The portkey deposited Harry in what looked to be a cemetery.
He barely had time to think, Callen's people were right, then, before he heard a shouted, "Stupefy!" and collapsed into unconsciousness.
Harry woke to find himself tied to something hard, flat, and cool at his back. A tombstone, probably, since this was a cemetery.
Though he was awake, he didn't move. The ruse might not work for long, but any time it did work could give him valuable information.
Shuffling footsteps reached him, and a pair of feet nearly completely obscured by a black cloak came within his limited range of vision. A hand grabbed his head and pulled it up. Another hand - presumably the mate of the first one - shoved a length of black cloth into Harry's mouth, and he was released.
He let his head fall forward, alternately amused and outraged. They can't even bother to tie the gag in place? What kind of kidnapper is he?
One that was preoccupied with something else, apparently, judging by the wheezy sound of the man's breathing. Listening more closely, Harry thought the man might be forcing something heavy along the ground.
Then a slight slithering sound made him jerk his head upward - so much for pretending to be unconscious, he berated himself - only to see a gigantic snake circling the headstone and the grave where he was tied.
Now that the pretense of being unconscious had ended, Harry took in other details - the stone cauldron full of something liquid sloshing against its sides the cloaked man was maneuvering it into position at the foot of the grave where Harry was tied; the bundle of … something … robes, probably, on the ground nearby; a glint of light from far away that might be reflected from a rifle scope.
But it might not, and Harry couldn't let himself be distracted by the thought, because the bundle was moving. No, something inside it was moving, possibly trying to free itself.
Finally, the cauldron was in place, and the cloaked man lit a fire beneath it with his wand. The snake slithered away from the crackling flames, and whatever liquid was in the cauldron seemed to heat very quickly, bubbling and sending out fiery sparks.
Whatever was beneath the bundle of fabric seemed to grow frantic. "Hurry!" came a high, cold voice.
Idiot, Harry thought. Potions and rituals - two things that should never, ever be hurried.
He started to work at the cloth in his mouth. He might be able to spit it out before whatever ritual was completed.
The entire surface of the liquid in the cauldron sparkled like diamonds.
"It is ready, Master," the robed man said.
"Now…"
The robed man bent over the bundle, pulling the fabric away to reveal what was inside it, and for a moment Harry thought he'd be vomiting up enough to dislodge the gag. Or possibly choke himself to death.
Inside the bundle was something that might have been a crouching child - if said child were hairless and scaly-looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs were stickly, spindly, and its flat, snakelike face held gleaming red eyes.
It raised bony arms and the robed man picked it up and put it into the cauldron. The liquid inside hissed and bubbled for a moment.
The robed man closed his eyes, raised his wand in a shaking hand and spoke in a voice equally shaky.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
The surface of the grave at Harry's feet cracked open and a fine trickle of dust rose from it and the robed man waved it into the cauldron. The liquid inside broke and hissed and turned a poisonous shade of blue.
Harry started working the bit of cloth in his mouth - maybe he could dislodge it enough to shout a spell.
The robed man pulled a long, silver dagger from somewhere in his robe and moonlight danced off the blade as it shook in his hand.
"Flesh - of the s-servant -" the man's voice broke on a sob, "w-willingly given - you w-will - revive - your m-m-master."
He stretched his right hand out in front of him - the hand that was missing a finger - and grasped the dagger tightly in his left hand.
Harry finally managed to spit the cloth out of his mouth. "Wait!" he cried, his voice raspy and his throat dry. "You don't have to do this!"
The man turned to Harry, and the hood of his cloak fell back to reveal a balding, pointy-nosed man whose expression screamed pure terror.
"I m-must," he said in a squeaky voice that didn't seem nearly as ominous as it had moments ago. "I m-must revive my m-master."
"You call that thing in the cauldron your master?" Harry's voice got stronger as he spoke the question.
"The Dark Lord is powerful," the man said. "I m-must obey."
"No," Harry said earnestly. "You don't -"
But the man brought the dagger up in a flash of silver, and his right hand fell to the ground.
The man screamed at the pain, but mustered his resolve to pick up his severed hand and drop it into the cauldron.
The liquid inside burned a bright, painful red.
Then the man was approaching him, dagger at the ready.
Every instinct Harry had screamed at him to kick, to struggle somehow, but the man had been really good with his incarceration charms, and even if he hadn't been, Harry suspected that any protest would just make the man stun him before continuing with his assigned task.
Still, Harry made one more attempt. "Please don't do this."
"I have to, Harry." That he'd found a steady voice wasn't nearly as surprising as that he'd recognized Harry.
"How do you know me?" Harry asked.
"Everyone knows Harry Potter." But the man raised his dagger.
"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."
The dagger pierced his arm, and Harry hissed as warm blood spilled from the wound.
The stadium had that had erupted in cheers when Harry touched the Triwizard Cup had gone unnaturally silent as the events afterward played out on the screen.
"What's he doing?" Hermione whispered. Beside her, Alexandra shook her head, frowning deeply.
"A ritual," Sirius answered equally quietly from Alexandra's other side. "A very dark resurrection ritual."
"Resurrection? Who -" Hermione broke off. "You don't think it's -"
"Voldemort," Sirius answered. "Unlikely to be anyone else."
"Where are Callen and the others?" Hermione asked. "Why aren't they stopping this?"
"Full explanation later," Sirius replied, not taking his eyes from the screen. "But we discussed it, all of us, and agreed to let it play out - Goddammit!"
The sudden exclamation made both Hermione and Alexandra jump.
"What is it, Sirius?" Alexandra asked.
"The man on the screen, the one in the robe performing the ritual - that's Peter Pettigrew."
Hermione sucked in a breath. She knew the name, of course - everyone in the magical world did - but after Sirius's trial, she'd assumed that Pettigrew had fled the country, rather than risk being found and, very likely, executed for his crimes. Apparently, she'd been wrong.
Then Pettigrew cut Harry's arm open, collected some of Harry's blood, and poured it into the cauldron.
"They're still letting this play out?" Hermione demanded. "He hurt Harry!"
"Yes," Sirius snapped. "Callen and his team are already on site. He'll make the call."
"Not soon enough," Hermione muttered, and turned her attention back to the screen, both wishing for sound and thankful the video feed didn't have it.
Harry hadn't expected being kidnapped and used in a dark resurrection ritual to be boring, but it was.
Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron, the man who'd performed the ritual had taken the robes from the ground and robed his master. After briefly - and pointlessly, Harry thought - explaining where they were, Voldemort touched an odd red tattoo on the other man's arm. When Voldemort released the man's arm, the tattoo had turned jet black.
Only minutes later, the air was filled with the sound of cloaks swishing as men appeared, apparating into every shadowy place in the graveyard, and there were many of those places. Voldemort greeted them, and then … then Voldemort launched into a long, rambling diatribe about the faithlessness of his followers that wouldn't have been out of place in a nineteenth-century melodrama.
Which meant Harry had nothing to do but sit and listen - or at least pretend to listen - until the lizard-like man actually did something that required a response, whether from Harry himself or from Callen's team, who should be nearby, if all of their plans - not to mention the transmitter inserted in Harry's ankle - fell into place.
Voldemort could give Professor Binns a run for his money in the boring lecture department, Harry thought, memory flashing back to the ghost who'd taught History of Magic during Harry's few months at Hogwarts - and still did, according to Hermione's letters - as Voldemort talked. And talked. And talked some more.
It wouldn't do to actually fall asleep while Voldemort was talking, though. Unlike Professor Binns, who'd simply ignore a sleeping student, there was no telling what Voldemort might do to a sleeping Harry.
So Harry listened, at least a little, while he counted the assembled men, and memorized each of their locations. Those locations wouldn't remain fixed if an actual battle broke out, but knowing where they were to start, as well as their number, wasn't a bad thing. When he'd done that, he reviewed the handful of spells Sam had taught him to cast without a wand.
But then Voldemort turned and was approaching Harry, and Harry's attention returned fully to the abomination before him.
"And here he is," Voldemort said, "the boy you all believed had been my downfall…."
He raised his wand, pointed it at Harry. "Crucio!"
Pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced lit up his nerves, as though his very bones were on fire, and his eyes rolled in his head.
G led Sam, Deeks, and Griphook through the cemetery - silently, thanks to the charms on their feet - trusting Nell's guidance through his earbud to get them to Harry as quickly as possible.
He slowed as three figures came into view. He cast a silent vision-enhancing spell on himself and his human companions and turned back to the sight before him.
One of the figures - the one bound to a headstone - was clearly Harry. One of them seemed to be in considerable pain, clutching his arm to his chest. And the third -
The third was a man with lizard-like skin and no nose.
"Are you getting all this?" he murmured.
"Every bit," Nell's voice came through his earbud. "Everybody saw what just happened to Harry - and from the screams, I think they know who that is."
"Voldemort," Hetty said firmly. "And the one with him - Peter Pettigrew, according to Sirius."
He glanced at Griphook. "My apologies - I thought this would be a fight."
Griphook snorted. "Only three? That's not even a bother."
G grinned, but before G could say anything, a swarm of figures in dark robes and masks apparated into the cemetery, forming a loose circle facing Voldemort.
Sam snorted. "Very Klan-like."
G had to agree - but if these were Death Eaters, Voldemort's followers from before, he'd expect nothing less from the cowards they were. G estimated somewhere between two and three dozen of them - shadows in the graveyard made it hard to be certain, even with his enhanced vision.
"Mm." Griphook sounded mildly interested. "That's looking like a bit of bother. I'll call my brothers."
"Wait -" Deeks said suddenly. "Is Voldemort - monologuing?"
Eric's snort came through G's earbud. "He'd make a lousy evil overlord. Hasn't even read the list."
G was about to ask Griphook how long before his brothers arrived, but before he could even open his mouth to speak, a band of goblins appeared silently behind them.
G nodded a quick greeting and as he readied his weapon, a shout rang out that chilled him.
"Crucio!"