Chapter Text
Harry slammed onto the ground, his injured leg giving out under him as he fell forward, the Triwizard Cup still clutched in his hand.
“Where are we?” Cedric got up, helping Harry to his feet.
They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely. Before them, there wasn’t a castle bubbling with cheers and music but a dark, overgrown graveyard. A hill rose above the mist that slithered around the tombstones, and on top of it was the outline of an old house.
A memory flashed in Harry’s mind: a snake, a mutilated body, a scream, and a blinding green light.
“Did anyone tell you the Cup was a Portkey?” Cedric asked, breathless.
They weren’t safe here. And unnervingly, Harry realized this wasn’t part of the plan. “No,” he said.
Silence and eeriness lingered in the air. The anguishing feeling of being observed was unmistakable, prickling at the back of his sweaty neck.
“We should get away from here.”
A twig snapped in the distance.
Harry grabbed Cedric’s arm, taking a cautious step back, pulling the other boy with him.
A short hooded figure appeared, its outline faded through the mist. It seemed to not notice them before it stopped in front of a white marble statue—
His scar exploded in pain. Like the roots of a tree, fizzing in his veins, around the crown of his head, along his neck, his arms, to his feet.
He crumbled to the ground, his wand and the Cup slipping from his grip as he clamped his hands on his forehead. The scar was scorching hot against the cold blades of grass and his palms. He didn’t know if his eyes were closed or open—the world had turned completely white.
“Harry!”
Cedric’s voice came slurred to his ears, but he felt the pressure of his hands on his shoulders and arms. It only made the pain worse.
A flash of green light blazed through the whiteness all around him. He felt Cedric’s hold leave his body and then—a yelp. “Fuck!”
Harry was being dragged across the ground, the grasp on his shirt slippery and convulsing. The pounding in his ears turned into a deafening ringing and the pain in his scar blazed hotter with such intensity that he retched all over himself.
“Can you hear me?” Cedric placed him on something hard and cold after a moment. His voice was distant, slipping muffled through the ringing and the pounding and— Harry forced his eyes open and all he saw was whiteness, Cedric was all but a faint shadow in his vision, panicking, his grip on his arm was steady. He was the one convulsing, Harry realized.
“Harry. Can you hear me?”
In response, he managed a groan.
A bright red light was shot from a distance and before Harry could try to move him away from it, Cedric was hit square in the chest. He fell onto him, knocking his already gasping breath out of his lungs. He needed to—
But Harry was being pulled to his feet that dragged along the grass as the hooded figure carried him before the statue. He quickly managed to read the name carved on the marble: TOM RIDDLE.
The hooded figure dumped him on the ground and conjured tight cords around his shoulders, his wrists, and his ankles. The coldness of the statue numbed the scorching heat radiating from his skin.
He took a deep breath as the whiteness around his vision began to dim. He could see that the figure had reached Cedric and was dragging him to the statue. He tied him up to it. As it checked Cedric’s cords Harry noticed that their right hand was missing a finger—
“It’s you!” Harry tried to wriggle out of his bindings. “You bastard!”
Wormtail didn’t respond. He pulled out a piece of fabric from his cloak.
Harry moved his head away from him, clamping his mouth shut, but Wormtail’s wounded hand gripped his cheeks, forcing his mouth open, and thrust the cloth between his teeth. Harry gagged as Wormtail hurried away.
He tried to take a breath, but all he did was wheeze in pain. His gaze searched the night, something was stirring lightly at his feet. A bundle of fabric that said: “Hurry!”
Harry scrambled to distance himself from it, once it dawned on him what—or, who it was. But he was tied to the statue and all he could move was the tip of his fingers.
Wormtail reappeared, dragging something heavy on the ground. A cauldron. He lit a fire beneath it with his wand. And instantly bubbles formed and popped thick liquid. “It is ready, Master.”
He walked over them and carefully took the bundle from the ground, opening the robes and revealing a slimy, foetal creature. It was crouching in Wormtail’s arms, naked and hairless. Its skin was transparent and so thin that black and reddish veins were visible as they pumped blood underneath. It looked so fragile.
All it could take was for Wormtail to drop it or to snap its bony neck. Instead, he chose to handle the creature with care, while it raised its thin arms and placed them around his neck, and carried it and lowered it into the cauldron.
Harry’s scar kept burning, less than before. The liquid frizzled above the blazing light of the fire.
“Bone of the father,” Wormtail spoke as he raised his wand. The ground at Harry’s feet cracked open and a trickle of dust rose in the air and soared towards Wormtail and into the cauldron. “Unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”
His voice quivered then and he pulled a long, thin silver dagger from inside his cloak. “Flesh,” he sobbed, “of the servant—unwillingly given—you will revive… your Master.”
He stretched his right hand on top of the cauldron—the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger tightly, almost too tightly, as he shook. He swung it upwards. And Harry realized what was about to happen—he shut his eyes as tightly as he could.
Silence. And then the horrifying sound of skin and bones and tendons and muscles ripping, and Wormtail wailed all through the motion.
Harry whimpered, wanting to cover his ear but being unable to. He heard something heavy—Wormtail’s hand—splashing into the liquid.
The man kept moaning and gasping and hissing. Harry heard him step closer, his feet dragging. “B—blood of the enemy,” he slurred, his breath now hitting Harry’s face, who turned away, wriggling under the cords. Get away. Please, get away, he silently begged whoever was listening. “…Forcibly taken…you will…resurrect your foe.”
Wormtail gripped his wrist and yanked up the sleeve of his damp shirt.
Harry snapped his head back towards him. “Please,” he cried. “Stop. Stop—stop it.” His eyes regrettably fell on his stump—the skin, the tendons, the bone, all that blood glimmered dark under the moonlight.
Wormtail brandished the dagger, and its blood-coated blade penetrated his skin. It slid down the length of his forearm with ease, beads of blood leaking from the cut.
Harry screamed and panted and begged as he could only watch the blood seep down his arm, coating his sleeve and his hand with warmth.
Wormtail fumbled in his cloak until he pulled out a glass vial and pressed it to Harry’s arm. Blood fell into it. He staggered back to the cauldron and poured the few drops inside. He took a quick look, then took a step back and let himself fall on his knees, sobbing and holding and tamping his bleeding stump.
The liquid inside the cauldron was simmering. Steam billowed on top of it and then poured onto the ground, as if it popped, hiding Wormtail from Harry’s sight. He saw the outline of a person, tall and thin, rising.
Harry’s blood pounded in his neck and ears.
“Robe me,” said the tall figure and Wormtail emerged from the mist, cradling his mutilated arm to his chest, and picked up the robes from the ground and pulled them over the figure’s head. It stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry… and Harry stared right back, at the face he had first met back at Hogwarts three years prior. It was thinner, more skeletal than he recalled, with a flat nose and scaly skin.
Voldemort looked away from Harry to observe his new body. His hands resembled large pale spiders. His bloodshot eyes had slits for pupils. Triumph danced upon his face with a small satisfied smile.
Wormtail laid paler and twitching on the ground while Voldemort paced before them, not giving the slightest notice of the other man, whose dark robes were wet with blood. He looked down at Harry, eyeing Cedric right behind him, who hadn’t moved nor had woken yet, and then he spoke.
“You, Harry Potter, stand upon the remains of my late father. A muggle and a fool – like your deceased mother. They both had their uses, don’t you think? Your mother sacrificed herself to protect you and I killed my father to prove how useful he could be, even in death.”
He slipped his long-fingered hand deep into the folds of his black robe and drew out a wand, pointing it at Wormtail. He was lifted off the ground and thrown against the headstone, screaming, where Harry was still tied.
Harry startled at the impact and watched as Wormtail laid there, sniffling and crying.
“My Lord…” Wormtail choked, trying to restrain his weak sobs. His voice was but a whisper floating in the air. “You promised…”
Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air. Wormtail’s breath hitched and his severed wrist was suddenly healed, cleaned of all blood, skin smooth.
“My Lord,” Wormtail whispered. “Thank you… thank you.” He scrambled on his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort’s robes.
“May your loyalty never weaver again,” said Voldemort.
“No, never… my Lord.”
“You can go now, your work is not needed anymore.”
Wormtail stood up, bowed down and apparated away with a twist of clothes and limbs, and a thunderous crack.
Voldemort’s slit pupils finally focused on Harry. “You caused my downfall all those years ago. I tried to kill you but your mother unwittingly provided you with a protection I hadn’t foreseen. I could not touch you.”
He drew closer and raised a hand. He grasped Harry’s face, his long nails jabbing into the skin of his cheeks, forcing the boy to look at him, just a few inches away from his face. “This old magic, I should have remembered. I was very foolish back then but – I can touch you now.”
The cold tip of his long finger sank into the scar on his forehead.
His head seemed to burst into flames, pain pulsating and spreading in the rest of his body. He went stiff as Voldemort chuckled, a satisfied expression plastered on his snake-like face.
And then all of it was gone in an instant, as Voldemort removed his finger.
“I was foolish to suppose that you, a baby, could ever be stronger than me, that you had the power,” Voldemort continued. “I will give you a chance. You will be allowed to fight.” He raised his wand and the ropes binding him to the statue came undone.
Harry flopped to the ground, gasping for air.
Voldemort threw his wand at him. “Have you been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?” He sounded too pleased.
At those words, Harry recalled the duelling club in his second year, it almost felt like it belonged to another life. He scrambled through every recess of his mind, trying to find a powerful spell or incantation that could be useful, but everything that he was taught evaded him.
“Already disappointing. We bow to each other.” Voldemort bent a little but kept his snake-like face to him. “Niceties must be observed. Dumbledore would have shown you some manners–Bow to death, Harry.”
He did not. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him like a puppet, before killing him for good.
“I said, bow.” When he pronounced the last word, Harry felt his spine snap forward. “Very good,” said Voldemort softly, he moved his wand and the pressure on Harry’s spine lifted. “And you face me – straight and proud, the way your father did before he died. Now, we duel.”
Before Harry could prepare himself, he was hit with a jet of light. His skin felt like it was ripping apart, shredding away from his muscles, hot needles puncturing every inch of his body–then it stopped.
Harry rolled over and scrambled to his feet, panting. He was shaking so violently that he struggled to keep hold of his wand.
“A little break,” Voldemort’s voice thrilled with excitement, “a little pause… That hurt, didn’t it, Harry?”
Harry didn’t respond. He was going to die like his parents, Voldemort’s bloodshot eyes peering down at his cadaver. He was going to die.
“Answer me! Imperio!”
His mind was wiped of all of his thoughts and worries. It was bliss, light as though floating. Just answer no… say no…
I won’t, said a powerful voice in the back of his head. I won’t answer.
Say no.
I won’t do it, I won’t say it, the voice kept intruding.
“I won’t!” Harry roared, his words echoed through the thick sulphurous air. The sense of bliss lifted suddenly and back rushed the pain from the Cruciatus Curse.
“You won’t?” hissed Voldemort. “Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die… Perhaps another dose of pain will suffice?”
Harry flung himself onto the ground, near a still unconscious Cedric, and rolled behind the statue.
The crack of Voldemort’s curse hit the headstone. “We are not here to play hide-and-seek, Harry. Come out. We will make it quick.”
There was no hope. No one was going to help him. He shook with fear and pain and adrenaline. He looked at Cedric. What was he going to do? He had to protect him, save him too. He heard Voldemort’s naked feet dragging through the wet grass. He was not going to die here. And if he did, he was not going to die knelt before Voldemort asking for his mercy. He stood up, gripping his wand tightly. “Expelliarmus!” he shouted.
“Avada Kedavra!” cried Voldemort.
A jet of green light sprouted from Voldemort’s wand as a jet of red light blasted from Harry’s—they met mid-air—and suddenly his wand was vibrating under his hold. With surprise, a string of white light wrapped around their connecting spells. It crept on his hands, and his arms until it splintered into a thousand other beams radiating in the air around them.
And then an otherworldly song filled the air–like a phoenix song, hopeful and welcoming. Harry had heard it before, only once, when he was twelve and terrified for his life as basilisk venom had begun to spread in his blood. It was a sound of hope. He wondered if Fawkes was coming to save him, if Dumbledore was about to announce himself as he solemnly walked between the headstones, prepared to fight. But as the seconds passed, Harry knew no one was coming.
He took a firmer hold of his wand as it began to vibrate even more powerfully. It was hotter, almost burning his palms.
He watched as the beam, connecting his and Voldemort’s wand, formed beads of light. They slid at the centre, unifying.
The new golden bead gilded slowly towards him.
Harry concentrated every part of his mind upon forcing the bead back toward Voldemort, his gaze fixed on the connection. The bead moved slowly the other way, came to a halt, and moved back to him.
Harry shut his eyes in concentration and pushed. The bead moved again toward Voldemort, a few inches from his wand tip. It trembled for an instant and then it connected, finding its way between the wood cracks.
“Harry! Harry!” called a voice in the distance, muffled. Cedric was trying to wiggle out of his bindings.
The song suddenly filled the air with sorrow and death.
As Voldemort’s eyes widened–a smoky and transparent hand flew out of the tip, and then it grew an arm, a head. A figure crumbled to the ground, shouting and screaming in anguish.
An old man stood on his feet, hovering above the ground. Harry couldn’t distinguish his blurry features when a long-haired head was already emerging.
He saw another figure drop to the ground like the one before it. It was staring at him. He felt a shiver running down his body.
Both figures paced around, the first one approached Cedric. It crouched down and before it had finished freeing the boy from the ropes, Cedric had sprung up, wand ready before him. He looked around unsure of what to do. He joined Harry’s side.
Now, with a piercing screech, another figure emerged. It hit the ground–but, unlike the other two, the smoke lifted, revealing a young red-haired woman.
His heart skipped a bit. He couldn’t recall his mother’s face, the face had not been one that held together in his mind, though he remembered the red hair and the green eyes from old photos, from the reflection in the mirror of Erised, from his memories. He knew her face but seeing her in person before him was different. He had kept trying to find eyes that fit her mouth, a nose that fit her chin, but every time he had thought he had had a face put together, it fell apart and he had to begin on a new one. It was as if his mother could take on any look that suited him.
Harry looked at Voldemort and his eyes were equally wide as his. He jerked his pale wand, trying to break the connection, again and again. But the beam remained untouched, barely changing its path to Harry's wand.
She stayed still for a moment until she gasped forcefully. Lily Evans held herself up on her forearms. She closed and opened her eyes, trying to focus on what was happening around her. Her gaze fell upon Voldemort.
She yelped, scrambling to her feet. “What is – My wand–” She checked her pockets with trembling hands. “Where is my fucking wand?”
She looked around, finally finding it between the blades of grass. She grasped it and pointed it to Voldemort, backing away.
His mouth was hanging open, his eyes observing her every movement. He mouthed something in shock, jerking his arms again with sharp movements.
“Harry…” whispered Cedric.
Screams filled the air once again.
His mother covered her ears, wincing.
Another figure appeared, the one of a young man. First came his legs and then his torso, his arms and his head. He fell to the ground, the smoke surrounding his body lifted in the air, revealing his tall figure, his dark skin too pale, and his glasses squashed on his nose.
Harry let out a shaky breath, struggling to hold on to his wand.
“James, oh–” Lily breathed. She ran and crouched beside his body. “James.” She jerked his shoulder, desperate, but he did not wake.
Cedric ran towards them and hesitantly helped Lily drag James away from Voldemort, who pulled his wand upward with a mighty wrench finally breaking the connection.
Harry felt his wand slip from his hands, soaring in the air. He stumbled as he jumped to catch it mid-air. He looked for his parents and Cedric when –
“Avada Kedavra!” A jet of green light flew in the air.
“Mom – no!”
Lily ducked, pulling Cedric down with her. She snapped her head to Harry.
Her face was imprinted on his retina. It was similar to those he had come up with but at the same time, it was different. Her green eyes were hers, her freckles were hers, and her nose was only hers – not a product of his desperate mind. It all fits perfectly, if not for the fear written all over it.
A blinding red light flew in the air.
Lily and Cedric raised their wand arm in a jerking motion. “Protego!” shouted the boy.
An invisible shield lit up as the spell hit it violently. Lily stumbled back with the force of it.
Harry ran towards them as Cedric shot a white spell at Voldemort, who was approaching them. “We have to get–” Harry started but was interrupted when a spell struck the shield.
“We don’t have time!” yelled Cedric as he lifted James on his back. He struggled to hold his weight. They were hit with another spell. “We have to get to the Cup!”
And they run. His mother shouted spells one after the other behind her shoulder, Cedric’s feet stomped heavily on the ground.
Harry dived behind a marble stone to avoid a spell, while Lily shouted a protego. He gripped his wand more tightly, as he dashed from the headstone –
“Impedimenta!” he roared, pointing his wand to Voldemort.
He had no time to check if he had struck him and continued to run until a severing charm slashed his calf. He hissed as he fell to the ground, clutching his leg as blood seeped through his already bloodied fingers.
“Reducto!” Cedric yelled, before them, but Voldemort deflected it with ease.
“Avada Kedavra!”
Lily pushed Harry away from the spell, which flew just a few inches from her head. Cedric almost dropped James from his back. “Fuck!” Lily cursed. “Fuck, fuck!”
Harry’s hand closed on Cedric’s wrist. The Cup was too far, out of his reach. “I will accio the Cup and you all have to take it with me. It’s a Portkey!” He shouted as Voldemort quickened his pace.
Lily nodded frantically, a fresh cut on her temple.
Voldemort’s bloodshot eyes flamed in the darkness. His mouth curled. He raised his wand, words ready in his lipless mouth.
“Accio!” Harry pointed his wand at the Triwizard Cup.
It flew in the air and soared toward them.
Harry caught it by the handle, and for an instant, he feared that Lily or Cedric would not make it until their hands curled around the other handle. He felt the jerk behind his navel. It worked – it was teleporting him in a whirl of darkness, muffled screams, and pain.
Cedric and his parents were with him, alive. He closed his eyes and let go.
*
Harry was flung onto the ground. He heard another thud and clothes ruffling and a muffled song playing in the distance. His face was pressed into the grass, its freshness, the earthy smell of it filled his nostrils, suffocating the sulphurous scent of death and the graveyard. He kept his eyes closed; his head was swimming.
The ground beneath him was swaying. His hold tightened on the Cup and the body underneath him. He breathed.
“Mom?” he whispered but no answer came. “Dad…” The music stopped, replaced by voices everywhere, footsteps, screams. He remained still. If he moved he was sure he was going to throw up.
A pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over. “Harry! Harry!” It was Cedric.
He opened his eyes, looking at the night sky, black – the same oppressing colour that loomed over the graveyard. At least here, he could see the stars.
Cedric’s face appeared in his blurry vision, relief seemed to wash over his figure. He looked around, calling for help.
Albus Dumbledore was standing by him, he knew it was him with his white beard and the twinkling glint of his glasses.
“He’s back,” Harry whispered, his voice wet. “He’s back. Voldemort.”
“What’s going on? What happened?” The fuzzy face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down over Harry; it seemed pale, appalled. “My – Merlin!” He whispered. “Are those Lily and James Potter?”
When the words left his mouth, silence filled the air. Then, like a shock wave, the people standing on the bleachers began to yell and shout, “The Potters? You mean—” “Here?” “Dead—”
Dumbledore’s eyebrows were raised impossibly. For the first time since he knew him, Harry saw him in a state of total disbelief.
“Dumbledore, people cannot see this… don’t you think we should…” Fudge was shifting frantically from one foot to the other.
The Headmaster stood, his robes falling along his limbs fluidly, before he bent down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised Harry from the ground. His head was pounding. His injured leg could no longer support his weight, with all the adrenaline gone from his body.
“He has to go to the hospital wing!” said Cedric, loudly, to the Headmaster.
“Mr. Diggory—”
The scene flickered oddly before Harry’s eyes, darkening at the edges, voices and screams filled his ears. The last thing he saw was the black sky, filled with stars and the frightened expression of Cedric calling his name.
When he regained consciousness, unfortunately he found himself still laying on the damp grass of the Hogwarts grounds. This time Professor McGonagall’s face invaded his vision. She was moving her mouth, talking to him. “Mr. Potter, so glad to see you’re back with us.”
Harry tried to get up but Professor McGonagall stopped him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t move, you’re exhausted and badly injured.”
Then he was being lifted from the ground on a stretcher. Professor McGonagall stayed by his side as he wobbled along.
His mind went numb on their way to the infirmary. He didn’t want to think about anything that happened since he touched the Triwizard Cup. He tried to ignore the memories but his mind was growing restless – Wormtail slumped to the ground, still holding his stump, blood all over himself; the skeletal body of Voldemort rising from the cauldron, his bloodshot eyes pleased as he tortured him. Those eerie shadows watching him, his parents…
“Professor,” he mumbled, “where are my parents?”
“They are safe.” She tightened the hold on his shoulder. “They’re safe, Mr. Potter. You don’t have to worry.” Her voice was wet.
“Mum was injured,” he whispered. “Dad was unconscious...”
“Madame Pomfrey will take care of them,” she yet reassured him as the door of the infirmary opened to a scene he almost dreaded to be in.
Mrs. Weasley was nagging an apologetic Madam Pomfrey, probably trying to force out of her information she didn’t have, Bill was trying to reason with his mother, while Ron and Hermione both whispered close to one another, the boy fiddling with a loose thread of his sweatshirt.
“Harry! Harry, dear!” Mrs. Weasley’s voice filled the air and once he reached his side, she helped him out of the stretcher and onto the bed.
“He needs to be medicated and well-deserved rest,” said Professor McGonagall. She shifted her gaze to Harry.
He hadn’t noticed the upset look on her face until then.
“I’ll be back soon.” She turned around and left in a whirl of robes, her pointy hat askew.
“Mr. Potter,” greeted Madam Pomfrey, moving closer. “Here.” She handed him some pajamas. “I’ll run a few examinations. I’ll fill you in,” she said to Mrs. Weasley, then pulled the curtains around them with a flick of her wand.
The medical examination passed quickly between Madam Pomfrey muttering to herself – he sure heard her swear at least two times – and Harry wincing at the lightest touch. It almost angered him how quickly his injuries were medicated, not because he didn’t want to feel better, but all the pain he had felt was pointless. The matron had said that the scar on his forearm wouldn’t fade away if it was inflicted with a cursed knife. Harry didn’t even know that those existed, how could he tell the difference?
Madam Pomfrey held out a goblet filled with a purple potion. “You’ll need to drink this, Harry. It’s a dreamless sleep potion.”
Harry took the goblet as the matron opened the curtains.
Ron, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley settled themselves in the chairs around the bed and Bill stood behind his mother, holding a hand on her shoulder. No one said anything, they looked at him almost cautiously. Mrs. Weasley’s eyes were filled with tears.
“I’m all right,” he said. He knew they wouldn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe himself in this situation, too. “Just tired.”
“It’s alright,” said Hermione, nodding her head sympathetically.
“You have to rest,” said Mrs. Weasley, smoothing the bedcovers.
He drank a few mouthfuls. And in an instant, he felt drowsy. Everything around him became hazy; the lamplight on his bedside table blurred into a shapeless blob, he blinked trying to focus. His body felt like it was sinking deeper and deeper into the warmth of the bed, and before he could place the goblet beside him, exhaustion took over his mind.