Harry heard the whistle blow—let out a breath—and turned toward the entrance.
He saw Fleur, Viktor and Cedric out of the corner of his eye—Fleur nodded at him, Cedric smiled hesitantly and Viktor looked as stoic as ever. Of course, Harry knew what he was thinking. Not five minutes ago, Viktor had made it clear that it was his plan to get the cup—for any of them to get the cup—as quickly as possible.
They'd contemplated the first three champions waiting for the fourth and then traversing the maze together—but Harry couldn't bring himself to let them do that. Unlike Harry, the others had all chosen to be part of this tournament, had wanted to compete—and for all Harry knew, Voldemort's plan had been foiled when Barty Crouch Jr. died and Dumbledore made changes to the third task. They deserved to get to try to win.
And if Voldemort attacked him somehow—well, at least his friends wouldn't be standing right next to him, putting themselves in danger. They'd helped him enough.
As he passed over the barrier into the maze, he was ushered into darkness and the sounds of the cheering crowd were silenced.
"Lumos," Harry said, illuminating the path.
Mentally, he went through his directions. Sending up red sparks would bring the professors who were patrolling the event. Blue sparks would alert the other champions. And Bagman had said that whomever touched the cup first should send up purple sparks to alert the judges that someone had won.
"Nonsense," Bagman had mumbled, "that we can't do it the right way, but Dumbledore's paranoia, you know…" And then Bagman had looked at Harry, shifted uncomfortably and moved on.
Harry didn't know what Dumbledore's paranoia had to do with the Triwizard Cup being imbued with sense memory, not unlike a golden snitch, but Harry suspected this must have been one of the changes to the third task that Dumbledore had insisted on.
After about fifty yards, he reached a fork in the maze. He gripped his wand in his right hand, patted his left pocket to feel Hermione's wand—he didn't like leaving her without it, but he couldn't deny he felt like he had a bit of backup having it near—and turned left.
Still there was nothing, and Harry felt a sense of foreboding. Why hadn't he come upon any challenges yet? Or was it the judges' intent to instill a fear of the unknown in the champions first?
Well, it was working. Harry vastly preferred doing something to waiting for something bad to happen.
He made a right turn, then a left, and ran straight into a marsh that filled the entire width of the path and extended for 30 yards. He wasn't sure how deep it was, but he suspected trying to walk it would be futile. There were several pieces of what looked like dead wood floating nearby, but Harry had a feeling they were actually dugbogs—magical creatures with very sharp teeth that could do great damage to your ankles.
"Glacius!" Harry shouted, aiming his wand at the marsh, and the water before him hardened, freezing the dugbogs in place.
He stepped onto the ice hesitantly, his breath blowing out in a deep white mist, and seeing that it was able to support his weight, slowly made his way across.
If he'd ever been taught how to skate, he'd have tried transfiguring his trainers into ice skates, but he figured he'd be just as clumsy with them as he was slipping and tripping his way across the ice now.
He heard the whistle blow again—he wasn't alone in the maze now—and continued edging his way toward the end.
A few feet from the edge, Harry heard a crack, looked down to see his charm was fading, and took a giant leap, landing on fresh grass just as the ice he had been standing on turned back to marsh.
He stood, dusting off his robes.
That hadn't been so bad.
He continued on—a dementor that he realized was a boggart, hedges full of venomous tentacula that he had to use the severing charm on, a thunderstorm hex that finite incantatem cleared up, an illusion charm that turned the world around him into psychedelic swirls of colors, which he had no choice but to run through since he wasn't quite sure what it was or how to stop it—and as soon as the world righted itself and Harry was back in the darkness of the maze, he somehow tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground.
Only no, he hadn't tripped. Something had most definitely gotten in his way, but as he looked around, he couldn't see anything.
He stood, feeling more pressure on his calves, and then fell to the ground again.
No, there was definitely something there. He looked around—he could see nothing—and searched his brain for invisible creatures.
Viktor had told him something about warthogs he'd seen in Africa once—tebos, they were called—which had the power of invisibility.
"Stupefy!" Harry shouted over and over again, twirling in a circle and feeling slightly silly, until one of his spells didn't quite reach the ground and he saw a rustle in the hedge nearby that he felt certain was the knocked-out tebo.
He heard Fleur stunning something somewhere in the hedges to his left, and he felt more confident knowing that the others were near.
Harry turned left, then made two more rights—"point me" seemed to be working quite well—and he made another blind turn and then felt two pains in his side as he was snagged on something and lifted into the air.
It hurt to breathe, and whatever he was caught on seemed increasingly displeased that he was there—as if it were his fault this had happened—shaking him about in the air violently to dislodge him.
He tossed this way and that, his teeth ratting against each other, unable to get his bearings as the thing treated him like he was a ragdoll.
Finally, its strategy worked, and Harry was thrown through the air, landing with a thud on the ground yards away. He felt a sharp pain travel through his right side where he'd landed, and looked up to find a menacing creature with two large horns—that must have been what he'd gotten caught on—a hump back and greyish purple skin looming over him.
A graphorn.
It eyed him ominously—they were known to be aggressive—and Harry knew he didn't have much time to react. Graphorn hide was even tougher than dragon hide, he remembered, so as it advanced on him, he aimed for its eyes.
"Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted, and his aim was true, knocking the thing to his side.
Harry stood up and inspected the damage. The horns had ripped through his robes, but only seemed to scrape along his side, creating long but shallow gashes.
He winced through the pain, checked that Hermione's wand was safely in his pocket, and continued on, edging around the fallen graphorn.
But no sooner had he done so than he felt a small, vicelike grip in his left hand. He looked down, surprised to see wide, mournful eyes staring up at him.
"Winky?" he asked, utterly confused. "What are you doing here?"
Her eyes filled with tears and she swayed slightly—he supposed she was drunk.
"Winky is sorry, Harry Potter, but Winky is a good elf. And Winky does what her master says."
Before he could comprehend what she meant, he felt the familiar, suffocating swirl of apparition and the maze at Hogwarts was no more.
Harry had only apparated a handful of times in his life and he hadn't much liked it. But apparating with Winky was surely a thousand times worse.
He wasn't sure if it was because she was a house elf and house elf magic was different, or because she seemed to be perpetually drunk these days, but Harry's insides felt like they were going to liquefy as the world around him pushed and pulled like he was in the middle of a tornado before he slammed face first into the ground.
He tasted dirt and felt pain reverberate through his nose—though he didn't hear the familiar crunch of his glasses getting smashed. He moved to get up, searching the grass for his wand, knowing with certainty that this was what Voldemort had been planning, but before he could take in his surroundings, a voice behind him muttered a curse and his wrists were bound tightly against his body, his elbows sticking out at odd angles, and his legs were fastened together, ensnared by ropes, his wand laying uselessly mere inches from his head.
He was thrust backward, pulled by the unseen man, and tied to a headstone, a long black cloth stuffed in his mouth. As the hand wedged it in as tightly as it could, Harry saw that he was missing a finger—Pettigrew.
He was in a graveyard. The night was dark and there was an old house on a hillside, but the only other things around were grave markers, a bundle of robes and a cauldron. Winky stood near Harry's wand, rocking back and forth, and, Harry noticed, there was another figure—Barty Crouch Sr.!
He looked more rumpled than Harry had ever seen him. The Crouch Harry knew was a fastidious man, but this one was unkempt, his clothes wrinkled, his facial hair long and unshaven.
But there was something else odd about him, too. Despite his appearance, despite the setting, he stood by the cauldron placidly, as if he were standing on the platform, patiently awaiting the next train.
He was far too calm, far too relaxed. He reminded Harry of Hermione and Neville, casually drinking tea while he fought with Barty Crouch Jr. He was under the Imperius.
"There's no use for the elf now," a horrible voice called from the robes.
Harry's scar exploded at the sound. He couldn't see, couldn't think, could feel only excruciating pain, and the only release from the agony was screaming, and yet screaming did nothing to help.
"Avada Kedavra!" Pettigrew yelled, and Winky fell to the side, her despondent eyes now vacant, but still open and full of tears.
Harry felt the pain from his scar begin to subside, and a different sort of pain erupted. He had not known Winky long or well, but he'd felt sorry for her. Like Dobby, she'd been forced to do things she did not want by a master who did not seem to care for her—but unlike Dobby, she had not found peace in freedom. And now Winky was dead.
He took in her empty expression, her slightly open mouth, her dirty clothes, not quite comprehending what had just happened.
Pettigrew lit a fire beneath the cauldron, a giant snake slithered by Harry's feet and he tried to focus on the present and consider his options.
He had no portkey, no Winky to apparate with, and unless he could break Mr. Crouch free from his Imperius, no way to escape. If he could get to his wand—or Hermione's—maybe he could summon a broom or a car or the Knight Bus—though he doubted that last one would end particularly well.
And then he remembered Dumbledore's words right before the task. He'd clapped Harry on the shoulder and said, "If you run into trouble, remember to say my name."
Harry had nodded though he had no idea what Dumbledore was on about—and hadn't been able to ask with Karkaroff standing right there—and he still didn't know what good it would do, but it was the best plan he had.
He needed to get to Hermione's wand, get rid of these restraints and say Dumbledore's name.
Whatever that would do.
Pettigrew opened the bundle of robes and pulled a grotesque, hairless, scaly, reddish black monstrosity from it. It was humanoid and yet the most inhuman thing Harry had ever seen.
And then the thing looked at him and his scar burned again, a ghastly, indescribable torment, and all thoughts of Hermione's wand—all thoughts of anything but pain—flew from his head. Through the echoes of his agony, he heard Pettigrew saying words he could barely comprehend, saw him place the thing in the cauldron along with bones he tore from the grave beneath Harry, and then, inconceivably, Pettigrew sliced off his own arm with a dagger.
Pettigrew's screams mingled with the pain Harry felt in his own head.
And then Pettigrew advanced on Harry, the dagger clutched in his left hand.
He was going to die.
It was the only thought running through Harry's head. He would die in this graveyard, tied to a headstone, far from the people he cared about—far from Hermione, whom he knew would be blaming herself for somehow not anticipating apparition; far from Neville, who had supported Harry through everything this year; far from Sirius and Remus, whom he hadn't even begun to really get to know.
"B-blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will… resurrect your foe," Pettigrew declared, his voice trembling.
Harry closed his eyes—he could see Hermione, sitting by the lake, the sunset casting shadows and golden light off her hair, could see her turn to smile at him, her brown eyes full of hope and happiness.
She had given him her wand because she believed in him. He would make it out of this—somehow.
He would not die broken and bound.
Pettigrew grabbed at Harry's arm, and Harry tried to struggle but he was tied too tightly. Pettigrew sliced through Harry's robes to his arm, then dropped the dagger to grab a vial. Harry fought against the ropes as hard as he could—all he needed was for it to loosen a little—as Pettigrew tried to still him so he could steal a few drops of Harry's blood.
Harry twisted and turned, and Pettigrew struggled with him, trying to use his knee to pin Harry down. It was enough—a few drops of blood made their way into his vial.
Pettigrew returned to the cauldron and Harry tested his bonds—they'd given just a bit.
It would have to be enough. He reached his hand as far down as it would go, slipping into the pocket of his robe. He could feel the weight of Hermione's wand, could sense that it was close to his struggling fingers, even as he watched, horror-stricken, as a figure began to rise from the cauldron.
He extended his arm, frantically, desperately hoping to feel the solid edge of Hermione's wand as his fingers clutched only at cloth.
"Robe me," the voice said, and Pettigrew did as he was told.
Lord Voldemort stepped out of the cauldron. He had risen again.
Harry watched in numb disbelief as Voldemort examined his arms and fingers, testing out his new body. He pulled a wand from his robes, and wordlessly flung Pettigrew against the headstone where Harry lay. Pettigrew crumpled, blubbering, desperately asking Voldemort for something.
"A moment," Voldemort said silkily, walking toward Barty Crouch Sr., who still stood placidly by the cauldron.
Voldemort eyed him.
"This man imprisoned my most loyal followers," he said, shooting a look of contempt at Pettigrew. "This man has waited a long time for his punishment."
"Nagini, kill," he said, though somehow Harry knew that Voldemort had not quite said it—he had hissed it. He was speaking parseltongue and Harry understood.
And the snake that had once been slithering at Harry's feet rose up, sinking its fangs into Crouch's neck. He sank to the ground.
Voldemort smiled, a grotesque sight, and let out a cold, mirthless laugh. He turned to Pettigrew, Crouch seemingly forgotten, and instructed him to hold out his arm. There, burning brightly, was a Dark Mark tattoo.
"So it's back," Voldemort said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "And now we shall see… now we shall know…"
He turned once again to look at Crouch. "And now they shall all tell me why they cowered to this man instead of remaining loyal to me."
Voldemort reached out with his finger—Harry knew that whatever was going to happen, it was going to be bad—and so he grabbed at his robes, bunching them up with his fingers, trying to move Hermione's wand closer to his hand.
Voldemort's outstretched hand was closing the distance to Pettigrew's trembling arm, but Harry felt solid wood, clutched it like a lifeline, closed his eyes to focus on everything Fleur had taught him about nonverbal casting and thought, as hard as he could, "Relashio!"
He felt the ropes retreat and leapt up, pulling the gag from his mouth.
"Stupefy combustum!" Harry yelled, trying one of the more dangerous spells Moody had taught him on Voldemort.
Voldemort blinked in surprise, then waved his arm to protect himself from Harry's spell like it was nothing.
"Crucio!" Voldemort yelled, and Harry dove behind a gravestone to avoid it. Before he could catch his breath, the gravestone exploded, stone and rubble pummeling Harry.
"Petrificus totalus!" Harry yelled, "Stupefy! Exurgeo! Confringo!"
With some satisfaction, Harry saw that the last spell had made its mark, as Voldemort let out a high-pitched scream.
"Alb—"
But Voldemort had sent a nonverbal spell at Harry, which Harry deflected with his own nonverbal Protego.
They lobbed spells back and forth—Voldemort blasting the cruciatus curse at him, while Harry summoned the remnants of broken headstones to block them.
And every curse or hex Harry tried, every spell Moody had taught him, Voldemort was ready for.
"CRUCIO!" Voldemort yelled, and Harry was not quick enough to avoid it this time.
For what felt like the hundredth time this night, he felt the worst sort of agony, dropping down to the ground, twitching and convulsing in pain. All he wanted was for it to stop.
And through it all, he heard that high-pitched laugh.
"So you had another wand?" Voldemort observed as he flicked Hermione's wand away from Harry and cut off the cruciatus curse. "Wormtail—that is what you call him, yes?—was careless not to check. Of course, that's not unusual for him. A sniveling, cowardly thing, isn't he? Of course, even he had his uses."
Harry looked to his right, blinking through the pain—and saw Winky's vacant eyes. His gaze followed down her arm, her finger—she seemed to be pointing at something, though that was impossible—and he felt a jolt. Following an imaginary line from her finger, his own wand lay mere inches from Harry, alone and forgotten in the thick grass.
"Come, Wormtail," Voldemort said, "it is time."
"Master—Master please—"
After, Wormtail," Voldemort replied. "After."
Harry reached out and grabbed his wand, pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the pain.
Voldemort yelled, "Crucio!" at the same time Harry yelled, "Expelliarmus!"
He did not know why he chose that spell. Perhaps because he'd already tried so many others, perhaps because he knew he could not hope to kill Voldemort tonight and a wandless Voldemort was a slightly less dangerous Voldemort, perhaps because it was a spell he'd known for years, one that was second nature to him, but in the end, it did not matter.
Somehow, his spell connected with Voldemort's and their wands were linked by a shimmering golden light. It splintered, criss-crossing around him. Harry panicked, not having a clue what was happening, but Voldemort, he saw, was panicked too, and that made him feel slightly better. Pettigrew watched them in anguished disbelief, while the snake slithered around restlessly.
"Dumbledore," Harry said wildly. "Albus Dumbledore."
Nothing happened. Did he have to say Dumbledore's full name? Harry wasn't sure what it was exactly, but he did remember that the man had a ludicrous amount of names and he could not remember a single one except for Brian.
"Albus Dumbledore," he said again, fervently hoping he did not have to say the full name.
Harry held tightly to his wand with both hands as a beautiful song erupted from the light surrounding them, almost like that of a phoenix. It was a sound he connected with Dumbledore and Harry wondered for a moment if this had been Dumbledore's plan.
But no, this seemed to be something else. The song moved through him and Harry felt hope lift, knowing with certainty that he couldn't break the connection.
Still, he doubted this connection could get him home to Hogwarts.
"Albus Dumbledore," he said again, wondering if perhaps it was a bit like Beetlejuice and he had to say it three times.
His wand vibrated, and then light beads appeared in the connection, moving toward Harry. His wand vibrated more forcefully. He concentrated on the beads, concentrated on the connection, willed them away, and somehow, unmistakably, the beads moved toward Voldemort's wand.
When they connected, the ghost of a smoky yet solid Winky burst out of the tip… and an old man… and a witch… and then… and then…
The woman whose screams had haunted Harry's nightmares emerged, the woman whose eyes he looked at every day in the mirror.
She smiled sadly at him, coming closer. "Your father's coming," she said quietly, her voice echoing and distant, and yet nearer than it had ever been. "It will be all right."
And somehow, coming from her, he believed it.
"Mum?" he whispered.
She smiled again, though this time it was admiring. "You're so like your father," she said. "Brave, determined, steadfast."
She reached out her hand, stopping just before she reached his face—could she even touch him in this form?—he closed his eyes, sure as anything that he could feel her warmth.
"Personally, I think he's like his mother," a deeper voice said, and Harry opened his eyes to see his father, standing with his mum side by side. "Righteous, compassionate and kind."
Harry didn't know that he was any of those things, but for the first time he could remember, his parents were speaking to him and he felt he could not breathe.
His mum looked at Harry regretfully. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry we couldn't be there for you."
"You were there," Harry replied automatically, his voice raspy. "You're the only reason I lived!"
"You still deserved better," she answered, gesturing around her. "Better than this."
Harry grimaced. "Well, I could say the same for you," he replied quietly, shrugging slightly, somehow still uncomfortable with pity, even if it was coming from his own parents.
"See?" his dad said proudly. "Compassionate like his mum."
He eyed Harry shrewdly, and then glanced at the headstone where Pettigrew still lay moaning in pain. "And he's much better at picking friends than his dad," he added.
Harry thought of Hermione and Neville, Ron and Luna, the other champions, but felt a pain rip through his chest—what must they be thinking right now? Hermione… he thought of the hurt and fear in her brown eyes and tried to shake the thoughts away.
"How do I get back?" he asked desperately. "I don't know how to apparate. Dumbledore said to say his name, but that hasn't done anything!"
"You won't have to wait much longer," his mum assured him. "And we'll wait with you."
"Until the very end," James added quietly.
"I wish… I wish…" Harry trailed off. He didn't know what he wished for—more time? For Dumbledore to never come so he could stay in this moment with his parents forever? That they could somehow come back?
"We know," his dad said tightly, his voice a little raw. "We wish, too."
Voldemort screamed in fury, and Harry turned to the side, toward the grave where Pettigrew lay.
There was Dumbledore as Harry had never seen him before. He understood why this wizard was the only man Voldemort had ever feared—gone were the kindly eyes and the amused smile and the stories about socks, and in its place was a face of hard ferocity, a man who had lived well past 100 moving with the agility of a man in the prime of his life.
The snake had disappeared, but Pettigrew let out a strangled gasp and then began running.
Harry turned to look at his parents, regret coursing through him. He wanted nothing more than to have a few more precious moments with them—but they were gone and Sirius was alive. Dumbledore once told him it did not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, and he was right. He could do nothing for his parents, but if he stopped Pettigrew from escaping he could ensure that Sirius had a better life.
His father observed him with knowing eyes. "Go," he said. "Dumbledore can handle Voldemort. And tell Sirius… well, tell him I think this will be the Pride of Portree's year."
Harry took one last look at them—savored it—and nodded. He felt more than heard his parents' last words—We love you—before he broke the connection and bolted after Pettigrew.
He heard shouts behind him but kept his focus on the man running in front of him. Pettigrew must have been too wounded from his amputation to even want to attempt apparition. He looked back and saw Harry, his eyes widening with fear, and then with a whimper he began to shrink.
The rat was much harder to see in the dark than a man, but Harry wasn't the youngest seeker in a century for nothing. He might have to wear glasses, but a decade of living in a small, dark, cramped cupboard had given him a bit of an extra sense in the dark. He followed the movement, tracked the rat through the gravestones until they reached an empty clearing.
His target was small, so Harry opted for a spell that could deliver maximum effect.
"Exurgeo!" he yelled, and a tangle of ropes erupted from his wand, sailing through the air and landing squarely on top of Pettigrew, surrounding him by feet on all sides.
It was the snare curse Moody had taught him, the one that trapped your prey and then squeezed him like the Devil's Snare.
Harry stood over Pettigrew, watched as the ropes tangled and twisted around him.
He could let Pettigrew die. It was what he deserved for betraying Harry's parents, for condemning Sirius to Azkaban and a life on the run.
And yet…
It's not that he felt sorry for Pettigrew. But if Dumbledore didn't kill Voldemort in the graveyard tonight, Pettigrew was the best source of information they had.
And if there's one thing Harry knew, it's that Pettigrew would talk. The man was a self-serving coward who would do anything to save his own skin.
"Stupefy!" Harry muttered, knocking Pettigrew out before releasing him from his bindings. He reached down, gripping the rat tightly in his left hand, before making his way carefully back toward the graveyard.
He saw the spectacle before he saw the wizards—a giant rope lasso, which was turned into a giant snake, which was obliterated into a thousand flying swords, which were all sucked up into a twister. Back and forth they fought in a dizzying array of transfiguration and conjuration.
Harry crouched down behind a gravestone—he wanted to help, but this was magic beyond anything he'd ever learned. He contemplated sneaking around to disarm Voldemort while he was distracted by Dumbledore, but a giant invisible force field held him in place, so he could only watch helplessly as they parried and weaved.
Voldemort aimed a fireball at Dumbledore—which he deflected with a giant shield made of purple ice—but it was enough time for Voldemort to call the snake to him and make his escape.
The graveyard was eerily quiet, the only sound the thumping of Harry's heart.
He stood up from his crouch, walked toward the clearing where Dumbledore stood and surveyed the damage—broken headstones, the still simmering cauldron and the lifeless bodies of Winky and Barty Crouch Sr. Dumbledore stooped down and picked up a wand—Hermione's.
Dumbledore surveyed him solemnly. "Come, Harry," he said. "Let's go back to Hogwarts."
Harry nodded, feeling numb, unable to comprehend everything that had happened tonight. But he knew he was going home.
After the night in the graveyard, Dumbledore's office was incredibly warm.
Far too warm, he thought, as he gripped Pettigrew in his hands.
At least the apparition hadn't been so bad.
"Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, reaching to grip his hands. Dumbledore's hands were warm, too.
"Harry," he said more forcefully, "you must give me Pettigrew. If I do not heal him now, he'll die from his wounds—and he'll never be able to help Sirius."
Well that would quite defeat the point, wouldn't it?
Harry relinquished the rat to Dumbledore and walked over to the corner where Winky and Crouch now lay. Winky looked so small, her eyes still impossibly large and wide. Harry kneeled down, and gently pushed them closed. She was cold to the touch.
He heard a couple of swishes behind him and then Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I've alerted the others that you're back safely," he said. "Come sit, Harry."
"Hermione?"
"Well, I've alerted Minerva," Dumbledore answered, "but I'm quite certain she'll let Miss Granger know you're here."
"Sirius?" Harry asked.
He was here, too.
"I will tell Sirius," Dumbledore promised, "though perhaps it would be better to get him after Pettigrew has been turned over to Madam Bones."
Sirius would kill Pettigrew the moment he saw him. He'd only refrained last year for Harry's sake, but once he learned what Pettigrew did tonight…
A pause and then, "Come sit, Harry."
Harry did as he was told. In this moment, it felt nice not to have to think. He sank down onto the sofa—it may have been the softest thing he'd ever sat on—and realized tonight he'd been tortured and stabbed and almost gored—the graphorn seemed like a lifetime ago. He might never get up from this sofa.
"I realize how difficult tonight must have been for you," Dumbledore said, "but I need you to tell me what happened."
And so Harry did. Calmly, robotically, feeling like it was someone else's voice, he explained exactly what had happened in the graveyard. Dumbledore listened carefully, his face impassive, except for the part where Harry confirmed Pettigrew had taken Harry's blood—Harry was certain he saw a gleam of victory then.
"And then you showed up," Harry finished. "Was it you who created the force field when I tried to come back?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "I wanted you safe from Voldemort."
"I wanted to help," Harry said dully.
They were silent for a moment, evaluating each other, evaluating the night, and then Harry realized—
"You knew," he said, his voice low, pinning Dumbledore with a stare.
Dumbledore had told Harry to say his name. Somehow, that had brought Dumbledore to Harry. Dumbledore had known Harry would be taken.
"I suspected," Dumbledore amended. "Last October, I knew something was wrong when your name came out of the goblet, and I knew—given your dreams last summer, given Bertha Jorkins' disappearance, given the death of a man named Frank Bryce—that it had something to do with Voldemort. But I did not know precisely what Voldemort was planning."
"When did you figure it out?"
"I didn't," Dumbledore said. "I wondered, perhaps, if Voldemort was planning to use the tournament to harm you. But when you uncovered Barty Crouch Jr. and told me he had helped you in the first task, how he wanted to obliviate you, I knew that could not be the plan. Had he wanted you dead, it would have been easier to accomplish in either of the first two tasks."
Harry nodded numbly. If Crouch hadn't helped him with the dragons, he would've been a goner. And in the second task, he'd been alone in the dark, secluded lake for ages before he reached the merpeople. What would it have been to kill him and wait for his body to be discovered?
"So I knew their plan had to involve the third task," Dumbledore continued. "But what was special about it? The most exceptional moment of the third task was supposed to come at the end. You might know that apparition and portkeys are unavailable at Hogwarts—except, of course, to me."
"The cup was supposed to be a portkey?" Harry asked, remembering Bagman's ramblings.
"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "I theorized that was what Voldemort wanted—to get you out of Hogwarts. So I eliminated the portkey. But Voldemort is resourceful—he always has been—and I feared he might have found a backup plan. So I told you to say my name."
He pulled a small silver trinket out of his pocket.
"My deluminator," he said. "When you said my name, I heard it. And when I clicked my deluminator, an apparition light appeared, enabling me to apparate to wherever you were."
"Right," Harry said because he could not think of what else to say.
But still. Why hadn't Dumbledore warned him about the possibility? Why had he been kept in the dark?
He didn't have a chance to ask those questions because Dumbledore changed the subject.
"And now, Harry, I believe it's time you got some answers," he said.
He pointed his wand at Pettigrew and the rat transformed into a man. Dumbledore bound him with glowing ropes, and then revived him from Harry's stupefy.
Pettigrew blinked, taking in his surroundings, terrified.
"Hello, Peter," Dumbledore said, his voice cold. "It's been a long time."
"Albus," he whispered. "Albus, you saved me—thank you! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had me under the Imperius, he—"
"Surely, Peter, you aren't foolish enough to believe Harry hasn't told me everything that happened last year?" Dumbledore said conversationally, though there was an edge to his voice.
Pettigrew faltered, clearly scrambling for a new tack. Dumbledore stood and walked toward his desk, picking up a vial.
"Veritaserum," he explained. "I do believe we should speed this along."
Pettigrew struggled, but Dumbledore placed a few drops in his mouth, and then his face grew slack, his eyes unfocused.
And Dumbledore asked him everything—how Crouch Jr. had escaped from Azkaban, how Voldemort and Pettigrew had found each other, how Bertha Jorkins had told them about the tournament and Crouch Jr., how Crouch Sr. had been put under the Imperius Curse and imprisoned in his own home.
"The Dark Lord, Nagini and I lived for months in that house with Crouch—until one day, he got a visitor, one who could make it past the enchantments we'd put up," Pettigrew explained. "His former house elf, Winky."
Harry felt his heart lurch.
"The elf cried and sobbed, begging to be taken back," he continued. "She appeared to be drunk. She didn't see any of the rest of us, and Crouch Sr. was ordered to send her away—but it was lucky she came that day because it put us on our guard. A few hours later, aurors arrived, looking for Crouch. But because we were on alert, we were able to escape before they found us."
That had been the day Harry had fought Barty Crouch Jr. Something niggled in his brain and then he remembered—that had also been the day they'd taken Luna to meet the house elves and Ginny had suggested to Winky that she should visit Mr. Crouch if she was so sad, much to Hermione's ire.
Harry felt gutted. It wasn't Ginny's fault—she hadn't known what her words would do, that Winky might actually listen to her suggestion—but if Winky hadn't alerted Voldemort, the aurors might have found him months ago.
"When we found out Barty Crouch Jr. was dead, the Dark Lord thought his plan was ruined—without someone at Hogwarts to turn the cup into a portkey, all was lost," Pettigrew said. "So he sent me to the train at Easter break. He didn't think you would allow Harry to leave Hogwarts, but if you did, no one knows the Burrow better than me. It would be easy enough for me to snatch him up there.
"When I arrived at the platform, I was surprised to see Harry," he continued, "but pleased. I could complete the Dark Lord's mission and he wouldn't be displeased with me. But that infernal cat caught sight of me and almost ruined the plan. But then, Harry did not go to the Burrow. He went somewhere else—someplace I couldn't find."
Pettigrew shuddered. "The Dark Lord was most displeased," he said. "But he had come up with his own solution—Crouch's house elf. They can apparate in and out of Hogwarts at will."
"The elf did not belong to Crouch anymore," Dumbledore said. "Crouch freed her."
"Yes, but she wanted to belong to Crouch," Pettigrew said, "and that was a powerful thing. He sent me to her here at Hogwarts—with Harry and the Marauders Map away, it was safe for me to return—and I brought her back to Crouch. He was under the Imperius and ordered her to bring Harry to him. She obeyed."
Dumbledore surveyed Peter.
"It's highly unusual for Voldemort to believe others could be as powerful as himself," he said, "particularly creatures like house elves."
Harry knew that to be true—a younger version of Tom Riddle had once forgotten how powerful phoenix tears could be.
"The Dark Lord understands house elves have their own magic," Pettigrew countered. "He says he has used them before."
Dumbledore looked intrigued by this statement, but before he could say more, the door burst open, and a horde of people stepped inside: Professor McGonagall, followed by Professor Moody and Professor Snape, Amos Diggory and Dolores Umbridge, Remus, Neville and—
Hermione squeezed past all of them, making a beeline for Harry. He focused on her tear-stained face, her wide eyes, as she crashed into him on the sofa. He felt sore in the spots he had been injured, but he didn't much care as she wrapped her arms tightly around him and he buried his face in her hair.
"You were—the map—you were gone!—I didn't know—and then Professor McGonagall said you were back and they didn't want us to come—wait in the hospital wing—ridiculous," she muttered, squeezing him tighter, as he somehow understood everything she said.
"Dumbledore's got your wand," he said numbly. "I wouldn't have survived without it."
Hermione leaned back to search his eyes, her own filling with tears. "Oh, Harry," she whispered, hugging him again, and he lost himself in her solid presence.
"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Better now," he whispered.
He felt a warm hand on his shoulder—Remus—and then pulled back to survey the scene.
Everyone was in various states of shock.
"Merlin's beard, Barty's dead!" Diggory announced, having seen the bodies, while both Remus and Snape were eyeing Pettigrew with similar visages of contempt. Moody had drawn his wand, eyeing all three for trouble.
"And Pettigrew's alive," Moody said, "exactly as I said."
"Indeed, Alastor," Dumbledore agreed gravely, "and I'm certain Amelia will be glad to have him in custody."
"But how did this happen?" Amos asked. "Who killed Barty?"
"Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore said.
It was a simple sentence, but it quieted the room. Everyone looked at him in slack-jawed silence. Hermione gripped Harry's hand tighter.
"Lord Voldemort has returned," Dumbledore announced. "I saw him—fought him—myself tonight."
Neville was ghastly white. Amos Diggory's eyes bugged out. Professor McGonagall closed her own eyes in resignation. Snape did not seem surprised.
"Hem, hem."
Dolores Umbridge made herself known in the silence. Harry had quite forgotten she was there.
"Seeing as how this is ministry business, I'm going to have to ask you all to leave," she said.
"Leave my own office?" Dumbledore asked, leveling her with a hard stare.
"I could take the prisoner elsewhere until the aurors arrive," Umbridge said sweetly, "but surely this must be the most secure room in the castle?"
"It is," Dumbledore replied.
"Well, I must call the minister at once," Umbridge said, moving toward Dumbledore's fireplace, "and then the ministry can determine exactly what happened here tonight."
"What happened," Dumbledore said, "is that Lord Voldemort succeeded in his plan to return to power. Both Harry and I saw him, both of us fought him, and both of us would be willing to testify to that fact. As can Peter Pettigrew.
"But," Dumbledore added, "of course the ministry wants to do their own interrogation—and you'll be happy to know that I've already alerted Madam Bones so that she can conduct her investigation."
There was ice in Umbridge's eyes and her voice was steel. "Given all the factors at play, it would be best to bring the minister in on this."
"Certainly," Dumbledore said amiably, waving his hand toward the fire. "Feel free."
"It would be best to clear the office," she said sweetly, eyeing Harry. "Surely the boy should be in the hospital wing?"
Dumbledore did not appear to be ruffled by her. "Quite right," he said. "I shall deposit him there myself at once to be sure he isn't disturbed, and then return to greet the minister and Madam Bones. Remus, you'll come with me and the students."
"The rest of you may go as well," Umbridge dismissed them.
"Seeing as I'm the only trained auror here, I'm not leaving the prisoner alone," Moody growled.
"And Minerva will be staying as well—this is still the headmaster's office, and as deputy headmistress, she'll be acting in my stead," Dumbledore said pleasantly.
Professor McGonagall nodded grimly.
"And last I checked, Amos was a member of the ministry—certainly his presence is wanted here," Dumbledore added, while Amos Diggory nodded, still looking a bit overwhelmed by the events of the night.
Snape merely sneered at Umbridge.
Professor Dumbledore motioned for Harry and Hermione to follow him, as Neville and Remus left the room. They stood—Harry saw Hermione recognize Winky in the corner—and she jolted.
"Oh!" she cried, fresh tears spilling over. Harry took her hand in his, wanting to offer her comfort, but just as much needing that connection.
"It was quick," he said quietly, not knowing what to say, not knowing if anything could console her in this moment. "I don't think she knew what was happening."
"Come along," Professor Dumbledore said, steering them down the stairs and into the mostly empty corridor.
"Remus," Dumbledore said, and Remus nodded, telling Harry he'd be along soon, before heading off in the opposite direction of the hospital wing.
Neville stared at Harry, his eyes wide. And then he hugged Harry—swiftly, and with a pat on the back—it was over before Harry could even think about hugging back.
"You're all right," Neville said, his voice sounding a bit strangled, and Harry wasn't sure if he was reassuring himself or Harry—probably both.
The walk to the hospital wing was long, and they were assaulted by a cacophony of sound when they got there—a crowd of people demanding answers from a harried-looking Madam Pomfrey, led by Mrs. Weasley, Ron and Fleur. Bill stood with them, while Viktor stood off to the side, watching the spectacle. Mrs. Diggory had her arms around Cedric and Luna.
"Harry!" Luna cried, her eyes lighting up as soon as she saw him.
The others turned. Ron gained back some of his color and Mrs. Weasley gushed, "Oh, Harry!"
She moved toward him but Professor Dumbledore held out his hand. "Harry has had quite an ordeal tonight," he said. "He should not be disturbed or asked questions—he needs sleep."
Mrs. Weasley nodded, her face white, before she whirled on the others and demanded they keep quiet.
Harry looked to Fleur, Viktor and Cedric.
"What happened with the cup?" he asked.
He had quite forgotten about the tournament until he saw them.
"I got it," Viktor said hollowly. "I didn't realize—ve didn't know…"
Harry nodded. "It's good one of you got it," he said dully, "otherwise they might make us do it all again tomorrow. Magical contracts and all that."
Professor Dumbledore turned to Madam Pomfrey. "Poppy, he's got some injuries that need attending."
Madam Pomfrey nodded officiously, moving Harry behind a screen as she prodded him, pouring healing potions down his throat. Then she handed him pajamas and he changed.
As he settled into bed, propped up against the pillows, he looked at the faces of everyone who had come to see him—at some point, Remus had arrived, too.
"You've seen him, you've seen he's all right, now let him get his sleep," Madam Pomfrey insisted, shooing them all. The other champions all said good night, relief evident on their faces that he was back, as Mrs. Diggory herded them out. Luna smiled sadly at him, squeezing his hand, before following them.
Neville and Hermione took seats on the bed on one side of Harry, sitting side by side.
"Mate," Ron said, his face pale, his voice unsure. He did not say anything else—he didn't know what to say.
"You should get some sleep," Mrs. Weasley ordered, wheeling on Madam Pomfrey.
"Don't you have a sleeping draught for him?" she demanded.
She always had a sleeping draught for him, Harry thought. And sure enough, Madam Pomfrey had a potion in hand, which Mrs. Weasley took and walked over to him.
She tenderly brushed some of his hair back from his face, but Harry felt movement on his other side.
He turned, and suddenly, Sirius was there, slipping off an invisibility cloak.
"One of Moody's," he explained, and Harry understood Remus' errand.
Mrs. Weasley let out a strangled sort of noise—she knew Sirius was innocent, but it still must have been a shock for her.
"It's all right," Dumbledore said, "Peter Pettigrew is in custody upstairs."
Ron let out a garbled sort of noise and then whooped.
"He's back, Sirius," Harry whispered.
"I know," Sirius said gravely. "Remus told me. But we can talk about it later."
Sirius nodded toward Mrs. Weasley and told Harry, "Take your potion."
Harry drank it. Mrs. Weasley moved to take his glasses, but Harry turned back toward Sirius, reaching out for something, something he couldn't ever remember having before.
"Sirius—"
"I know," Sirius whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, and putting his arm around Harry. "You should sleep now."
And the last thing Harry remembered saying before oblivion took him was, "Dad says he thinks this is the Pride of Portree's year…"