"So now the other side wanna put a hole in me, like every day might be the end of the road for me." - Polo G, Wishing For a Hero.
Chapter One
Pain.
Harry Potter felt the dull throb of muscles seizing in his injured leg, begging for mercy against the unforgiving ground. The boy gasped and spilled onto the wet soil, mud already caking against the side of his face. There was another sharp gasp as the figure of a young man slammed into the muck beside him. A groan of subdued pain followed, causing Harry to breathe a sigh of relief. Cedric Diggory had been a victim of the portkey as well. But where exactly had that portkey sent them? They were in a graveyard, Harry realized after slowly rising to his feet, although it seemed to be one that had not been maintained in at least a decade. Jutting tombstones tore at the sky from uneven earth, while a gnarled pair of yew trees flanking a crumbling church seemed to have long died. A light fog permeated the thick and overgrown weeds. A bit further away, Harry could see the edges of a wrought iron fence that had long rusted over before being smothered in choking ivy. Somewhere far off, an angry owl cooed at the new arrivals. They were certainly nowhere near Hogwarts. Perhaps they were not even in the same country.
"A portkey," grunted Cedric Diggory. The older boy was already on his feet despite the fact that the sudden act of teleportation had knocked the air out of their lungs. He looked at the golden tournament cup that was now embedded in a thick layer of dark mud before glancing at Harry. "Did you know about this Potter?"
Harry shook his head. "I had no clue that the cup would be a portkey. Do you think this is a part of the task?"
"I'm not sure to be honest," replied Cedric. "I don't like the feeling of this one bit. You should have your wand out too."
Harry felt a spark of nervousness. Cedric was usually bold and confident. The older boy now had his wand drawn in a defensive manner. Harry followed suit and fished for his wand, gripping the weapon hard enough to turn his knuckles into a pale shade of white. They were being watched by something or someone. He could feel the gazing eyes scanning them as though they were hapless prey that had fallen into a well-laid trap. And suddenly a figure was wobbling towards them from behind a crumbling statue, their tattered robes causing the fog nearby to swirl. The hunched silhouette paused to analyze the two boys before plowing onward to close the distance between them, finally settling just short of their position and at the feet of a particularly large, marble gravestone. Harry felt a nasty prickle in his scar as he noticed that the figure cradled some sort of wrapped entity in its arms. Was that a dead animal? A sudden wave of pain threatened to split his skull from raw skin, coursing from his scar as though a dam had been broken wide open. Harry groaned involuntarily and buckled before collapsing to the ground, his eyes nearly rolling backwards at the overwhelming tide of discomfort. He felt Cedric bend over next to him in an attempt to keep the younger boy upright.
There was a sudden rustling before a voice hissed through the fog, its owner urgent and malicious.
"Eliminate the spare!"
Cedric suddenly jerked upright, but the mysterious being seemed to react faster, raising a wand of its own. There was a flash of red light accompanied with a strained command."Reducto!"
And suddenly the older boy twirled in the air before crumpling, his body collapsing like a broken marionette doll that had been all tangled up. Harry felt himself screaming as he noticed the gaping hole that Cedric now had in the side of his skull. A pair of lifeless, gray eyes peered back at his own, like scattered marbles on an overcast, wintery day. Cedric Diggory had been murdered in cold blood. Harry felt his mind go numb as its synapses struggled to make sense of the event. What was happening?
The surviving teenager felt a sharp jerk at the neck of his robes before being roughly torn away from the mud and slammed against the crumbling headstone, the mysterious figure paying no heed to his shocked state. A lit wand was suddenly at his chest, thick cords of twine and rope issuing forth from its tip and lashing him against the cold marble. The short figure breathed and wheezed excitedly before admiring the hasty handiwork that had been done and peeling back a dark hood.
"Feeling comfortable Potter?"
Harry gasped, his breath seemingly sucked away. "Wormtail!"
The grimy face of a man whom most Muggles would have assumed was a homeless wretch peered back, dirt and residue caked across his features. A shockingly golden-toothed smile composed of a handful of teeth contorted his crinkled, furry, white eyebrows in a grotesque manner. Wormtail dug deep into his cloak and withdrew a greasy, black rag before jamming it into the boy's mouth and tittering onwards, his crusted lips smacking with excitement. Harry grunted and squirmed against the cords, but to no avail. The ratty man scurried away into the fog, retreating with a jumble of intelligible words and garbled sentences.
The corpse of Cedric Diggory lay some twenty feet away now, a puddle of blood from his damaged skull staining the mud into a dark hue of black. Further back against the mist, Harry could see the dull glint of starlight against the false trophy cup. His wand was somewhere in between the two, equally as useless to him now as either of the previously mentioned figures. And then the bundle that he had noticed before had twitched a mere five feet away, its presence even closer than any of the three. Something was alive and stirring in irritation. With each twist and jerk of the wrapped heap, his scar seemed to ebb and flow in raw pain. He struggled against the ropes with new determination. Whatever was in that bundle was overwhelmingly dark and foreboding.
And then Wormtail was reemerging from the fog, dragging a massive stone cauldron with one arm and grunting wildly as he slowly inched forward, his other arm flailing left and right like a weather vane. The claws at the base of the pot scraped against the mud, leaving desolate tracks of disturbed soil in its wake. Another figure flitted through the fog, its thick body whirling around the feet of the stone utensil as slow progress forward was made – finally materializing into a massive, black snake as the grotesque procession came to a halt.
The bundle began to writhe with a new sense of urgency as Wormtail peered over the edge of the cauldron and murmured an incantation. A liquid poured forth into the pot from his wand, its acrid stench filling the surrounding graves. Once the man seemed satisfied with the amount placed into the stone bowl, he pointed his weapon at its base and issued forth a river of flame. The inactive liquid was now being accelerated to a rolling boil.
"Hurry Wormtail! Time is short."
The boy shuddered at the voice and felt his scar split again. The man tittered nervously and watched as the surface of the water danced and glittered like an ocean of tainted crystals. "I believe that it is ready my Lord!"
"Then do it...do it now!"
And suddenly Wormtail was grasping at the edges of the wrapped bundle, exposing a destitute creature that looked far worse than anything that Harry could ever muster in his nightmares. The bundle contained a slimy, writhing baby that looked far older than even the very sands of time, its red skin punctuated with leaking sores and peeling scabs. A pair of snakelike eyes tinged ruby red glared angrily, their pupils gleaming with nothing short of pure malice. Wormtail quickly scooped up the helpless wretch in one motion, a look of pure revulsion wringing his ratty features.
Time seemed to stand still as the man staggered back to the edge of the cauldron, inhaling sharply before tossing the decrepit body into its steaming mouth. There was a bright emission of electricity and sparks followed by a damp hiss and a sharp screech. The cries of utter despair were cut short as the body sank below the surface of the potion, whose color shifted into a murky swirl of molten silver. Harry could feel himself praying to anyone that would listen that the creature would drown. Anything to stop the pain in his scar and cut this sick charade short would be welcome.
But now Wormtail was speaking, his voice wavering in pure fear – an indication that the man was frightened beyond even his own wits. He raised his wand before gazing skyward and calling wildly into the night.
"A rib bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
The ground beneath the gravestone where Harry lay captive split and shift as though it were alive. Wormtail twirled his wand and watched as a long, slender bone poked from beneath the gurgling soil before fully exposing itself to the cool, night air. The skeletal piece wavered temporarily before sailing into the cauldron, earning yet another round of sparks and damp hissing. The silver color dissolved into a sickening, poisonous shade of dark green swirls. Wormtail whimpered before continuing, drawing a long, silver blade from the depths of his cloak. His voice descended into another state of forlorn madness as he spoke.
"Flesh of the servant...willingly given. You...will revive...your master."
And suddenly the blade was whirling in his hand, sawing nastily at his other hand before completely severing the entire extension of flesh and pouring forth a thick river of blood. Wormtail panted as his removed hand splashed into the boiling liquid, earning the effort a thick cloud of vapor and an explosive hiss of disintegrating flesh. The pain was beginning to reach an unsettling climax now, forcing the boy to clench his eyes shut as they rolled backwards and forwards in a dangerous limbo. Harry fought the urge to lose consciousness, a thick sheen of sweat pouring forth onto his forehead like a film of hot plastic. The light of the potion had begun to shine so bright that Harry could see its outline even through his closed eyelids. The pain of severing his hand seemed to finally overwhelm Wormtail, and decrepit man finally let a bloodcurdling scream of agony escape his parched lips. The yelling ceased as he groaned the next portion of the incantation.
"Blood of the enemy...forcibly taken...you will resurrect your foe!"
Harry forced his eyes open in time to see the smaller man barrel towards him, his good hand wielding the glinting blade and slicing deep across the crook of his right arm. The boy gasped as a trickle of blood escaped the fresh wound, dripping sluggishly into a small vial that Wormtail had suddenly produced with yet another flourish of his wand. Almost as fast as the precious liquid had been collected, the man retreated back to the cauldron, heaving and gasping through his own pain. Wormtail seemed to pause for a second before tapping the contents of the vial into the cauldron and throwing himself to the ground and succumbing to the overwhelming pain. The cauldron hissed again before disappearing into a blinding flash of pure, white light.
The hissing stopped, although cool steam billowed in all directions, its seeping tendrils twisting and turning as it came in contact with the surrounding fog and mist. Harry blinked and coughed through the condensation. Far off and muted, he could still hear Wormtail writhing and groaning. The pain in his scar seemingly grew twice as bad. Perhaps the spell had gone wrong. He prayed that it had. Perhaps that creature, in its repulsive form, had drowned in the depths of the evil concoction. Please let it be dead. But then, through the mist ahead, something stirred.
Harry felt an icy surge of terror tearing at every fiber within his body. The fog swirled and shifted in a peculiar way. The dark outline of a man rose slowly from the murky edges of the stone cauldron, tall and firm like a slim, calculating reaper. The figure cocked its head and brought a long, slender finger up before pointing at the crumpled heap of Wormtail.
"Robe me." The voice was high and cold. The injured man sobbed aloud and struggled to his feet, producing a bundle of dark, black robes and draping them around the taller figure before collapsing once again to nurse his bloody stump. The tall creature breathed deeply as if to savor a real breath of pure oxygen - as though its lungs had not truly been independent for more than a decade. Finally, it stepped out of the cauldron and looked directly at Harry. The mist finally cleared.
It was a man. His face was whiter than the bleached skulls of the men and women whom had long been dead from genocides throughout the history of the world, and his eyes were far redder the blood that had been spilled during the same events. His nose was flat with nostrils similar to that of an exotic snake, and his head was void of any hair.
Harry suppressed a choked sob. Lord Voldermort had risen again.
The dark lord broke his gaze away from the boy and looked down to examine his restored body. His hands were unnaturally dexterous and spider-like, Harry noticed, as the man ran his slender fingers down his chest. The red eyes gleamed through the darkness, absorbing the dank features of the forlorn graveyard with uncanny alertness. The man flexed his fingers and held up his hands as if to exalt himself, an expression of rapt pleasure gracing his face. Wormtail groaned again before the massive snake slithered into view, circling sharply around all three of them and threading in and out of the dead weeds nearby. A dull feeling of raw energy throbbed through the clearing as Voldermort deftly fished into the pocket of his robe and produced a thin wand. The reaper smiled and flourished the weapon, raising Wormtail as though he were simply a piece of paper before placing the sobbing man near where Harry lay captive. The dark lord finally peered at Harry and let loose a cold, mirthless laugh. Wormtail and his robes were shining with blood now, so thick that a smell of copper had permeated the air. The man would bleed out soon.
"My Lord!" he gasped. "My Lord, please! You told me..."
Voldermort cocked his head lazily before interrupting the incessant babbling. "Hold out your arm."
"Master? Thank you!" cooed Wormtail, extending the bleeding stump.
The dark lord chuckled in an icy manner. "The other arm, you fool."
With surprising agility, the powerful wizard strode forward and gathered the good arm in his hands, forcing the sleeves upwards towards Wormtail's shoulders and exposing a vivid, red tattoo branded into the skin with dark magic. Harry fought the urge to gasp. It was the Dark Mark that he had seen only months ago at the Quidditch World Cup, the symbol that had ignited a stampede amongst even the calmest of wizards. Voldermort mashed a finger into the mark and pressed down. Almost instantly, the mark turned black, its ink twisting and turning under the skin like a disturbed body of water. Another shot of pain riddled though Harry's mind as Voldermort straightened upwards and stared towards the sky.
"I wonder how many will be brave enough to return to me when they feel my call," he murmured, his ruby eyes taking in the bright stars of dead night that studded the sky above. He gazed back towards the Earth before whispering, "And I wonder how many will be foolish enough to not heed by beckoning."
The dark lord paced in small steps before Harry and Wormtail, his robes swishing with apprehension and tension. He stopped and looked down at the boy strapped to the marble tombstone before emitting a cruel smile.
"Surely you realize where you are Potter, yes? Beneath your filthy feet are the remains of my former father – a man who was a dirty Muggle, and more importantly, a stupid fool. Your mother was the same way. I suppose that they both had their uses. Your mother died to defend you. I have used the murder of my father to resurrect myself."
Voldemort chuckled and began pacing, gazing through the fog towards a hill in the distance, its outline barely visible. "Do you see that cottage? My father lived there. My mother was a witch who lived in the same village and fell in love with him. He abandoned her when he realized that she was a witch, because he hated magic and everything that it had to offer. I was raised in a Muggle orphanage after she died giving birth to me. I hunted him down and murdered him in cold blood."
The reaper suddenly paused and smiled. "I believe that our small venture into history has concluded. It seems that my true family has returned."
The graveyard was suddenly full of dark, swishing cloaks, the black robes scattering mist and fog every which way. Between the tombstones and the dead yew trees, and amongst the dried weeds and caked berms of mud, wizards were morphing out of thin air. All of them wore masks and hoods, as though their identity and lack thereof served as a reprieve from the sickening crimes that many of them had committed at one time or another. They crept forward in disbelief, before one fell in a heap at his feet, kissing the hem of his robes and murmuring subdued praise. The rest of the wizards followed suit and fell to the ground, muttering praises before rising to form a silent circle around the three original occupants of the graveyard. Harry counted at least thirty of the ominous figures.
And yet it seemed as though the circle had a few gaps. Voldemort seemed to ignore the empty spaces as he turned to gaze at those in the circle. It was a windless night, but the shiver that spread through the group was unmistakable.
"Death Eaters," spoke Voldemort, his voice a strained whisper. "It has been thirteen long years since you followed my path to power. And yet here you are as devoted as ever."
The silence held before the man spoke again. "And yet are you? Some here seem to feel guilty, for you are all whole and healthy with your powers intact and largely untouched. I must wonder why a group of wizards so capable and spry never sought to help their wounded master following an oath of loyalty to me. I have asked myself that question more than once. Perhaps this same band of merry wizards believed that I could be killed or destroyed – and slipped back amongst my enemies to plead innocence and ignorance and bewitchment. It would be foolish of them to do so, for they must know that I myself cannot be defeated my mortal death. They would certainly know and remember the immensity of my power from the time in which I was the most powerful wizard living."
The silence was thick, and there was pregnant pause before Voldemort continued. "Perhaps they believed that I could indeed be vanquished and that they could pay allegiance to commoners or mudbloods or even Muggles, or worse...Dumbledore. I must admit that the development is a bit disappointing. Perhaps I should take the liberty to simply kill you all here and now."
One of the men in the group suddenly cast forward on hands and feet, trembling and collapsing to once again bow in submission to his master. "Please my Lord! Forgive us all! Please forgive us all."
Voldemort laughed cruelly and pressed his wand against the hooded figure before uttering, "Crucio!"
The Death Eater squirmed as though he had been lit on fire with kerosene and a match, his screams loud enough to seemingly wake someone...anyone nearby. The man finally collapsed into the mud.
"You are a fool Avery," said Voldemort. "You ask me for something that I cannot do. You owe me thirteen years of repayment before I find forgiving a wretch like you a possibility. Wormtail has already paid a portion of his debt to me, in blood. Yet even he returned to me out of fear of his old friends, and not out of loyalty. Get up."
The Dark Lord looked at Wormtail as Avery scrambled back into rank. "You deserve this pain Wormtail. But you also know that I reward those who help me."
The man twirled his slender wand through the air, a river of molten silver threading into the mist. It quickly formed into the shape of a gleaming replica human hand, its surface brighter than the moonlight that exposed it. The hand twirled and attached itself over the bloody wrist, capping both the flow of blood and the gurgling sobs that Wormtail emitted. The sparkling glove flexed with power as Wormtail examined it. The small man picked up a thick rock off of the ground and easily crushed it into dust.
"Thank you my Lord!" he sang choppily, tears still flowing down his cheeks as he kissed the hem of Voldemort's robes. "It is a masterpiece!"
The reaper cocked his head and motioned for Wormtail to take his place in one of the vacant gaps within the circle. "May your loyalty never waver again my dear Wormtail. For it shall be the last time that it does so."
"Never!" murmured the man, leaping into his position and sobbing with fear and happiness.
Voldemort simply ignored the happy crooning and looked sideways at a rather tall Death Eater on his right side before pausing and frowning. "Lucius Malfoy. What pleasure do I owe you to grace us with your presence? I have heard that you never renounced the dark magic that you once practiced, though you present yourself as an impeccably clean nobleman now. Certainly you would still take pleasure in torturing Muggles. And yet you never sought to find me Lucius. Your stunts at the Quidditch World Cup a few months ago were fun, yet I feel as though those energies should have been exerted to find and aid me back to health."
"My Lord!" gasped Malfoy, his voice taught with nervousness. "I was constantly on the alert. Had there been any sign from you or even a whisper of your whereabouts, I would have returned to your side without fail."
Voldermort snapped his finger in anger. "And yet you ran from my summons when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer, did you not? I know about that Lucius. Nothing evades me. I am omniscient amongst mere mortals. I will spare you death by my rod. Do not cross me again. If you do, your son may find himself worse off than his father."
"Of course my Lord! You are merciful. I give many thanks..."
The reaper continued to observe the circle, his gaze resting on a rather wide gap. "The Lestranges remain stuck in Azkaban despite their undying faith to my cause. Certainly they shall serve by my right hand when I break them out of that prison, for they did not renounce my name to avoid a jail sentence. The dementors will once again roam the face of the Earth with us as our natural allies. And the giants shall rise again with them, as will the inferi. I will raise my former army of faithful servants to wage war in Great Britain once again."
Voldermort turned as if to take stock of the remaining Death Eaters, passing some in silence, and offering cool remarks to others. "Macnair...I hear that you are working for the Ministry of Magic as a beast hunter for the time being. Perhaps you would enjoy butchering mudblood children once again, yes? Crabbe and Goyle! Certainly you two shall do better this time."
Macnair simply bowed silently and offered a quiet murmur of thanks, while Crabbe and Goyle shifted clumsily and muttered dully. Harry heard Voldemort offering a whisper of praise to a man with the last name of Nott before the evil wizard finally gazed at the largest gap in the circle. His red eyes blinked as if to will the bodies of those missing into existence.
"And yet six are missing. Rosier and Wilkes fought until the end, along with another. One of my own was too cowardly to return. He will be dealt with accordingly. Yet another who has left me forever will be slaughtered when I locate him. My most faithful servant has already reentered my service. He is currently perched within the confines of Hogwarts, and has allowed the young Harry Potter to kindly join my resurrection ritual. He is our guest of honor tonight. Perhaps we should offer a round of applause."
No Death Eaters dared to move as all eyes turned towards Harry, who struggled in vain against the tombstone. Finally, Lucius Malfoy knelt and asked the most pressing question. "My Lord...how is it that you were able to cheat death?"
Voldemort chuckled. "It begins with the boy my friend." He walked to Harry and took the teenager's throat in his hands and squeezing firmly. Harry felt the pain of the damned flowing through his body, his vision wavering with the impending threat of blacking out from the overwhelming discomfort.
"I lost my powers temporarily after attempting to kill him. The sacrifice of his mother provided him with a protection that I admit I had not foreseen. I could not touch the boy. Yet I have circumvented that old magic now. I can touch him."
The squeeze had become a vice across his trachea, nearly blocking his airway. Voldermort finally chuckled and released his deadly grip. "And so I was ripped from my body that night. I felt the pain of at least a thousand deaths. I became the sands of time amongst those waves of hurting sensation, barely keeping my sanity. I became less than a spirit or a ghost, yet I was still alive. I was forced to hide in the forests of Eastern Europe, hoping that perhaps one of my faithful Death Eaters would locate me and nurse me back to health. My sole power that remained was the ability to inhabit others. But I dared not to go where other humans dwelled, for I knew that the Ministry of Magic and its Aurors were still seeking me. I settled on jumping into the bodies of rodents and snakes, despite my lack of ability to perform magic. My possession of them as a host shortened their lives. And then a wizard by the name of Quirell came across my path. The man sought to find me, believing that he could achieve recognition for the discovery, and could ensure that no one in the scholarly world would ever laugh at him again. He was a professor at Hogwarts."
Voldemort paused before continuing. "I manipulated him into serving my bidding, although my swipe for the Sorcerer's Stone failed. The boy thwarted my plans once again. I returned to hiding and gave up my hopes of having the Death Eaters rescue me. And yet when I had almost abandoned hope, Wormtail sought me out as his master, driven against the wall after being forced out of hiding himself. He located me by talking to rats and mice that he met along the way. His filthy friends told him that there was a place deep in an Albanian forest that they sought to avoid due to the fact that a dark shadow would possess and kill them. Wormtail rescued me and began the journey back, but not without trouble. He stopped at an inn for food and ran into none other than Bertha Jorkins. We broke her mind with torture and disposed of her once she released information regarding the tournament at Hogwarts and a faithful Death Eater who would be willing to help me."
"The remainder of the story is simple. I knew that the Sorcerer's Stone would now be out of reach. I instead sought to resurrect my old body and my old strength, rather than to shoot for the goal of complete immortality. Dumbledore had used ancient magic to ensure that I could not kill Harry Potter in his home so long as his relations cared for him. I thought that I would be able to snatch him away at the Quidditch World Cup, but I was not yet powerful enough to do so, and his return to Hogwarts only solidified his safety. So I used the information that Jorkins provided and had my faithful Death Eater ensure that Harry Potter would win the tournament so that I could come back using his blood. I am now stronger than I was, and most notably, I can touch him."
The man turned towards Harry following the speech, finally smiling and connecting his gaze with Harry's own. Time seemed to slow down. The thirty-odd Death Eaters shivered in anticipation. It seemed as though wizarding history in Great Britain was destined to change tonight. Voldemort leaned in and settled precariously in front of the tombstone where Harry lay captive, a garish smile gracing his hollow features.
"Your mother had begged for me to spare you. Your father had been easy. He was a good wizard, but no match for my prowess. I struck him down in amusement as though he were a stray mutt, not fit to live in a world that I would soon rule. I had wanted to make him beg before I slaughtered him. Breaking individuals as proud as himself has always been a pleasure. But I suppose that I had been too eager and overbearing. I finished him in one fell swoop. And your mother – oh how she had attempted in vain to negotiate with me. I had thought of torturing her in front of you and making your mother scream until every blood vessel in her throat had shattered. I suppose that her incessant attempts to babble and negotiate with me had made me impatient. Lily was so desperate that she offered her very life in exchange for yours. But did you know that your mother had also attempted to barter her very body once it became apparent that I would kill you both? Your whore of a mother had not even let the corpse of your father turn stiff."
Voldermort exhaled sharply before continuing. "And yet we call love an ancient and raw magic. Imagine the desperation that she must have felt to make such an offer to the man that had just taken the life of her very husband in front of her and her infant child. The magical properties of hatred are far greater than love. Imagine the magical potential of a child bore from the ultimate revulsion of sacrifice and raw hatred. I am an example of such a feat, Potter. My mother had raped a man by means of a love potion to conceive me. But the prospect of creating someone as powerful as myself was revolting. I killed your mother and then turned my wand on you. I must admit that one of my biggest mistakes as a wizard has been to overlook the ancient magics of love and hatred. It would not be until my own curse backfired on me that I would truly understand their raw power. But I understand now, Potter. And today, no one is here to save you. It is only you and I. And only one of us will leave here today."
Harry twisted against the tight ropes so hard that he could feel the twine biting into his very skin, although the slicing discomfort seemed minuscule in comparison to the blinding wave of raw pain that the scar was now spilling forth. There was also a feeling of hopelessness. Dumbledore had failed to adequately prepare him for this moment. The penetration of Hogwarts on multiple occasions was evidence of that enough. The man had been eerily vague about whether Lord Voldermort was truly gone following his failed attempt to capture immortality by means of the magical stone three years ago. One of the most powerful dark wizards of all time had indeed achieved the ultimate goal of parlaying death into remission. Dumbledore had likely guessed that the tyrant would return eventually. Keeping a close eye on Harry had simply been the ultimate gauge of just how close Lord Voldermort was to resurrecting himself.
"You look a bit troubled. Perhaps you have just realized how foolish you were to put your trust in that aging fool of a headmaster that has protected you for far too long. Where is he now? That man cannot help protect you anymore," murmured Voldermort.
The circle of Death Eaters rippled with a suppressed titter before tightening closer, their quiet taunts about the elder wizard echoing softly in the dank mist. Harry needed to buy more time – a commodity that seemed to be running out rather quickly.
"Professor Dumbledore is twice the man that you will ever be," said Harry.
The sweeping wave of taunts and jeers fell to a tense silence as Voldermort analyzed the retort. The resurrected man cocked his head in slight amusement before chuckling.
"I am no mere mortal Potter. I will kill you here today. His days on this earth are numbered as well. I will take more pleasure in taking his life than I did when I took the lives of your parents."
Harry grimaced through another wave on searing pain and ignored the jab. He needed to get free and get to the portkey somehow. He refused to die without trying.
Another voice cut in as Lucius Malfoy stepped forward, his robes swirling nervously. "My Lord. It would be wise to finish the boy rather quickly. The Triwizard Tournament audience includes Albus Dumbledore himself as well as the Minister of Magic. They will be suspicious soon if we do not hurry."
Voldermort turned towards the sallow man and frowned. "It sounds as though you doubt my plans Lucius. I had reservations about your return tonight. It now seems as though you doubt my ability to handle this boy. It is likely that Dumbledore already has his suspicions about the tournament this year, and has allowed the situation to progress as to see whether I have truly returned or not. He is a fool, but he is an intelligent one. It will take them a while to realize that the portkey I assigned one of my most loyal followers to build was indeed the prize winning cup. By then we shall already be long gone, and Harry Potter will be dead. You fear my failure to eliminate this boy."
"My Lord - " responded Malfoy, his voice taught and shaking. "Certainly not."
The dark wizard sneered. "If I were to fail again Lucius, your status as a rich aristocrat would collapse. You would be sent to Azkaban. You care only about yourself. I will see to it that you are punished thoroughly. Now silence. The boy will die here tonight. It will be a new era."
The hooded figure bowed curtly and retreated back into the tight knot. Voldermort turned towards Harry once again.
"Wormtail! Undo his bonds. I want him to face me like a man as I take his life."
And it suddenly hit Harry that he was slated to die in the graveyard, far away from family or friends or protection, a statistical victim of cold murder and coddled ignorance. Lord Voldermort would not pull any punches and engage in further speeches or even a torture session that might allow Harry a window to escape. The man who feared death would no longer take the risk of allowing Harry Potter to slip away by chance. Wormtail squeaked nervously before scurrying towards the back of the marble gravestone. There was a pause and a sharp tug before Harry crumpled into the soil. Harry took his time in rising, surveying his path to the portkey. The large cup was halfway buried in the mud nearly thirty feet away. Voldermort would have no problem blasting him in the back if his followers were slow on the draw. He needed more time. Perhaps Malfoy was right, and a search party was already being organized to find him and Cedric Diggory. But that would take time. Precious time that he did not have. Bolting for the portkey would be his only viable option.
Maybe there was a chance after all.
He rose to full height, noting the curling smile that now graced the face of the man across from him.
"He has already accepted his fate. Good boy," said Voldermort, raising his wand.
Harry felt his leg muscles tighten before his mouth moved. "You say that you want me to face you like a man. Give me my wand."
There was a wave of surprise through the knot of dark wizards as well as a few murmurs. Who dare defied the Dark Lord to his face? A young boy would not stand a chance.
"Wormtail," said Lord Voldermort, "...give the boy his wand. I must admit, it is most admirable that you take after your father. You shall die like him."
The wretched man known as Wormtail lurched forward again, the boy's wand in hand. And yet, as Harry reached for the weapon, Voldermort seemed to already be raising his own.
"Your problem was that you trusted too many people at their word Potter," he spat. "You have escaped me far too many times. You will die here and now, without a proper duel. Goodbye."
He lied! Run.
Harry made a final grab for his wand, but Wormtail was already leaning back with faster reflexes.
With that reach for the weapon failing miserably, the boy spun on his heel and bolted for the portkey, attempting to slip in between the human walls of Crabbe and Goyle.
"Not today Potter!" screamed Voldermort, his voice hoarse and excited. "Leave him for me! Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green light whizzed overhead and shattered a yew branch into sharp splinters. The footsteps of the surprised Death Eaters rose into a cacophony of boots against mud as they gave chase. Someone sprang off a nasty explosion curse that barely whizzed by his ear. The cup. He had to get to the cup.
"NO! Leave the boy for me! Avada Kedavra! Expulso! Transmogrificus!"
There were screams of pain and an explosion of blood and bone as three Death Eaters fell beneath the cast of their master in his attempts to aim at the boy. Harry tripped over a gnarled tree root and reached for the trophy cup, his fingers a mere inch away from grasping the handle. And suddenly he had it hooked around his finger. It would take a half-second for the teleportation spell to kick in, that much he knew. The familiar roar of an oncoming train built in his ears as the hook against his navel began.
"MOVE GOYLE! Avada Kedavra!"
There was a flash of green from behind as Harry felt himself tossed like a rag doll before the world suddenly unplugged, the cup still in his hands.
Harry Potter was dead.
The darkness itself was comforting, as though he had been a stranger lost in the Alps on the coldest nights of winter before being invited into a warm household to drink and be merry. There was no semblance of time or space. The feeling of utter bliss was similar to that of falling into the deepest of sleeps. And yet Harry felt his consciousness slipping deeper into its own layers, down into the well of the ages, through the same route that every soul left intact upon death had taken before settling in its final resting place.
Certainly he was dead.
There had been a flash of green light as he had gripped the portkey and then this. It was coming back now. Voldemort had risen from the dead. Cedric Diggory had been murdered in cold blood. The cup was a portkey. He was a fourth-year student at Hogwarts. Sirius Black was his godfather. The Chamber of Secrets had contained a diary that had belonged to Tom Riddle. The Sorcerer's Stone was saved by Harry Potter and his friends. He was a first-year student and going backwards, fast, like a Muggle cinema reel in reverse. Hagrid cooking sausages on that island when they first met – no, the envelopes flooding the house. Now the first letter. Back! Further now...beatings from Vernon and Dudley, and then more beatings. Bullying from his cousin and his cronies. Hard schooldays. Tougher nights of crying and wiping away the tears before he got home. A hard childhood, but not as hard as a kid living on the streets. Living in a cupboard. Younger now.
Some memories that even he himself no longer recognized due to age. The first week of Muggle kindergarten sailed by in reverse. A teacher or two that he remembered and a car model that Vernon used to drive. Further now, at the very distant edges of his memory, like a waterfall at the end of a flat-earth, ceaseless and misty and roaring. Further, further. And now he was in unknown territory. Things that had certainly happened and he had seen, but had been erased as a matter of convenience as his brain got naturally older, as all brains did. Petunia looking after him with loving eyes behind the false face of hatred when Vernon was at work and Dudley was asleep.
She saw Lily in him.
He saw Lily in her.
Further back now, further. Vernon and Petunia yelling at each other while he looked up from a crib of sorts. Vernon striking Petunia and drinking out of a bottle. He hadn't known that. Further now, even further. A porchlight and a scream. A motorcycle. Further! A bang, a shout. He's here! He's here! He's fucking here! Go upstairs and hide. His mom, his dad, a day in the park in a swaddle. Lily he's lovely. James, he looks like you! Further. When do you think he'll be able to say his first words? Who knows, I just hope it's da-da. Further, further. The war is bad babe, but we can work to make sure he has a bright future. Further back. A St. Mungo's ward and a charge nurse. Further. In a dark, warm place. Lily, I had no idea you were expecting. Crazy times to have a baby, but hey, life goes on right? Further now, further. Lily you make me so happy. Further. James, I have some news. I'm pregnant. Conception.
And now he was blasting forward – fast, faster than he could imagine. He was not himself, that much he knew.
Conception.
A dark warm place. Not as safe. Frail, malnourished, but determined. I have news, I have news Tom. Further. You sick little bitch. You and your kind drugged me. I will never raise that bastard. Speed now, more speed, the reel was moving forward fast and strong, like a strong ship in rough seas with a good captain. Birth. No ward this time. Cold air and a dank rooftop with a hardscrabble nun attempting to revive the same person that birthed him. She's not going to make it. Any idea where she's from? No clue, she just showed up. No magical assistance, it was a Muggle orphanage. Time slowed and continued to move forward now. A hard childhood, but not as hard as a kid living on the streets. He was a handsome young boy now, only about five or six. His father must have been a looker according to the matron. He was eerie by some accounts. He was already able to have real conversations with adults and the older teenagers at the orphanage. One family passed him up. Another. He cried. He cried some more. He stopped caring. He could talk to snakes. The snakes talked back. A kid named Billy kicked sand in his sandwich and food wasn't common at the place.
A bunny rabbit.
Choking it until it was lifeless with his bare hands and taking immense pleasure as the creature squirmed against his hold. Crushing its windpipe and taking pleasure in the fact that the rabbit would never reproduce and have a family. Would never know love. Other kids keeping a distance, as well as the adults now, out of uncanny fear. Nothing solid to prove though. God, nothing ever provable.
A countryside field trip.
The cave.
Amy and Dennis, two other kids who also wondered in when he wanted to be alone after yet another kid bullied him. Convincing Dennis to hit Amy. Harder. Not like that, let me show you. Beating, beating. Beating her senseless. Beating her so bad that she couldn't walk and that her brains were scrambled. Somehow healing her instantly, not on his own volition. They were intact but they retained memories and they were scarred. Nothing ever came of it of course. Stealing things. He was a bully now. He was hurting kids left and right and enjoying it. He was proud. Eleven now, with the mind of someone who was twenty. Hello, my name is Albus Dumbledore. A wizard. The man was surprised that he was not surprised. An invite. Convincing the man that he sought to be a wizard for good. Welcome to Hogwarts. Top student, nothing less. Every girl he wanted. Friends who sought to be like him, pawns in his own ultimate gain of gaining knowledge. Realizing his father was a Muggle. Forming the Death Eaters. Fearing death and being repulsed by it. Further. Beatings, rape, nasty incidents throughout the castle with no proof. His first kill and taking the life of Morphin.
Killing, killing, God, so much killing and so much pleasure. Fooling everyone and continuing his ascent. Graduating and failing to attain a position to Hogwarts. Seeking to cheat death. Returning and being denied again. Bitter hatred and more murder. Murder, murder, murder, more of it and more. Making horcruxes and killing some more now. There was power now. He had been a prodigy but this was another level. Killing, killing, killing more. Giving orders and not taking names, but lives. Torture. Pushing the wizarding community of Great Britain to the point of collapse. Soon he would destroy the Order. Creating fear. Forced disappearances. Rumors. Torture, snitching. Killing. Seven horcruxes, he was on a roll. A prophecy. Kill the Potters. Boom. He's here. He's here. The boy. Green light. And pain more imaginable than anything he could imagine as his soul split from the bone. Quirell. Plant the diary. Wormtail. Killing Harry Potter.
Darkness.
And then knowledge as though contents of the largest dam with the deepest gorge and strongest river had broken open and spilled into his brain. Knowledge of magical history. The first century, the second, all the way through to the twentieth, and back to the days before the first century had been marked. Ancient clans and bloodlines and rituals and customs, their study important and necessary to understand spells and magic. The level of comprehension was so deep that he could hardly bear it. Knowledge that could have written enough books to fill a forest of public libraries. Studying not to learn, but to learn how to learn what had not yet been learned. To create magic rather than to simply repeat spells and curses and other things that others had already created. How to make wands. How to break minds. The fine art of killing. A medical diagram of the human body – no several, wait, hundreds even, all imprinted and flashing before his eyes like a computer database filled with eons of steady knowledge. Bending magic. Bending time. Bending reality. Knowing boundaries and breaking them. Spells, enough to fill a shelf of textbooks without even a description for each entry. A spell for this, a curse for that. A jinx here, a charm there. And he knew all of them. Some were not well known and some were common.
Some had not seen the light of day since the days of cavemen and old shamans. Knowledge deep and vast. The brain power of a standard professor at Hogwarts multiplied by ten or twelve and then exponentially squared twice for good measure. This knowledge could not be taught. It had to be researched and learned by a proper mind – a photographic memory. Blueprints. Blueprints for nearly every magical location he knew and even those that he didn't, but now he did. He had been on every continent. And the people. He knew the history of people that Voldemort had come into contact with because the man studied everything and everyone if possible. He knew their tendencies, their desires, their wants, their weaknesses. He knew the bloodlines and relations and history of them and their cousins and their cousins' cousins. He knew manipulation and pressure and tact. He had talked to Dumbledore as a friend and a foe, as a student and a hopeful employee. He admired and hated him, and yet was strong enough to view him as an equal. He knew charisma and had mastered every subject with laughable ease - transfiguration, charms, potions, the Dark Arts, astronomy, chemistry, herbology, arithmancy, muggle studies, divination, rune reading, and even alchemy. His brain was an encyclopedia of magical creatures. He could fly. Only one man could rival his knowledge even, and even that man could not cheat death like he could. Death. He felt as though it were possible to defeat it. Was holding off death defeating it? Perhaps. The only goal of death was to eliminate life. He knew horcruxes and how to make them and break them and how to find them and bind them. Every memory that Voldemort had, he felt and experienced. He felt like God. But would God had allowed him to cheat death and be this knowledgeable? No one man deserved this power.
There was a ripple of cold air in the darkness. It seemed as though the temporary purgatory was slowly beginning to collapse back into consciousness. The boy felt his heart flutter cautiously before bringing blood into its chambers to engage in a steady beat, with an accompanying feeling of magic repairing any internal damage that the fatal curse had dealt him. He had died temporarily, yet only so. The newly founded wisdom within the folds of his mind deduced that his immorality had been due to a horcrux that had rested within his body – a magical container that had been split open when he perished at the hands of a powerful wizard, endowing him with unrivaled understanding and raw power. Harry Potter was returning to life with a new lease. He had managed to gain what many had lost – more time.
And yet perhaps time was shorter than he had fathomed. He felt the knowledge of the past course through his veins, highlighting the past behavioral tendencies of wizards that had lived long before him. Riddle had enjoyed perusing wizarding history to no short extent, and the patterns and strategic moves of those before his time flitted through his mind at a blinding rate. Despots had risen with the merciless hands of massive armies and barbaric forces, only to be vanquished and mown down by powerful wizards no older than himself. Shrewd commanders and unsung heroes dotted the annals of ancient time, their stories and tactics eventually becoming legend, and often folklore. Harry used the historical patterns as an almanac and began to formulate the actions that Voldemort would likely take in the coming days. During the first war, the man had allied with a variety of unsavory creatures – a startling majority that had previously considered the wizarding world to be the very bane of their existence. His ability to cobble together a vicious coalition of giants, vampires, werewolves, dementors, robbers, rapists, and thieves had been unparalleled at the time. The ranks of the dark forces had been comprised of a slew of creatures that sought to enjoy the pleasure of killing and the spoils of unadulterated war. There was little doubt as to whether the dark Lord would once again reach out to contact those who had been in hiding for many years. He visualized the reaper already seeking to attend meetings deep within the confines of the jagged mountain ranges and dank forests of Eastern Europe, promising swaths of a conquered magical Britain in exchange for cooperation or neutrality.
The feral werewolves would likely fall in line first, the prospect of fresh blood and untouched wizarding flesh tempting them with ease. The vampires would likely follow, despite their notions of being a more civilized race – both groups would likely see the rise of Voldemort as the fall of law in Great Britain, and thus an open-season on the muggles living there as well. The giants had long sought revenge against the British Ministry of Magic, an entity that had spent nearly three hundred muddy years thinning and eradicating their populations after they refused to submit to regulation. They would march from desolate locations throughout the continent, seeking their liberation even if it came at the hands of innocents. The dementors hardly needed to be spoken for. Destabilization and despair would create an optimal breeding ground to raise their young, and the endless supply of both wizarding and muggle souls would be a priority within their camps. The human factor would likely come last, although its respective importance would not be any less valued. Many amongst the Death Eaters that had not been arrested or detained at the end of the previous war had simply melted back into society, retaining positions of power or influence. There had been war crime trials conducted by the Ministry in the years after, of course, but prosecution was often difficult. The excuse of the Imperius Curse combined with some juror fears of repercussions had allowed some of the more powerful figures to walk away relatively clean. Families such as the Malfoys, the Crabbes, and the Goyles were spared. Even within the wizarding world, money greased rails. Those who had been present in the graveyard would be ordered to pass the word along to those who were not yet fully aware of the resurrection of their master. Shoulders would quietly be tapped and old robes and masks stained black with blood would be withdrawn from dusty closets and cleaned.
Associates of the Death Eaters would be contacted as well – individuals whom had never been trusted enough to be given the sacred title. Felons, rapists, thieves, arsonists, and mercenaries would be pressed into service and begin their quiet march to Britain. The Ministry of Magic had strong intelligence branches of Aurors that would likely pick up the chatter eventually, but not in time to connect the dots on a bigger map – pinpricks of activity that spelled out that a war would be imminent and unavoidable. Voldemort would likely attempt to catch the government completely off guard at the outbreak, in a swift decapitation that would shock the wizarding community. Harry internally frowned and surveyed the options that the man would seek to employ. Assassinating the Minister of Magic would certainly send a brutal message through the magical population that they were not safe, but killing Albus Dumbledore or simply massacring a large group of wizards in a terrorist act would also achieve an equally damning result. Either occupying the government or destroying it completely would be a bloody and slogging task, but one that Voldemort would take in his quest to conquer magical Britain. Following the fall of the Ministry of Magic, his iron fist would simply be used to wipe out any remaining pockets of resistance and enslave the muggle race.
Harry retained an advantage in having the game plan within his knowledge now, but only a slight one. Voldemort was a natural genius, and it would take a mere matter of weeks to realize why he had failed to kill Harry Potter once again and understand that the boy was finally mortal to his blows. The transfer of knowledge from a split horocrux would likely remain a secret so long as Harry kept his cards close to vest, although Voldemort would still place the utmost value in killing the boy for the both personal satisfaction and the symbolic value. Once the dark Lord did realize that his failed execution attempt had endowed the gift of knowledge upon his target, he would try frantically to kill him...a prospect that Harry was not sure he could survive a third time. There were no shields of love to fend off curses any longer, or hidden shards of soul to prevent an untimely death. The next time Voldemort cast a fatal curse at him, he would be dead. The image of fighting the reaper yet again was a dark one, although inevitable. Certainly they shared the same knowledge, but their ability to use it to maximum effect would be shockingly different. It was as though a student who had simply memorized all of the assigned textbooks word for word was going up against a professor whom had actually wrote the texts themselves.
His complex reasoning was cut short as the cosmic darkness suddenly gathered him and began hurtling him upwards towards a tiny pinprick of light - the speed so great that his hair ruffled and whipped at his forehead. The light became closer, forcing him to squint his eyes before finally enveloping him and causing him to gasp aloud. There was a dull thud as the boy slammed face first onto the ground. Cool, damp blades of grass reached out and caressed his face. The very fibers of his body felt rattled and shaken from the dual accomplishment of transcending both time and mortality, but the solid feeling of foliage against his face and chest was comforting. There was a sudden roar of applause that forced his eyes open. A stirring feeling of familiarity warmed his heart as he tasted the evening air and examined the scene before him – the stands that had been constructed for the Triwizard Tournament teeming with screaming wizards and witches. In an instant, a group of wizarding officials and school staff were surrounding his prostate figure in a tight ring.
"Harry! Harry, are you OK?"
Another voice cut in. "Harry, where the hell were you?"
"…back off of him, give him some space!"
Another teacher was barking hoarsely, "Must have been a portkey!"
He let the sea of questioning fall into a mute roar as he collected himself and accepted hands reached to allow him to stand. He was happy to be alive. Voldemort had attempted to kill him twice now, and a third time could not be allowed. For the first time in a long time, his scar did not pain him. In fact, his mind was completely and utterly clear. The playing field had finally been somewhat leveled into an acceptable balance.
Now, it was time to play.