The Fourth Marauder ~Complete

Moonlight

About a year later, Harry was in a very different situation, yet again under the moonlight, except this time it did nothing except offer comfort, as instead of transforming werewolves it just bathed the ground in a milky glow, making it easier to see under foot. Yes, it was the third and final stage of the triwizzard cup, in prehaps the most nightmare-enducing maze known to man, being explored by a bunch of teenagers, in the middle of the night. Creepy. Luckily, it was all about to be over- both Hogwarts champions had spotted the cup, and were in the middle of rightfully taking it, when it started to rattle, and glow blue.

"What's happeing?" asked the younger Gryffindor, looking around as the surroundings melted, leaving just him and the yellow-clad boy, a mirrored look of terror and confusement on his face.

"I don't know" came the shouted reply, and the two were lifted off their feet, then violently brought down to earth again with a thud. Now, instead of the odly comforting green walls of hedge, they were stood in a derelict graveyard, surrounded by gravestones, who looked like mere audience members, waiting to see a show. "Hey, where are we?" asked Cedric, picking himself off the floor and starting to walk round in wonder. "Do you think this is some sort of fourth challenge?"

"I've been here before" came the whispered reply, and the older boy whipped round in confusement. He saw the dark-haired boy kneal down before a grave, but instead of praying or placing flowers, he traced the letters on the marble, a look of terror on his face. "I've been here before. Cedric" he called, turning to th other champion. "We need to get back to the cup, I don't want to stay here, I've been here before."

"What are you talking about, Harry?" he said impatiently, brushing off his pleas with a simple flick of his hair. "Hey!" he shouted into the darkness, his wand up and lit, as rustles were suddenly heard. "Show yourselves!"

"Kill the spare" hissed some terrible voice, and Cedric was effortlessly lifted off his feet and thrown to the floor with a blinding green flash, the sparkle behind his eyes dead and gone.

"No!" Shouted Harry, trying to run towards him, but being magically restrained by the figure in the dark. They emerged, and Harry gasped at what the moonlight had revealed. It was a man that many assumed to be dead, and that he knew, and hated very much. "Wormtail?" It was then that he saw what was in his arms, and he realised where he had heard that voice.

In his first year, trying to take the Philosophers' stone away from Quirrel.

Away from Voldemort.

"You" he gasped, forgeting Cedric for a second and falling to his feet in horror. He knew what was about to happen. Without making eye contact, Pettigrew secured him and tied him to a near by tombstone, so his dirty trainers stood on the bones of some one's deceased relative. Yet when Harry looked down at the name enscribed into the headress, he didn't feel quite so bad about stepping on their grave.

What ever Wormtail was carrying was dropped into a cauldren, and hit the water with a hiss, like fried chicken in a pan. Harry hoped whatever hit the bottom would burn and drown.

"Bones from the father, unwillingly given" muttered the wizzard suddenly, making the ground beneath his feet tremble, as a long, grey bone emerged, covered in dry dirt.

"Flesh of the servant, willingly sacraficed" he continued. Looking even more nervous than usual, he brought out a knife from his coat, and held his arm up in the air, sweat dripping down his neck. Harry realised what he was going to  do a fraction too late- he saw the hand fall, and heard the ear-peircing scream, but luckily he could protect himself from seeing it fall into the acidic potion, and could put a hand over his nose and mouth to defend against the smell of burning flesh.

"Blood of the enemy, forcefully taken" Wormtail whimpered, now visably weaker, holding his stump of a hand in his other and walking with jelly-like steps towards Harry. Without warning, he pushed up the right sleve of his jumper, revealing his white, unmarked wrist. While making eye contact for the first time that night, Peter slit his arm, right down the middle, to allow blood to ooze out onto his knife. He carefully carried this back as if it were molten gold, and carefully let a few drops fall into the liquid, making the same hissing sound as the baby had done. 

"No" Harry whispered, his throat beginning to tighten and close as the caludren melted away to reveal a dark form emerging out of the shadows, the very essence of darkness, making noises that sounded like they came straight from hell. 

"The Dark Lord shall rise again!" cried Wormtail, but there was nothing joyous about the expression on his face as he watched the mutant baby grow, only fear and something that looked a lot like guilt. Voldemort rose gracefully, extending as high as he could before landing on his feet again, a triumphan gleam in those snake-like eyes.

"My robes, Wormtail" he said quietly, to which he immediately obeyed, running to the side to get a pile of black garnments and hand them to his master.

"What have you done?" yelled Harry, looking in complete and utter contempt at the rat of a man stood in front of him. "Do you have any idea what you've done, you traiterous, scheeming little-"

"Enough" said Voldemort, turning round with a such dramatically billowing robes it would have made Severus Snape proud. Harry gulped back his insult immediately. He wasn't neccesarily scared of the cold-hearted man in front of him- he had met him enough times in the past, they were basically old friends now. Well, almost. no, it was more bottled up rage, this was the same man who had killed both his parents for just being in the way, this was the same man who had forced him to live with the Durselys for nearly fourteen years, this was the same man who hunted down people like Hermione, just because of her blood status. He truly was the embodiment of a dark wizzard. Harry was equally annoyed at Pettigrew- he was too disgusted to even say his first name. This was the same man who had been protected by his father and two other good men for all those years, the same man who had the nerve to come and visit them when all along he was plotting the death of their only child, right under their noses. Harry had more than a few of uncle Vernon's favourite choice words bubbiling in his mouth, but he swallowed them down, sensing that this was really not the right time to utter them. Not if he wanted to keep his head. Or nose.