into laughter.
A black mist came rolling in, heading for the legs. Voldemort watched in utter shock as the mist swirled around the legs, and slowly reformed into Harold. First the legs, then the body, then the arms, and finally the head...
"You truly do aim to kill," Harold said with a small grin on his face. "I can see I have chosen to... assist... the right side. Fighting you is a lot more amusing than it would be to fight Dumbledore and his ilk..."
Harold's eyes drifted shut, and the grin disappeared from his face.
"I am certain, Lord Voldemort, that you wish for your return to be doubtful. You should leave now, before people come to investigate. I am certain Eric will have told Dumbledore about all this... In retrospect, I should have let him remain..."
"What's this?" Voldemort hissed. "You wish me to leave, Dracula? You would not want me stopped?"
"I wish to fight you again," Harold clarified. "But we cannot rush this. The Ministry will surely come here. They will surely investigate. We do not have time to properly enjoy a good fight. A pity..."
Harold turned his back on Voldemort, almost feeling Voldemort's scowl at his impudence.
"Until we meet again," he said simply, before disappearing in a burst of black mist.
–
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