Disclaimer – I solemnly swear that JKR owns everything Harry Potter. Whether or not I am up to no good with her characters is for you to decide.

-oOoOo-

The Fourth School

Chapter 36

Lucius Malfoy crouched among the headstones of Little Hangleton Cemetery. His eyes and wand remained trained on the precise spot that the incoming portkey traveller would land. He had no doubt of this, after all, he was the one who had made the portkey in the first place.

Now it was just a matter of waiting.

He knew roughly when the portkey would arrive, but not precisely. Thus why he'd made sure that the portkey was password activated, in this case, the phrase: 'one thousand galleons'. A phrase that was sure to be said; after all, the bag of money held that precise amount, so, when it was being presented to the TriWizard Champion, the presenter would be sure to say exactly that phrase.

The fact that it was going to be Albus Dumbledore presenting said prize and thus being portkeyed away ensured that Lucius was on high alert: Dumbledore wasn't one that you wanted to give even the slightest edge of advantage to.

As he waited, Lucius grouched silently to himself. This whole plan of The Dark Lord's was extremely complex, far too complex in Lucius' opinion, not that he'd ever even allowed himself to think such a thing anywhere in his master's presence.

It hadn't been so bad when they still had Barty Crouch Junior helping out. But the fact that he'd been caught in his own trap and thus killed by a dragon of all things hadn't helped in the slightest. The only saving grace was the fact that Barty had died quickly, without the chance to expose their plans to the enemy.

Dumbledore, though. Dumbledore was the key. Everyone knew that Dumbledore was the only one that The Dark Lord was … wary of. Not afraid, never afraid, The Dark Lord was always sure to make sure that it was well known that he wasn't afraid of anything or anyone.

And to take him now, to use him and kill him before The Dark Lord's second rise, before the coming war even began, would almost ensure that they would be victorious. And Dumbledore was perfect for the coming ritual to raise the Master.

Oh, Dumbledore wasn't The Dark Lord's first choice for the ritual. No, Harry Potter had that honour, but Potter was too well protected. Dumbledore, though, Dumbledore was definitely a very close second choice.

A hint of light brought Lucius' wand up a touch and a flurry of spells leaping forward. Six stupefys in as many seconds were whirling on their way even before the figure had fully materialized from their portkey ride. Lucius made sure to send the first two directly on target, the next two to either side and the remaining two back on target again. There was no way that he was going to allow Dumbledore even the slightest chance to escape, evade or retaliate.

The blonde grinned to himself as he saw the first two spells slam into the figure as it materialized. The third and fourth, of course, missed, but the fifth hit. Only the fact that the man was on his way to the ground caused the last of the stunners to pass over his head. For good measure, Lucius sent another two stunners and an incarcerous at the slumped body on the ground.

Arrogantly, he sauntered up to the now stunned and bound wizard. The sneer on his face, though, morphed into shock, from shock to confusion and then from confusion straight on to worry when he beheld the man lying at his feet.

Instead of the great Albus Dumbledore that he'd expected, the wizard that had fallen into their trap was none other than the Minister of Magic himself: Cornelius Fudge. Lucius' eyes darted about the scene disbelievingly. But even if he wasn't already incredibly familiar with the man himself, the green pinstriped robes and the distinctive bowler hat left no doubt. The fact that the man was still holding the bag of galleons told the story of how he'd arrived.

The only conclusion that Lucius could come up with was that the odious man had usurped Dumbledore's right to present the TriWizard Champion with their winnings, insisting that he do it himself.

Well, it was his own fault and not one that Lucius could do anything about. Not that there was time for him to do anything even if the Master ordered. He'd been brewing the potion for nine months now and it was at a crucial stage – if it wasn't completed tonight, within the next hour, even, it would be useless. Lucius tapped his chin with his finger, thinking hard before shrugging.

The ritual called for the 'blood of the enemy' and really, when it boiled right down to it, the vast majority of the wizarding population would qualify as an 'enemy'. Cornelius Fudge was just going to have to do.

Lucius just hoped that he wouldn't be the one to suffer too much for this unexpected development.

With an idle wave and flick of his wand, the bound (and now disarmed) wizard was levitated and floated behind Lucius to the designated spot. As soon as they reached the correct headstone, Lucius leant the Minister against the one bearing the name 'Tom Riddle' and added a second layer of ropes, these ones wrapping around both the unconscious man and the headstone itself.

Now came the next unpleasant part of the night – moving the cauldron into place. Unfortunately, as the potion that it contained was particularly susceptible to even the smallest amount of magic performed anywhere near it, magic that had the potential to undo the last nine months of work, magic could not be used to move it.

No, instead, Lucius had to move the man-sized cauldron from the top of the hill where it had been placed out of the way of any potential spells, down to where it needed to be.

It was a long half an hour later by the time that Lucius had finally succeeded in his task. By then, though, he was covered in sweat – it coated his back and under his arms, his hands were slick with it and beginning to blister, and it dripped heavily down his forehead and into his eyes. His long hair was plastered to his neck and obscured some of his vision with the way that it had fallen in front of his eyes. His clothes, too, were disgusting, a combination of sweat and dirt and mud.

"Lucius?"

Lucius spun around, his wand raised, only to find a now-awake Cornelius Fudge staring open-mouthed at him.

Not having any patience to deal with the whiny Minister of Magic, Lucius simply slashed his wand through the air, conjuring a gag for the odious little man.

Eyeing the hill with distaste, Lucius then turned his feet back onto the well-worn path.

At the top, he picked up not only the long, black robes that would be needed later, but the one for whom they would be used: his Master. The fact that his Master was currently in the form of a foul reddish-black humanoid, the size of an incredibly young child necessitated the Dark Lord being carried this way. Only the fact that Lucius had spent three-quarters of his life working hard to hide his feelings from the world prevented him from gagging and dropping his Master in disgust.

"Hurry!" his Master's high, cold voice commanded.

And so, with nary a splash, he allowed the current form of the Dark Lord to slide into the cauldron where it immediately slipped under the water. There was a small thunk as the body hit the very bottom of the cauldron.

Raising his wand, Lucius allowed his eyes to close and began the final part of the ritual. Soon, very very soon, his Master would be reborn again.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"

Immediately, the earth at his very feet cracked open and a slither of fine dust rose up, before falling softly into the cauldron. Lucius nodded as the surface of the potion hissed, sent sparks in all direction and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

Flicking his eyes towards the cauldron once again, Lucius steeled himself for the next part. This, he knew, was going to hurt.

The knife that he'd concealed in his robes was razor-sharp, having been coated with the correct spells to make it pass through any matter as easily as butter.

"Flesh of the servant," he chanted, "willingly given, you will revive your Master."

And then, before he could think any more on it, Lucius raised the dagger high, thrust his left hand out over the potion and swung the knife down with all of his might. A splash of potion flew high as his hand hit the liquid, and a small wave threatened to spill some of it over the cauldron's lip.

Lucius, though, noticed none of this.

His piercing cry of agony rent the very air and the knife clattered to the ground as he clutched the stump of his arm to him. Blood spurted from arteries, coating his robes in hot, sticky fluid within seconds.

Fumbling in his pocket, Lucius pulled out his wand and cast a tourniquet spell over his arm, cutting the blood flow from spurts to a mere trickle. Dropping the wand, he thrust his hand back into his pocket and pulled out the blood replenishing potion that he'd made sure to acquire for just this moment. With shaky teeth, he pulled the cork and upended it, his breathing becoming not quite so ragged as the potion took effect.

Knowing that time was of the essence, Lucius dropped the now empty vial back into his pocket, leant down and retrieved his wand, only for it, too, to go into a pocket. Then he grabbed up the knife.

Cornelius Fudge twisted and turned in his bonds as Lucius approached. A panicked cry escaped him, the words inaudible through the gag. None of it halted Lucius' progress towards the man that he'd once thought of as his most useful tool.

"Blood of the enemy," Lucius intoned, staring right into Fudge's eyes, "forcefully taken … you will resurrect your foe."

With one quick slash, Fudge's sleeve and flesh was cut. The knife was placed against the pooling blood and caught before Lucius carefully carried it back towards the cauldron. Thankfully, not a drop was spilt.

With a careful flick, Fudge's blood, the blood of the Master's enemy, was deposited into the burning red potion.

Instantly, the potion turned a blinding white, a white so bright that Lucius was forced to turn away or risk damage to his eyes. When he next turned back, the stump of his arm cradled against his blood-soaked chest, it was to see diamond-like sparks shooting in all directions.

And then the sparks stopped.

In their place was a billowing white cloud of steam erupting from the very centre of the cauldron. A dark shape appeared in the mist and Lucius looked wonderingly on it. The shape coalesced into that of a tall, skeletally thin man.

"Robe me!" the Dark Lord commanded and Lucius scurried to obey.

By the time that he'd done so, the mist had disappeared.

The ritual had gone perfectly.

His Master was reborn!

-oOoOo-

Lord Voldemort savoured the feeling of being in a body once again. Oh, he was in a body before the ritual, but that tiny, powerless shell didn't really count. This, though, this was more like it.

He was tall with sinewy muscles. One hand rubbed over his face and his bald head. His nose, what there was of it, was more like two slits, not dissimilar to a snake, something that he could live with. Once, a long time ago, when he still retained the name of his muggle father, Lord Voldemort cared about his appearance. Indeed, he could have even been considered quite vain. But he quickly learnt that there were more important things than looks, like power.

Ritual after ritual had been performed through the long years of his first rise and each one had taken something of his good looks, replacing them with something even more precious: power. And this ritual was the most important one yet. This one returned him to a body, a body capable of performing powerful magic.

"My wand," he commanded, holding out one hand towards the whimpering platinum-haired man on the ground.

Within seconds, he was lovingly caressing the yew wand once more. His eyes closed as he savoured the feeling of the wood between his fingers.

With a twirl and a flick, he fired off a powerful bombarda. As expected, the far-off tombstone that he'd aimed at exploded into a brilliant ball of shrapnel. But something felt … off.

Lord Voldemort peered down curiously at his wand. No, everything there seemed as perfect as ever, no blemishes or cracks of any kind. A second blasting curse obliterated a second tombstone with the same results: the explosion was as powerful as he expected and yet, at the same time, it wasn't.

This time, Voldemort examined the magic within himself.

Delving deep within his mind, he flew through the well-known pathways until he came to the blood-red ball of magic at his very centre. What he found there made him, at least mentally speaking, frown. Where he expected to find a boost in his magical core from the use of the enemy's blood in the ritual that brought him back to life, he found a dull coppery … blob.

This was nothing like what he expected to find from using the muggle-loving fool's magic. It should have been almost incandescent with the foreign magic that he now had at his disposal. Everything that he'd ever read about the ritual that was used stated that the more powerful the wizard used, the greater the enemy, the greater the power boost that he would gain. Even using Potter's blood would have given him something more than … that.

Snapping his eyes open, Lord Voldemort turned to face the headstone of his long departed father and the man tied there. This man, though, was not Dumbledore. There were no flamboyant robes, only pinstriped green ones. And instead of the expected long white beard and hair, this man was clean-shaven and had thinning dark grey hair.

"Lucius," he said, annoyance clear in his voice.

"Yes, Master," Lucius replied.

"Where is Dumbledore?"

And though he'd asked the question lightly, the threat was clear.

"I don't know, my Lord," Lucius whimpered. "He was supposed to present the prize. I can only guess that Fudge decided to do it instead."

"Crucio!" Lord Voldemort hissed, turning his wand on the man at his feet.

Lucius screamed into the night, his body arching with the torture curse before attempting to curl itself into a ball to escape. Finally, after a mere thirty seconds, Lord Voldemort allowed the curse to cease, leaving Lucius Malfoy a whimpering, crying mess at his feet.

Fudge, Lucius had called the bound man.

Voldemort strode closer to examine the man in the light of the moon and the flames under the cauldron. Yes, Fudge it was, his eyes told him. The Minister of Magic himself. This could be useful. Plans would, of course, have to be altered. But first …

"Why was Fudge used for the ritual, Lucius?" Lord Voldemort asked.

"Th-there … there w-wasn't enou-enough time … to get … anyone e-else," Lucius stuttered.

Voldemort considered that. No, no there wouldn't have been. The timing of the ritual was extremely precise. Fudge would have been the only option available. The fact that it had worked at all was almost a miracle, and the small amount of boost in his magic that it gave him was still a boost. As much as he wanted to complain, Lord Voldemort knew that he couldn't. Still, the forms had to be maintained.

"For your failures, Lucius," Voldemort stated before, "crucio!"

Feeling merciful in the return to a body, Voldemort only held the torture curse on his follower for an additional twenty seconds.

"Your arm, Lucius," Voldemort commanded the twitching man at his feet.

"Th-thank y-you, M-mast-master, th-thank you," Lucius stuttered through the pain, holding up his mutilated left arm.

With a feeling of satisfaction, Lord Voldemort examined the grisly mess of blood, bone, skin and tissue. Even with the tourniquet spell that he could detect on it, thick, dark blood seeped from the wound. Lifting his wand, Voldemort hovered it over the stump before bringing it down, bypassing the wound and pressing it hard against Lucius' Dark Mark.

Instantly, the faded skull and snake motif darkened to black, the snake undulating around the arm.

"Now. Now we shall see," Lord Voldemort said, letting the arm drop.

He strode away slightly until he was in the centre of a bare patch of ground and waited, both hands holding his wand, his head bowed.

And then they began to appear.

One by one, the cracks of apparition began. Sometimes a small group would appear together. As each one appeared, Lord Voldemort counted. He counted and compared what he knew and what he suspected. As they'd been trained to do, they moved about him, settling into the circle around their Lord, the sound of their cloaks sweeping across the ground.

Finally, when he was sure that no more would or could come, Lord Voldemort lifted his head and gazed at his followers, his Death Eaters. Slowly he turned in a complete circle until he'd seen them all.

As expected, they were nervous, as they should be. More than a few shifted uncertainly on their feet before stilling as his gaze rested upon them. Holes in the circle indicated those who had fallen or had been captured or had simply been too cowardly to return.

"Welcome, my Death Eaters," Lord Voldemort said quietly. "Thirteen years … thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it was yesterday … we are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?"

He paced around the circle slowly, then, allowing his followers time to remember, remember their actions these past thirteen years. Remember and worry about those actions and how their Master would feel about them.

"I smell guilt," he continued. "There is a stench of guilt upon the air. 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?"

Not one replied, not that he had expected it. None even made a sound, save for the occasional pitiful whimpering sound that Lucius made as he cradled the stump of his hand from where he lay on the ground in his assigned place in the circle.

"And I answer myself," he continued, "they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. I, the great Lord Voldemort, who they all knew had gone further than any before him in the quest for immortality. And so, they slipped back among the sheep of the Wizarding world, snug behind their veneer of respectability and nobility, never once thinking of their Master and the fact that he was waiting for them."

He continued to pace even as he continued his monologue, enjoying the shudderings and shifting feet of those who would soon pay for their transgressions.

"Perhaps you thought that I was diminished, that I had become less than any of you, not to mention that great muggle-loving fool Dumbledore and you thought yourself safe, too. But you all knew of my power, power that I have striven hard to attain, power that flows through these veins, ready to strike once again.

"And where shall I strike first, I wonder?"

Even as he voiced the question, the Death Eater in front of him launched himself to his knees, crawling unashamedly across the ground to reach his robes. But Lord Voldemort was not in such a forgiving mood. Instead, he simply raised his wand.

"Crucio!"

The screams of the man echoed around the clearing, screams that, if one listened closely enough, held the hints of a man begging for forgiveness.

Finally, Voldemort lifted his wand, leaving the tortured Death Eater gasping as he lay flat on the ground.

"Get up, Avery," he commanded. "Stand up and join your brothers. You ask for forgiveness? But I promise you that I do not forgive. Nor do I forget. Thirteen long years … I want thirteen years' worth of repayment before I will forgive you. You and all those who now stand beside you.

"Only one has begun paying that debt, haven't you, Lucius?" Voldemort asked, turning his gaze upon the one-handed man crumpled on the ground.

"Lucius here did not return to me out of loyalty, though, but out of fear. Fear for what the rest of society would do to him. He knew that even in the form that I was in, that I was still more powerful than anyone else. And so Lucius has worked hard to follow my commands, commands that have resulted in my rebirth and the return of all of you to my side. He deserves the pain that he is in. He deserves it thirteen times over. But he has served me well this past year.

"And for that, Lucius, I will consent to giving you a reward," Voldemort said. "Hold out your arm, Lucius."

"Master, thank you, Master," Lucius sobbed, lifting up the stump of his arm.

In one deft wand movement, Lord Voldemort removed the tourniquet spell. Then, before too much blood could spurt from the wound, he performed a complicated twisting motion with his wand, creating a lump of molten silver that spun in the air before it reshaped itself into the form of a hand. The hand then lowered onto the stump, binding and connecting in such a way as to replace what the wizard had cut off.

Voldemort turned away from the man gazing lovingly at the new hand to examine the other thirty-odd men surrounding him.

"You all have returned to me," he said. "You have witnessed the pain that I can give when you fail and the mercies that I can bestow when you please me. You, Crabbe and Goyle, Macnair and Nott, you who show your respectable faces to society. I know of the fun that you had at the World Cup. Torturing muggles and sowing the seeds of fear into the crowd. You will be expected to do better this time. You will have your fun, I will make sure of that.

"Here, here is where the Lestranges should stand. But they are entombed in Azkaban. They, at least, were faithful. And they will be again. We shall release them and the others like them who never wavered. They shall soon stand amongst you once more, ready to do my bidding.

He moved on, then, eyeing each of his Death Eaters, making them cower before him, before he stopped once again, this time at the largest gap in the circle that surrounded him.

"And here we have six missing Death Eaters who should be with us. Five are dead, now, three of them in years' past and two more just in this year, one of them my most loyal servant of all. And the last, the one too cowardly to return … he will pay, as will any who forsake my service."

Looking through the gap where he was lamenting his lost followers, Lord Voldemort spied their most honoured guest.

"But there is one more here tonight, one who helped make this night … special. It wouldn't do for us to ignore him, would it?"

As one, the Death Eaters around him turned to examine the man still tied to Tom Riddle Senior's tombstone. Gasps were heard throughout the group as the man's identity was recognised.

"Cornelius Fudge. Minister for Magic of Great Britain," Lord Voldemort said slowly as he casually walked towards the bound man.

Behind him, Voldemort heard his Death Eaters closing ranks, nervous titters interspersed between them at the Minister's predicament. Ignoring his followers, Voldemort focussed on the bound man.

He stopped four feet away, his head cocked to one side as he considered his options. There were so many wonderful ideas popping into his mind and, while none of them fitted into his original plans, they were simply too delicious to ignore.

With a wave of his wand, Lord Voldemort vanished the gag.

"Hello, Minister," he drawled.

"You!" a visibly shaking Cornelius Fudge squeaked. "But … but it can't be. It simply can't be you! You can't be back!"

"Oh, but I assure you, Minister, I have returned," Lord Voldemort assured the man. "And my return shall herald in a time of great purging in Magical Britain. The Mudbloods shall die and the half-bloods and blood-traitors shall learn their place. And your precious Ministry, it shall bend to my will, doing as I command."

A dark stain appeared on the front of the Minister's robes, causing many of the Death Eaters watching to laugh at the man.

"But what shall I do with you?" Voldemort mused. "I could place you under my imperious and watch as you did my bidding. That could be quite amusing. Of course, you would get to see it all, listen to my commands come from your very mouth and be helpless to do anything about it."

He watched the man quake.

"But it would be easier to simply have one of my Death Eaters in charge instead of wasting a trickle of my magic controlling you," Voldemort conceded, enjoying the fact that the Minister slumped in his ropes as he learnt that that wouldn't be his fate.

"Your death, of course, is the other option," he continued. "Yes, the death of the Minister of Magic would send the Ministry itself into a panic. Factions would arise as each tried to gain the political power of the top job. And in that panic, it would be much, much simpler to insert my own operatives into the Ministry.

"But how best to sow that panic?"

Voldemort glanced around the clearing and inspiration struck in the form of a discarded green bowler hat and bag lying in the moonlight. A simple summoning charm had both in his hands in moments.

"Place this in our coffers," Voldemort told Lucius, handing the man the bag. "I'm certain that we can put one thousand galleons to much better use than a mere schoolboy could."

His wand weaved an intricate pattern then as he enchanted the bowler ready for its momentous moment.

Finally finished performing his magic, Lord Voldemort stepped forward, righted the lime green bowler and placed it on the Minister's head with exaggerated care. A simple sticking charm assured that it would remain in place. A second tap of the bowler with his wand prepared the next phase of his new plan.

Lord Voldemort stepped back and gave a mock bow to the Minister of Magic.

"Thank you, Minister, for you lovely assistance," he said.

Then, standing back upright, he slashed his wand through the air, parallel with the man's neck.

"Activate!" Lord Voldemort said and, before the severed head could even reach the ground, it disappeared in a multi-coloured flash of light.

-oOoOo-

Amelia Bones was having the worst night of her life, a night straight out of her nightmares.

Everything had been going so well. The Third Task of the TriWizard Tournament had been run successfully. Even the audience had enjoyed watching the three Champions racing through the maze using the enchanted balls and mirrors. There hadn't been a single instance that had required one of her aurors or an auror from either of the other two countries.

And then, during the final celebrations, when the TriWizard Champion, Cedric Diggory, was being presented his prizes, the Minister for Magic had been whisked away by an unknown portkey.

Exactly how the pouch containing the one thousand galleon prize money had been turned into a portkey was still unknown. Not even the when was known. Even the fact that it had been activated by a pass-phrase was only being guessed at. In fact, it still wasn't clear whether the Minister was even the target – the original schedule called for the Headmaster of the host school to be the one to present the prizes.

And that meant Dumbledore, not Fudge, was likely the target.

But the instant that Fudge had disappeared, every auror in the stadium had leapt into action. The stadium was locked down tight. No one was allowed either in or out. Every person was being checked and checked again, trying to find the culprit or at the very least, a clue that could lead to the culprit.

Not that Amelia was expecting that they'd find anything. She was of the opinion that the person responsible was long gone.

Exactly how much longer the investigation was likely to take was anyone's guess. Probably until every person had been individually checked for the second time.

Casting a quick tempus she saw that they'd already been at it for over an hour.

A flash of light in the corner of her eye whipped Amelia around and only her many years as an auror stopped her from vomiting everything in her stomach there and then.

Cornelius Fudge, or at least his head, had returned. Her investigator's mind immediately processed that the decapitation had only happened within the last minute: thick spurts of blood were still pouring out of the severed neck.

Screams abounded around her drawing every eye to the spectacle. But before she could do anything about it, the head quivered from where it had rolled across the grass before righting itself.

And then the mouth opened and a voice that was not Fudge's began to speak out of it, a voice that had been charmed with a sonorous to assure that everyone in the stadium could hear every word.

'MAGICAL BRITAIN, REJOICE, YOUR LORD AND MASTER HAS RETURNED!

"YES, TONIGHT, IN A VERY SPECIAL RITUAL THAT YOUR MINISTER OF MAGIC WAS THE GUEST OF HONOUR AT, I, LORD VOLDEMORT, RETURNED TO BRITAIN.

"IN THE TIME THAT I HAVE BEEN AWAY, YOU HAVE BECOME LAX. YOU HAVE ALLOWED MUDBLOODS TO FLOURISH. HALF-BLOODS AND PUREBLOODS HAVE LOST THEIR SIGHT OF THE OLD WAYS, OF OUR MOST IMPORTANT TRADITIONS. EVEN AN UPSTART SCHOOL HAS BEEN ALLOWED TO ESTABLSH ITSELF AND OUR CHILDREN HAVE LEFT THE HALLOWED HALLS OF HOGWARTS.

"THIS MUST STOP! THIS WILL STOP!

"NOW THAT I HAVE RETURNED, WIZARDING BRITAIN AND HER TRADITIONS WILL RISE TO PROMINENCE ONCE MORE AND ALL THOSE WHO OPPOSE THIS WILL FALL.

"I SPEAK ESPECIALLY TO YOU, MUDBLOODS AND HALF-BLOODS STEEPED IN THE FILTHY MUGGLE WAYS: GIVE UP YOUR DELUSIONS, CAST YOURSELVES AT THE FEET OF YOUR BETTERS AND BEG FOR MERCY.

"AND TO THOSE WHO CHAMPION THE FILTH, THOSE WHO DARE TO STAND AND DEFY YOUR LORD, I CAN ONLY SAY THIS: PREPARE TO BE SWEPT AWAY IN THE COMING PURGE.

"DUMBLEDORE, BONES, MOODY, LONGBOTTOM, POTTER, YOU AND YOUR ILK HAVE JUST ONE CHANCE. BOW BEFORE ME OR EXILE YOURSELVES. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT NOT ONLY IN YOUR DEATHS, BUT IN THE DEATHS OF EVERYONE THAT YOU HOLD DEAR, EVERY MEMBER OF YOUR FAMILY AND EACH INDIVIDUAL THAT YOU CALL 'FRIEND'.

"FOR LORD VOLDEMORT HAS RETURNED AND MY RULE WILL BE UNDISPUTED!"

-oOoOo-

A/N – Parts of this chapter were originally written by the great JK Rowling in The Goblet of Fire, chapters 32 and 33, and I use them only to enhance my meagre storytelling.

A/N2 – Somewhere in this chapter is my 500,000th word posted on Fanfiction, a truly unbelievable achievement in less than 2 years. I never would have believed it possible when I posted my first chapter of The Cupboard Under the Stairs back in June 2014. Thank you so much to every single reader and reviewer, to all those who have Favourited or Followed either me or one of my stories. Your encouragement has made this possible. Virtual cookies for you all.

A/N3 – I have a pretty full few days coming up so there is a distinct possibility that the next chapter may be late. I'll do my best, but no promises.