It is very likely this is going to go through several edits.
Portkey travel was never comfortable. Unexpected Portkey travel, was very much even more so.
When he finally came to, he could see the night sky above him, although the sounds and smells of the area around him were unfamiliar. Below him, was a firm soil, carpeted by ragged, unkempt grass.
Harry quietly swore, before turning towards the cup that had brought him here. A shimmering barrier of silvery energy had expanded around it, preventing him from coming near enough to reactivate it. He had already charged his beacon, but he knew no help was coming.
How could it, when not even he knew where he was?
He groaned to himself. They had checked the room for all sorts of traps, from false floors, to pitfalls, to charged runes. But, of course, the one thing they didn't check turned out to be the only thing that was trapped. And once again, here he was, out of his depth.
The only good thing about the whole situation was that nothing had quite happened yet: perhaps the ambush was not yet sprung.
He slowly raised himself off of the spongy ground, taking great care to keep his profile low.
"Where... are we?" groaned Cedric, as he lifted himself up, just a bit to Harry's right.
As Harry looked about, searching for a clue, any clue.
Around them, were erect slabs of ashen stone.
"We're... in a graveyard." he murmured back.
The graveyard had obviously seen heavy use: the graves were over three dozen wide, and four dozen deep, and that was only the ones he could see from here. He couldn't guess just how many bodies were buried here, nor did he have any urge to.
All that he knew, was that there was something horribly wrong here: the very air practically hummed with malign, chaotic magic. He had sat his way through enough of Trelawney's classes to recognise a bad omen when he saw one. Even worse, he could barely make out a soft, pulsating glow from dead ahead, colored an unearthly, bloody crimson.
He was trapped. The Portkey was locked behind a ward that he doubted he'd have the time, nor skill to disarm, and he didn't know any way around it. He couldn't Apparate, nor create a Portkey of his own, as he lacked the skill to do either. Sighing, he turned to his competitor, keeping his voice hushed.
"Cedric. I'm not sure what's in this graveyard, but it's not good. I can't Apparate: can you get me out of here?"
Cedric's winced back. "I'm not really confident in being able to do a side-along. I can Apparate myself, but that's pretty much it."
"Can you Apparate out, to get help? Try and find Dumbledore. Tell him what happened, he'll know what to do." he whispered.
Cedric's face twisted into one of distaste and worry.
"Are you sure? If I do, then you'll be here alone, and I'm not sure I'll be able to get back in time. I don't even know where we are."
"I'm not going to be able to stop whatever this is. Both of us won't either." murmured Harry. "And if you bring word back, I might be able to stall long enough for help to arrive."
Cedric began to open his mouth, but his words died in his mouth. With one final look of pity, Cedric disappeared with a crack that echoed through the silent graveyard.
Harry took in a breath, let it out slowly. He was alone, in a place he had never been before. But there was no way out. He took one final, bracing breath, then slowly began to walk forward, hopefully to take cover behind one of the larger gravestones.
Harry wasn't even able to see his attacker, only the unmistakable, crimson light which flew towards him.
He came to, tightly bound, before a massive metal cauldron, the source of the light he had seen earlier. It bubbled with a murky, viscous solution which reeked of death and decay: unidentified, but definitely foul. Drawn around the cauldron was a pentagram in red chalk, the corners of which were anchored with long black candles.
He blinked at it twice, before a shuffling of feet to his right drew his attention.
In walked Pettigrew, the betrayer of his family, carrying some sort of unspeakable doll, seemingly escaped from the playpen of a monster.
The doll was a terrifying, makeshift thing: a mockery of life, hewn from inhuman flesh, practically glowing with malevolence and dark magic. Its red eyes glared back at him with a mixture amusement, viciousness, and hunger, and its misshapen hands cradled a wand, pointed directly towards him.
And then the doll spoke, in a voice Harry could unmistakably remember from his nightmares.
"Begin the ritual." commanded Voldemort.
Every part of his mind screamed for him to escape, but there was nothing: the ropes were tightly bound, tied to the cross-shaped grave behind him. Pettigrew, or whoever had bound him, hadn't taken any chances: he was bound not only along his midsection and arms, but also along his legs, neck, and feet. Not to mention the gag!
He could only watch in horror as the ritual commenced. Only shudder to imagine what the ritual would do.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son." intoned Pettigrew, before he reached into one of the nearby graves, retrieving a handful of aged bones from within. One by one, he wiped the bones of grime, before placing them into the cauldron.
Harry winced as he saw Pettigrew withdraw a long, sharp, wicked-looking knife from a pocket. Every part of his body was screaming in panic. He did not know what the ritual was, but every instinct told him it was Dark.
"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master." spoke Pettigrew, as he ran the knife across his right hand, cleanly severing it. The freed hand fell from the wrist, where it fell into the soup, floating for but a moment. Before Harry's eyes, the flesh of the hand blackened, before dissolving entirely.
Harry's face went white as the importance of what Pettigrew had just said finally clicked. Revive?
In a blink, the knife had made a shallow, painful cut across his chest, the blood of which was quickly contained by the same vial that had once held the powdered bones.
"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken. You will resurrect your foe." continued Pettigrew, as he dumped the blood in. The cauldron began to bubble furiously.
"Now, my servant. The final ingredient." prompted Voldemort, holding out the wand with one misshapen hand.
Pettigrew nodded. "Soul of the master, stolen from death. You shall regain your power."
Pettigrew lifted the abomination into the air, and gingerly placed it into the cauldron, where it disappeared with nought a splash. Harry could see him remove the wand from its grasp, just as it made contact with the sludge.
The cauldron bubbling continued to rise in frequency. Around the cauldron, the light of the candles began to brighten, slowly shifting from a dull glow, to near-blinding.
The light shifted in hue, first from a bloody red, then to the viridian of the killing curse, and then finally to a blazing, brilliant silver. The entire time, the graveyard remained silent, save for pounding of Harry's heart in his ears.
And then there was laughter.
Horrifying, mocking laughter.
Harry could only watch, paralysed, as a pale, adult arm rose from the depths of the cauldron, bone dry, followed shortly by another.
After but a moment of silence, Voldemort reborn spoke once more. "My robes, servant."
And with that, the dam broke, allowing the full impact of the situation to hit Harry. No longer content to hold still, he thrashed against the bindings, but found no release from the tight ropes around him.
The figure of Voldemort slowly donned his robes, as Harry's continued to fruitlessly struggle.
With a final flourish, Voldemort reborn stood, his new arms open in triumph, greatly resembling the ghost Harry had seen in the Chamber.
Gingerly, Pettigrew handed his master back his wand, which the Dark Lord twirled in his hand, before pointing it back towards Harry.
"Pettigrew." began Voldemort, "Do you know the thing I missed the most, during my time little time-out, after this little half-blood's 'mistake'?"
"N… no…" stuttered Pettigrew, clutching his bleeding hand gingerly.
Harry glared at him, praying that, even should he die, the traitor would have the mercy of bleeding out.
"It was my hands, Pettigrew. I missed being able to touch things, to use a wand..." he grinned, as he turned his new hand over, admiring every inch.
Pettigrew blinked at his master, before whimpering something inaudible.
"Yes, Pettigrew, I agree. A hand is something terrible to waste. Perhaps I will make you a new one, should you continue to impress. But, do you know what I truly missed the most, not having hands?" he smirked, as he leaned back against one of the tombstones.
"What, my master?"
"Being able to do this."
In a blur, Voldemort's hand shot towards him, making contact and wrapping around his neck in mere seconds. At first, the touch was soft, nearly calculating, but was immediately replaced by an iron grip. Harry could feel the ropes fading away, as Voldemort raised him to eye level.
"Oh, dear, Mister Potter." mocked Voldemort, his face wide in a vicious grin. "It seems your mother's little blood protection contract has… lapsed."
In barely a moment, Harry was flying through the air, towards a nearby mausoleum, arse over teakettle.
Bright spots filled his vision as he collided with the solid marble, knocking the wind from him like a hammer.
"So, Potter, are you so willing to oppose me now?" echoed the voice from behind him.
Even as his head still swam, Harry stumbled to a crouch. Voldemort still hadn't cast a single spell, the entire time.
"I… won't let you win…" he choked out, still in the process of regaining his breath.
The Dark Lord's eyes opened in feigned shock.
"Win? You think I'm trying to win?" he spoke, sarcasm cascading off of his words like a waterfall. "No, Potter, I'm not trying to win."
"I've already won."
Around him, Harry could hear a near continuous stream of cracks as one by one, at least two dozen Death Eaters appeared around him, each wearing a mask identical to the ones who had attacked during the World Cup.
Harry blinked twice at the circle of outstretched wands, all pointing directly towards him, each a mere second from uttering the two words of the killing curse.
Harry closed his eyes, silently praying for help to arrive. Silently hoping to be saved, against all odds. "So you're going to kill me then. Get your revenge, are you?" he murmured.
"No." smirked the Dark Lord, as he moved ever closer to his prey. "I'm not going to kill you."
Harry's eyes opened, wide in shock.
Voldemort's lips retreated, revealing perfect teeth.
"I'm going to force you to live."
Harry couldn't understand what he was hearing. Voldemort? Letting him go?
"Oh no, you're not going to be unscathed." Voldemort 'reassured' him, "You're going to tell everyone about my little reunion here, aren't you? Going to tell your beloved Headmaster that his enemy has finally shown himself?"
Harry couldn't help but involuntarily nod.
"Oh, I'm sure he'll believe you." continued Voldemort, "But everyone else?"
"My friends will believe me!" spat Harry, re-invigorated by the change in direction, energised by the hope that he would have at least a small chance to survive.
"Oh, I'm sure they will," demurred Voldemort. "But what of the rest of Britain? What will they do, when they hear your claim? That a Dark Lord, the most powerful Wizard in over two centuries, is back from the dead, after having personally escaped from Death itself?"
He cut Harry off, before he could even speak. "They're ruled by fear, the fools. No. They will not believe you. They will spurn you. They will hate you. They will fear you. You, and every person you recruit to your cause will be seen as traitors. Slowly but steadily, you'll find yourself viewed no longer as a hero, but as a pariah. Who were once friends will slowly become enemies, as your desperate pleas continue to fall upon deaf ears. We will win, and Britain will never even know that we will have returned."
His grin split his face now, malice gleaming in his eyes as he leaned directly towards Harry, face a scant few inches away from his own.
"And only when you have no hope left, only when you have been reduced to the living in the very gutters you deserve to be... When every living, breathing citizen of Britain regards you and what few members of your little circle of friends still retain enough stubbornness to not kill themselves in shame, as what few fools willing to stand beside you become little more than crazed and delusional, jumping at every shadow for fear of me casting it? Only then will I grant you the mercy of an agonising death."
Voldemort rose suddenly, before pointing towards the nearest Death Eater. "You there! Grab him, and his wand. Then throw both of them at the cup. We're done here. I have… other, more important, plans… in mind."
Harry couldn't even open his mouth to scream, before he was thrown bodily into the cup, mind still reeling.
And then the feeling of wrenching returned.
He stumbled out of the Portkey, near-blind, before tottering over to a side to vomit.
Only when his stomach was truly empty did his vision completely return.
Around him, was the crowd that had watched the Maze, all entirely silent, watching him.
Before him, was Dumbledore, the other judges, and the Minister of Magic, Fudge.
Fudge was the first to act, approaching him slowly, nearly-invisibly wringing his hands in worry.
"So, Mister Potter. What happened?" Fudge spoke, his hands making over-elaborate motions as he spoke.
Harry slowly glanced towards Dumbledore, whose face was ashen, and then towards his friends, who were clearly visible to the left.
To his right, was Fudge, hands wringing in terror, his hideous Undersecretary, mouth twisted into a horrifying mockery of a smile, and Lucius Malfoy, his face wearing a near identical grin to the one Voldemort had worn.
"Mister Potter?" asked Fudge.
Harry took a deep breath. He had to make a choice. He could tell the truth, he could risk everything.
But he glanced around him, stared at the judging faces. He could see Malfoy staring at him, the same way a cat would stare at a meal.
He was brave, yes, but even bravery had its limits.
"Quidditch Hooligans, Minister. We were ambushed by Quidditch Hooligans." he spoke, trying to keep his voice level and emotionless. Tried to keep out the betrayal he felt for himself.
"Are you sure, Mister Potter? Because your friend Dumbledore appears to believe otherwise." smirked Lucius.
Harry once again looked around.
The crowd was full of terrified faces, the same faces that had turned on him two years ago in the duelling club. There were hundreds of them, watching him with bated breath, waiting for him to make a mistake. He could already hear their murmurs, practically even their shouts of accusation, their glares of hatred.
All the while, Voldemort's words still echoed in his head, reciting themselves endlessly. Hammering in the sheer hopelessness of his situation.
His friends stood as an island away from the mass, each wearing looks of horror, terror, or anger.
"He must be mistaken." he spoke, as he felt a crushing weight descend upon him. "He must be wrong, because it was only Quidditch Hooligans."
Even as he mechanically accepted the thousand Galleons, even as he walked past the horrified Cedric, even as he slowly stumbled back towards the castle, even as he collapsed into his bed bonelessly.
He could still hear the words.
And he would hear those words for a long while yet.
V2