"Oh Merlin!" Hermione said.
She was covering her mouth, staring at the spot where Ron stood frozen. While the crowd panicked around them, Hermione grabbed Harry's forearm, fearing for their friend. The Elder Wands appeared in Harry's hands. Professors were screaming at students to follow them, Ministry workers were fighting to get the protective barrier back up, and above it all Ludo Bagman could be heard laughing, his voice amplification charm still active.
The Nian surveyed the scene. It seemed pleased, in a twisted way. This was a creature that brought ancient China to its knees. It walked forward, each step shaking the ground beneath its feet.
Its eyes fell onto its opponent. Ronald Weasley hadn't moved. Maybe he was frozen with fear like Hermione. Maybe, he saw this as a chance for glory. Whatever it was, all that could be said for certain was that he didn't flee. The Nian took this for a challenge.
It charged, the movements of its powerful body whipping up wind all around it. Ron managed to lift his wand, but couldn't utter a spell. There were none he knew that would've made a difference against a beast like this. The Nian studied its prey, unhinging its huge fanged jaws while Ron's hair scattered on his head. Voices in the audience screamed. Just as it was about to snap its jaws down, the Nian froze.
Something strange happened to its monstrous expression. It shut its mouth, backing up multiple steps. Just as confused as the audience, Ron watched the beast cower. From him.
From what was on top of his head, specifically. His ginger hair had been thoroughly blown around, strands sticking out in every direction. For all its power, red was one of the Nian's critical weaknesses. There was nothing redder than a Weasley's hair. Nothing. Faced with such a pure, concentrated example of redheaded pigmentation, the Nian had no choice but to hurriedly rethink every one of its choices.
The Nian wasn't mindless, however. It had an animalistic sensibility, and that included a sense of pride. It hated to run from anything. Maybe, if it closed its eyes and bit down, it could fell this foul-haired wizard without having to look upon that nasty color.
"YOU GET AWAY FROM HIM YOU NASTY BEAST!"
The scream was somehow louder than the clamoring of hundreds of other voices. It didn't take a voice amplification charm like Ludo Bagman's, either. Just the righteous fury of an overprotective mother.
The Nian flinched, looking at the front row of the stands to find its worst fear. There were more humans with the same nasty hair.
There were three males and two females. One male had a ponytail, while the other two of them were identical. Of the females, one was young, a barely-matured human. Finally, there was her.
She was leaning over the bannister like she might use the lack of barrier to vault into the arena. She had more hair than any of the others. It went all the way past her shoulders, horribly puffy and horrible in every other way as well. The Nian took another step back, and that was before she opened her mouth.
"IF YOU TOUCH HIM SO HELP ME!"
Her scream was worse than any drum the Nian had ever faced. Its second weakness, loud noises, sealed the deal. What had it been thinking, staying in this awful country? It thought it might be able to get revenge on those who brought it here. But clearly, the Nian had made a grave mistake. This place was the den of another kind of beast. One that was roughly five feet tall and in possession of monstrous lungs.
The Nian turned and fled, soaring away from the redheaded clan as fast as it could flee.
"I did it?" Ron said.
There was an odd moment of calm around the stadium. Those stampeding the exits stopped one by one as they realized the threat was gone. The judges were all gaping, except for Dumbledore, who was merely smiling. The world stood still.
"I did it!" Ron shouted, lifting his fists into the air.
The crowd came back to life. They screamed and cheered, and even the students from other schools joined in. Most weren't sure what they just witnessed, but they knew it would go down in the history of the tournament as one of the greatest victories of all time.
"Whew. At least it all worked out." Hermione slouched down in her seat, letting go of Harry's forearm. "I was really worried for a moment there. Weren't you, Harry?"
"Worried about what?" Harry asked.
"About Ron!" Hermione said. "He really could've died!"
"Death isn't a bad thing. In fact, it's quite wonderful. Everyone should try it some time."
Hermione glared at Harry, but her look quickly softened.
"Look at you, trying to seem unbothered," she said. "You don't fool me. You were so worried that your eyes changed! Were you crying?"
Harry blinked, his pupils dark almost to the point of being black.
"No," he said.
"You don't have to lie," Hermione said. "It's only human."
Exasperated, Death turned its eyes back toward the arena floor. Humans were odd. Especially these female ones. You tell them a fact and they don't believe you. Utterly perplexing.
Death wondered if its master was having better luck with whatever his newest plot was supposed to be. Only time would tell.
O-O-O
Things hadn't gone quite as expected, but everything more or less worked out so Harry was still counting it as a win. As he stood in the arena underneath his invisibility cloak, he looked at Ron's face while the redhead absorbed the crowd's adulation. Harry couldn't help but smile. Yes, that worked better than expected. And he didn't even have to secretly help Ron like the thought he would.
The crowd went on cheering, and Ron soaked it up for at least five minutes. When the redhead finally left, waving the whole way out of the arena, a hush settled over the crowd. It was gradual at first, then came on very quickly. They were all thinking the same thing. There was only one champion left.
Ludo Bagman cleared his throat. "Now, I suppose it's time to welcome Tom Riddle! If, that is, he's here…"
There was a long pause, during which no one seemed to speak at all. Even the crowd's breathing felt hushed.
Harry whipped off his cloak.
He wore a mask now, as well as having swapped his robes for a pair that made many Hogwarts students flinch— the right arm was Slytherin green, the left arm was Gryffindor red, and the legs were colored yellow and blue for Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw respectively.
"He's here!" Ludo Bagman cried. "I'm saved— I mean, the tournament just became even better! The mysterious madman who has terrorized Britain! A wizard who can tame dragons, thwarting the Ministry at every turn—"
Crouch glared nastily at Bagman, but the ex-Beater was on too much of a roll to notice.
"He has the whole country alight with talk of him. However, can he best the other champions? To prove it, he will face a whole pack of mature Quintapeds! Let's see if he…"
Bagman trailed off with a perplexed frown. Harry had raised his hand.
"I believe our champion has something to say," Bagman boomed.
"I'm not a champion," Harry said pleasantly, his voice just as loud as Bagman's. "I won't be taking part."
Bagman's face turned slack.
"What? But you'll die!"
As the crowd clamored and grew louder again, Bagman picked up steam.
"Your name came out of the goblet! The real Goblet of Fire! That's a magically binding oath that can't be ignored! If you don't compete, it's suicide! You're done for! Dead!"
Harry cleared his throat. He shut his eyes, looking as regal as one could in a balaclava and garish robes.
"Nuh uh," he pronounced.
"Yes huh!" shouted Bagman.
"Nope."
"Yep!"
"I don't think so."
"I know so!"
"I don't think you know what you think you know," Harry said. "And I'm going to prove it. I won't be competing! Despite being chosen as a champion in this tournament, I'm dropping out before the first task, and I am going to be completely fine!"
O-O-O
On the other side of England, the day was inexplicably grim. Sun had been forecast, yet it was cloudy and bleak above Riddle Manor. A man in loose-fitting black robes grunted as he dragged a heavy cauldron into position.
"You are a wizard, are you not?" hissed a voice.
"Yes Master!" said Walden Macnair. "Of course I am, Master!"
"Then use your wand!"
Macnair snatched it from his pocket, levitating the cauldron into position instead. He'd never been the brightest, as his mother loved to remind as a child, but Macnair had his own talents. Killing, mostly. He'd reminded his mother of that one when he first turned of age.
"Good," hissed the voice, which was coming from Macnair's back. "Now begin the preparations."
"Right away, Master," Macnair said.
He opened up the satchel that had been gifted to him by a mysterious benefactor, drawing out a container of blood and a piece of bone. The cauldron was filled with murky liquid, and he tossed both items into the mixture. They disappeared with quiet plops.
Macnair almost didn't come back to his master. Everything fell into his lap quite literally, when a mysterious man offered Macnair all he needed to win back Voldemort's favor. But Macnair left this behind when the master seemed dead that Halloween night years ago. He avoided Azkaban narrowly, and over time found a job at the Ministry as an executioner. Getting paid to kill magical creatures was a solid living. Over time, however, he came to crave more. He wanted to hear human screams again, like he used to, the way they loved to plead and beg! So he returned to his master's side after all, even if his master might still be displeased with him.
Voldemort was an echo of himself. He was in a weak vessel that could speak but do little else. Without constant care, this body would wither and fail. That was nearly the fate he met when Peter Pettigrew ran away without a trace. But Macnair arrived in time to resuscitate his old master, bearing gifts. All that was left now was the ritual that would restore Voldemort's former strength, and they possessed every component needed.
"Is that it?" Macnair asked, peering into the heavy cauldron.
"Very nearly," said Voldemort. "It needs just one thing. The flesh of a servant, willingly given."
Macnair failed to keep his displeasure off his face.
"Need I remind you of your past, Macnair? You bear my mark. That makes you mine, until death finally claims you. Yet you fled. By refusing to search for me, you failed in your duties, and even crawled to the Ministry to become its dog. You must atone. Offer me your flesh, just as you swore to when you took my mark!"
Macnair stuck his trembling hand over the cauldron. He pressed his wand to the tip of his finger.
"More," said Voldemort.
Macnair moved his wand back to the base of his pointer finger, his wand-hand beginning to shake too.
"More," said Voldmemort.
Macnair whimpered. He moved his wand all the way back to his wrist.
"Perfect," said Voldemort.
Macnair uttered the spell. A brief flash followed, and he screamed. His wrist was sliced through the way his ax cut so many necks while working as an executioner. It hurt so much more on this side of things. He fought his way through the incantation to a minor healing charm to staunch the bleeding.
Blood seeped out around where his hand landed. The cauldron fumes took on a metallic quality. Voldemort laughed.
"Finally!" he said. "Lower me in, and waste no time! A new age is dawning!"
Macnair unstrapped the echo of his master from his back, setting him in the burbling mixture that had been created. Macnair quickly stumbled back, shielding his face from the wall of sparks that erupted above the cauldron. As he watched, the sparks faded, replaced by a column of mist. He heard laughter inside it.
A silhouette became visible. The steam cleared, and Macnair needed only one look at those red eyes to drop to a knee.
"Your wand, Master!" he shouted, holding up the robes and wand that had been included with the package that was delivered to him.
Macnair could hear the sloshing sounds of a body pulling itself from the cauldron. A few drops landed on the back of his head as something plucked the offerings out of his hands. Each drop was scaldingly hot, but he didn't dare flinch or whimper.
The figure pulled on the robes, then said, "You may stand."
Macnair did so slowly, still looking down. He saw impossibly pale feet sticking from the bottom of black robes, with an equally-white hand holding the wand.
"Forearm," Voldemort commanded.
Macnair stuck out his still-complete arm. Long, bony, and superhumanly strong fingers grabbed it, holding it in place. A wand tip was pressed to Macnair's skull tattoo. The tattoo flared to life, going from nearly invisible to stark and obvious.
It took mere minutes for the first pops to be heard as Voldemort's supporters Apparated to them. Each fell to their knees, lowering their head. The Dark Lord deigned not to speak until they stopped arriving, pacing in front of them.
"As you can see, I am back," he said. "You must be devastated."
Protestations could be heard, but they stopped as soon as Voldemort said, "Silence!"
"I am not a fool," he said. "I have seen how you lived. For each one who remained loyal, there are twenty who turned their backs. It would bring me the greatest pleasure to punish you properly for this transgression. However, I can be reasonable. I will give you a chance."
"Tell us what we must do, Master," said Macnair.
Before, he would never have had the courage to speak at such a large meeting. He was nothing but an ordinary Death Eater, never a member of the Inner Circle. After what he'd done tonight, however, he imagined that wouldn't be the case for long.
Those long fingers returned. They stroked Macnair's cheek.
"You? Nothing," said Voldemort. "You have already proven your loyalty. You made a sacrifice that I will not soon forget. Lord Voldemort rewards those who serve him well."
He moved his wand and Macnair felt something beneath the stub of his right arm. A cold and metallic shape swirled there. When he looked down, Macnair saw a whole new hand. One that moved the same way as what he lost.
Macnair dropped back onto his knees, lowering his head as far as it would go. "Thank you, My Lord!"
"The rest of you however…" Voldemort paused to let his servants sweat. "You will get one more chance. I warn you, you will have to start again. Prove to me once more that you have the hunger of purebloods within you. You will have ample opportunities. Starting tonight, we will be at war again! The Wizarding World will be reminded why they once trembled at my very name! Voldemort has returned, and this time, nothing can stop him!"
Voldemort lifted his wand above his head, holding it triumphantly. Then he fell forward, dead by the time he hit the ground.
Macnair's new hand fell off his arm, turning into inert metal. The Death Eaters surged to their feet. They watched as a shade rose from the pale body of their master, which lay bent and unmoving upon the ground.
"No!" Voldemort's spirit wailed. "Not agaiiiiiiiiiiiiiin!"
His shade dispersed into the air, too weak to remain visible. His consciousness was scattered, left to claw its way toward life from square one again. The area around Riddle Manor was reduced to silence. Gradually, the Death Eaters present turned to each other.
"We never speak of this again," said one.
Everyone else nodded. They Disapparated away, leaving behind a lifeless inhuman corpse and a festering pot. True to their word, none of them ever mentioned that day again, not even to each other. Over time, they convinced themselves it had been nothing but a dream. All of them except Macnair, who'd lost a hand which couldn't be so easily forgotten. But that was a tale for another day.
When Aurors arrived just thirty minutes later under orders from their boss Amelia Bones, all they found was the wreckage of the failed ritual.
"What on earth?" said Tonks.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, the lead auror on the mission, peered into the cauldron. He cast a couple of diagnostic charms on the body, which proved it had been alive once and wasn't any longer.
"I get the feeling we're late," he said.
The others all agreed, but late to what… They couldn't say.
O-O-O
Back in the arena, thousands of people waited for 'Tom Riddle' to drop dead. He seemed to be doing alright. He was even humming to himself, broadcasting it to the whole crowd. A shame he couldn't carry a tune to save his life.
Suddenly, he grabbed his chest. "Oh!"
"Is it finally taking effect?" Batman asked eagerly.
Harry's face showed sudden discomfort. He gasped, opened his mouth and— burped.
"Sorry, had to get that one out," he said. "By the way, it's been long enough hasn't it? I think my point has been proven. I quit the tournament, but I'm perfectly fine."
"How?" Bagman demanded.
Although only he could be heard, acting as the announcer as he was, Karkaroff and Madame Maxine looked similarly shocked. Crouch appeared to be on the verge of passing out. Dumbledore didn't seem to care much… But he was the odd one out.
"It's simple," Harry said. "My half-blood might is too strong to be bound by a dusty old antique. If I want to, I can tell the Goblet to stuff itself anytime I want, like I just did. In fact, I only showed up today to make a statement."
He crossed his arms. Behind him, the cages holding the magical creatures other champions had faced reopened. The Chimera charged out, as did a group of five-legged creatures with hands for feet and big mouths in the middle of their torsos. They howled ravenously, spit dripping from their jagged teeth.
Quintapeds, Britain's most dangerous magical creature. They were meant to be Harry's opponent in the tournament, but now they charged him alongside the Chimera, picking him out as the nearest human. Harry casually aimed a blasting curse at the ground in front of them.
The plume that resulted was an explosion as large as what a ballistic missile might create. The magical creatures and the crowd both looked dumbfounded as they watched soil and bits of burnt sand rain down like ash. Without a second thought, the Class XXXXX magical creatures — defined as completely untameable — obediently lowered their heads.
"More minions!" he said. "My favorite."
The Wampus cat crawled out of its cage to join them, keeping its gaze lowered, and the creatures came to stand around Harry like his own personal bodyguards.
"By the time today is up, I am going to have laid waste to this school," he declared. "Unless anyone can stop me. But oh? What's that?" He cupped a hand to his ear as if listening to something invisible. "It seems Nymphadora Tonks was called away on important business! Surely there are no other heroes to get in my way."
Harry summoned incredibly potent winds. Sand was whipped up by the cyclone. It grew so intense that the crowd shielded their faces, Karkaroff was blown out of his chair, and the tent for champions was torn out of the ground and carried away.
Krum was revealed cradling his bad shoulder, a Medi-witch in the process of treating him. Cedric was still out cold. Fleur looked perfectly fine, but was staring at the scene in the arena with wide eyes. Ron openly gaped.
Fleur was the first to react.
"Oh no!" she shouted. "I hope he does not kidnap me!"
She hugged herself in a way that pushed her breasts out, wiggling her hips back and forth.
At about the same time, Krum showed the better part of valor and ran. The Quintapeds roared, scampering toward the champions. Fleur was still batting her eyes at 'Tom Riddle' upon whom she could sense the stench of Death. Cedric was out cold. Ron looked around himself and realized that if he ran, the other two would be left behind.
He lifted his wand.
C'mon, Harry thought. Cast something. Anything.
Ron did that much. He must've been panicking a decent bit, though. Out of every spell he knew, he picked the Bat-Bogey Hex.
Harry could still work with it. The moment the hex struck the closest Quintapeds, Harry levitated it up and banished it, and he didn't hold back.
The monster launched out of the arena like a meteor. It would fly for hundreds of miles before landing. They were tough creatures, though. It would be fine. So long as it landed in water.
Hey, the odds were good! Seventy-one-percent and all that, right?
The other two Quintapeds stopped their charge. They looked betrayed, if man-eating monsters could feel such emotions. It didn't matter. Seeing his initial success, Ron was on a roll. He cast two more spells, and Harry hurled the next two Quintapeds away just as fast.
Ron turned his attention to the Chimera, but before he could do anything, it averted its course and charged back into its cage, kicking the door shut. Only the Wampus Cat remained.
"Mew?"
Thinking quickly, the Wampus Cat dropped onto its back, displaying its belly as it rolled back and forth. A collective "Awwwwww!" emanated from the previously terrified crowd.
"My elite forces, defeated? Curses!" said Harry. "Where do these heroes keep appearing from?"
Ron swaggered forward. "Surrender, villain!"
He was really getting into this. Good for him. Harry appreciated a suitable sense of grandeur, even if he hadn't known his best friend had it in him.
Harry swished his dual wands as Ron approached. "You won't find me defeated so easily!"
"We'll see about that," Ron said. "Expelliarmus!"
Harry almost laughed. What a spell to choose in a climactic moment. Honestly, who would do that?
He cast a spell of his own that was all flash and no substance, making it look as if Ron's spell struck him. The crowd could see their duel, but not hear Ron's voice, leaving them guessing as to what spell he might've used. Harry took advantage of that to lose with style.
He coughed blood (fake, of course) leaving Ron visibly confused.
"I'll be back!" Harry swore. "And next time, I'll remember you, pureblood scum!"
Then he treated himself like a Quintaped and hurled himself.
It was something he'd always wanted to try— a levitation charm combined with a feather weight charm, followed up by banishing his own clothes. Weightless and floating, he accelerated to an extreme speed, disappearing in a blur.
His eyelids and cheeks flapping, Harry flew almost as fast as a human could travel, loving every second of it. He left Ron behind in the middle of the arena for the second time that day, the crowd worshipping him as a hero.
Harry couldn't literally hear it, having already flown too far away, but he could imagine it.
This is what you were always after, Ron, he thought. Make the most of it.
He whooped his way through the rest of the trip, relaxing and enjoying the high-speed flight like the adrenaline junky that he was, right up until he landed in the ocean in a huge plume of water, a last-minute shield stopping him from pancaking himself. Harry broke the surface again spitting saltwater with a huge grin and a bruised body.
He was so doing that again sometime.