The world snapped back into existence with a gut-wrenching finality. Harry landed in a crumpled heap on the soft grass at the entrance of the maze, the Triwizard Cup clattering to the ground beside him. The roar of the crowd, which had been a distant echo, was now a deafening, triumphant wave of sound. He had done it. He was back.
He lay there for a moment, his body screaming in protest. A searing, white-hot pain lanced up his arm from a deep, ragged gash on his forearm, where Pettigrew's curse had grazed him. He was trembling uncontrollably, but he was alive, and he was here.
The crowd's cheer was for the victor. They saw their champion emerge from the maze, clutching the trophy. They did not see the terror in his eyes or the blood beginning to soak his sleeve.
A band began to play. Officials, led by a beaming Ludo Bagman, started to move towards him. But one figure moved faster, with an urgency that cut through the celebration. Albus Dumbledore was at his side in an instant, his blue eyes sharp and missing nothing, taking in Harry's pale face, his trembling limbs, and the blood on his arm.
"Harry!" he said, his voice a low, urgent command. "What happened?"
"The cup was a Portkey," Harry gasped, his teeth chattering. "It took me to a graveyard. He was there, Professor. Pettigrew."
The festive music seemed to die in the air around them. The blood drained from Dumbledore's face. He knelt beside Harry, his wand already out, casting a series of quiet, diagnostic spells over the boy.
"Pettigrew?" Dumbledore repeated, his voice dangerously calm. "Was he alone?"
"Yes, I think so," Harry said, trying to push himself up. "He was carrying something… a bundle of robes, it looked like. But it was… it was making noises. He raised his wand, and I just… I did what Ariana told me to do. I held onto the cup and I didn't let go."
He had followed the protocol. He had not hesitated. He had not investigated. He had survived.
Dumbledore's eyes flickered to where Ariana was now pushing through the crowd with Hermione and Daphne, her face a mask of intense, analytical concern. He understood. She had foreseen the trap, and she had given him the key to escape it.
He then looked at the gash on Harry's arm. It was deep, still weeping blood. It was a curse wound, not a simple cut. "He struck you?"
"Yes, just as I left," Harry confirmed.
Dumbledore gently touched the edge of the wound with the tip of his wand. Blood. The Headmaster's expression became grim, his eyes hardening with a terrible certainty.
"Harry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "The curse… it drew blood. Your blood." He looked at Harry, his eyes full of a new, profound dread. "Pettigrew has your blood. He would only need that for one reason. An old, very dark piece of magic. A rebirthing ritual."
The implication hung in the cool night air between them, more terrifying than any dragon or Dementor. Pettigrew had what he needed. The bundle he was carrying… it had been the embryonic, weakened form of Lord Voldemort. And now, armed with the blood of his foe, he had the final ingredient to restore his master to a full, terrifying body.
Voldemort was back.
The victory celebration around them was now a meaningless, discordant noise. The real game had just been played, and while Harry had escaped the board, the enemy had still achieved his primary objective.
"Get him to the hospital wing," Dumbledore commanded, his voice ringing with an authority that silenced Bagman and the approaching officials. "Now."
Sirius and Remus were there in an instant, their faces masks of terror and rage as they saw Harry's injury. They helped him up, supporting him as Madam Pomfrey came rushing over, her wand already glowing with healing charms.
As they began to wheel Harry away on a magically conjured stretcher, his eyes found Ariana's in the crowd. She met his gaze, her own calm and steady. In her eyes, he saw no surprise, no panic. He saw only a quiet, cold confirmation of a reality she had already calculated. She gave him a single, almost imperceptible nod. It was a nod that said, You did what you were supposed to do. You survived. The rest, we will handle.
The crowd was in a state of confusion, their cheers turning to worried murmurs as they saw their bleeding champion being rushed from the field. The Triwizard Tournament, which had begun with such pomp and circumstance, had ended not with a glorious victory, but with the quiet, chilling certainty that the peace the wizarding world had enjoyed for fourteen years was officially over.
The war had begun again. But this time, Dumbledore was not alone. He had a new, formidable grandmaster on his side of the board, one who had already foreseen the enemy's opening move and had ensured their king survived to fight another day.