CHAPTER 26: UNEARTHING A FATEFUL ENCOUNTER

An abrupt, violent force yanked Harry away from the heart of the labyrinth, and he collided with the ground unceremoniously. His body bounced across the uneven terrain, ultimately bringing him to his knees. In the chaos of the moment, the Triwizard Cup and his wand slipped from his grasp and skittered away into the shrouded darkness.

Amidst his disorientation, a realization struck him like lightning – the Triwizard Cup was a portkey. A surge of relief washed over him. This had to be their way to reach Fleur more quickly. He grimaced, feeling the throb of newly acquired bruises, but his focus remained on the task at hand.

A thin, ghostly mist coiled around his feet, extending to enshroud rows of pallid tombstones. The eerie setting was a far cry from the familiar corridors of Hogwarts. Panic coursed through Harry, his heart sinking like a stone into his stomach. He instinctively attempted to apparate back to the Triwizard Tournament's chamber, but as he took a step forward, the world around him remained as still as stone.

Cursing under his breath, Harry turned to face the drifting mist that billowed from behind him. A bright-eyed witch with curly brown hair stood before him, her face adorned with a friendly smile. Just behind her, a colossal cauldron emitted streams of steam, and the mist rose from its brim like frothy waves.

"Hiya, Harry!" she chimed, tipping the brim of a stylish blue beret perched atop her curls. "Nice of you to join us."

Harry's bewilderment deepened. The 'us' she mentioned piqued his curiosity. Was she speaking in the royal plural, or had she been possessed by another dark item from Voldemort's nefarious collection?

Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu as he asked, "Do I know you?"

"Oh no, Harry, you don't know me," she responded with a cheerful giggle. "Nobody really knows me. I'm just the talkative, cheerful witch who listens. My name's Bertha Jorkins."

Recognition flickered in Harry's eyes as he scoured the mist-laden landscape for his wand. "You worked for Crouch. I remember your name coming up at the World Cup. You disappeared."

With a casual wave of her hand, Bertha Jorkins produced a familiar piece of ebony from thin air. Thick, obsidian ropes sprung forth from the wand, ensnaring Harry and pinning him to the nearest headstone.

Harry, despite his predicament, couldn't help but inject a bit of humor into the situation. "For the briefest moment, I hoped I was wrong."

Bertha, unfazed by Harry's struggles, let out a light-hearted laugh. "Well, you weren't! You see, when I left Hogwarts, I wasn't good enough to get where I wanted to go. I didn't even want that much, you know. Just enough to live on. Something interesting to do. Nobody noticed me in the war, though I helped Barty Crouch by keeping an eye on a fair few suspicious members of the Ministry and was responsible for the capture of more than one Death Eater. Not one person ever thanked me for it, you know. Not even Barty Crouch."

Harry continued to strain against the restraining ropes. "That actually doesn't surprise me. Barty Crouch doesn't seem like a great person."

Bertha offered a wistful smile, revealing a pair of dimples. "I learned from it, though. I learned that knowing secrets and using them for other people's good gains you nothing, not even gratitude, and I refused to repeat my mistake. I kept making friends even when things calmed down; I've always been good with people, you see. Someone who listens can be invaluable, and you learn all sorts of things if you listen long enough. One day, I came across something very interesting indeed. My oh-so-perfect, principled head of department, Barty Crouch, had snuck his son out from Azkaban. I meant to blackmail him, but I needed proof, so I went looking."

Harry couldn't help but mutter, "I'm sure that went well."

Bertha Jorkins let out a rueful chuckle, her eyes shimmering with a mix of regret and determination. "You have no idea, Harry. But I had to try. Unfortunately, it led me down a path I never could have foreseen."

Bertha Jorkins continued to giggle, the sound an unsettling contrast to the ominous backdrop of the mist-shrouded graveyard. "Barty Crouch Junior was not what I was expecting. He was nothing like his father at all. I found a young wizard driven to madness by Azkaban and the Imperius Curse of his own parent, and emotionally-scarred by his father in the years before. In the few moments of lucidity he gained, he'd tell me about his master, the one who recognized his value when his father and the world deemed him worthless."

Harry's skepticism was evident in his furrowed brow. "You believed him?"

Bertha Jorkins nodded thoughtfully. "Not to begin with," she admitted. "The Dark Lord was supposed to be dead, but then his servant came and found us."

Harry gasped with mock horror, a hint of realization dawning upon him as he tested the strength of his bindings. They're actually not that tight, he noted, weighing his options and biding his time.

"He was very much alive," Bertha tittered. "He showed me that I was not so useless with magic as I'd come to believe. He taught me that I was simply thinking about things the wrong way. I could always listen to people, get them to trust me, to talk to me, to do what I want. I never guessed I would have such a talent with the Imperius Curse, one that even the Dark Lord respects."

Harry arched an eyebrow, probing further. "He taught you a spell, so you fight for him? That's all?"

Bertha's voice quivered with a mix of desperation and defiance. "He respected me for the one thing I know I'm good at! That's why I follow him, because nobody else ever did that for me! And what does all the rest matter? Barty Crouch fed a whole host of innocent souls to the Dementors, people he only half-suspected! The Dark Lord's killed no more than a few dozen wizards... And always fairly, too."

Harry refused to relent, even in the face of Bertha's stubborn loyalty. "He's lying to you."

A glint of defiance sparked in Bertha's eyes. "You aren't going to convince me, Harry. I've come too far to turn back, even if I wanted to, and I don't."

As Harry subtly worked his fingers free from the bindings, he pressed forward with his inquiry. "What have you done? I assume the disappearance of Crouch was you?"

Bertha's gaze shifted away for a moment, a fleeting flicker of remorse crossing her face. "Yes, that was me. It had to be done. I couldn't allow Crouch to stop the Dark Lord's return. I had a duty, and I fulfilled it."

'Yes, yours truly,' Bertha Jorkins replied with a sly smirk, tipping her beret in Harry's direction. 'Crouch was becoming too suspicious, especially when I vanished, and Barty died free of the curse. He started connecting dots that others couldn't. I waited as long as possible to make it appear an unrelated event, but he had to die the moment Pettigrew went missing. I mistakenly assumed that he'd captured Pettigrew, or if someone else had, Crouch might learn enough to stop us. It took so much planning to get you here, Harry.' She chuckled. 'We spent hours devising a plan just to get your name in the goblet. So many complex pieces of magic, all destined to be ineffective. Ludo and I struggled terribly. Of course, it hardly helped that I had to keep him under the Imperius the whole time.'

A name flashed in Harry's mind – Bagman. Bagman could potentially reach Fleur. A cold chill gripped his spine momentarily, but he reassured himself. No. She's safe. The withering curse will protect her.

Harry inquired, "So how did you do it? You can't lie to the goblet. And I certainly didn't enter myself."

Bertha Jorkins laughed, her voice carrying a tone of amusement. "Ah, you did your research. We failed a fair few times, but we did notice that the goblet's fire flared each time we tried. So Ludo and I waited until the names were being pulled out. We cast one more Confundus Charm on it after the other champions were chosen, and the goblet flared up. With a well-prepared piece of parchment, a levitating charm, and a Disillusionment Charm, Albus Dumbledore thought he was holding the name of the fourth champion."

Harry shook his head, astonished by the simplicity of the plan. "I didn't even have to compete, did I? And there I was looking for some complicated way to hoodwink the goblet."

Bertha shared her insight. "The Dark Lord explained that Dumbledore would see through any complicated piece of magic that truly got you entered but might overlook something simple. It wasn't worth the risk to tamper too much, either." She shrugged. "I can't say I disagree. The goblet would've probably ripped the magic right out of us if we'd tried anything more than what we did."

As Harry worked on freeing his right arm, he nodded, encouraging Bertha to continue. "Well, don't let me stop your explanation. What about the cup?"

'A simple portkey. Ludo popped it on its plinth, and I waited inside the maze and placed the Imperius on the Diggory boy after he ran in. We just needed to wait for him to deal with the other two, then you'd arrive,' Bertha Jorkins explained, her dimples making a brief appearance.

Harry sought clarification, "We? I hope you mean Ludo Bagman, but since he's quite hard to miss, and these tombstones aren't that broad, I've a nasty feeling you don't."

A chilling whisper, a familiar presence, answered from the shadows. 'We.' It was the sibilant voice of Voldemort's shade.

Harry, undeterred, continued, 'Hello, Voldemort.' He tugged his other arm free and gathered the ropes binding his chest, preparing to spring. 'Where are you?'

The wraith replied, 'You've learned some manners. No more chatting, Bertha. It's time.'

Bertha obeyed her master's command, waving Harry's wand at the cauldron. Bright flames sprang up around it, eliciting an internal protest from Harry. He shifted his weight and tensed himself, preparing to take action.

However, the fires guttered out unexpectedly, causing Bertha to frown as she looked at Harry's wand.

Voldemort's whisper was once more instructive, 'Use your own. It will not matter anymore.'

Bertha nodded, tucking Harry's wand into a pocket and withdrawing a short, thick piece of what appeared to be hazel.

The cauldron fires were rekindled, and the surface began to spark, releasing glowing orange pinpricks that scattered across the nearby gravestones, following the mist that fled from the heat of the flames.

Bertha Jorkins bent to the floor on one side of the cauldron, and Harry, seizing the opportunity, shoved the rest of the ropes over his head and tossed them behind a nearby headstone. She stood back up, holding a grotesque, hairless, scabbed object with leprous, slimy skin, and then lowered it into the cauldron.

Harry's heart pounded against his ribs as he silently pleaded, Please drown. Whatever that is, Voldemort or not, please let it drown.

'Bone of the father,' Bertha sang, her voice trembling. 'Unknowingly given, you will renew your son.'

The ground beneath Harry's feet cracked open, and a stream of white dust shot into the cauldron. Orange sparks exploded off the surface, which then turned a poisonous blue so bright it seared Harry's eyes.

'Flesh of the servant,' Bertha continued, her voice quivering. 'Willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master.' She produced a gleaming silver knife from her robes and placed her left hand on the edge of the cauldron. 'Sacrifices have to be made,' she whispered, then brought the blade down on her wrist.

Blood spurted, and Bertha screamed in agony. Her half-severed hand dangled over the potion, and Harry held his breath. Bertha, with a strangled sob, hacked her hand free, causing it to splash into the cauldron, and the liquid rippled a raging red.

Harry saw his opportunity. Now's my chance. I just need to get my wand back, then I can overpower her. Voldemort's just a wraith.

'Blood of the enemy,' Bertha continued, staggering toward Harry with blood oozing from the half-cauterized stump of her arm. 'Forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.' She lunged at him, slashing her blade, which left a line of searing pain across his cheek.

In that moment, Harry sprang to his feet and wrestled his wand from Bertha's robes. It slipped from his grasp and bounced into the mist. Bertha, rolling away from him, tossed the knife into the cauldron with a whimper. The potion flared brilliantly, casting blinding, shimmering light. Steam poured from it, forming a thick, creeping blanket of fog.

Something tall approached Harry through the mist. It was far too tall to be Bertha, and the hair was all wrong. Harry frantically searched for his wand. Where did it go? In a desperate move, he thrust his arm out to summon it.

A long-fingered, pale-skinned hand snatched his wand out of the air in front of him. Voldemort's serpentine, slitted, red eyes stared down at him, surrounded by misshapen features and translucent, blue-veined skin.

'Where are you going, Harry?' Voldemort inquired, a thin smile crossing his colorless lips.

'Back to Hogwarts?' Harry replied, trying to regain his footing.

Harry's determination burned within him. I'm stronger now. And he doesn't know. All it takes is one moment, and I can escape.

Voldemort's voice, however, was like a chilling whisper of doubt in Harry's mind. 'I don't think so. I can understand why you'd want to return there, Harry. It feels like home to begin with, a new world, a place where you belong, but then that world turns out to be no better than what you thought you'd left behind. You'll see that soon enough, if you haven't already.'

Voldemort's lips curled back in a cold grin. 'I didn't just want you here for the ritual, Harry. There were easier ways to get your blood, even if it needed to be taken against your will and still be fresh. No, you're here to bear witness to my return.' He gestured to Bertha. 'Bertha...'

'My Lord,' she murmured, stumbling forward, still clutching at her arm.

'Your arm, Bertha,' Voldemort commanded.

Bertha obediently proffered her unharmed limb towards her lord. 'Sorry, my lord,' she whispered as Voldemort pushed up her sleeve.

Harry couldn't help but arch an eyebrow in surprise. Voldemort's lips crooked in response.

Upon Bertha's forearm, a black tattoo of a snake entwined within a skull pulsed, appearing to bulge half a centimeter from the skin while writhing beneath its surface. Voldemort examined the tattoo before pressing his long, pale forefinger into Bertha's skin. Her fingers curled into a fist, and she squeezed her eyes shut in response to the pain.

A host of dark-cloaked figures materialized around them with quiet snaps and pops. Harry attempted to apparate out of the situation, picturing the chamber, but found himself rooted to the spot. There must be some kind of ward. Bertha must've set it up.

'Ah,' Voldemort sighed, 'my family returns. My friends. My so very loyal followers.'

A circle of robed and masked figures closed in around Harry and Bertha. In the midst of this gathering, Bertha Jorkins snatched her beret off the floor and stumbled away into one of the many gaps.

'It feels just as it did thirteen years ago,' Voldemort stated, his smile twisted into something cold. 'Only then, you had not betrayed me, not abandoned me, not forsaken the oaths you swore to stand beside me.' He whirled on the nearest Death Eater, identifying Lucius Malfoy. 'Lucius, you were content to continue following the old ways, having your fun at the World Cup, but never did you search for me.' Riddle ripped the silver skull mask from Malfoy's face and prowled the circle. 'Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, all of you have forgotten the words you said when I gave you your marks. You are hale, healthy, and enjoying the full comforts of your powers just as you have been for the last decade.'

'Master…' The stooped figure of Nott quailed. 'Please, master.'

'Silence,' Voldemort hissed. 'These gaps, these are where those who truly stood with me have their place. Those who never renounced me, were never disloyal; those who are in Azkaban and those who are dead.' He stalked around the inside of the circle, barefoot, his robes whispering along the ground. 'You have disappointed me, you have all disappointed me gravely...'

A trembling figure, Avery, stepped out of the circle and prostrated themselves before Voldemort. 'Please, master,' he begged. 'Forgive me, forgive all of us, we were afraid.'

'Forgive you.' Voldemort's voice turned cold as ice. 'Get up, Avery. Stand next to me, like you swore you would.' He reached out and took Avery's chin between his thumb and forefinger. 'You ask for my forgiveness? I do not forget. I do not forgive...'

Harry couldn't help but chuckle quietly, his laughter escaping through his lips.

'You find their betrayal funny, Harry?' Voldemort's slitted pupils bore into his, then he turned away. 'I suppose I might find the similarity amusing too, were I in your shoes.'

Harry, determined to maintain his focus, cleared his thoughts and concentrated on the circle of dark figures in front of him.

Voldemort released a soft laugh. 'I will have my repayment from all of you. A second chance to prove you meant the words we spoke together when you took my mark. When you have fulfilled your debt to me, we will stand alongside each other once more and remake this country in our image.' He moved back to the center of the circle. 'Perhaps, though, some of you feel that Avery was right? That there is a reason to fear. Dumbledore, that champion of the undeserving rabble, walks in your nightmares, or maybe you even fear Harry Potter...'

A sinking feeling crept back into Harry's gut, driving his stomach further and further down.

'Bertha,' Voldemort commanded, and she promptly handed him his wand. 'My wand.'

'Of course, my lord,' Bertha replied as she offered a long, pale wand to Voldemort. 'Your wand, master–'

Voldemort caught her by her severed wrist. 'You have never asked repayment for the sacrifice you made to restore me to my body; such loyalty is admirable.' A hand of shimmering steel spun from the end of his wand, attaching itself to the stump of Bertha's arm.

'Thank you, my lord,' she whispered, flexing her shining fingers. 'Thank you.'

'Back you go, Bertha,' Voldemort said. 'Your reward is not for your devotion, but for understanding that no follower of mine need ever beg what they deserve from me. Only those who suffered Azkaban rather than renounce me will be more exalted than you.'

Malfoy's face twisted into a grimace, as if he had just choked down an entire barrel of lemons.

'Now,' Voldemort turned back to Harry, spinning his ebony wand around his fingers, just as he had spun Harry's holly wand in the Chamber of Secrets. 'I shall prove to you, my friends, that there is nothing to fear, not from Dumbledore, and not from his pawn.'

A shard of ice formed in Harry's chest, but he was resolute in his thoughts. I'm nobody's pawn anymore.

Voldemort extended Harry's wand back to him, wearing a cold smile. 'Now, Harry, we duel, and you die, just as you would've done thirteen years ago had your mother's magic not interfered.'

The numbness that had clawed at Harry earlier began to resurface, seeping back into his heart like cold water overflowing from a drain. But Harry refused to give in. I don't want to die. I'm not going back to that. I refuse to disappear. I refuse to die. I refuse to lose.

Voldemort stepped back to the circle's edge, and Harry mirrored his movements, his weight poised on the balls of his feet. Voldemort inclined his head, folding at the waist.

Harry reciprocated, throwing a quick glance at the glowing Triwizard trophy. Is it still a portkey? Will it take me back?

'Crucio,' Voldemort whispered, and the incantation hung heavily in the air.

Harry threw himself to one side, narrowly avoiding a second red curse that hissed through the air. I can survive. I can escape.

His wand burst into warmth, the heat flooding up his arm. 'Osassula,' he murmured, sending the curse at Voldemort.

Voldemort casually batted it aside, and Harry unleashed a hail of curses at him.

'Such dark magic, Harry,' Voldemort commented as he circled around the edge, deftly swatting every bone-splintering curse and hex into the ground around him. 'What would that old fool Dumbledore say?'

'There's no such thing as dark or light,' Harry replied. 'There's–'

'Only power,' Voldemort finished, a cold grin spreading across his lips. 'I did not expect you to listen, Harry, when I told you that three years ago.'

'I didn't listen.' Harry threw every spell he knew at Voldemort and steeled himself. 'There's only intent.'

Harry bathed the circle of Death Eaters in fiendfyre, and the cloaked figures scrambled out of the way as tombstones, grass, and even the cauldron were consumed. Voldemort's serpentine eyes studied him through the hungry, red flame, even as the fiendfyre twisted back around his wand and swirled into a serpent's maw.

Nope. I am not being killed by my own spell. Harry's wand flared red at the tip, and the fiendfyre roiled down into the ground, dissipating in a wave of searing heat.

'Perhaps,' Voldemort murmured. 'There was something to that prophecy after all.'

Prophecy?

'If you were anyone else, save that old fool Dumbledore, I would offer you a place within my inner circle, Harry,' Voldemort stated, gesturing to the ring of Death Eaters reforming around them. Some of them, to Harry's pride, sported scorched robes and small burns.

'I'm already within your inner circle,' Harry responded, pointing at them all with the tip of his wand.

'Indeed you are,' Voldemort conceded, his lips curling in amusement. Then the pale wand flashed up, and the graveyard dissolved into a hail of curses.

Harry threw up his shield charm, but it shattered like puddle ice beneath a boot as the curses hissed past him. Tombstones disintegrated, and a red beam of light struck him in the stomach. Searing pain wracked his body, and he crumpled into a ball.

Voldemort lowered his wand, and the cruciatus faded. 'A taste of the pain I endured that night at Godric's Hollow, Harry,' he taunted.

Harry rolled himself over and pushed himself to his feet.

'Again, Harry?' Voldemort sneered as he stalked back and forth before him. 'For the pain I suffered at your hands when you killed my servant Quirrell, perhaps?'

Harry's yew wand came up.

'Papilionis,' Harry muttered.

A swarm of butterflies curled out of the air, and a handful of them veered out of the swirling demi-sphere, causing Voldemort's cruciatus curses to burst into wisps of black smoke.

'Avada Kedavra,' Voldemort hissed.

Another wisp of black smoke drifted through the air between them.

Harry flicked his wand, transfiguring a single butterfly into a steel spike, and sent it flying across the circle at Voldemort. He side-stepped, sneering, and the steel fragment hissed past him.

A small gasp of pain echoed from behind Voldemort. Bertha Jorkins collapsed to her knees, clutching her neck as bright crimson blood spurted out past her shining, silver fingers. Her beret slipped off her head and flopped to the dirt. 'Master,' she pleaded, her voice strained. Great gouts of blood drenched the left side of her robes and spattered on the ground. 'Master, please.'

Voldemort's eyes never left Harry.

'I told you,' Harry said.

Bertha giggled, gasped, then blinked once and fell still.

She's the third person I've killed.

'Now, you're no different from us, Harry,' Voldemort remarked, glancing down at Bertha's lifeless body. 'Dumbledore would tell you you've stained your soul.'

A shiver of ice ran down Harry's spine. The glowing red eyes of the boggart in his past loomed in his memory, and something stirred in the void beneath the cold. Ink-black eyes rolled open and focused, their slits as slim and sharp as swords.

'She's the third servant of yours I've killed, Voldemort,' Harry declared. 'I felt no pity for her, and I will feel no pity for you.' His wand snapped up, summoning the portkey cup to him. He caught it in his left hand, but all he felt was cold metal.

'Why would we make it a two-way portkey, Harry?' Voldemort's mirth made his crimson eyes glow. 'Who did you think we were going to be sending back?'

'Avada Kedavra.'

Bright green light flashed from Harry's wand.

Voldemort apparated a few meters to his right with a soft snap, and the killing curse spattered against one of the stubs of the tombstones.

He apparated. Bertha's dead. She was the one who made the wards. She's dead. The wards are gone.

'So you do have the intent to kill,' Voldemort hissed. 'Who then of my followers have you killed, for whom else's sake shall I kill you?'

Harry weighed his options and summoned what remained of his magic to the surface. 'Barty Crouch and Peter Pettigrew,' he replied, then threw a handful of bone-splintering curses at Voldemort.

'Pettigrew, perhaps,' Voldemort conceded, deftly deflecting Harry's curses with a shining silver shield composed of thousands of tiny serpents. 'He was a poor wizard, occasionally useful, but mostly pathetic. Barty Crouch, on the other hand, was talented. No fourteen-year-old could have beaten him in a duel, even after the time he spent in Azkaban. How do you claim to?'

'Like this.' Harry slashed his wand across his chest toward Voldemort. A hazy basilisk maw shimmered through the air and slammed into Voldemort's shield. It shattered like glass, sending him staggering backward and down to his knees.

Time to go. Harry clawed the rest of his magic out and seized hold of the first place he thought of. Silver hair and blue eyes danced before the eye of his mind.

'Legilimens,' Voldemort spat as Harry twisted.

Voldemort's thoughts crashed into his own, tearing the intent and emotion of the spell he'd cast from him. Harry struggled to think of the circle of ink, but Voldemort latched onto the feeling of the basilisk spell and followed it like a piece of rope. Eleven hollow years of empty memories with the Dursleys flashed before Harry's eyes, but with them came moments he didn't recall. An orphanage filled with sneering children, disdainful peers who abhorred the hated world he'd left behind.

I was nothing once, too. A familiar, smooth, high voice welled up among his thoughts.

Silver flashed before Harry's eyes, then he smashed into something so hard the world swirled to a halt, bursting into darkness with an explosion of bright, white sparks.

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