Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this story and I make no money out of it.
The Cemetery
Harry landed with a jolt in the Riddle Cemetery, the cold wind nipping at his face. Immediately, he felt that something was amiss. The air seemed to buzz with ominous energy, and Harry could sense the oppressive anti-apparition wards closing around the cemetery like an invisible cage.
Suddenly, two magic suppression handcuffs erupted from the ground, snaking their way around his wrists and clamping tight with the sound of metal on metal. The cuffs were cold and heavy, anchoring him to the spot.
"What?" Harry exclaimed, straining against the restraints. He didn't understand why this was different from the other time he'd been here – the last disastrous encounter with Voldemort still fresh in his memory.
Gritting his teeth, he channelled every ounce of his formidable willpower into breaking free. Muscles tensed and sweat beaded on his forehead as he pulled and tugged, his heart hammering in his chest. Even with all his magical prowess, the handcuffs remained stubbornly resistant.
"Come on, you bloody things!" He spat out.
Frustration was mounting inside him. Had he been too confident? Had he underestimated the situation? His thoughts raced through the possibilities, searching for a weakness, a chink in the armour of these infernal restraints.
"Stop struggling, Potter," croaked a voice Harry recognised all too well. It was Peter Pettigrew, emerging from the gloom with a bundle of blankets cradled in his arms. The hair on the back of Harry's neck prickled as he knew what – or rather, who – those blankets concealed.
"Let me go, Wormtail!" Harry demanded, his voice betraying a hint of desperation. Pettigrew flinched but didn't comply, instead gazing at Harry nervously, like a cornered rat. "Do it now, or I'll make sure you regret it!"
"Empty threats, boy," came the cold, ethereal voice from within the blankets. Voldemort. Harry's blood ran cold, but his resolve hardened. He couldn't let the Dark Lord win again. Not this time.
"Your attempts to free yourself are futile," continued Voldemort, his tone dripping with malice. "You cannot escape the bonds that hold you."
"Watch me," Harry spat, renewing his efforts to break free. The metal bit into his wrists, but he barely felt the pain. His mind raced, searching for a way out, even as his body strained against the unyielding shackles.
"Such spirit," Voldemort mused, a hint of amusement in his otherwise chilling voice. "But ultimately pointless. You cannot change your fate, Harry Potter."
Harry's heart pounded in his ears, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but he wouldn't give up. He'd come too far to surrender now.
Voldemort's laugh slithered through the air like the hiss of a snake, sending a shiver down Harry's spine. "I must admit, Potter," he said, his voice dripping with malice, "your performance in the tournament was... impressive. It forced me to take certain precautions – but fear not, once I have my body back, your end will come swiftly."
"Right, because it's worked out so well for you before," Harry retorted, his voice straining against the effort of his continued resistance. A flicker of anger and defiance blazed in his eyes as he stared down the wraith-like figure of Voldemort.
"Bold words from a captive boy," Voldemort sneered. "But tonight, it is you who shall perish, not I."
"Let's just see about that," Harry shot back, gritting his teeth as he tried to channel every ounce of magic within him into breaking free.
"Enough!" Voldemort snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Pettigrew, prepare everything. It's time to put an end to this tiresome struggle."
Pettigrew raised his wand, and a flash of red light filled the air. The world turned black as Harry crumpled to the ground, the fight suddenly ripped from his body.
Harry's eyes fluttered open, the cold air biting at his skin. He tried to move but found himself restrained by chains that looped around his wrists and torso, anchoring him to the tombstone of Tom Riddle. A sense of foreboding washed over him as he surveyed the scene before him.
"The Master will be back," Pettigrew mumbled while standing near a large cauldron, its purple liquid bubbling violently with the fire raging beneath it.
Harry jerked against the chains binding him. The magic-suppression enchantment on the chains dulled his magical abilities, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
As the flames danced below the cauldron, Harry's mind raced through the differences between this timeline and his last. Cedric was still alive, a small victory that brought little comfort in these dire circumstances. But in his haste to save the Hufflepuff, had Harry made a grave mistake?
"Should've known Crouch would rat me out," he thought, scowling at his own carelessness. He'd never been one for strategy or cunning, but now, more than ever, Harry cursed his inability to think ahead.
He knew that his own power alone would not be enough to beat Voldemort. The Dark Lord had taken precautions, and Harry would need to find a way to catch him off guard if he stood any chance of victory.
Harry's heart raced as Pettigrew approached the cauldron, cradling the hairless, decrepit baby form of Voldemort in his arms. As the rat-like man lifted the wraith above the boiling liquid, Harry stared in horror. He knew what was coming next.
Pettigrew let go of the wraith of Voldemort. The hunting form fell into the cauldron and was claimed by the purple boiling potion.
The flames under the cauldron roared like a wild beast as Pettigrew began to chant in a language that sent shivers down Harry's spine. The words seemed to reach into the very core of his being, and he fought against the urge to succumb to despair.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given," Pettigrew intoned as he waved his wand. A gnarled, ancient bone emerged from the earth beneath Harry's feet. It floated towards the cauldron, suspended by an invisible tether, and then dropped unceremoniously into the purple liquid with a splash.
Pettigrew was visibly shaking as he held his left hand over the boiling liquid. With a flick of his wand, he sliced through flesh and bone, severing his own hand. "Flesh – of the servant – w-willingly offered – you will – revive – your master." The detached hand plummeted into the potion, eliciting an ear-piercing scream from Pettigrew.
As Pettigrew continued the ritual, Harry's thoughts whirred like a Quidditch player seeking the elusive Golden Snitch. He had faced Voldemort before, but not like this – not with the Dark Lord on high alert and his own magical reserves bound by the suppression cuffs. He'd need to find a way to catch Voldemort off-guard if he was to have any hope of surviving this encounter.
Pettigrew, still shaking from his own self-inflicted wound, approached Harry with a sinister glint in his beady eyes. He had placed his wand in his pocket and now brandished a wickedly sharp dagger, its blade gleaming in the flickering firelight. The tremor in Pettigrew's grip did nothing to reassure Harry as the point of the dagger was pushed against his forearm.
"Steady on, Wormtail," Harry quipped despite the fear gnawing at his insides. "Wouldn't want you to slip and accidentally miss, now would we?"
"Silence!" Pettigrew hissed, pressing harder until the cold steel pierced Harry's skin.
The pain was sharp and visceral, causing Harry to clench his teeth and inhale sharply through them. His mind raced, analysing any potential way out of this dire situation. But with his magic suppressed and his body bound, options were scarce.
As Harry's blood welled up around the dagger, Pettigrew's eyes seemed to grow even beadier, fixated on the crimson liquid that coated the blade. With a final press, he withdrew the weapon, satisfied with the amount collected.
He held the dagger aloft, careful not to spill a single drop of Harry's lifeblood. As he walked, his gaze remained locked on the red-stained blade, captivated by its morbid allure.
Pettigrew's trembling hand hovered over the cauldron as he delicately shook the dagger, allowing droplets of Harry's blood to fall into the boiling potion. "B-blood of the enemy... forcibly taken," he stuttered, his voice quivering with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
The moment the crimson liquid touched the surface, the potion transformed into a bone-white colour, sending tendrils of thick vapour spiralling upwards. The sinister mist seemed to take on a life of its own, twisting and writhing around the scene like a macabre dance.
As the flames beneath the cauldron roared higher, their intensity increasing, the heat licked at Harry's face, making him wince. The cauldron trembled, its metallic frame shuddering under the pressure of the bubbling potion within. An unsettling, guttural sound echoed from the depths of the boiling concoction.
"Here we go again," Harry muttered to himself, bracing for the inevitable confrontation. His heart thundered against his ribcage, a relentless reminder of his vulnerability in the face of the Dark Lord. In the back of his mind, memories of past battles stirred, sharp and vivid, urging him to remain vigilant and resourceful.
"Ready for a rematch, Tom?" Harry whispered under his breath, his eyes darting around the graveyard, searching for any potential advantage he could exploit.
As the cauldron's trembling increased, Harry steeled himself for what would come next – the resurrection of the most feared Dark Wizard in history. With a deafening explosion, the cauldron erupted, spewing forth a torrent of thick, white smoke.
The swirling cloud gradually began to dissipate, and a chilling sight emerged: the silhouette of Lord Voldemort. His body was thin, pale, and bald – an eerily serpent-like figure that would haunt even the most steadfast of souls. As his red eyes pierced through the dissipating haze, Harry couldn't help but feel a shudder run down his spine at the sight of this monstrous embodiment of evil.
"Pettigrew, robe me," said Voldemort, his voice a cold and emotionless hiss. He floated above the blackened spot where the cauldron once stood, arms extended in a sinister T-shape.
Trembling like a leaf in a gale, Pettigrew approached the terrifying figure before him, clutching the dark robes in his sweaty hands. "Y-yes, my lord," he stammered.
As Pettigrew finished dressing his master, the robe seemed to come alive, morphing and hugging Voldemort's skeletal form, covering him in an ethereal, shade-like garment that only served to enhance his nightmarish aura.
"Give me my wand, Wormtail," Voldemort commanded, extending his right hand towards his grovelling servant. Pettigrew hesitated for a moment, fear glinting in his beady eyes, but then placed the white yew wand into Voldemort's outstretched hand.
Voldemort wrapped his long fingers around the wand, closing his eyes as if in ecstasy. The power he had been denied for so long now coursed through his veins once more, and Harry could almost see it crackling in the air around them. Opening his eyes, Voldemort turned his crimson gaze towards Harry, and a sick, unnatural smile twisted his snakelike features.
"Welcome, Mr Potter, to the dawn of a new era," hissed Voldemort, his voice cold as ice and sharp as daggers.
Harry watched in horror, his nerves stretched taut as piano wires while the embers of anger still smouldered within him. He looked at Voldemort with all the disdain he could muster, trying desperately to convince himself that he could do this, that he could face the Dark Lord one final time.
Harry drew on the memories of those he had lost, allowing their love to shore up his courage. But as he met Voldemort's gaze, a serpent's nest of fear coiled in the pit of Harry's stomach, threatening to swallow his resolve whole.