Interestingly, when I overlaid page 570 of my copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire with a picture of Alan Rickman's face, some very specific words and letters were highlighted. When I pieced them together, in the only obvious order that I could find, it revealed a fresh interpretation of the scenes on that page. The first lines remain unchanged ...
"So how could I take him? Why ... by using Bertha Jorkins's information, of course. Use my one faithful Death Eater, stationed at Hogwarts, to ensure that the boy's name was entered into the Goblet of Fire. Use my Death Eater to ensure that the boy won the Tournament -- that he touched the Triwizard Cup first -- the Cup which my Death Eater had turned into a Portkey, which would bring him here, beyond the reach of Dumbledore's help and protection, and into my waiting arms. And here he is ... the boy you all believed had been my downfall ..."
Against a background of mumbling Death Eaters and panting dogs, Voldemort moved slowly forward and turned to face Harry. He raised his wand, and said, "Cruc--"
"Er -- my Lord." It was Lucius Malfoy, stepping carefully over three dogs.
Harry breathed out slowly as Voldemort lowered his wand and glared at Malfoy. "What? This had better be good, Ballboy."
"Um -- well -- leaving aside the brilliance of your plan for the moment (and it was brilliant -- masterful, even) I think I speak for everyone here when I say I have a few questions ..."
This seemed odd, to Harry. He'd never got the impression, from previous dealings with Voldemort, that he ever allowed his followers to question his actions. Maybe his new body was simply less intimidating than the original. Certainly, in Harry's nightmares he had never quite pictured Voldemort as being young and tanned, with long wavy blond hair, and a slight beer belly. It was disconcerting, to say the least.
Voldemort seemed to have lost his poise. Perhaps he just didn't know how to handle such a novel situation.
"Questions?" he said uncertainly.
There was a general murmur of assent. Harry tried to get comfortable against the tombstone -- hopefully Voldemort would forget about his presence for the next few minutes, and this could prove to be an entertaining spectacle.
Malfoy nodded and said, "Just a few. Er ... Avery, have you got the list?"
Another Death Eater, presumably Avery, silently handed a scroll of parchment to Malfoy. A corgi, lying quietly at Malfoy's feet, suddenly grew alert. Harry suspected that it was hoping Malfoy was going to play fetch again. It had been a chaotic few minutes, once the Death Eaters had realised that the only way they could solve the dog problem was to tire them out. Wands were hurled in every direction to cries of "Fetch!" and "Good dog!" Crabbe, having stupidly asked Voldemort if he could borrow the spoons for the game, was still out cold on top of the grave of Mavis Winthrop (born 1903, died 1967).
"Right," said Malfoy, consulting the list. "First of all, we're not quite clear about why Barty Crouch Junior had to impersonate Moody. Nott made the very good point that Crouch could have simply impersonated one of Potter's relatives, or one of the Weasleys, and quickly kidnapped him over the summer holiday."
"Nonsense!" spluttered Voldemort, a frown marring his youthful face.
"Furthermore," continued Malfoy, "we seem to have a bit of confusion over the Portkey aspect of plan. Nothing against Portkeys in general, you understand, but ... wouldn't it have been easier to transform something less publicly obvious into a Portkey? Possibly a piece of paper? Or a mug? Something like that? You could have had Potter transported here months ago, and by now we could all be up to our elbows in glorious Muggle-torture and mayhem. Like the good old days. ... "
Harry could see Malfoy's eyes growing misty with nostalgia, oblivious to the sight of Voldemort pulling his spoons out of a pocket. A poodle wagged its tail eagerly.
"Down!" snapped Voldemort.
Instantly, everyone in the clearing (except Harry, who was tied too tightly to move; and Crabbe, who was too unconscious; and Voldemort) dropped into a kind of half-crouch.
"I was talking to the dog," sneered Voldemort, tossing his unruly mane of sun-bleached hair back out of his face.
Malfoy straightened up sheepishly, cleared his throat, and said the next few sentences in a rush. "Also, some of us were a bit offended that you chose to do all this in secret. It wouldn't have hurt to ask us if you needed any help. You didn't have to go to all that trouble with Crouch."
"You thought I would use any of YOU to help me back to full power?" said Voldemort as an evil glint sparkled in his bright blue eyes. "Well -- I'm really spoiled for choice, of course. Who would it have been? Ballboy, Blab, Boil, Slavery, Spot, Wormbrain or Macpants?"
The Death Eater with the sock-garters coughed gently.
"Oh yes, and you, of course," sighed Voldemort, nodding in his direction. Turning to face all the Death Eaters, he continued, "Suffice to say that Barty Crouch Junior, weakened from years of coping with the Imperius Curse, half-mad after his time in Azkaban, inexperienced in the ways of the world ... suffice to say that he was a better bet than any of you!"
The Death Eaters shuffled their feet, managing to look like sulky children in spite of their long hooded robes, masks and obvious adult height. A Yorkshire terrier whined and pawed at Voldemort's robes.
"Oh DRAT it!" he shouted and then, flinging his wand far across the graveyard, he yelled, "FETCH!"
En masse, the dogs leapt up and vanished beyond the tombstones.
Harry sneezed. He couldn't help it. The black material that Wormtail had stuffed into his mouth earlier on was woollen and tickly. The sneeze had been inevitable.
Voldemort jumped, and his head snapped round in Harry's direction.
"So, Potter," he said, waving his spoons at Harry. "Time for a little ... punishment."
Harry almost sagged with relief. He'd seen how Wormtail responded to the spoons. He knew what he had to do.
Voldemort moved closer to Harry, until they were barely a foot apart, and started off slowly with the gentle rhythm of "Greensleeves." Harry winced and writhed and screwed his eyes up as tight as he could. Hopefully, if he couldn't see Voldemort playing the spoons, he wouldn't crack up with laughter at an inopportune moment.
Chuckling with glee, Voldemort switched to a spoon rendition of "Getting To Know You." Harry's eyes began to water, because he was repeatedly banging his head against the gravestone. His head twitched from side to side, up and down.
As he switched to "The Birdie Song," Voldemort was openly laughing. Harry risked a quick glance through half-closed eyes and saw Wormtail having a quick word with the other Death Eaters. He gasped with fake pain and gave what he hoped was a convincing little scream. But the urge to laugh was growing so strong now ... he wanted it to end ... to fade out ... to stop ...
And then it was gone. He was hanging limply in the ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort's father, looking up into those bright blue eyes through a mist of self-congratulation. The night was ringing with the sound of the Death Eaters' laughter.
"Just remember, Potter," hissed Voldemort, "that with my contacts in the catering and hospitality industries, I have an almost-unlimited supply of spoons at my disposal. And I'm getting extra-large spoons forged for the giants to use. This really is the end."
Fortunately for Harry's limited supplies of self-control, the dogs chose that moment to flood back into the circle of Death Eaters, the Yorkshire terrier proudly holding Voldemort's wand in its teeth. Voldemort bent down and retrieved his saliva-coated wand.
"My Lord?" said Malfoy suddenly. "You still haven't answered our questions."
"You just don't get it, do you?" said Voldemort, wiping his wand on Wormtail's sleeve. "You're all obsessed with keeping things simple. Well, simple isn't good enough, understand? Any idiot could come up with a simple plan! I need complexity. It demonstrates my cleverness and makes me more scary! And now I'm going to prove it to you all, here and now, when there is no one to help him. I'm not going to simply ASK him, much as you might want me to. And I'm not going to do it quickly, either. I'm going to give him plenty of chances to run away, dodge, answer back, come up with an escape plan of his own, and so forth. And then I'm going to kill him, in the good old-fashioned complicated way. Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand."