Voldemort let out an ear-splitting shriek as Harry vanished with the Triwizard Cup, Cedric's dead body clutched in his grasp. His Death Eaters swarmed around him, Peter slipping between Lucius and Macnair to see the empty stretch of grass and stone where The Boy Who Lived had just been lying.

"We will get him for you, my lord!" cried Goyle from the back of the throng. "He'll have gone back to Hogwarts—we'll have him killed for you there!"

Voldemort whirled around to face the Death Eater, his snakelike eyes flashing with unrestrained fury. Goyle shrunk away at the sight of him; Peter couldn't blame him. He'd assumed that Voldemort's new body would look just like his old, but the form he'd taken more closely resembled the stunted body Peter had nursed over the past year: his eyes were blood-red and slit-pupiled, his head was bald and as white as bone, and his nose was entirely nonexistent. He hardly passed for human.

"You will not," Voldemort seethed. "I will be the one to kill him—and we will not do it where everyone can see, you fool. I will find another way."

Lucius gave the Dark Lord a deep bow as he swept past. "We will assist you in whatever you need, my lord. You have only to say the word—"

"Quiet!" Voldemort screeched, forcefully enough for many of the Death Eaters to step back in fright. "Listen to me. No one is to know that I have returned, not until the proper time. I am still weak, and our allies are scattered; the world will learn of my ascendancy only when it is complete. Harry will tell Dumbledore of our duel, but his tale will be seen as a madman's blabbering by the rest of the wizarding world—my servant at Hogwarts will make sure of that. We will work in darkness for now, understand?"

"Yes, my lord," murmured the Death Eaters.

"Return to your homes and your families, and keep a low profile. When I have need of you, I will call." He swung his arm as if swatting away a fly. "Go, now!"

One by one, the Death Eaters vanished with a series of pops and swishing cloaks. Finally only Peter remained, peering up uncertainly at his master. He had no idea where to go.

"What should I do, my lord?" he asked. "Do you wish for me to stay with you? You know that I live to serve you—I've served you well over the past year, haven't I?"

Voldemort's mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "That's the reason I rewarded you with that hand, is it not?"

Peter nodded and glanced down at his brand-new silver hand, gleaming in the moonlight. It was certainly an improvement on his old one; it was five-fingered and seamless, and it was stronger than any part of Peter's body had ever been before. "It's a generous reward, Master. More than generous."

"More than you deserve." Voldemort tilted his head, staring off into the distance. "But I will admit that you have made a good servant. Perhaps you will do well serving my fellow Death Eaters…I'll give you to Lucius first. The Malfoys are going to need careful observation, I suspect."

"You…you wish for me to be a servant to the Malfoys?" Peter asked hollowly.

"Serve them, carry out whatever tasks they give to you, and report back to me if anything seems awry. You're capable of that, aren't you, Wormtail?"

Peter went quiet, feeling his heart sink through his chest. He'd been expecting a position of privilege after all his months with Voldemort—he was the reason Voldemort had even been able to return at all. He'd thought…but then again, he told himself, when had anyone ever seen him as anything more than a lackey for better wizards? First the Marauders, then Voldemort…and now he would be passed around like a pet among the Death Eaters, servant of all and master of none.

But at least he was safe. At least he was human. That had to count for something.

"Of course, my lord," Peter said finally, bowing to his master. Then he spun around and Disapparated, making his way across the country to Malfoy Manor.