Flesh, Blood and Bone

John stared at the spot that Harry and Cedric had disappeared from in shock, slowly shaking his head.

Sherlock too was frozen in place.

'No,' John breathed. 'This can't be happening.'

Sherlock stepped backwards, grabbing fistfuls of his hair.

'Wh - what do we do?' said John. 'Sherlock, what the hell do we do?'

Sherlock walked in a circle around the small clearing, frantically thinking, muttering to himself. Finally, he turned to John. 'You have to watch them,' he said.

'What? No. I can't.' John shook his head again.

'You have to,' Sherlock said, coming back to him.

'No- '

'You have to.' Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders. 'If they don't - if Harry doesn't - someone has to see. Someone has to know what happened. John, you must.'

John already felt himself shaking, but he knew Sherlock was right. 'Don't go,' he said, grabbing Sherlock's hand.

'Never.'

They sat down on the grass, the body of the Acromantula still twitching behind them.

It took a moment, but John was able to find Harry and Cedric in the same graveyard he'd seen before. He almost lost grip of the vision when he saw the figure again, but managed to hold on.

It stopped next to a towering marble headstone, and all three of them stared at it in confusion. Then, Harry's scar burned so badly his knees buckled, and John's eyes watered.

John heard a familiar, cold, high-pitched voice.

'Kill the spare,' it said, sending tremors up John's spine.

The figure raised his wand and screeched, 'Avada Kedavra!'

John shielded his eyes from the blaze of green light, and heard something heavy fall to the ground. When the light died away, John forced himself to look down.

Cedric was lying on the ground beside Harry. He was dead.

John couldn't hold on any longer, and slipped back into the maze, sobbing in Sherlock's shoulder. 'He's dead,' he gasped. 'Cedric…' His head was so hazy and groggy, but before Sherlock could tell him, he knew he had to go back.

Sherlock gave him a moment to try and catch his breath, gently caressing his cheek, before nudging him to go back.

When he got back to the graveyard, the figure was tying Harry to the marble headstone, conjuring thick cords to bind him.

John took a deep, shuddering breath, and stepped away from Cedric.

We need more information, he heard Sherlock whisper.

'Right,' John murmured. He went over to Harry and the figure, and in the flickering light of the cloaked man's wand, John could just about make out a name on the headstone.

TOM RIDDLE

John peered under the hood of the cloak, and anger coursed through him. 'Wormtail,' he growled.

Wormtail stuffed a wad of material into Harry's mouth and turned away.

A small bundle stirred at the foot of the grave, and John pushed away his nausea as he remembered what was inside. His head pulsed at the same time Harry's scar burned, and he looked away, instead watching Wormtail push a large, stone cauldron up to the headstone.

It was larger than any cauldron he had ever seen before; big enough for a full-grown man to sit inside. John could hear some sort of liquid slopping around inside, and assumed it must be full of water.

Wormtail lit a fire underneath the cauldron, and the light from it briefly illuminated a huge snake as it slithered away into the darkness. The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat very quickly, sparking at the surface. It almost looked like liquid diamonds.

'It is ready, master,' said Wormtail

'Now…' said the cold voice.

Wormtail pulled open the robes on the ground, revealing what was left of Voldemort inside them.

John squeezed his eyes shut, but tried to remain where he was, trapping himself between his body and the vision, until Sherlock nudged him again. He landed shakily back in the graveyard just in time to see Wormtail lowering Voldemort into the cauldron, his frail body hitting the bottom of the cauldron with a soft thud.

Wormtail spoke, his voice shaking. 'Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!'

John whispered the words as Wormtail said them. He didn't know what it all meant, but he was sure if Sherlock heard it, he could make something of it.

The surface of the grave cracked, a fine trickle of dust rose into the air, and fell softly into the cauldron, turning the liquid inside a vivid, poisonous blue.

Wormtail whimpered and pulled out a long, silver dagger from inside his robes. His voice broke into petrified sobs. 'Flesh - of the servant - w-willingly given - you will - revive - your master.'

He stretched his right hand out in front of him - the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand, and swung upwards.

John couldn't block out the scream that followed, or his own, and he fell back into the maze, panting heavily. His right hand had gone limp and numb. He fought his exhaustion and squeezed Sherlock's hand with his good one, and forced himself back to the graveyard.

The liquid in the cauldron had turned a burning red, and Wormtail was standing before Harry, his stump arm dripping through the robes he'd wrapped around it, and the other was still holding the dagger.

'B-blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will… resurrect your foe.' He pierced Harry's arm with it, and fumbled in his robes for a glass phial to collect the blood.

John winced at the pain, and watched Wormtail stagger back to the cauldron with Harry's blood, and pouring it inside.

The liquid instantly turned a blinding white, and Wormtail slumped down beside the cauldron, sobbing and gasping. It simmered, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else into velvety blackness.

Please let it have drowned, John begged, but even as he thought it, he knew it wouldn't help.

A surge of white steam bellowed thickly from the cauldron, obliterating everything from view but the vapour in the air. But then, through the mist, John saw with icy terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

'Robe me,' said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground. He pulled them one-handed over his master's head.

John trembled as the thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes, and a nose that was flat as a snake's, with slits for nostrils…

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

Welcome back everyone! Thanks to VegasGranny, Frida521 and two Guests for the reviews!

Sorry guys, but this one's on the backburner for now. It's more work than my other stories and I have less time to write it in now, but don't worry, I am still working on it, it'll just take me a bit longer now :) See you again next time.