Chapter Text
Harry Potter ran towards the Triwizard Cup for all he was worth.
He was badly hurt during the Third Task in the Maze - his shoulder and abdomen flared with pain even now - but it did not mean he wouldn’t try to win the blasted Tournament regardless. This way he would prove to the people of Wizarding Britain that he was his own person – not just the Boy-Who-Lived, the child who had survived the Dark Lady Voldemort.
As he ran across the clearing, he saw Cedric Diggory, his fellow Champion, doing the same but coming from the other side of the Maze. The pain in Harry’s abdomen and shoulder flared up as he began running even faster. He mentally cursed Hagrid and his Blast-Ended Skrewts. As if they were an appropriate challenge, even for this Tournament. They were going to have words.
Both boys reached the Cup at the same time as the Maze was closing around them, not even having the time to say a single word to each other–
–and Harry felt the distinct sensation of a Portkey as they touched it. He and Cedric were flung through space in a whirlpool of magic for Merlin knew how long before they finally hit the ground, Harry crying out in pain upon impact.
“Alright, Harry?” Cedric asked, standing up. Concern was evident on his face.
Harry groaned and sat up, looking around. They appeared to be somewhere which was very definitely not Hogwarts, nor did it look like the Champion’s reception. In fact, it looked like a graveyard with rows of unkempt tombstones on either side of the two boys and what appeared to be a rather large Manor looming in the distance, visible through the fog that permeated the air. It smelled faintly of decay, of dry leaves and wet earth. Not the most pleasant of smells.
“I’m fine, Cedric,” Harry said through the pain. “But this definitely isn’t where we are supposed to be.”
“I think you’re right,” said Cedric carefully. “Wands out then, just to be safe,” he added as an afterthought.
Harry retrieved his Holly wand from a holster on his forearm and stood up jerkily, his injured shoulder and abdomen making themselves known. Glancing over to Cedric, Harry saw the other Champion standing with his wand at the ready and looking around the graveyard.
Holding his own at his side, Harry inspected the closest tombstone and the name on it made him recoil back in horror.
Tom Marvolo Riddle
Fuck! Harry had to do something, he had to get out of there, he had to wa–
“Crucio,” said a croaky voice behind him.
Harry whirled around in time to see a beam of light sailing easily through Cedric’s hasty Protego and hitting him square in the chest. The short, chubby man that sent the Unforgivable seemed to have a ghost of a smile on his lips as Cedric twitched on the ground, silent screams of agony coming out of his mouth.
For a moment or two, Harry froze, looking on in horrified fascination.
He then snapped out of it as the man lifted the Curse and silently stunned Cedric Diggory. He turned to Harry and raised his wand.
More on instinct than anything else, Harry dived forward and out of the way of a red beam of light, a Stunning Spell, he realized. He had no time to retaliate as yet another beam of light sailed straight at him.
“Protego!” Harry bit out, a shimmering blue Shield coming into existence.
The Shield flared bright-blue when the second Stunning Charm collided with it, making Harry lose his balance and stumble back with the force of it, the Shield dissipating. As he regained his footing, he looked up just in time to see another flash of light right in front of his eyes. Diving to the ground, Harry bit out: “Stupefy!”
The man swatted the spell away contemptuously, his own wand coming up lightning fast. Something flashed red. And then he knew no more.
Harry regained consciousness and did not remember where or why he was at first. But then it all came crashing back down on him. Graveyard. Cedric. Duel. Harry looked around. He was tied to a tombstone with thick black ropes by his wrists and ankles. He tried in vain to move his legs, arms, anything, but he could not. He was trapped. Looking around, he saw the man he lost the duel to standing over a bubbling cauldron and muttering under his breath.
Harry realised with a jolt: Peter Pettigrew. His gut clenched. He’d lost a duel to him of all people? He could justify losing to the Dark Lady, or some skilled Death Eater even – he was only a fourth year, after all – but Pettigrew… Pettigrew was among the weakest wizards Harry knew.
The man himself, unaware of Harry’s inner thoughts, started chanting as he levitated a bone into the cauldron, making the concoction inside bubble even more than it did before.
Pettigrew suddenly started speaking, “Bone of the Mother, unknowingly given, you will renew your daughter!”
The concoction became poisonous blue as Pettigrew finished speaking, and something cold moved through Harry’s chest.
The chubby man continued, “Flesh of the Servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your Master!”
He then cut off his arm at the wrist, completely shocking Harry, and dropped it into the cauldron. The colour of the liquid changed once more, this time to deep burning red. Pettigrew, whimpering in pain, walked over to Harry, took a knife out of his robes, and sliced open Harry’s palm. Harry suppressed a flinch, feeling quite a lot of discomfort. It seemed like normal pain but also like something… more. Nothing he’d quite felt before.
Pettigrew went over to the cauldron and quickly added the droplets of Harry’s blood into it. “Blood of the Enemy,” he intoned carefully. “Forcibly taken. You will resurrect your foe.”
Everything stilled. Harry could hear no sound besides his heart hammering in his chest and his laboured breathing. It was eerily quiet. It seemed as if nature itself braced for what was about to happen. There were no birds singing, no rustling grass, no distant sound of flowing water. Pettigrew kneeled before the cauldron and waited with bated breath, Harry subconsciously doing the same, squinting through the fog.
And then out of the cauldron stepped a young-looking woman, from what he could discern. She waved her hand lazily and her naked body was at once covered with a midnight blue robe.
The first thing Harry noticed about her were her piercing blue eyes, scanning the area intently, and locking with his own. The moment her eyes met his, Harry saw such joy in them that he forgot, for a moment, to be afraid. Malice, he expected, hate, perhaps even anger or fury. But such clear joy… It unmade something in him.
Lady Voldemort, for who else could it be, proceeded to completely disregard Pettigrew as she made her way towards him in long strides.
This was to be his end, then.
Harry braced himself for what he thought would inevitably be the last moments of his short life. When he sensed her footsteps getting near him, soft and quick, in a last-ditch attempt to save himself, he desperately willed her to go away, to disappear, to not hurt him–
He never before wanted something so desperately in his life. His chest tightened, his breaths suddenly not deep enough, and he was ashamed to admit that he faced his end terrified out of his wits –
Until his magic responded to his deep distress.
He felt something welling up within him, like bubbling laughter, tingling inside, eager to be unleashed, and Harry let it, and then–
BANG!
An enormous wave of that something left Harry’s body, heading rapidly for the approaching footsteps, leaving him winded and breathing heavily. But that didn’t matter, he knew instinctively he’d done what he wanted, she should be hurt right now, if not outright dead–
He opened his eyes, certain of victory – only to see Lady Voldemort standing right in front of him, her hand outstretched, protected by an almost translucent yellow half-sphere.
“An admirable attempt, though you have no control whatsoever,” she stated matter-of-factly, smirking at him.
Harry stared at her – unhurt, unimpressed, as though the wave of magic had been a minor inconvenience. He sneered.
“Well, what now, going to kill me? Even if you do, there are others who will never let you win!” Harry declared vehemently.
To Harry’s utter confusion, she laughed. A melodic, musical laugh that echoed all around the graveyard. When she subsided, she looked at him, and noticing his confused and serious face, stopped immediately.
“Your spirit is very admirable, if misguided, Mr. Potter. I never intended to kill you today. And I don’t think I’ll try in the future, either,” she said.
But that couldn’t be right, no.
“But… but why?” he spluttered. “What are you saying? I’m the Boy-Who-Lived!” Harry said, still utterly confused.
Lady Voldemort sighed and seemed to deflate, the earlier smile leaving her to be replaced by a more neutral expression, bar the eyes which retained in part the same utter joy from before.
“So the Headmaster deemed it unimportant for you to know, then,” she said.
“Know what? What are you saying?” Harry demanded, frustration and anger bubbling inside him.
“Let me tell you something that will change your outlook on things,” Voldemort said, an elaborate chair appearing out of thin air behind her that she promptly sat down on.
Harry gaped like a fish. Wandless magic of this caliber...
A loud pain-filled moan coming from near the cauldron distracted him from Voldemort, however, and he closed his mouth with a loud click. Turning his head in that direction, he saw Pettigrew lying on the ground in a small pool of his own blood, an expression of agony on his face.
Voldemort seemed to notice as well, but she was in no hurry to heal her servant. She looked back to Harry instead.
Was this some sort of sick game? Some power play? Harry didn’t know what she could want to say to him, but it surely couldn’t be any good, not at all–
“I’m getting to that,” came a smooth feminine voice, startling him out of his thoughts.
Wait. His thoughts. How–
“You’re practically screaming them, that’s how,” said Voldemort, sitting back down and crossing her legs. “But no matter, let’s discuss something far more important.”
Harry focused on her fully and waited for her to talk. He couldn’t get rid of these damn bindings anyway, so it wasn’t like he had much of a choice in the matter.
As though reading his thoughts, which he supposed she was, Voldemort waved her hand like she was swatting a fly and the ropes untied themselves, falling to the ground along with Harry himself. He cried out again upon impact as pain coming from his injuries blinded him for a moment. He breathed in trying to control his reaction, trying to not appear weak, to–
A soothing coldness enveloped his abdomen and shoulder suddenly, and at once the pain lowered in intensity from a raging fire to a warm touch of gentle wind. Harry practically slumped down in relief. Now that the adrenaline of battle had left, the wounds he sustained became quite a bit more painful than he expected.
“Don’t worry, nothing I can’t fix,” said Voldemort and Harry abruptly remembered just where he was and just who he was speaking with.
He looked up at the young woman in front of him and, standing up, glared at her for all he was worth. It didn’t seem to intimidate her, the expression on her face remaining neutral. But Harry wouldn’t submit to her like this, no.
“What do you want?” Harry asked, voice biting and colder than ice. “Healed me for some torture later?”
Voldemort merely leaned back in her chair, producing another one like her own for Harry with a sharp twist of her hand. Did she even need a wand at all, Harry wondered absently.
His chair was also beautiful and ornate if a tad less elaborate. She gestured for him to sit.
“As I said, we need to talk. I will not harm you now, nor do I intend to in the future.”
Not complying was an option Harry entertained only briefly, his self-preservation and more than a hint of curiosity winning the inner battle in the end. So he sat down, absently marvelling at the comforting sensation the chair gave him.
“What is it?” he asked simply, looking at Voldemort who was lounging casually opposite him.
That was the first time he could properly observe her, he realised. First, there was the fog when she came out of the cauldron, then his pain distracted him, but not now. Now he could assess her for the first time from up close. She looked to be in her early twenties, maybe, which was a surprise.
Sitting cross-legged on an elaborate throne-like chair, her hands folded in her lap and chin held high, her eyes radiating a curiosity and intelligence he was uncomfortable with, she looked like some kind of Princess on a state visit. The midnight blue robe she wore, the raven hair cascading down her shoulders and back, and the intricate sandals he didn’t see her conjure only somehow added to the image.
The only thing missing was a Crown.
Harry thought for a moment about how she appeared so imposing and intimidating, and yet also looked so relaxed, so unburdened, carefree. It was as if she was trying to put him at ease.
“I do not intend to kill you, Harry, because there is no reason for me to,” she said.
That kind of short-circuited Harry. He was really, really confused now and starting to get a headache, because if she had no reason, then why try to kill him in the first place all those years ago? Why try to kill him all the years since then? So, that was what he asked her, forgetting for a moment the identity of the witch opposite him in his shock.
She looked amused at his onslaught of endless questions and her lips turned up in a hint of a smile. She held up a hand to stop him from spluttering on and spoke herself.
She seemed almost hesitant. “I will not go into detail because it will be difficult for you to hear, but… your mother has committed a transgression against me that I could not let lie. That is all I’ll say for now. But that had nothing to do with you.”
That had Harry’s anger rising yet again, because really, a transgression?
“You mean she was a talented muggle-born!” he spat, his voice shaking, his fists clenched.
“No,” Voldemort hissed and there was a shift in the air, a pressure on Harry that wasn’t there before. It pushed him into the chair, closing in from all sides, making him feel quite uncomfortable, suddenly suffocating him.
When Harry was sure it would cross into painful, Voldemort blinked, exhaling sharply, and all was well once more. It was as if the pressure never existed in the first place.
Harry knew better, though, and it piqued his interest. He decided to think about that later when Voldemort spoke once more.
What she said, however, stopped him cold.
“I am not against muggle-borns, not on principle, Mr. Potter. The transgression in question was far more serious than that, and you won’t believe me if I tell you now. So I will let you find out for yourself.”
Harry knew she was lying, she had to be. But he decided to try to research it anyway, maybe write to Sirius or ask Hermione for help. That is if he could escape here in one piece–
“Really, now, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” asked Voldemort, and was it disappointment of all things in her voice?
Harry looked at her and saw an almost sad expression, her lips in a straight line, the rest of her face impassive.
She waved her hand dismissively. “I will not harm you. I do not wish to repeat myself again. When our discussion ends, I will let you go back to Hogwarts and celebrate your well-deserved victory.” Her lips morphed into a wry smile. “Quite impressive, by the way, if I do say so myself. A fourth year winning against three of the best seventh-years in Europe is really something. But then, you always showed signs of a great wizard.”
Harry felt heat rising to his face and realised he probably was red right now. He tried to ruthlessly suppress it, but damn it if it didn’t feel good being complimented like this.
Even if it was Lady Voldemort. With some morbid amusement, Harry realised that was one of the very few compliments he had ever been paid in his life. He almost laughed out loud. How ironic.
Voldemort’s voice startled him out of his musings. “I am sorry for what the death of your parents has led to, I can glean the emotions you associate with your childhood with little difficulty even now.”
Harry felt his eyes widen, felt his mouth drop open. Lady Voldemort had just apologised to him.
He wondered if it was some kind of fever dream. It would certainly explain all this.
Voldemort.
Apologising.
He knew it wasn’t sincere, and looking up he would surely see it clear as day. Obviously, she wanted to somehow manipulate him, or use her apology for some nefarious purpose.
But looking at her, he felt intuitively that he was wrong. He looked for any sign of deception, any mockery perhaps, but he found only sincerity. The sparkle of joy in her eyes was all but gone and there was a line between her brows. Her lips were turned down slightly and all of it made for quite a solemn visage.
Harry believed, if only for a second, that she did not lie but then squashed that thought immediately. She was a remarkably cunning manipulator, he knew that much, and he had just almost been caught in one of her schemes.
As if she’d ever be sincere.
But then an idea came to him, of how to truly test her word. He knew it was by all accounts reckless and suicidal, and most likely futile to challenge her, but he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing.
“Make up for it then.” He surprised even himself with the steel in his voice.
She seemed startled too, leaning forward a little and narrowing her eyes. “How do you mean?”
“You say you regret ruining my childhood,” Harry said, injecting as much disbelief and disdain into his voice as he could. “Then make up for it, prove to me you truly regret it. And then I’ll believe you.”
Harry braced himself for the immediate rejection of his offer. Perhaps she would decide to kill him then and there after all, or at the very least mock him, laugh at him, or do something equally as degrading.
He did not expect what happened next. Not at all.
Voldemort’s face split into a half smile, her eyes dancing with amusement and… something else. Something Harry could not hope to identify. Nothing remained of her earlier sadness and Harry marvelled at the quick emotional change.
But then, who ever said she was sane? Perhaps the thirteen years did something to her mind.
Voldemort, meanwhile, uncrossed her legs and leaned forward even further, shortening the distance between them to an uncomfortable level. It didn’t help any that Harry could now see more clearly than ever the striking beauty of her face, pale skin making a sharp contrast with eyes of electric blue, her lips–
Harry shook his head sharply, cutting off the thought. It really was quite disgusting. Or so he told himself.
He’d keep berating himself in his mind for his slip, but Voldemort spoke before he could continue.
Her amusement was plain to see. “And how is it I could make it up to you, hmm?”
This was it. He was not so sure about his idea now, not at all, but he reminded himself about the famous Gryffindor courage. This was his chance and he’d be damned if he didn’t use it, regardless of its probable futility.
Harry looked her dead in the eyes. “I want you to give me Peter Pettigrew.”
That one statement seemed to reverberate through the relative quiet of the graveyard, ominous and loud as a crack of thunder. Immediately, Voldemort’s expression changed. The amusement left her face all at once, like a candle snuffed. Her eyes sharpened and their piercing quality he’d noticed earlier seemed to double in its intensity. The amused expression on her face was replaced with thoughtful contemplation, her brows furrowed as she finally leaned back in her chair once more.
All was quiet for what to Harry seemed like an eternity after that, Voldemort analysing him with her intense gaze. He resisted the urge to fidget. Finally, after Harry lost all hope and was preparing to now actually die for his insolence, surely his request would warrant that, Voldemort broke the silence that descended upon them.
“I will,” she said simply.
...What?
His heart soared, his face split into a wide grin for all to see, he could not have contained it even if he tried. He couldn’t believe that it worked, surely it could not be this easy–
And indeed it was not. His happiness died in his throat. Voldemort did not seem finished, holding up a hand.
“I will not simply give him to you, Mr. Potter, surely you must realise that?” The amusement was back in her voice, a half smile on her face.
Okay, he could do this, she said she would. She just said it. But what could possibly be her conditions? Surely she dared not suggest…?
“I will not be a Death Eater!” Harry declared with all the vehemence he could muster. Being branded a slave was in his opinion not worth anything, not even his Godfather’s freedom. But surely she could not be suggesting that?
Her melodic laugh all but confirmed that she, in fact, was not.
“No, and I’d never want you to be. I wouldn’t ever hamper your potential like that, you could be so much more…” she trailed off, her eyes unfocusing. After a moment, she snapped back to reality. “But I do, of course, want something in return. Peter is one of my most loyal followers, after all,” she said, and Harry could not tell whether she was sarcastic in that remark or not. Peter was, after all, lying in a pool of his own blood currently, and Voldemort did not seem in a rush to go help him out.
Harry’s mind conjured images of Sirius being freed, though, of the happiness it would cause both himself and his Godfather, and he saw that he would give much to get that. He steeled his resolve, asking with trepidation what it was she wanted in return.
Harry really hoped it was a price he was willing to pay.
In response, she gave him a smile that said quite plainly that she knew something he didn’t and was enjoying it immensely.
She really did look radiant when smiling like that, Harry noted absently, his conscious mind occupied by his anxiety of what she’d request in return.
Voldemort abruptly stood up from her chair – which dissolved into mist immediately – and held out her hand to Pettigrew. There was a whooshing sound – a white-brown piece of wood flew into her hand, and she whooped in delight when it hit her palm.
Harry also stood up, blinking at her dazedly as she cheered.
It was such a joyous sound that Harry would never in his life imagine Lady Voldemort making it, yet here they were. He really didn’t quite know why he was so surprised anymore.
And then red, white and blue sparks left her wand, one after another, numerous and bright and hot, and Harry again felt that same pressure he’d felt before.
Except now it was not focused on him. It seemed to be in the air all around them, mingling with the flying sparks that Voldemort’s wand produced – or could it be the sparks themselves that produced it?
It was surprisingly pleasant against his skin, actually, making him warm inside and calming him somewhat. Harry wondered what kind of spell that could possibly be, it looked interesting.
After a time, the sparks and the pressure were both gone and Voldemort’s joyous whoops of delight also subsided.
That was weird. As if Harry wasn’t confused enough already.
Finally, she deigned to speak. “Sorry about that, I’ve had no access to most of my magic for thirteen years, as you well know. I’d like to see you handle it.”
Had that been humour?
She was twirling her wand in her hands now, as if fascinated by it, but then she shook her head, letting it fall limply to her side. “My price is very simple.” She took several steps toward him once again, invading his personal space, those blue eyes rooting him to the spot. “I only want you to speak with me, and genuinely try to understand my aims. I will answer any questions that you ask.”
That… that was it? He’d honestly expected something much more sinister or potentially damaging. But he also knew that sometimes, when given an inch, some people would take a mile, and Voldemort struck him as one of those people.
Plus, she could be manipulating him of course. But he had a chance to give Sirius his freedom here… He was not about to squander it, and if he was making a mistake then so be it. He’d do it just for a chance of success, Merlin knew his Godfather deserved his freedom.
Still, he had to make sure he understood her perfectly clearly.
“You’re saying I only have to listen, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “With an open mind.” She pointed her wand towards Pettigrew and Harry saw his own wand soaring towards him. He caught it deftly, the familiar sensation soothing, and tried not to show his dumbfounded surprise at Voldemort’s action.
She had given him back his wand, just like that? His mind automatically went to escape and he had to squash the impulse to hex her, knowing it would not be conducive at all to their discussion.
Plus, he thought grimly, he was very much outmatched and with no hope of ever getting her by surprise, even if he wanted to.
Meanwhile, Voldemort, unaware of his musings – or indeed very much aware – started slowly rotating around where she stood, as if looking for something. Stopping suddenly, she brandished her wand, speaking an incantation for the first time that day. It was loud and clear, and very much a command. “Accio.”
A moment later, there was a whoosh and something that was glinting in the sunlight descended into her outstretched hand.
Harry’s curiosity was piqued, and it looked like Voldemort was going to provide an explanation. She turned to him, holding the glinting object out for him to see.
“This is something I made in my Sixth year, Mr Potter,” she said. “It’s been collecting dust ever since, but now I’ve finally found a use for it, it seems.” She held out a silver bracelet with hundreds of miniature runes engraved in it, and Harry intuitively knew he’d need months of study to even begin to understand how those Runes worked. Among the runes were three bigger, cursive letters. E.M.R. Curiosity piqued, he looked at her questioningly, eyebrows raised.
She smiled at him.
“This bracelet can do many things, the immaterial magic of dreamscapes chief among them. Once you wear this, you and I will be able to communicate in your sleep, and you will be able to uphold your part of the deal.” She smirked. “Naturally, Dumbledore can not know about this. Not about my resurrection, not about the bracelet, and not about our communications. That is my condition for the release of my… most loyal follower.”
Not about the resurrection even? Of course she’d make that a condition. Harry wrestled with himself for a moment, but it wasn’t even a question at the end of the day. He would do almost anything for Sirius and his freedom, and this qualified.
Harry glared at her over the… Joke? Was she joking with him again? “How am I meant to hide this from the greatest wizard in the world, huh?”
“The Runes aren’t just there to look pretty, you know. The bracelet is capable of mundane and magical invisibility both. It will only be visible when you will it to be so, or if someone breaks its complex protections I suppose. But why would Dumbledore even try, when he doesn’t know it’s there to begin with? When he doesn’t know I’m back? So keep it that way, Mr Potter.” Piercing blue eyes met his, calculating. “Keep it that way and our deal will stand.”
She held out the bracelet for him to take. Harry took it gingerly, expecting surprise pain, maybe. He looked at it for a moment. The runes, the E.M.R. Emily Mary Riddle, he remembered. Her real name. Harry wrestled with himself some more, but at the end of the day, this was not a question either. He’d already agreed to the deal. Now he just had to wear the bracelet, and she just had to give him Pettigrew.
Nothing even remotely magical happened when Harry slid the bracelet onto his wrist, and he exhaled. There was still a tightness in his chest though, a feeling of impending doom that he couldn’t entirely shake. “And Pettigrew?”
“So impatient,” Voldemort said, as she walked up to Cedric and pointed her wand at his temple.
“What are you doing?!” Harry asked, the tightness in his chest only increasing.
“Relax, Mr Potter,” said Voldemort, and then: “Legilimens!”
Harry stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, idly glancing at the bracelet and the tiny Runes etched neatly along its surface, as Voldemort stared into Cedric’s knocked out face.
“All done,” she pronounced with finality. “I’ve made you a hero, Mr Potter. You should be grateful, the Prophet will sing your praises, I’m certain.” Voldemort looked at him with a sly smile, like she knew something he didn’t.
“What did you do?” Harry asked. Alarm rushed through him.
“When Cedric wakes, he will think a lone madman attempted to resurrect me, Harry. He will remember a deranged Peter Pettigrew coming for you both, and you fighting like a lion to defeat him… Quite heroic of you, truly.” Voldemort seemed to be enjoying this immensely.
“You just–”
“Modified his memory, yes.” Voldemort twirled her wand through her fingers in a practiced motion. “I am a Dark Lady of Britain.”
Was that another joke?
“Just give me Peter Pettigrew already,” Harry said. “You promised.” He didn’t sound whiny, did he?
“So impatient,” Voldemort sighed. She raised her wand, saying no incantation, and ethereal golden threads of Binding encased the bleeding form of Peter Pettigrew. He rose as though on an invisible platform and landed right in front of Harry. “One last thing, Mr Potter,” Voldemort said, and suddenly the magical pressure was back as though it had never left. Harry’s chest tightened again, his head feeling the pressure rise and rise some more– “If you fail to honour our deal here today, if Dumbledore finds out I am back, I will hunt down Sirius Black and murder him brutally, regardless of whether he will become a free man or not. Am I understood quite clearly?”
“Yes,” Harry forced out. The pressure eased, once more a phantom of his imagination.
“I will see you when you go to sleep, Mr Potter,” Voldemort said, a smile back on her face and absolute joy back in her eyes.
She had to be at least a little deranged.
One last look at Lady Voldemort – confused, uncomprehending, the bracelet cold on his wrist – and then Harry grabbed Cedric, grabbed Pettigrew, summoned the Cup, and was gone.