Harry, was bored. Incredibly, mind-numbingly, bored. He'd been back at the cottage with Sirius for a little over two weeks, and his summer holidays have finally begun. But if he had been expecting a summer like the one before, filled with excitement and fun, Harry had been sorely mistaken. Sirius had finally started his work with the Department for Human Transfiguration some weeks previously, which meant that Sirius was spending most of the day tied up at work. Not that Harry wasn't happy for the man. To be sure, Harry was delighted that Sirius had found work for himself, doubly so because Sirius seemed to enjoy it so much. Each night he came back with a different story, excited and giddy to tell Harry all about it.

Harry tried to be supportive and happy, and to an extent he was. But Harry was getting a little…lonely. There was only so much he could do to occupy himself during the day. Thus far, he'd kept his promise to Dumbledore, and he'd not left the confines of the cottage. But he was getting stir-crazy. He needed to do something. Anything. he wasn't doing well with simply sitting around the house all day, trying to find anything to occupy his mind.

And with every passing day, he grew more obstinate. Desperate for some reprieve. Desperate to get out of the house and just be somewhere, anywhere, but where he was. He felt trapped. Caged in and it was starting to drive him mad.

He sighed heavily, tossing the practice quaffle up before catching it and tossing it back up again, repeating the process over and over again as he lay idly on the couch in the den. The midday sun shone through the window. It was a beautiful day, but he'd already taken two flights that morning and it was hardly even eleven. He supposed he could practice his spell-casting again, but he was still sore from his session the previous day. He supposed that if there was one positive to being trapped in the house for hours at a time, unable to leave and experience the joys of the wider world, it was that his understanding of magic had been growing deeper with each passing day.

But that could only occupy him for so long, and he could only practice so frequently. Magic was like a muscle, and extended use could cause extreme fatigue and exhaustion. He'd been pushing himself frequently, and he was still sore from his workout the previous day. He would have to forgo any practical work for the day, which was just one more thing that he couldn't do.

He didn't even have the joys of homework to get him through the rest of the day. By the end of the first week, Harry had gotten so bored that he'd already raced through all of his homework and assignments for the summer. He sighed again, catching the quaffle one last time, before letting it fall. He idly played with the leather necklace resting against his chest. His gaze drifted back to the window. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft breeze tickle the trees. The bells of a church of the neighboring muggle town sounded over the soft wind.

Harry opened his eyes, turning and gazing out the window in the direction of the chimes. He glanced back towards the clock, as the hands shifted to noon. Sirius wouldn't be home for at least another five or six hours. Surely it couldn't be that much of a danger for Harry to take a little trip into town. He wouldn't be going far, and besides, it wasn't like Voldemort would be likely to try anything in the middle of the day.

And the more Harry considered it, the more appealing the idea became. It wasn't like Voldemort would look for him in a muggle settlement. That would be the absolute last place a man like Voldemort would look for him. Harry could hardly think of a safer place, besides the cottage anyways, for him to go to.

He bit his lip in thought, glancing back at the clock. Part of him knew it was a bad idea. Knew that Dumbledore and Sirius and Professor Jackson wouldn't have asked him to stay put if they didn't think he was in any real danger. But a voice in the back of his head discounted those thoughts. It wasn't as if Harry had been in any danger since the second task of the Tournament. He hadn't seen anything to even suggest that Voldemort was even looking for him. He was probably just waiting for Harry to return to Hogwarts before trying something. Besides, it was just going to be for a few hours.

Where was the harm?

It was hardly like Sirius would even be mad at him if he found out anyways. If anyone would understand his feelings, Sirius would. Sirius had been trapped. Imprisoned. He more than anyone would understand how Harry was feeling. Hell, Harry was convinced that Sirius would encourage this. Sirius' philosophy was living one's life to the fullest. To not be tied down by the commands of others. He would have quite a great laugh when he heard about what Harry did.

Harry got to his feet, and his decision was made. Grabbing his wand, he shoved it into the waistband of his jeans and darted out the door. There was a warning old path through the woods on the southern portion of the property. It was a meandering path, eroded and dirty but it led directly into the neighboring town. A jolt of excitement raced through him. He was doing it. It was exhilarating, the same thrill he got when stepping out of bounds at Hogwarts. A giddy grin wormed its way onto his face.

The town was a comfortable little village, tucked away in the vestiges of the woods. The tiny hamlet was everything Harry had been hoping it would be. He spent an hour just wandering around the town, taking in the small shops and businesses along the old, cobbled roads. The church whose bells had summoned was an ancient, beautiful thing that reached up to the heavens, its glittering, golden bell chiming at the top of the hour.

For the first time in weeks, it felt like he could breathe easily. As though a tremendous burden had been lifted from his chest and eased his lungs. The air felt more full, the sun seemed to shine brighter, and the smell of summer seemed all the sweeter. He had not realized how much he had missed the freedom of being able to explore until he'd lost it. But here, wandering around this small village, he felt more at peace and comfortable than he had in weeks.

At a little after two, Harry decided that he was rather hungry, and settled in at a little tavern on the edge of town. Whether it was his hunger or the feeling of liberation that made his shepherd's pie so delicious, he couldn't say. He felt comfortable and drowsy, sitting on the bench of his booth tucked away in the corner of the tavern. He was rather certain that he could have closed his eyes then and there and fallen asleep without difficulty.

He yawned and glanced up at the clock above the tavern bar. It was a little before three now. He had taken up enough time, and should be getting back to Sirius. He was feeling reinvigorated. Energized. So he paid his bill and began a lazy, meandering stroll back towards the woods guarding his and Sirius' home. The road was quiet for the late afternoon; Harry couldn't even hear the sounds of small critters and insects chirping around in the grass. He supposed even they needed to have a mid-afternoon nap after all.

He wandered off of the main road leading out of the village and took up the trail heading home. The canopy of the trees provided a wonderful, cooling shade in the heat of the afternoon. It was truly, dreadfully hot, Harry decided. He thought he remembered reading a headline in one of the newspaper stands that there was a drought. That made sense, he supposed, given how dreadfully warm it was. But the cool shade of the trees offered him relief.

He paused his walk, closing his eyes and relishing at the moment in the cool tranquility of the shaded forest.

And then his body went numb. His arms snapped to his sides, his legs locked together, and he toppled backward. He crashed to the forest floor. His heart hammered against his ribs, his blood pumping in his ears. What was happening, where had that come from, and why couldn't he move? He tried to calm himself down and think through his situation rationally. He'd been petrified. Of that he was certain. How could he try and get out of this? He tried to summon his magic, but without his wand as a medium, he couldn't focus it well enough to break the spell. He felt a hand rummage around in his jeans and pull his wand free.

And then a face appeared. The absolute last face he had ever wanted to see again. Peter Pettigrew smiled down at him. A horrific, yellowed, and buck-toothed smile.

"Hello Harry," he simpered. Then, he raised his wand, pointing it right between Harry's eyes. Red filled his vision, and Harry knew no more.

A strange warmth rushed through him, and he gasped. Inhaling deeply as his eyes fluttered open. The sun had long since set, and the darkness of the night was so thorough, that he couldn't see more than a couple of yards ahead of him. He tried to move, but his body refused his commands. He couldn't so much as wiggle a toe. All he could feel was something cool, and hard pressed up against his arms and back, and was vaguely aware that he was several inches taller than he should have been. He must have been magically stuck to a wall or something. He tried to glance around at his surroundings, but couldn't see much.

But just as the troubling thought occurred to him, several sconces lit up in bright, green flames, casting an eerie emerald glow around the surrounding landscape. The lit illuminated his surroundings enough for Harry to determine where he was. And his heart sank even further. He was in a cemetery. Large, white grave markers dotted the browning landscape. But it wasn't the location that truly caused him, terror.

It was the cauldron a couple of yards ahead of him.

An enormous, pewter cauldron, several meters tall and several meters across, sat upon a pit of emerald flames. Harry could see a strange liquid, bubble, and gurgle inside the cauldron. Harry tried to move. Tried to thrash against his invisible bindings. Tried to free himself. But nothing. His body refused to respond. How could this have happened? How did Pettigrew know where to find him? How did he know that Harry would be in that little muggle village?

But more importantly…how could he have let this happen? This…this had been exactly what Dumbledore had been warning him about…what Professor Jackson had been warning him about. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. Why hadn't he listened? Why hadn't he stayed put?

Unbidden, his scar erupted in agony. It felt as though someone had buried a hot knife directly into the middle of his forehead, scooping out chunk after chunk of his flesh. But he couldn't scream. Couldn't move. He was forced to abide by the misery in pained silence. A hollow scream wishing to escape him, but unable to.

From the shadows of a catacomb, Harry saw someone emerge. Peter Pettigrew skulked from the darkness, a lumpy mass of black robes swathed in his arms like a newborn child. Pettigrew smiled at him, a horrific expression of manic excitement. He placed the bundle of robes on the yellowed, dying grass, and approached Harry. From the inside of his robe, he pulled a jagged knife free. He drew the edge of the blade along Harry's left forearm, tearing a large gash. Blood slipped from, dripping down Harry's arm and pooling along the dying landscape. Pettigrew withdrew a flask from his robes and held it under Harry's arm, collecting a sizable amount of his blood.

Grinning excitedly, Pettigrew sheathed his blade, then stooped down and collected something Harry couldn't see. Pettigrew turned on his heel, and marched back to the cauldron. It was difficult to see from his position, but he could see something bright white clutched tightly in Pettigrew's hands.

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

He reached up, and dropped the object into the cauldron, chanting just loud enough for Harry to hear.

He withdrew his dagger once more from his robes. Reached up, holding his hand over the cauldron. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but a strange hiss-like noise came from, the bundle of robes, and Pettigrew winced.

"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master."

Then, to Harry's horror, the knife slid through his hand, slicing the digit off entirely which fell into the bubbling cauldron. He screeched in pain and misery, doubling over and clutching at his now missing hand. But he fought through the pain, rising back up once again.

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."

He poured the flask of Harry's blood into the cauldron. There was a popping noise, as a putrid cloud of purple smoke spewed from the innards of the cauldron. Then, blood still dribbling from the stump his hand used to be, Pettigrew reached down and collected the bundle of robes, and to Harry's confusion, Pettigrew dumped the bundle into the cauldron.

Magic exploded from the innards of the cauldron. Washing over Harry in a cascading waterfall of magical power. Purple and emerald smoke erupted like ash from the cauldron, and Pettigrew was forced to take cover. Harry was half-convinced that the cauldron would explode, and then, in a way, it did. His scar felt as though it were trying to tear his forehead in half. Like someone was pulling his skin apart at the seams and was trying to drill into his skull. There was a blast of light, and Harry couldn't shield his eyes and was left momentarily blinded.

It took several moments for his vision to return to him when the light had finally died down. A figure stood hunched over, stooped, where the cauldron had once been. The being was tall. Monstrously tall. Harry guessed that he was nearly seven feet in height, and was painfully frail, its thin, gray skin stretched tight over bone. Long, boney hands ran slowly over a bald head before reaching out in the direction of Pettigrew. Without a word, the dumpy man waddled over, and produced a wand from the confines of his robe, handing it over to the creature, who took it wordlessly.

It raised the wand, dragging it over its lanky, willowy body. From the shadows itself, a dark robe materialized, cascading up and over the creature, draping it comfortably and loosely.

Then, it turned.

A horrible, almost snake-like face sneered at Harry. Slanted, serpentine eyes and blood-red pupils stared at him. The small holes where a nose should have been flared, as its thin, waxy mouth morphed into a simpering sneer.

"Harry…Potter…" the masculine voice came out in a soft hiss. Almost melodic, yet decidedly menacing.

"We meet…at last…" Lord Voldemort stepped towards him. Each movement, is decidedly graceful and fluid. "You evaded me for longer than expected, he said, eyeing Harry up and down. "I must admit, I was rather…displeased…when I learned of Crouch's demise. You disrupted my plans for some time," he sneered down at Harry, "but it was foolish to think you could escape me."

He gazed at Harry, his lipless mouth pursing slightly, considering something. Without a sound, he gracefully waved his wand and suddenly Harry found himself back in control of his body. Feeling returned to his extremities, though he was still magically stuck to whatever was behind him.

"There we are," said Voldemort, "Now we may have a civilized conversation. No doubt you are wondering how we knew to find you?"

DIdn't respond, choosing instead to glare. Voldemort didn't seem too put off, however, as he chuckled in amusement.

"Surely you have noticed that we share a connection, Harry," he simpered. "Did you not think I could not feel you in my mind? Could not feel your presence? That passage in not one way, dear child. Though I must admit, it was rather difficult, in my weakened state, to influence your mind as I did. But…well…you proved rather easily provoked."

He chuckled to himself, and Harry had to bite his tongue to keep himself from retorting.

"So much like your mud blood of a mother," said Voldemort, "So easy to manipulate…so quick to anger…"

"Keep her name out of your damned mouth!" Harry roared, suddenly and violently overwhelmed with hate and rage. A nearby gravestone exploded, marble debris showering the field's occupants. Pettigrew squawked in fear, and dove for cover, but Voldemort looked more amused than anything. With a dismissive wave, the hunks of marble disappeared.

"Interesting…" he murmured. He turned away from Harry, approaching Pettigrew who was struggling to pull himself to his feet.

"Your arm, Wormtail," said Voldemort, and Pettigrew complied, offering the man his arm. Voldemort reached down, pressing the tip of his wand to something that Harry couldn't see. Nothing happened for several moments, but then one after another, soft pops erupted around the graveyard as men and women clad in black robes and odd-looking skull masks that Harry recognized from the attack at the World Cup.

Harry tried to count the number of men and women in the crowd, but it was easy to lose track of them all. He counted at least thirty but guessed that there must have been more that he couldn't see. The Death Eaters formed a circle around the graveyard, boxing Harry in with Voldemort and Pettigrew. A sneering smile formed on Voldemort's face, and he began a gentle walk around the mass of Death Eaters.

"My loyal followers…" he said, his soft voice silky, and seemingly sincere. "My comrades…my friends. How…wonderful it is to see you all again." His followers seemed, at least to Harry, not the least bit excited by this reunion. Oddly enough, there was tension in the graveyard. An apprehensive hesitance. As though the Death Eaters were collectively holding their breath. Anxious to see precisely how their lord would react to them.

"Dolohov," simpered Voldemort, ripping the mask off a nearby Death Eater and tossing it carelessly to the side. The man, Dolohov, recoiled but held his ground.

"M-my lord," he said, bowing his head, "I-I-I am pleased to see you have r-returned."

"Are you?" cooed Voldemort, gently stroking the tip of his wand against Dolohov's cheek. Dolohov flinched, his body trembling and his eyes closing as the wand worked its way down to this Adams apple.

"I don't know if I believe you, Dolohov," said Voldemort softly, "I don't know if any of you are happy to see your old master return."

"M-my lord," stammered a man to Harry's right. Voldemort whirled on the unfortunate man, his eyes blazing.

"Silence, Avery! He hissed, and the man flinched as though struck. "If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it!" Voldemort held his glare for a couple of seconds before he began stalking away. Voldemort continued pacing around the circle of Death Eaters.

"I don't believe that any one of you is happy to see me…would you like to know why?" It was a rhetorical question. "You…my 'loyal' followers…were you there for your Lord in his time of need? No…no you were not. After all…if you were truly loyal, you would not be here, would you? No, you would be with your brothers and sisters in Azkaban. The ones who did not stop fighting for their Lord. The ones who did not stop fighting the good fight. But no…that was not for you, was it?"

He stopped pacing in the middle of the small clearing. "Avery…Dolohov…Crabbe, Goyle, Nott…Lucius…you gave up on your Lord. Abandoned him in his hour of need…" He half turned, stalking towards the side of the collective mass. He stopped before a man. Long tendrils of silvery-blonde hair cascaded down his shoulders, but it wasn't the man's hair that captured Harry's attention.

It was his brutalized body. His right leg was missing entirely from below the knee, and his left arm was little more than a stump, tied up and hidden behind the sleeves of his robes. With a quick swipe, Voldemort ripped the mask off his face. It had been some time since Harry had seen Lucius Malfoy, but he was certainly not the same man that stared him down in the headmaster's office.

His already pale face was devoid of any shade of color. His skin was waxy, pulled tight, and sickly. Now that Harry was looking more closely, he looked startlingly ill. His hair was patchy, thin, and falling out.

"You certainly seem to have been through a lot, dear Lucius," murmured Voldemort gently. He ran a boney finger down Lucius' cheek. He flinched, his eyes fluttering closed as his jaw clenched and unclenched, and a slight tremor ran through his body.

With a flourish, Voldemort darted away. Slithering towards Pettigrew, who was shaking, clutching at his nub of an arm.

"But despite the abandonment of those, I thought my friends…my allies…there was one who did not abandon me. Wormtail…come…"

With shuddering, halting steps, Wormtail approached. When he was within arms reach of Voldemort, the taller man stooped over. All but hovering over the cowering mess of a man.

"Wormtail the coward…Wormtail the traitor…the least likely of my followers to ever seek me out…to support me…and yet you did. You did what none of the sycophants gathered around us did…and for that, you shall be rewarded. Wormtail, your arm."

His tremors growing more and more erratic, Pettigrew reached out his nub of an arm. With a casual, seemingly disinterested wave of his wand, a strange thing occurred. An odd silvery mass began to form around the mess of butchered flesh. It contorted, and flailed, almost like a living creature. But slowly, the silvery mass began to take shape, but it formed that of a human hand. Pettigrew's shaking ceased, as he gazed in amazed bewilderment at his new appendage.

"My Lord," he simpered, collapsing to his knees in front of the man. "Thank you, thank you!"

"Quiet!" Seethed Voldemort, kicking out at the blubbering mess, and throwing him to the ground. "You did not return out of loyalty, but out of sheer desperation. You served your purpose, but do not mistake you doing the bare minimum for true devotion." He stood back up to his full height.

"My apologies, Harry, I have been exceptionally rude and you have had to bear witness to some less than gentlemanly conduct," He turned back to Harry, with a horrifying, mouth-curling smile.

"Long have I awaited this moment, Harry Potter," he said demurely. He crept forward, all but gliding along the grass. "Long have I dreamt of the moment when you and I would finally have a chance to meet, face to face." He stopped just before Harry, standing level with him. As close as he was, Harry could see that his skin seemed almost wet, and slippery. Covered in a light coating of liquid, reptilian.

"For eleven years, I was forced to survive as little more than a wraith. Without a body, without my strength. But then…I had thought I had found my chance. My opportunity to become whole again, do you remember Harry? Do you remember our first meeting? In the bowels of our shared home? Do you remember how you thwarted my plans, how you ruined my return?" He raced forward, his face inches from Harry's.

"For years, I pondered what happened. Why I could not touch you…why your very flesh was poison to me. And finally, I realized it. Whatever it was that your mother did that Halloween night…it cast a protection over you. Protection, that meant I could not cause you harm." He smiled. His pale, yellow teeth glimmered in the emerald flames.

"At least, not until tonight. I put off my return for years, to Harry Potter for. Years. I have known about the spell to craft my new body for some time. I only needed the blood of an enemy to return, and for a man such as myself, I had plenty I could have chosen for the honor of crafting my return. But I had put it off. I know you know why. Please…tell the class why I put off my return, Mr. Potter."

"Go to hell!" He spat.

"You have will Mr. Potter, I will grant you that," he raised his hand, hovering just above Harry's scar.

"But I suppose it is not unexpected that you would be hostile." He chuckled, to himself. "I needed you, Harry…I needed your blood. And now that I have it…the magic that once kept me at bay…can no longer defy my will." His palm covered the scar. Pain. Blinding, mind-numbing, all-consuming pain. His mind was split open. His skin ripped in half, and Voldemort reached into his very being and tore at him.

Cackling in delight, Voldemort pulled his hand free and Harry sagged. Voldemort turned his back on Harry, waving a hand dismissively. The magic keeping Harry in place disappeared, and Harry fell to the ground in a heap. He tried to breathe. Tried to think. But his body quaked, and aftershocks of pain cascaded over him.

"Alas Harry, as much as it would bring me no end of pleasure to play with you, you have already delayed my return enough." Voldemort turned, his wand clutched tightly in his palm. "And it is time that I finish, what I set out to accomplish so long ago."

Magic swelled around Voldemort, the air becoming thick and heavy. Time seemed to move in slow motion, the words forming on Voldemort's lips and the tip of his wand glowing green with raw, magical energy. Harry reached out desperately into the ether, clawing desperately for his wand, for protection, for anything. If only he had his wand. If only he could protect himself.

Then…the oddest thing. There was a pulse of magic. Pettigrew shrieked in surprise, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw something arcing through the air toward him. His hand reached out, almost of its own accord. His fingers wrapped around the holly wand. He didn't think he simply acted. He wasn't even aware of consciously casting a spell. Nothing specific even came to mind. He was just vaguely aware of the most powerful need to hurt, harm, and attack that he'd ever felt before.

And magic responded to him.

The marble of the gravestone behind him exploded. Soaring through the air and racing toward Voldemort. Harry was graced, for the briefest of moments, with a look of shock from Voldemort. The dark lord was forced to abandon his attack and waved his wand with a flourish. The yellowing grass rose to life, wrapping around Voldemort in a swirling mass. The marble projectiles slammed into the shield, bouncing harmlessly away from Voldemort. Someone shrieked in pain, as the Death Eaters scrambled for cover, an unfortunate few facing the wrath of the deflected marble.

Harry scrambled to his feet as Voldemort discarded his shield. Harry was forced to dive out of the way, as Voldemort ripped several headstones out of the earth, and sent them flying toward him. He landed in a heap behind a gravestone. He ran his wand over his head, casting the disillusionment charm and blood-chilling spell. He tried to get up and run towards an opening in the Death Eaters his spell had created, but he felt lifted off the ground.

"Did you think that such paltry magic would work on me, Harry?" Voldemort laughed. Cackled. His world became shrouded in pain as he was thrown painfully to the ground. He felt something snap in his arm, and he screamed in pain. His arm whipped out in instinct, a desperate, pitiable attempt to do something, anything. But Voldemort batted the desperate blasting curse aside like a gnat. The spell smashed into the ground, which exploded in a mess of dry earth and dead grass. Death Eaters scattered, but a few unlucky enough to be caught in the blast radius were sent sprawling through the hair.

Voldemort cackled, a delighted, high-pitched screech of a laugh. Devoid of any humanity and more animalistic than anything. The disillusionment charm faded around Harry, as he was hoisted once more into the air. He was tossed across the field, dragged through the grass, and juggled around like a toy before finally being tossed to the ground.

"Oh, Harry…" laughed Voldemort, "You truly are a delight. I'm also sad that you have to die tonight, you have far more talent and poise than I had thought. You even remind me a little of myself, though not as talented as I." His chuckling died off, and he sighed in contentedness.

"But alas, I have played long enough. But I am not a cruel man, Harry Potter. I will not kill you as you lie on your back. Rise, Harry Potter. Rise, and face your death like your father. Face your death like a man." Harry took shaky breaths, struggling to pull himself to his feet. He felt something tickle his neck, and his hand gripped the cool leather of his necklace. A strange warmth rushed through him. His vision was blurry, his broken arm screaming in agony. Each breath came in a ragged wheeze, and he clutched at the necklace like a life.

But as he gripped the necklace, a feeling of protection washed over him. Protection, and safety.

Voldemort raised his wand, a look of manic glee on his face.

"Do you have any last words, Harry Potter? Would you like to beg for your life…beg for the life of your loved ones, like your mudblood of a mother?"

"Just…two…" Harry wheezed.

"Seaweed Brain."

Raw, powerful magic swirled around the graveyard. The wind rose, and thunder cracked overhead. Rain began to fall, starting as a soft drizzle before slowly becoming an inclement downpour.

Voldemort whirled around, confusion and fury awash in every movement.

"What is this…what have you done?" He demanded turning his wand back on Harry. For his part, Harry could only smile. His mouth was warm, and coppery with the taste of blood.

"Have fun."

The rain in front of Harry began to shift and contort, a form appeared in the rain. The raw magic amassed in front of Harry, growing and growing in intensity, before exploding outwards in an eruption of pure magical power and Harry instinctively shielded his face. When he lowered his hand, his view of Voldemort was obstructed.

Professor Jackson, rain bouncing harmlessly off his starched white shirt, stood still and silent in a cramped field. For a moment, nothing happened. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Professor Jackson simply stood there. Wand clutched tightly in his hand, standing protectively between Harry and Voldemort.

Then, his wrist flinched.

And the silence was shattered.