Harry's fingers closed around the handle of the Cup. Exhausted and broken, he barely noticed the familiar feeling of a hook yanking him from somewhere behind his navel. The world swirled as Voldemort and his Death Eaters disappeared from view, and he held onto the golden metal like his life depended on it.

It very well might. If his hand slipped too early, who knew where the Portkey would throw him out?

When the world finally stopped spinning, he collapsed onto the ground, barely avoiding hitting his head against the grass. He raised his head only far enough for his eyes to register the familiar sight of the Quidditch stands. Then, he tossed the Cup as far away as he could.

He let himself slump back down again. Voices roared and cheers resounded, and he was vaguely aware of the spectators rising to their feet, but he ignored it. It all felt hollow.

He was back. He was safe, and he was alive.

But so was Voldemort. He had a body now, and his consciousness was back in full. Considering how much havoc he'd wreaked when he was just a wraith, or just a diarised teenager, how much worse would it be now that he was an adult, backed by all of his power and memories?

How had they charmed the Cup to take him to the graveyard in the first place? What if someone else had reached it first?

'Mr Potter?'

His breaths came out sharp and short.

'Harry!'

Someone crouched down beside him, and hands reached for him, helping him to his feet. As his eyes focused, he met Viktor's worried gaze. Fleur and Cedric were standing just behind him, and several metres away, Dumbledore, Bagman and Maxime were hurrying over towards the group.

'You were gone for so long,' Viktor said. 'Diggory saw you disappear. Shortly after, we were all taken too. But you did not come to the front of the maze like us.'

Fleur was peering at him over Viktor's shoulder. 'It has been twenty minutes. What happened?'

'Your arm…' Cedric said, his eyes widening. 'Are you hurt?'

'He's back,' Harry said shakily, barely able to keep up with their conversation. It all paled in comparison to what had happened in the graveyard. 'He's — Voldemort's back.'

'What?'

'How?'

'His followers. There was a ritual...'

There was a moment, a brief and terrifying moment, where he thought they wouldn't believe him. He could see it on all three faces; none of them wanted to believe Voldemort was back, and the easiest way to deny it was to disbelieve Harry. After all, what was to say there hadn't been a Boggart or something down there, fooling his danger-addled brain into seeing the impossible?

'I'm not lying,' Harry said, 'and I'm not crazy. I know what I saw.'

'Mr Potter.' Dumbledore reached them and stepped forward, blocking Harry's view of the other champions. 'Tell me what happened in there.'

Harry repeated what he'd said. Faced with his most trusted professor, it all came tumbling out: the graveyard, the details of the ritual, the way his wand had connected with Voldemort's, how he'd dived for the Cup...

Just at the edges of his consciousness, he heard Dumbledore question whether this was the right venue for this, saw the others' horrified expressions, and felt someone take his elbow and try to lead him away. But his arms were shaking, and he couldn't stop the stream of words that were coming out of his mouth.

He needed to share it. He needed them to know.

When he was finished, Viktor almost spat out the word: 'Necromagic.'

'Indeed.' Dumbledore looked thunderous. 'I owe all four of you my apologies. We thought you were as safe as you could be under the circumstances, but I fear the opposite was the truth.'

They stood there, silent, for a few moments.

'They're going to want him to say something,' Bagman said, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd.

If anything, their cheers had grown louder while they were talking, not quieter. It was odd; after the reception he'd received that year, he would have expected boos or silence.

'It seems you have more supporters than you realised,' Dumbledore said, his thoughts apparently having gone in the same direction as Harry's.

Harry knew why they had to make a speech. They had no idea what Voldemort's plans were or how quickly he would act on them; the sooner everyone left, the sooner Dumbledore could start planning responses.

But the idea of speaking in front of everyone made his stomach roil. 'I don't think I can say it all again so soon.'

Bagman eyed him. Then, in the first genuinely compassionate thing Harry had ever seen him do, he said, 'I can do the talking, but you'll have to stand beside me.'

'Thank you, Ludo,' Dumbledore said, 'but I will. While I do not believe this is the correct time or place to inform the masses of Voldemort's return, we cannot pretend it is all business as usual. There will be a fine line to walk, and I must be the one to walk it.

'Mr Diggory, would you please fetch Madam Pomfrey and Mr Potter's friends? Once she has healed him, he will need time to recuperate.'

'I can heal him,' Moody said, and Harry started as he realised that the hand that had been trying to lead him away hadn't been Dumbledore's, but Moody's.

'No, Alastor. I need you here with me.'

'I will come too,' Viktor said.

'It seems that we will all be going,' Fleur said. 'There is solidarity in numbers, after all.'

As Dumbledore stepped forward and began to speak to the crowd, Cedric left to find Madam Pomfrey, Ron and Hermione and Harry started to follow Viktor and Fleur off the Quidditch pitch.

But before they left the field, however, cries of shock and rage replaced the previous atmosphere of excitement. Dumbledore's words faltered, and there was the sound of rushing footsteps and shouting.

Harry turned. At first, he couldn't see what it was that was causing such an outcry. But then he realised that something was happening to Professor Moody. He couldn't tell what it was from so far away, but the professors were surrounding him, their wands drawn.

Confused, he started forward, but Fleur reached out and grabbed his uninjured arm. 'No. We should go.'

It wasn't in Harry's nature to walk away, but every muscle in his body screamed with exhaustion. With a sharp nod, he let them lead him down the path back up to the castle and the Hospital Wing.

-x-

Albus felt drained when he walked back up to his office later that day. He'd had a bad feeling about the tournament from the start, and he'd known that it wouldn't take long for Tom to make another attempt at coming back. But he hadn't expected it now, much less like this.

The coming days were going to be instrumental. Albus had no idea how advanced Tom's plans were; he had to act fast to get things moving.

Fortunately, if anything about today could be called fortunate, it had all been so public that word about Tom's return would spread throughout the wizarding world within days.

At first, he'd been convinced that nobody would believe Harry. He'd come back with no proof except for his word, a bleeding arm, and twenty minutes of missing time. It had been more than enough for him, but he knew that others would not be as easily convinced. His plan had been to approach Cornelius directly, allowing him to make a statement to the public.

That was until, out of nowhere, Alastor's face had started to twist and contort. The man had reached for his flask, but he'd fumbled it in his haste. As he'd leant down to pick it up, the pieces had all clicked together in Albus' brain.

Before the man could take a sip of the drink that Albus was rapidly suspecting of having been spiked with Polyjuice Potion, he'd summoned it out of his hand.

A stadium full of people had watched as Alastor Moody had been replaced by none other than Barty Crouch Junior. The professors had swarmed to contain him, even as he started to rant and rave about everything he had done, insulting the crowd in the process.

Usually, Albus' first goal would have been to neutralise Barty and spirit him away. Most of the spectators were schoolchildren; they were too young to be exposed to this.

But standing there in front of the watching crowd, he'd recognised the opportunity for what it was.

Instead of silencing Barty, he'd magnified his voice. Instead of protecting the crowd's innocence, he'd let them hear.

Barty's ramblings, and the astonishing fact that he was alive after having been declared dead so many years prior, had spoken for themselves.

The crowd had left the pitch in a vastly different mood than they'd been in when they'd entered it.

And Albus had been left with plans to make and work to do.

Cornelius would take care of the Ministry.

Meanwhile, Albus needed to start negotiating with stakeholders from other species. The merpeople, the giants, the werewolves, the goblins, the vampires — they'd all been instrumental in past wars. If either side could secure an alliance with them, it would give them a significant advantage going forward.

He'd have to send Remus back to the werewolves, of course, and Rubeus to the half-giants. Perhaps Olympe would agree to join him since she had been asked to resign from her position of Beauxbatons at the end of the school year — or, as Rita spun it, had been fired.

The merpeople and the goblins always remained neutral in wizarding matters, but it wouldn't hurt to make sure that would remain the same this time around. Albus could consult with the merchieftan, and perhaps Arthur could ask Bill to speak to some of his coworkers about it.

The vampires would be harder. The Ministry had nothing to give them, while Tom had everything. But if the vampires were the only other magical species Tom had on his side, that could be managed. Pomona could start growing a supply of garlic at the school, as could other farmers and herbologists across the nation. In the meantime, they could look at importing garlic from other countries in case they needed it.

Still, that took time, and Albus didn't know how much of it they had.