Chapter Text
The graveyard was silent save for the whisper of wind through ancient trees and the crackling of magical fire beneath the cauldron that had just moments ago coalesced an ancient potion into a new body for the Dark Lord himself. Harry Potter remained bound to the Riddle head stone, his breathing rapid and shallow through his nose, attempting not to hyperventilate through the gag in his mouth. His scar burned with an intensity that made his vision blur at the edges, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that this place, this fitting place, would also be his grave.
The Death Eaters arrived in swirls of black smoke, the dark mark roiled in the sky like a thundercloud, casting the graveyard in even more ominous shadows; their silver masks gleamed in the moonlight as they formed a circle around their resurrected master.
Harry could barely hear what was being said, the blood pounding in his ears and the pain scattering his thoughts every time he tried to focus. His eyes landed on Cedric, his mind replaying the scene in his head over and over: “Kill the spare,” he’d shouted, as if Cedric’s life meant nothing. As if the boy had been an inconvenience, instead of a kind, brilliant, living human being. Lost in his grief and panic, Harry hadn’t even noticed that everyone was staring at him until the his heartbeat slowed and silence descended on the graveyard.
All heads were turned towards him, and Voldemort was staring at Harry, with an expression that made his blood run cold. It wasn’t a look of a predator with cornered prey, the look of a cat about to strike at a wounded mouse, no it was something far more calculating. Almost… pleased.
He walked towards Harry with measured steps, his lipless mouth curving into what would have looked like a genuine smile, were it not for the dark wizard’s serpentine features.
“Harry Potter,” he said, in a voice that was soft and sibilant. “The boy who lived. How many times have I tried to kill you? How many times have you escaped me, through luck, or love, or circumstances beyond either of us?”
Harry said nothing. He couldn’t, through the gag that still stretched his jaw to an uncomfortable degree, and the ropes were thick and unyielding. There was nothing he could do but wait.
“I have spent many years in a state of diminishment,” he continued, beginning to pace the length of the graveyard, his gate slow and leisurely. “Dependent on others, servants and potions, just to maintain a rudimentary form. It’s an agonizing existence, but it gave me time to think, Harry. Time to study. To explore the connection between us.”
His scar burned hotter and Harry winced as the dark lord approached with a sinister gleam in his eyes.
“Yes,” he hissed, reaching out, barely brushing his fingers against Harry’s bangs. “You feel it too, don’t you? That link between us, forged that fateful night I tried to kill you. I have spent months now, devoted to nothing else, and do you know what I’ve discovered?”
Harry could feel his heart hammering away at his ribs. He desperately wanted to look away, but found that his gaze was stuck staring into the pitiless red slitted eyes of his adversary.
“I discovered that this connection is far more powerful than I ever imagined. It has such potential, and it is a link made by something very precious. Do you know what that is, Harry?” Voldemort’s cold fingers gripped the fabric and yanked it out of Harry’s mouth, causing him to cough and choke.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his voice was barely a rasp, and he swallowed hard, trying to wet his throat.
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. But don’t worry, I’ll explain it all in good time. Until then… just know that I’ve planned a ritual, something to take full advantage of our connection, to bring it to its fullest potential.”
Harry felt a chill run through him. “What? Ritual?”
“Oh, like I said, all in good time.” Voldemort stepped forwards, his teeth gleaming in the firelight, too sharp to be human. “And we do have plenty of time, the ritual requires preparation, specific conditions that must be met. You must be brought to the proper state, physically and magically. It will take weeks, but I assure you, it will be worth the wait.”
Harry tried to push backwards, but there was nowhere to go, the gravestone held him too tight. This mad man was talking about weeks? Of what? Harry being a prisoner while they got him ready to sacrifice him? “I won’t let you,” he spat, finding his courage beneath the terror. “Whatever you’re planning, I won’t--”
“I won’t be giving you a choice,” Voldemort interrupted, smoothly. “But please, don’t worry. I’m not going to torture you, Harry. Quite the opposite in fact. You’ll be my guest. My honored guest, one might say. Housed, fed, cared for, your needs met and attended to. Far more consideration than any other prisoner has ever received under my care. It’s important that you are healthy, the ritual will not be easy, and there can be no room for error.”
Harry’s mind raced, trying to make sense of what was being said. It had to be a trick, some sort of psychological torment designed to lower his guard or something like that. He was no guest, he wasn’t even the average prisoner, he had been avoiding Voldemort’s murderous rage for years! And now all of a sudden the man wanted him alive and healthy before he used him in some sort of ceremony? No. This was sarcasm at best, and certainly emotional manipulation.
“I can see you don’t believe me. That’s understandable, but consider this: If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead, you’re trapped and helpless. If I wanted you tortured you would already be screaming. No, no, Harry, I have far grander plans for you than simple murder.” Voldemort lightly touched a finger to Harry’s scar, savoring the wince it brought. He turned back to the assembled Death Eaters, his voice rising. “My friends, my faithful, what you see before you is the instrument of my ultimate triumph. This boy, this child who has been a thorn in my side for too long, will become the key to power beyond imagining. Through him I will achieve what no wizard has ever achieved. I will transcend the limitations of magic itself.”
The Death Eaters murmured amongst themselves, confusion and excitement rippling out in equal measure. One spoke up after a moment of tentative silence. “What shall we do, my lord?”
“For now, I want you to return to your lives. Suppress any word of my return, discredit any who try to claim otherwise.” He leisurely reached down to pluck Harry’s wand from the grass. “Consolidate your power, gather our allies, but maintain the utmost secrecy.”
“What of you and the boy, my lord?” The voice was instantly recognizable to Harry as Lucius Malfoy, the cadence and accent unmistakable.
“We will retreat somewhere isolated, somewhere I can keep him safe and sound and prepare him for the ritual. You need not know where, I will call for you when the time is right.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Voldemort turned back to Harry, and there was something almost tender in his expression now, which was somehow more terrifying than his anger had been. “You’re pale as death, Harry. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he stepped closer and reached out to lightly place his fingers under Harry’s chin. “I know this must be confusing for you, and you must have questions. I do promise that when the time comes, when you’re ready, I will explain everything. You will understand the role you’re to play, and see the beauty of what we’re going to accomplish together.”
“Together?” Harry spat, his voice shaking with rage and fear. “I will never work with you!”
“Oh, but you will. Do stop squirming, you’ll need every drop of strength for the preparations ahead. Wormtail!”
Pettigrew scurried forward, his silver hand gleaming.
“Help me transport our guest back to his new accommodations. The wards are in place, but we should keep him secure regardless. We wouldn’t want him to wander off before his big day, would we?”
“Y-yes, my lord,” Wormtail stammered.
“Oh, and Wormtail?” Voldemort’s voice dropped to a dangerous purr. “If anything happens to him, if he’s injured or mistreated, I will make what happened to you tonight seem like a pleasant massage. Am I clear?”
“Perfectly clear, my lord!”
Voldemort waved his wand and the ropes binding Harry to the headstone vanished. He tried quickly to get his feet under him, but he stumbled forward onto his hands and knees into the damp grass. The circulation in his legs had been cut off too long, and his legs simply gave out beneath him. The dark lord just chuckled, sliding his wand back out into his palm and gave it a wave; Harry felt himself being hoisted up off the ground by invisible forces, held aloft so his feet weren’t even touching the ground. He thrashed and struggled, but there wasn’t anything tangible to fight against. Thick bands of cloth began to weave together around him, binding his arms back against his torso, and his ankles wrapped tightly together. Like ribbons, Harry realized with humiliation and disgust.
“Hold still, Harry. This is for your own good.”
Harry struggled but each movement only seemed to tighten the soft cocoon forming around him.
“There we are,” Voldemort walked over and ran a finger across one of the bands. “Wrapped up nice and safe, like a present. After all, that’s precisely what he is. A gift. My gift. The final component I need.”
Another layer of fabric wrapped tightly around his mouth, forming perfectly against his jaw, and effectively silencing him from any complaints. The bands were soft but they held him as effectively as any rope, he couldn’t move his arms, couldn’t run, could barely struggle.
Voldemort looked up with evident satisfaction, surveying his handiwork. “Perfectly secure, perfectly safe. You see, Harry? I take very good care of what belongs to me.”
Harry’s face burned with humiliation and rage, trussed up like a package while Voldemort looked on with a bone chilling possessiveness.
“Now that we know he won’t hurt himself trying to escape,” he turned to Wormtail and gestured with his wand. “You take him, but do be careful.”
Wormtail fumbled for his wand, taking over the levitation spell, but not before Harry dropped a few inches when Voldemort’s spell ended. The Death Eaters began to disapparate one by one, leaving swirls of black smoke in their wake. Wormtail adjusted the levitation spell and stared up at Harry with a nervousness that seemed like a permanent fixture of his personality more than anything at this point.
“Bring him,” Voldemort said, curtly, already striding towards the edge of the graveyard. As Harry was maneuvered through the air, following in Voldemort’s wake, still wrapped tightly in the conjured fabric, he caught sight of Cedric’s body and his heart lurched into his throat. His eyes were still open, staring sightlessly at the sky, his face frozen in an expression of shock. Harry winced, thinking of him laughing only hours ago, of Harry suggesting they both take the cup, bringing him directly to his doom. And now he was dead. Just dead. Left behind in this forgotten graveyard like he was nothing. No one deserved that. Especially not Cedric, who had never been anything other than decent, fair, and kind.
But Harry was pulled forward, neither Voldemort nor his lackey caring at all for the corpse they left behind. They stopped at the edge of the graveyard, and Harry stared up at the cloudy sky, floating on his back. Then he had cold pudgy hands on his shoulders and he was dropped to the floor, yelping as the levitation spell ended and he was dragged into Peter Pettigrew’s arms, one across his chest and the other gripping the collar of Harry’s shirt. Harry was dragged through the mud, his heels leaving an uneven trail when Harry struggled.
“I’m ready, master.”
Before he could wonder what Wormtail was ready for, there was a familiar sensation of a hook behind Harry’s navel, and the world suddenly dissolved into a spinning vortex of color and sound. A port key, he realized, squeezing his eyes shut to try and mitigate some of the dizziness. Eventually he stopped feeling like he was falling, and he felt his collar slip from Wormtail’s fingers; he hit the hard ground, his head smacking against the hardwood flooring he now lay on. He cried out in muffled pain as his shoulder crashed into the wood and with no way to catch himself, he felt his hip and ankles take a significant portion of the blow as well. His vision went black for a few seconds and he managed to roll onto his back, while a small amount of blood dripped from the side of his head onto the floor. He blinked a few times, trying to make out any of the details around them, when he heard Wormtail’s frantic voice.
“Master, I-- I’m so sorry! I lost my grip, he--!”
“Crucio!”
Harry had honestly expected the curse to strike him, expected to feel that horrible agony shoot through him once again as Voldemort’s friendly pretense would surely end now, but nothing happened. And then he realized it was Wormtail who was screaming. Voldemort maintained the spell for a long time while Wormtail writhed on the ground, limb flailing and screams ripping through the air. It felt like forever before he released it. Voldemort gave Wormtail no time to recover, and Harry felt himself slowly drift back up into the air.
“Go check the wards, Pettigrew.” Voldemort snapped, while Wormtail gasped for breath on the floor. Voldemort paused and Harry could hear the other man’s whimpering. “NOW!”
There was a frantic scrambling noise, and Harry was moved down the hallways. The walls were bare and dusty, full of cobwebs and rusted metal peeling away from rotted wood. Finally he heard the sound of a door opening and he was levitated through a doorway into a room that was far cleaner than the hallway. The walls looked like they’d had more recent upkeep, and he could vaguely see shimmering wards running across the beams. Slowly he was lowered onto a bed, and Voldemort sat down on the mattress beside him, leaning over to touch his fingers to the fresh blood that was slowly matting and coagulating in Harry’s untidy mop of hair.
“That idiot, can’t do even one job right,” he muttered an incantation and Harry felt the headache start to abate. “There, that should do it.”
Suddenly the band wrapped around his mouth vanished, and Voldemort leaned in slightly to examine him more closely.
“Does it hurt anywhere else?”
Harry coughed and winced as cold fingers probed his shoulders. “Go to hell.”
Voldemort just chuckled, muttering another spell under his breath and healing the bruises and wounds that had started to form. “I’m no healer, really, but as long as the wound is fresh enough I can manage fine… there. All better.” He leaned away, brushing away some of the dried blood from Harry’s forehead. “This isn’t exactly my first choice of dwelling, but for now we just need form over function.”
Harry watched him stand up, and squirmed in his bindings, finally casting a glance around what he now realized was his prison cell. He immediately found it depressing that it was still bigger than his room back at the Dursleys. Voldemort waved his wand and in a moment the bindings holding him hostage vanished. He immediately pushed himself up and away till his back hit the wall. Voldemort just chuckled and tucked his wand into his robe.
“I’ll give you some time to get settled, you’ll be given food and water soon, I imagine you’re starving after the day you’ve had.” He stepped back to the door, resting a hand on the handle. “The door will be locked and warded, I’d advise against trying it. Obviously it won’t do any permanent damage, but it will hurt quite a bit.”
And then just like that with the opening and closing of a door he was gone, and Harry was alone.
Slowly he climbed off the bed and walked over to the sink, numbly turning the water on and letting it run over his fingers. For a long moment he just stood there, trying to process everything that had just happened. Cedric was dead. Voldemort was returned. And now Harry was locked up by the man who spent his entire life trying to kill him, for some mysterious ritual that required “preparation.”
Harry’s legs finally gave out completely, he stumbled backwards, and sank to the floor, his back against the bed. The tears came then, hot and bitter. He cried for Cedric, for himself, for the hopelessness of not knowing if anyone would ever be able to find him. Hell, he didn’t even know where he was. So what were the odds that the Aurors or Dumbledore, would know to first search a random Graveyard in Little Hangleton and then follow some trail that may or may not exist to this house?
Eventually, his eyes dried and Harry sat defeated against the side of the bed. After a while he could no longer bear to be on the floor and managed to drag himself to his feet and stumbled back over to the sink, resting his palms against the porcelain. He looked up into the dirty spotted mirror that hung there; he barely recognized himself. His face was streaked with dirt and tears, his robes were torn and bloodstained, and he had never seen his eyes look quite so haunted. He looked at the stream of cold water he had never turned off and leaned down to splash it onto his face, rubbing with the frantic idea that he could somehow scrub away Cedric’s death, Voldemort’s touch. But no amount of water could wash away what happened.
A knock at the door made him jump, and he turned to see that a tray had been pushed through a slot at the bottom of the door. Immediately he was reminded of the catflap back at the Dursleys, although this one seemed to actually be made for sliding food through. There was a full tray with roasted chicken, vegetables, bread and a glass of water.
He tried not to think about when he had last eaten, he wanted so badly to adamantly refuse to eat, to not play a long to keep him healthy enough just to sacrifice him later. He assumed it was a sacrifice, he supposed he didn’t have any real evidence that it was, but it seemed most likely. Still, his stomach ached, and it smelled tantalizingly good.
So he ate.
It was strategy, he told himself, he wasn’t going to be able to escape if he starved himself. But the truth was simpler: he was starving and there was food here. It tasted as good as it smelled too, the chicken perfectly seasoned, the vegetables crisp, the water was cold and refreshing. He hated that he noticed. Hated that an instinctual amount of relief coursed through him. This wasn’t the same as celebrating a meal he had either stolen or been “graciously” given at the Dursleys’, a special occasion where he managed to actually get enough to eat for once. This was more of a prison than that ever was, Cedric was dead, and everything was wrong. He pushed the empty plate back through the door, and sat down on the bed, trying to think of what his next move should be. He didn’t have a wand, he didn’t have anything to use as a weapon, and Voldemort was one of the most powerful sorcerers to ever live. He was extremely outmatched.
Time passed, but Harry had no way to tell how long it had been. There were no clocks, there was no window, so it could have been hours or mere minutes when he heard the click of a clock turning. He stumbled to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs as the door swung open.
Voldemort stepped through, having changed from his ritual robes to something simpler, although they still billowed as if touched some ethereal nature. “I see you’ve eaten. Good, I’m pleased to see you have such a cooperative spirit, Harry. It will make the coming weeks much easier on both of us.”
Harry said nothing, he could think of nothing beyond how much he truly hated this man in front of him.
“Not feeling particularly talkative? That’s understandable, you’ve been through quite a lot this evening. But I do hope you’re still feeling… accommodating.” Voldemort reached into his robes and withdrew a small vial. The liquid inside was a deep purple, almost black, and it seemed to shimmer and catch specks of light. “This is a preparatory draught,” he said conversationally. “The first of many you’ll need to consume over the coming weeks. It will begin the process of attuning your magical core to the requirements of the ritual, but it’s quite harmless.”
Harry watched incredulously as the man extended his hand out to him, like he was offering him a gift.
“I would like you to drink this on your own,” Voldemort said, tone mild and almost friendly. “Voluntarily. Without me having to force you. Can you do that for me?”
The question was so insane Harry didn’t even really consider any implication before a firm: “No way in hell,” fell from his lips. “I’m not drinking any ‘potions’, preparatory or otherwise, from you.
Voldemort sighed, turning the glass vial in his hands. “I was afraid you’d say that. Just remember that I offered you a much more pleasant option.”
He drew his wand, with a fluid motion, and before Harry could even think to move, ropes materialized as if solidifying from smoke and wrapped around him like living snakes. They pinned his arms back to his side, wound around his chest and yanked him backwards onto the bed. He tried to struggle but the ropes only tightened in response, squeezing until he could barely breathe.
Voldemort approached the bed with an unhurried gait, the walk of a man who had done this a thousand times before, like it was just another Tuesday evening. Of course for the Dark Lord forcing potions down the throat of a bound fourteen year old was as mundane as taking tea.
“If you’d just cooperate, this would all be so much simpler,” Voldemort said, almost chidingly. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “But I suppose I should have expected resistance from you. Stubborn to a fault.”
He placed one cold hand on Harry’s forehead, pressing his head down into the pillow and used his wand to tap lightly against Harry’s jaw. Harry tried to clench his teeth, but magic coursed through his muscles, causing them to go slack and his mouth to drop open.
“There we are,” Voldemort smiled, like he was convincing a toddler to take cough syrup. He unstoppered the vial with his teeth, and poured the contents directly into Harry’s mouth in one smooth motion. The liquid was thick and bitter, coating his tongue and throat. He tried to spit it out, or to cough it up, but the muscles in his jaw wouldn’t move an inch, he just sat there with it pooling at the back of his throat, until he felt a cold hand press down on his larynx. Voldemort pulled his thumb down, and something loosened, activating Harry’s swallow reflex and causing him to cough and gag while the potion went down.
“Good,” Voldemort said, his voice carrying a note of approval that made Harry’s stomach turn. He vanished the vial and studied Harry’s face with clinical interest. “It will make you a bit drowsy, I’m afraid. Side effect of the attunement process. But honestly you look as you could with a nice long nap anyways. When was the last time you slept properly?”
The potion was already working, Harry could feel it spreading through his body, a warmth that sluggishly pulsed through his veins, making his limbs heavy and his thoughts slow. His eyelids drooped despite his best efforts to keep them open.
“Don’t… no…” his tongue was heavy and thick, clumsy inside his mouth.
“Quiet now,” Voldemort soothed, and the ropes vanished, although his hand remained on Harry’s forehead, cool fingers brushing the sweat-dampened hair away from his scar. “Don’t fight it, there’s really no point.”
Harry wanted to push the hand away, to spit in this mad man’s face, to do anything other than lie there passive and defeated. But his body wouldn’t obey. The potion had stolen his strength, his will, everything except the dim awareness that he was losing this battle.
Voldemort chuckled, and almost sounded truly, genuinely, amused. “You know, this is a nice change for you. Helpless and docile. Much better than that tiresome Gryffindor defiance.”
Harry tried to glare at him, but his eyes kept sliding shut. The room was tilting, spinning gently in circles around his own mind.
“Just sleep now,” Voldemort said, and there was something almost gentle in the reprimand, something Harry could have mistaken for kindness if it had come from anyone other than Voldemort. “Rest. Let the potion do its work. I’ll come see you in the morning, and we’ll discuss the details I promised you.”
The last thing Harry felt before darkness claimed him was the feeling of cold fingers trailing down the side of his face. And then nothing.