Chapter Text
Amidst the spinning colours and noises, Harry curses colourfully.
He knew something like this would happen. Given his luck and unbelievable propensity to get dragged into all kinds of bullshit, any hope that the tournament would end on a peaceful note was just wishful, hopeless thinking.
After what seems like an eternity, he is unceremoniously spit out onto something hard. When his head stops spinning and he can see relatively clearly again, Harry gingerly pushes himself up to look around.
He is no longer in the Quidditch pitch, or Hogwarts for that matter.
All around him, in the darkness of the night and nocturnal mist rolling in silent waves, are the headstones of the deceased.
A graveyard. The resting place of those who have left the mortal world behind.
And he is not the only one here.
Harry hears shuffling, footsteps approaching him. He tries to get to his feet, to see who it is -
"It's him."
Harry freezes. He recognises that voice.
However, before he could force his body to move again, another voice, one quieter, raspier, but no less deadly, like a weakened snake but still with the capability to strike and poison, says, "Stun him."
The spell hits him before he can even reach his wand.
For the second time in less than a minute, Harry's body hits the cold, damp ground. His body is entirely frozen, as if he'd been turned to stone. But his mind remains conscious and alert, aware of what is happening, even though he couldn't move, nor speak, for that matter.
He feels his body being forcibly moved, without any care or concern, and tied to a large headstone, more a memorial statue than a grave marker. From how roughly his assailant - Wormtail, Harry's mind frigidly provided - manhandled him to the base of the statue, and tied him to it with some rope, Harry's head feels like it had been put through the blender, and the resulting soup frozen then into a block and duct-taped to the nearest telephone pole. Even so, the gravity of the situation pulls Harry's conscious thoughts back in order, even as he remains physically restrained. He doesn't hear what Wormtail and the…creature that he was holding in the bundle are saying. He chooses not to, not when he is trying to assess his current predicament.
At that moment, he hears the creature hiss, "Take his blood!"
As Wormtail approaches, Harry's gaze flits to the side. About a few paces away, he sees a cauldron, large enough that a fully-grown man can fit inside easily if he curled into a foetal position. 'A potion', his mind provides, as Wormtail crouches near him. For some reason, despite being immobilised and unable to prevent what is coming, Harry does not attempt to resist. Even the sudden appearance of the knife in Wormtail's hand doesn't send set off alarm bells. His mind, paradoxically it seems, works his instincts into remaining calm. As Wormtail cuts Harry, even as the pain burns his nerves, his mind all but orders him to endure, not to resist, let the traitor take his blood, almost as if Harry willingly gave it to Wormtail.
He watches as Wormtail scurries back to the cauldron, pours the blood into it, and, with great hesitation, proceeds to cut off his own hand. Harry takes vindictive pleasure at seeing the traitor scream and cry in pain, grasping his stump at the wrist, blood spurting out from the severed arteries. It takes a minute or so, with more hurried, hissing cries from the creature, for Wormtail to pull himself together long enough to, with his remaining hand, pick up the bundle, and uttering the final lines of the incantation to complete the potion, drops the creature into the cauldron. A few seconds pass, before a great pillow of steam bursts from the cauldron, rising into the night sky, followed closely by a loud noise, not unlike a geyser erupting. Harry sees something emerge from the cauldron, vaguely human-like, but almost like a skeleton at the same time. Leathery, scaly skin stretched taut over the bones, completely bald and hunched over, the being turns around, and Harry's stomach twists in a disgusted grimace.
It doesn't have a nose, only two slits as nostrils. The leathery texture of the skin is especially pronounced on its face, bringing angry-red eyes into starker focus. If anything, the being looks like a cross between some ghastly snake humanoid and a walking skeleton. A fitting description, for a monster like Voldemort.
"Wormtail!" its voice remains raspy, "Robe me!"
Harry watches, still immobilised, as Wormtail produces a black robe from somewhere and hurriedly dresses his master. Voldemort then turns to the sniveling man, "Give me your hand."
Wormtail, still trembling, likely from a mix of fear and blind awe, presents his left hand.
"The other one!" Voldemort snaps impatiently.
Yelping, Wormtail presents the stump. Pushing the sleeve upwards, Voldemort reveals the Dark Mark on Wormtail's arm, and with the wand that Wormtail used to stun Harry, he jabs the tip into the mark. Wormtail wails in pain as a crackling energy fills the air, and soon after, robed figures bearing Death Eater masks begin popping into existence, one after the other. By the time the last one apparates into the graveyard, there must be several dozen of them, all gathered in this space. Upon seeing Voldemort, they gasp, and hurriedly prostrate themselves before him.
Voldemort just sneers coldly, "You lot are so quick to show yourselves now, where were you for all these years? You all know that I have achieved what was impossible!"
Harry doesn't envy the Death Eaters, all stumbling over themselves with excuses and pathetic attempts to butter themselves up to Voldemort.
"Silence!"
The cacophony of noises ceases at once, and the Death Eaters quickly prostrating themselves in fear, several of them visibly shaking.
"All of you disappoint me. None of you sought me out, unlike Wormtail and my other dear servant." Voldemort turns to the snivelling traitor. Without another word, he grabs Wormtail's stump, and with the same wand that he used to summon the Death Eaters, he jabs the end right into the stump itself. Wormtail cries out in pain, as an prosthetic hand made of silver appears to grow from where flesh and bone crudely ends. Voldemort pulls the wand away, and Wormtail crumples to the ground, snivelling and sniffling, whimpering thank-yous over and over like the pathetic rat he has always been.
"I will personally deal with you all later, now though…" Voldemort turns to Harry, who has to physically restrain himself from recoiling at the sheer ugliness aimed at his direction, "Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, at long last…we meet in-person."
Harry inwardly grits his teeth to avoid saying something snarky. Voldemort is armed, and the last thing he needs is to get subjected to any of the Unforgivables, the Cruciatus especially.
"You defied me three times, just like your mudblood mother before you. Her protection ensured that I could never lay a finger on you, but now…" Voldemort cackles, before jamming a bony finger right onto Harry's scar. A shock of pain sears through every nerve in Harry's body, and there is nothing stopping the visible wince on Harry's face, "I can finally touch you!"
Voldemort steps away, leaving Harry gasping for air, "I have waited for this moment with great impatience, to finish off what I had set out to do all those years ago! No more waiting, no more cowering as a weak, defenseless wraith with no body! Tonight, you all," he sweeps Wormtail's wand towards his Death Eaters, making them all flinch, cry out, and cower in their knickers, "will witness the beginnings of my rise. The moment where this land will finally learn its place and bow down to my might! And I will start," Voldemort turns the wand back towards Harry, "by dealing with the one who defied me, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Die."
Voldemort snaps to Wormtail, "Untie him!"
"Y-Yes, my lord!"
Still spasming from the pain inflicted upon him, Harry doesn't react when the traitorous rat moves to untie him from the gravestone. When he can move again, Harry makes his displeasure known by pushing Wormtail away, sending the snivelling man squeaking as he tumbles off to the side.
"Now, we bow," Voldemort hisses gleefully.
Harry says nothing, though he does bow. He really doesn't want to, but not doing so would just have the bastard inflict more pain on him.
The sneering grin on Voldemort's snake-like face widens menacingly, "And now, we duel."
Harry barely hears Voldemort scream the beginning of the killing curse. The rage bubbling inside his gut reaches boiling point, threatening to spill over. Any chance of a normal childhood or upbringing was stolen by the monster aiming his wand at him. Even embracing his magical heritage was constantly fraught by attempts made on his life and safety. In all honesty, Harry never expected this year to be any different, but even with the farce that was the tournament, he had numerous periods where he could breathe a little easier, when the anxiety that hummed just shy of his consciousness receded enough, where he felt that he could genuinely smile, all because of his relationship with Viktor, his steadfast friendship with Hermione, and the new bonds he created with Fleur and Madame Maxime.
All of that, though, is being threatened by Voldemort, the literal bane of his existence. The monster who would not stop pursuing him, until he achieved what he set out to do on that Halloween night nearly 14 years before.
No. No more.
Harry has had enough.
He doesn't let Voldemort finish.
Harry snaps his wand up, channels all of his rage and hatred towards the tip, and fires a Crucio at Voldemort.
No one, least of all the dark lord, saw it coming. The Unforgivable hits Voldemort square in the chest. A choked scream of pain unlike anyone present has heard before escapes his throat, and he stumbles to the ground. Several Death Eaters start to move towards their resurrected master, but Voldemort pushes himself up before they can get close.
"You -"
Harry doesn't care that he cast such a dark curse. His rage boils over, flooding him with white-hot fury and vengeance. He fires spells and hexes in rapid succession, caring not for what they are, or what damage they cause. Voldemort is pushed into the defensive, blocking and dodging Harry's spells with frenzied speed. He can barely cast more killing curses under such a lightning onslaught, those that he could cast either being intercepted by Harry's spells, or dodged entirely.
Several Death Eaters rush to aid their master, but Harry, his eyes blazing, screams with the power of a bell ringing with a final, decisive toll, "BOMBARDA!"
Later on, the residents of the nearby village of Little Hangleton, who had been sleeping soundly and completely unaware of what was transpiring in their local graveyard, would report to local authorities of a massive explosion that shook the very foundations of their homes and sent them scrambling out of their beds. A subsequent investigation traced the purported explosion to the graveyard, and while the ground was noticeably scorched, and many gravestones also had similar burn marks, had been blown over, or destroyed entirely, the authorities could not discern who the culprit was, what their motive was, or lack thereof. The case would be later closed as an act of mischief by out-of-town hooligans, and the damage cleaned up as much as possible.
But that was for later. In the present, the moment the incantation left Harry's lips, the night air is rocked by the biggest and loudest explosion he has ever created, more powerful than the one he created during the Quidditch World Cup attack. The Death Eaters caught too close to the explosion are promptly blasted into smithereens, leaving behind nothing but scraps of black fabric, pieces of bone and splatters of blood. Those further behind are blown off their feet by the shockwave, thrown to the ground along with numerous gravestones around them. Several are knocked unconscious, while other sustain injuries like broken bones and concussions.
Voldemort barely stays upright, courtesy of a powerful shielding charm. Hissing angrily, he fires a cutting hex at Harry, who, still reeling from the blowback of such an overpowered Bombarda, is unable to fully dodge in time. The hex swipes against his right arm, tearing open the skin and spraying blood. Harry cries out in pain, stumbling backwards as his left hand grasps his injured arm.
"Enough playing around!" Voldemort snaps, "You will die here tonight, Harry Potter! Avada -"
Suddenly, the dark lord is snatched upwards by a scaled jaw with razor-sharp teeth.
Harry barely looks up when the sound of crunching bone and flesh being ripped apart reaches his ears. For a moment, he thinks he is hallucinating, a result of the pain from his arm being sliced open by the cutting hex. Understandable, because how else could he explain the sight of a very pissed off mother Hungarian Horntail chewing up Voldemort into an organic, bloodied mush and swallowing it whole?
It is not a hallucination, however. That much is made very clear by the Horntail turning her protective ire upon the Death Eaters, or at least those trying to get to their feet.
Harry can only watch, jaw hanging open dumbly as the Death Eaters are struck by a blast of fire so fast, they had no chance of escape, by foot or magic. So hot are the flames, the Death Eaters are instantly flash-cooked into charcoal, no time for the pain to even reach their brains. Some do try to run, or crawl away, given the state of their injuries, but the Horntail comes for them too, cremating the rest alive, leaving nothing but charred pieces of bone, almost indistinguishable with the burnt ground where they fell.
Then finally, she turns to Wormtail, utterly frozen with fright, and a noticeable puddle pooling in between his feet. The Horntail doesn't even deign to waste her breath on the snivelling coward. She just swings her tail, and bats him into a nearby gravestone.
The shattering of the carved stone monument, and the very wet-sounding noise that Wormtail makes as he hits the dry ground, is the final point of realisation for Harry.
His wide eyes stare at Wormtail's body, slumped over, and unmoving. He can't tell if the man is still breathing, let alone going to get back up again. And he doesn't get the chance to, not when a familiar voice calls out to him, "Master Harry Potter!"
Despite the pain in his arm and the ringing in his ears, Harry almost falls to his knees with relief, "Dobby!"
The house-elf hops down from the Horntail's back, and rushes over to Harry, "Master Harry Potter, Dobby is so glad to know we were not too late!"
Bending down to return the house-elf's hug, Harry asks, "How did you know where I was?"
"Mother dragon knew!" Dobby replies excitedly, "Mother dragon sensed yous being swiped away by bad magic artifact! She called for Dobby, so Dobby flew with Mother dragon to search for Master Harry Potter!"
At this, the Horntail trudges forward, "~ I was so worried. I feared that we would be too late. ~" She looks over to Harry's arm, and huffs out in shock, "~ You are bleeding. ~"
Dobby sees the wound, and gasps, "Master Harry Potter is hurt! Dobby must treat yous immediately!"
Placing his knobbly hand on the wound, the house-elf mutters an incantation. A blue glow lights up over the wound, and Harry winces as the skin is stitched back together, stopping any more blood from spilling out. Even though the cut wasn't deep, he was starting to feel a little light-headed from the blood loss and from over-exerting his magic earlier.
"Thanks Dobby. C-Can…we get out of here?"
"Right away! Dobby's magic only do so much. Master Harry Potter needs healer too!"
"~ Get on my back, my nestling, ~" the Horntail orders, "~ We will return post-haste. ~"
With help from Dobby, Harry climbs onto the dragon's back, leaning back on one of the bigger spikes. Almost absently, Harry spies the Triwizard Cup some distance away, still lying on its side from where it fell. Harry summons the cup towards him, catching it deftly and setting it in between his legs.
Dobby sees Wormtail's body, and sensing that the man isn't yet dead, he snaps his fingers, and magically lifts the unconscious rat off the ground. Dobby doesn't put Wormtail on the Horntail's back, knowing the dragon wouldn't appreciate such a disgusting pest on her scales. Instead, Dobby keeps Wormtail levitating, like a child holding a balloon, as the Horntail unfurls her wings, and takes off into the night sky, unseen by the residents of the nearby village, who are just about to start investigating the massive explosion that shattered what was supposed to be a quiet, peaceful night.
To Be Continued.