FLESH, BLOOD, AND BONE And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn’t see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapor hang- ing in the air. . . . It’s gone wrong, he thought . . . it’s drowned . . . please . . . please let it be dead. . . . But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron. “Robe me,” said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master’s head. The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry . . . and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his night- mares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake’s with slits for nostrils . . . Lord Voldemort had risen again. ‘643‘