Chapter 17: Party at the Graveyard

The emerald flames in the Slytherin common room fireplace danced and flickered, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. A low hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. It was the evening before the Third Task, and the atmosphere was thick with a mixture of anticipation and nervous energy.

Vincent sat sprawled on one of the plush armchairs, his gaze fixed on the intricate tapestry depicting a battle between a basilisk and a griffin, but his mind was far from the mythical creatures woven into the fabric. He was replaying the memory of their visit to the maze a month prior, Dumbledore's solemn pronouncements about its challenges and dangers echoing in his ears.

He remembered the way the towering hedges, thick with magic and malice, had seemed to pulse with a dark energy, their tangled branches reaching out like grasping claws. He'd sensed the power within those walls, the echoes of ancient magic and the whispers of long-forgotten secrets. It was a place of both beauty and danger, a labyrinth designed to test the limits of both skill and courage.

He felt a hand on his arm, a gentle but insistent touch that pulled him back to the present. He looked up to see Daphne, her blue eyes filled with a mixture of concern and affection. 

"You're miles away, Vincent," she said, her voice soft but firm. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Blaise, perched on the arm of the chair next to Vincent, leaned closer, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Yeah, mate," he drawled. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or maybe a particularly gruesome boggart."

Theodore, his gaze fixed on a chessboard where he was systematically dismantling Blaise's defenses, added, "Perhaps he's pondering the philosophical implications of facing a Hungarian Horntail in a poorly lit maze."

Vincent chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "I assure you, my thoughts are far less… dramatic."

"Right," Blaise said, his tone skeptical. "And I suppose those furrowed brows and that thousand-yard stare are just part of your new… brooding champion… look?"

Daphne shot Blaise a warning glance. "Leave him be, Blaise. He's probably just nervous about tomorrow."

She turned back to Vincent, her voice softening. "Are you nervous, Vincent?"

He met her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in his blue eyes. "I am," he admitted, his voice low but steady. "But it's not a bad thing. It keeps me sharp, focused. Ready."

"That's my champion," Blaise said, clapping Vincent on the shoulder with a force that nearly sent him sprawling. "Always thinking, always planning. Leaving nothing to chance."

Vincent, rose from his chair, stretching his arms, feeling the runes beneath his skin tingle with a barely perceptible warmth. He'd spent the past few months pushing himself to his limits, training his body and his magic until they moved with a precision and power he hadn't known he possessed. He was ready. He had to be.

"Well," he said, his voice regaining its usual brisk efficiency, "I'm going for a walk. Clear my head. Need anything from the kitchens?"

"Just a little bit of luck," Blaise said, grinning. "And maybe one of those treacle tarts. They're my lucky charm."

Daphne rolled her eyes, her smile widening. "Don't encourage him, Vincent. The last time Blaise ate a treacle tart before a Quidditch match, he ended up headfirst in a dungheap."

"It was a strategic maneuver!" Blaise protested, but his indignant sputtering was drowned out by Theodore's quiet laughter.

Vincent shook his head, a smile playing on his lips as he left the common room, the warmth of the fire and the camaraderie of his friends a comforting memory against the chill of the castle corridors. He didn't need luck. He had a plan. And he intended to see it through.

The castle kitchens were a bustling haven of warmth and tantalizing aromas. Vincent, navigating the maze of bustling house-elves and overflowing platters, felt a sense of calm settle over him. He inhaled the comforting scent of baking bread and simmering stews, a grounding reminder of simple pleasures amidst the mounting tension of the approaching task.

He spotted Hermione near a massive copper cauldron, her back to him, her bushy hair illuminated by the flickering flames beneath the pot. She was talking to a group of house-elves, her voice earnest, her gestures animated.

He hesitated for a moment, debating whether to turn around and make a discreet exit. He didn't particularly relish the thought of another heated debate on elf rights.

But his feet, as if guided by some unseen force, carried him towards her.

Hermione turned, startled by his approach, a stack of freshly baked cookies tumbling from her arms and scattering across the flagstone floor.

"Vincent!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "I didn't… expect to see you here."

He bent down, gathering the fallen cookies with practiced efficiency. "Just came for a midnight snack," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "And you, Granger? Late-night baking?"

"I was… talking to the elves," she said, her gaze darting around the kitchen as if ensuring their privacy. "About… things."

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. "Things?"

"Important things," she replied, her tone a touch defensive. "About their rights, their welfare, their—"

"Their insatiable need to polish silver and iron socks?" he finished for her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She glared at him, her Gryffindor spirit flaring. "You know what I mean, Vincent."

He sighed, placing the last of the cookies back on her stack. "Look, Granger, we've had this conversation before. I respect your… passion… for this cause. But you're fighting a losing battle. The elves… they enjoy their work. They thrive on servitude. It's in their nature."

"That's what they've been taught to believe," Hermione countered, her voice firm. "They've been conditioned to accept their lot, to believe that they're nothing more than servants. But I know they're capable of so much more."

"Perhaps," Vincent said, his voice softening a little. He'd seen the dedication of the house-elves, their tireless efforts to keep Hogwarts running smoothly. He'd even developed a grudging respect for their efficiency, their unwavering loyalty. But their servitude, while seemingly voluntary, was also a product of centuries of tradition, of a magical hierarchy that he intended to dismantle. Just not… yet.

"So," Hermione said, changing the subject, her gaze fixed on the runes that peeked out from beneath his sleeves, "Are you ready for tomorrow?"

He nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"Harry's… nervous," she admitted, her voice dropping slightly.

"Good," Vincent said, his tone matter-of-fact. "A little fear keeps you sharp."

Hermione frowned, her brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That's a rather… cold… way of looking at it, don't you think?"

He shrugged, a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes. "Efficiency trumps sentiment, Granger. It's a lesson you'd do well to learn."

He hesitated, then decided to address the elephant in the room.

"Are you still mad at me about… the Yule Ball?" he asked, his voice a little rougher than usual.

Hermione's cheeks flushed a delicate pink. "I… It's not… I mean…" she stammered, her gaze darting around the kitchen as if seeking an escape route.

"Spit it out, Granger," he said, his lips curving into a slight smile. "You're allowed to be annoyed with me."

She met his gaze, a flicker of something that might have been hurt in her eyes. "It's not just that," she said, her voice soft. "It's… everything. The way you carry yourself, the power you wield, the darkness… I'm not sure I understand you, Vincent. And that… frightens me."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers as he handed her a fallen cookie. "Fear can be a powerful motivator, Granger," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. "But it can also be a prison. Don't let it control you."

He turned to leave, the scent of baking bread and Hermione's unspoken fears lingering in the air. The Third Task awaited. And with it, a confrontation that would change everything.

___________________________________________________________________

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Quidditch pitch, painting the manicured grass in hues of gold and emerald. A restless energy buzzed in the air, a palpable tension that seemed to crackle with anticipation and a hint of dread. The stands, packed with students, teachers, and Ministry officials, hummed with a cacophony of whispers and excited chatter.

Vincent stood with the other champions near the entrance to the maze, his heart beating a steady rhythm against his ribs, a counterpoint to the chaotic symphony of the crowd. He was a stark contrast to his fellow competitors. Krum, his brow furrowed in concentration, wore his usual Durmstrang robes, their dark fabric a reflection of his brooding intensity. Fleur, a vision of elegance in a pale blue gown, her silvery-blonde hair braided into an elaborate crown, stood poised and aloof, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the towering hedges. Harry, looking decidedly out of his depth in his Hogwarts robes, fidgeted nervously, his green eyes darting about as if searching for an escape route.

And then there was Vincent.

He wore a pair of black running shorts that stopped just above his knees, a loose green t-shirt that allowed him to hide his gun strapped to his back, and some modern running shoes, He'd considered wearing his usual black hoodie, but the day was unseasonably warm, and he didn't want to risk overheating.

He could feel the weight of countless eyes upon him, a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and a hint of disapproval. He'd caught whispers as he'd walked onto the pitch, murmurs of "What in Merlin's name is he wearing?" and "Is that… Muggle clothing?" He ignored them, his expression a mask of cool indifference. He wasn't here to impress. He was here to win.

The Weird Sisters, perched precariously on a makeshift stage near the judges' platform, struck up a raucous tune, their magical instruments blaring a discordant melody that did little to soothe the nerves of the assembled champions. Vincent ignored the music, his focus shifting between Krum and "Mad-Eye" Moody. He knew Crouch Jr., disguised as Moody, would make his move soon. Krum would be Imperiused, turned into a weapon aimed at Fleur and him.

It was all part of the plan, of course. Voldemort needed Harry to reach the Triwizard Cup first, needed him to be the one to touch the portkey. But he also needed to ensure that Harry faced no serious competition. Hence, Krum's imminent attack.

Vincent glanced at Harry, catching his eye for a fleeting second. The younger boy, looking pale and anxious, met his gaze with a flicker of something that might have been… gratitude? Or perhaps just shared apprehension. Whatever it was, it was gone in a flash, replaced by a mask of grim determination.

Bagman, his usual boisterous cheer somewhat subdued by the gravity of the occasion, finished his final pronouncements. He raised his wand, a bright green spark shooting from its tip. "On the count of three," he bellowed, his voice amplified by magic so it reached every corner of the stadium, "One… Two… Three!"

A cannon fired, its booming report echoing across the grounds, signaling the start of the Third Task. The champions surged forward, disappearing into the maze.

Vincent, however, hung back, letting Krum and Fleur take the lead. He had no intention of rushing headlong into the unknown. He would play this game his way, strategically, cautiously, with a cold efficiency that would ensure his survival.

(Vincet's POV)

The world shifted the moment I crossed the threshold. The cheering crowd, the anxious whispers, the discordant strains of the Weird Sisters—all of it faded into a distant hum, replaced by an eerie stillness that pressed in on me like a shroud. The maze was alive. I could feel it, a thrumming energy that pulsed beneath my feet, a silent symphony of magic and malice.

The towering hedges, thick with leaves and thorns, seemed to press in on me, their shadows stretching long and gnarled in the fading light. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something… else… a faint, metallic tang that reminded me of blood and old magic.

My wand felt cool and reassuring in my right hand, my fingers tracing the intricate runes etched onto its ebony surface. My senses were heightened, sharpened by the Acuitas rune spiraling up my arm. I could hear the rustling of unseen creatures in the undergrowth, the whisper of the wind as it snaked through the maze, the distant thudding of my own heart.

I knew the Cup was somewhere near the center, a fact gleaned from my unauthorized reconnaissance. But I wasn't in a rush. My plan hinged on patience, on allowing Harry Potter to lead me to Voldemort.

I moved cautiously, navigating the maze's twisting paths with a practiced grace, my running shoes surprisingly silent against the damp earth. I was alert, my every sense on high alert. A blast of stinging nettles shot out from a hidden alcove, but I dodged it with ease. A rogue pixy dive-bombed me from the shadows, showering me with sparks, but a flick of my wand sent it scattering. The maze was testing me, probing my defenses, but I was ready.

A scream, high-pitched and filled with terror, echoed through the maze. Fleur. Krum, under the Imperius Curse, had made his move. Right on schedule.

The thrill of the hunt coursed through me. The maze was a predator, and I, its prey. But I was a predator, too. And tonight, I intended to hunt.

Minutes later, a guttural roar, followed by the crackle of spells, told me Krum was closing in. I didn't need heightened senses to know his face would be contorted with rage and confusion, a puppet dancing to Crouch Jr.'s tune.

"Crucio!"

The curse whipped past my head, missing me by inches. Adrenaline surged through me, sharpening my reflexes. I spun, my wand already moving.

"Stupefy!"

The spell struck Krum square in the chest, sending him flying backwards. He landed with a thud, unconscious before he hit the ground.

I didn't waste time checking on him. My target wasn't Krum. I had a schedule to keep, a destiny to fulfill.

The golden glow of the Triwizard Cup beckoned me onward. I hurried through the maze, adrenaline pumping, my every sense focused on the prize.

I found the Cup nestled in a clearing, a beacon amidst the shadows. It pulsed with a faint, ethereal light, a promise of victory and a gateway to… something else… something darker.

I cast a Disillusionment Charm, my body melting into the background. The waiting game had begun.

A couple more minutes later.

Footsteps. Panting breaths. The rustle of leaves.

Harry Potter stumbled into the clearing, his face pale, his green eyes wide with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. He spotted the Cup and ran to it, a gasp escaping his lips as he reached out to touch it.

Now.

I dropped the Disillusionment Charm, materializing beside Harry, my hand shooting out to grasp the Cup at the same time as the younger boy.

The moment we both touch the cup it happens.

The world dissolved into a blinding white light, a vortex of sensation that ripped me away from the maze, from Hogwarts, from everything I knew.

I was falling, hurtling through a darkness that felt both familiar and terrifying.

The world slammed back into focus with a bone-jarring thud. I landed on my feet, rolling to absorb the impact, my senses already on high alert. The Celeritas rune thrummed beneath my skin, adrenaline sharpening my reflexes. I was up in a flash, scanning the surroundings.

A graveyard. Overgrown and shadowed, tombstones looming like silent sentinels in the moonlight. The air was thick with a cloying sweetness, a sickly blend of decay and something ancient, something… evil.

Harry Potter landed a few feet away, sprawling on the uneven ground with a groan. He was disoriented, vulnerable. I didn't hesitate.

I melted into the shadows, the Disillusionment Charm a familiar shield. Pettigrew, his rat-like face contorted with a mixture of fear and excitement, was too preoccupied with the ritual to notice me.

I found cover behind a towering mausoleum. From my hidden vantage point, I watched as Wormtail moved towards harry.

Wormtail dragged Potter closer to the statue, where a skeletal hand, detached from the angel's body, shot out and clamped onto the boy, trapping him in a vice-like grip.

"Do it, now!" Voldemort commanded.

Wormtail dropped something into the cauldron. I couldn't see what it was, but the stench that rose from the bubbling potion intensified—a mix of blood, bone, and something ancient, something… unholy.

"Bones of the father, unknowingly given," Wormtail chanted, his voice trembling. A bone, hovering in the air under his control, dropped into the cauldron with a sickening plop.

"Flesh of the servant willingly sacrificed," he continued, taking a knife and slashing his own arm. Blood spurted into the cauldron, a crimson offering that made my stomach churn.

"Blood of the enemy forcibly taken," he rasped, turning to Potter.

The boy struggled, but it was futile. Wormtail sliced his arm, a raw scream tearing from Potter's lips. He held the bleeding arm over the cauldron, letting the drops fall into the potion.

"The Dark Lord shall rise again."

The cauldron erupted in a blinding flash of white light, the ground beneath my feet trembling. The air crackled with raw power. 

A figure began to solidify within the cauldron, rising from the depths of the bubbling potion. Voldemort, reborn.

He stepped out, naked and skeletal, a chilling mockery of humanity.

"Flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone," he rasped, his voice stronger now, filled with a terrifying power.

The transformation was swift and sickening. Muscle and flesh filled out his skeletal frame, his skin taking on a sickly pallor. He was no longer a wraith but a man, his face a mask of cruelty and power.

"My wand, Wormtail."

Wormtail, groveling at Voldemort's feet, handed him the wand.

"Hold out your arm," Voldemort commanded.

"Master. Thank you, master," Wormtail whimpered, a pathetic display of gratitude.

"The other arm, Wormtail."

Wormtail hesitated, a flicker of fear crossing his rodent-like face. He obeyed, his voice a trembling whine. Voldemort pressed the tip of his wand against Wormtail's arm.

The air shimmered, the world seeming to warp and twist around us. A dark mark, glowing an eerie green, appeared in the sky, a beacon that called the shadows to its master.

"Welcome, my friends. 15 years it's been, and yet you stand before me as though it were only yesterday. I confess myself disappointed," Voldemort's voice boomed through the graveyard, laced with a chilling amusement, "not one of you tried to find me."

A group of figures, shrouded in dark robes, materialized around Voldemort, their faces hidden behind masks.

Voldemort's gaze swept over them, his red eyes burning with a cold fire. "Not even you, Lucius."

"My Lord," Lucius Malfoy's voice, smooth and deferential, cut through the silence. "Had I detected any sign, or even a whisper, of your whereabouts…"

"There were signs, my friend," Voldemort interrupted, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "And more than whispers."

"I assure you, I never renounced the old ways," Malfoy insisted, his voice a touch desperate. "The face I have been obliged to present each day since your absence, that was my true mask."

"I returned," Wormtail whined, desperate for attention, for approval.

"Out of fear, not loyalty," Voldemort said, his voice cold. "Still, you have proved yourself useful these past few months, Wormtail." He flicked his wand, and a new hand, pale and fleshy, replaced Wormtail's silver prosthesis.

"Thank you, master! Thank you!" Wormtail groveled, his voice thick with sycophantic gratitude.

Voldemort chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound, He turned toward Harry and said: "Harry! I'd almost forgotten you were here. Standing on the bones of my father. I'd introduce you, but word has it you're almost as famous as me these days. The Boy Who Lived. How lies have fed your legend, Harry. Shall I reveal what really happened that night thirteen years ago? Shall I divulge how I truly lost my powers?"

He paused, a predatory smile twisting his lips. "It was love. You see, when dear, sweet Lily Potter gave her life for her only son, she provided the ultimate protection. I could not touch you. It was old magic, something I should have foreseen."

He leaned closer to Potter, his voice a hissing whisper. "But no matter, no matter. Things have changed. I can touch you now!"

He placed a hand on Harry's head. A scream, raw and agonized, tore from Potter's throat.

"Astonishing what a few drops of your blood will do, eh, Harry?" Voldemort said, his voice laced with a chilling amusement. "Pick up your wand, Potter. I said pick it up. Get up! Get up! You've been taught how to duel, I presume, yes? First, we bow to each other. Come on now, Harry, the niceties must be observed. Dumbledore wouldn't want you to forget your manners, now would he? I said bow!"

He forced Harry to bow with a flick of his wand. "That's better. And now…"

He shot a spell at Harry, the boy writhing in agony.

"Atta boy, Harry, your parents would be proud. Especially your filthy mongrel mother. I'm going to kill you, Harry Potter. I'm going to destroy you. After tonight, no one will ever again question my powers. After tonight, if they speak of you, they'll speak only of how you begged for death, and I, being a merciful Lord, obliged."

He pulled Harry to his feet, the boy swaying, his face pale.

"Don't you turn your back on me, Harry Potter! I want you to look at me when I kill you! I want to see the light leave your eyes."

Harry, to my surprise, didn't cower. He turned to face Voldemort, a defiant glint in his eyes.

"Have it your way," he said, his voice trembling but firm.

They raised their wands. The air crackled with tension, a silent storm brewing between them.

My hand tightened on my own wand, and beneath my shirt, I felt the reassuring weight of the pistol. It was time.

The clash of their wands echoed through the graveyard, a symphony of raw power and desperate fury. Green light met red, sparks flew, the very air around them warping and twisting with the force of their magic. Potter, to his credit, was holding his own, his youthful defiance a flicker of light against Voldemort's overwhelming darkness.

But my focus wasn't on their duel. My gaze had shifted to the Death Eaters. They'd huddled together, a dark, silent audience, their masked faces leering as they watched their master toy with his prey. A perfect target.

Now.

I surged out of the shadows, dropping the Disillusionment Charm. For a fleeting second, I saw surprise flicker across Voldemort's face, a momentary distraction, a crack in his otherwise impenetrable mask of control.

It was all I needed.

"Tempestas Fulgur!" I roared, the incantation echoing through the graveyard, a challenge to both the living and the dead.

This time, I wasn't relying solely on my own magic. Above us, the storm clouds, a swirling mass of darkness and fury, responded to my call. They churned, lightning flashing within their depths, mirroring the raw power that surged through my veins.

I dropped my wand, mimicking the motion of a blacksmith hammering steel, my intent a searing white fire.

And the heavens unleashed their wrath.

A bolt of lightning, thicker than any I'd ever conjured, ripped through the sky, a jagged spear of pure energy that slammed into the huddled mass of Death Eaters with a deafening crack.

The clearing erupted in a blinding flash of white light, a wave of heat and force that knocked me off my feet. I slammed against the mausoleum wall, the impact jarring my bones.

When the light faded, the stench of burnt flesh filled the air. The Death Eaters were…dead. Not simply unconscious or incapacitated. Obliterated. Their robes, their masks, even their bones had been reduced to burning husks.

The overkill, a calculated risk, had worked. The sheer force of the spell, amplified by the storm's fury, had created a shockwave that rippled through the graveyard, even knocking both Potter and Voldemort off their feet and they were a distance away from the death eaters.

I pushed myself up, my ears ringing, my vision swimming. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, a potent cocktail of triumph and fear.

The first part of the plan had worked. But the real battle was just beginning.

__________________________________________________________________

(Harry's POV)

The world spun. One minute I was locked in a duel with Voldemort, his crimson spell colliding with mine, the air crackling with raw power; the next, I was thrown backwards, the ground rushing up to meet me. A wave of heat and force slammed into me, a shockwave that tasted of ozone and burnt flesh.

I lay there, dazed, my ears ringing, my vision blurred. Voldemort was sprawled a few feet away, his robes singed, his face contorted with surprise and fury.

Then, a figure materialized in front of him.

Van Doren.

He moved with a speed that defied belief, appearing out of thin air as if he'd been conjured from the shadows themselves. I had forgotten that we touched the cup at the same time Vincent also appeared out of nowhere in the maze. For a moment, I just stared, my mind struggling to comprehend what was happening. It was like watching a predator closing in on its prey, a sense of inevitability hanging heavy in the air.

"Time to tell the world you're back," Van Doren said, his voice a low, chilling whisper that seemed to cut through the lingering echoes of the shockwave.

Before Voldemort could react, Van Doren reached out, his hand grasping the Dark Lord's arm.

And then, they were gone.

Just like that.

Vanished.

I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaky, my heart pounding against my ribs like a frantic bird. The graveyard was silent now, the echoes of the duel fading into the night. But the stench of burnt flesh remained, a sickening, acrid smell that filled my nostrils, making my stomach churn.

I looked at the spot where the Death Eaters had been standing. Or rather, where they'd been obliterated. There were burnt limbs and faces and a few charred scraps of fabric.

I stumbled back, bile rising in my throat. I couldn't hold it back. I vomited, my stomach emptying itself onto the cold, hard ground, the smell of burnt flesh mixing with the acidic tang of bile.

What had just happened?

Where had Van Doren taken Voldemort?

Why?

A wave of fear, colder than the night air, washed over me. I had to get back to Hogwarts. I had to warn Dumbledore.

Something terrible was happening. And I was the only one who knew.