Chapter Text
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, youngest Hogwarts Seeker in 100 years, only known survivor of the Killing Curse, the saviour of the Wizarding World, felt like none of those things as he strained against the ropes binding him to the gravestone behind him. Cedric’s cold, once warm and laughing eyes stared right through him, lifeless as the stone that surrounded them both.
Kill the spare. The spare. The rightful Hogwarts champion named a spare, something to be discarded with a simple wave of his wand. Rage coursed through his veins, the blood in his head almost overriding every survival instinct he had. The man who caused his parents murder was right in front of him, holding a strange, horrifying bundle. If he could just slip out of the bindings he would be free, he could end all of this. Right here, right now.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
Wormtail, in that snivelling weak voice of his, continued reciting something he tuned out in his fervent rage. When did the coward’s hand vanish?
“B-bone of the father, unknowingly given, you shall renew your son.” The ground beneath Harry trembled and pulsed, eventually forcing out both chunks and powdered bone. The former cut his skin as it passed, blood welling fast out of the shockingly deep cuts.
“Blood o-of the enemy, you will revive your foe.”
Revive.
He was trying to bring Voldemort.
Horror, anger and fear filled him all at once as he desperately tried to stop the blood flowing from the cuts created by the bones, not even hearing the final part of the incantation. But it was too late, droplets were already ripped from them and fell into the pot with a final hiss.
The bundle on the chair, hissing and spitting in a mix between Parseltongue and English in a way not even he could understand, was dropped into the boiling liquid and he prayed it shared the fate of the many lobsters he was forced to cook for the Dursleys.
His luck did not hold.
As a newly reformed Voldemort rose, all angles and thick salted curls on a cruelly lined face, he felt a strange heat emanate from his scar. It started small, a familiar twinge that he’d known since his first feast at Hogwarts.
Then it spread.
An agonising pain overtook Harry, stretching his bones and tightening his skin. Ice pricked his eyes while his retinas burned, ice and fire playing across his flesh and in his muscles as he shook and strained against the ropes.
It was worse than the first time he saw Quirrel, worse than the starvation he endured at the Dursleys, worse than almost drowning, worse than being set on fire.
It felt like all of those at once.
The ropes chafed and burned him as he screamed and screamed, unable to stop as he heard another bone snap inside his leg, only to reform a moment later. Unable to do anything as his entire skeleton broke and reformed, as skin and sinew stretched till its breaking point, only to keep going. His veins filled with lava and ice water only to be turned into obsidian and break. He gasped and cried and there was nothing but him and the tornado of broken glass and bones.
Until it stopped as suddenly as it began.
Harry gasped, slumped against the ropes. He was violently shaking and couldn’t stop. His stomach roiled as he gagged up acid and bile onto the grave below him. His arm twitched as he did so. Slick with sweat and with no energy left to even attempt an escape, Voldemort touched his face, ice cold fingers grabbing Harry’s jaw.
“Interesting.” He said as he pulled the Gryfindor’s head in different directions, searching for something. Not finding it, he violently shoved Harry’s head away with a softly spoken “Wormtail.”
The aforementioned rat had fallen to the ground at some point, groaning in pain and writhing in a puddle of his own blood. Harry had no pity spared for the man, even ignoring his previous transgressions. The rat looked up from his spot of misery, pain giving way to shock and fear, all colour draining from his face and eyes widening. “M-Master I performed it exa-exactly how you asked,” He stuttered out, “It went exactly as planned-”
Voldemort cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Exactly as planned?” He touched Harry’s shoulder, holding on no matter how much he struggled, “Is this Harry Potter?” There was a tint of amusement in his voice, whether at Harry’s increasing confusion or Wormtail’s fear was anyone's guess.
“N-no my lord.”
“Then you did something wrong. Crucio.” The spell was said with almost indifference, no expression on the wraith’s face as he watched Wormtail cry out, limbs twitching uncontrollably as it ended. Voldemort took the Marked arm, forcing it still as his wand met the black ink of the snake’s mouth. An animalistic hiss, another yell of pain, and then a silver hand of pure magic appeared out of Voldemort’s wand, attaching itself to the bleeding stump.
“Wrong, but useful.” He mused, turning to Harry for his next words. “Who will show, do you think? It has been a long time.”
Maybe the hat was right to want to sort him in Slytherin. He certainly felt no courage right now, instead just a heavy exhaustion mixed with fear as he stared his worst enemy in the face, only for him to smirk back with all the arrogance of someone who’s beaten death more times than possible. He should know, he’s worn the same expression many, many times.
The thought made him sick up again.
The three waited; one in pain, one calm and contemplative, and one slumped over in exhaustion, too tired to fight and too scared not to.
After what felt like an eternity, dark figures dressed in robes and masks that haunted his dreams at night apparated down into the graveyard. One of them kicked Cedric’s body as they approached their so-called Dark Lord, refuelling Harry’s rage. He felt like death, pain still wracked his body, but he had to leave.
For Cedric’s sake.
Some of the Death Eaters he recognised right away. Crabbe and Goyle seniors, built much like their sons. One’s mask slipped for a second, the string frail from lack of use. Lucius, paler than usual and hair pulled back into a ponytail in a way he knew from Hermione to mean it was a mess. They made eye contact for a second, before Lucius fumbled for his mask and re-secured it. The rest were mysteries.
Voldemort addresses his Death Eaters, Cruciating ones seemingly at random. Harry wasn’t paying attention, he couldn’t. He was barely conscious now, trying to avoid sliding into the dark as Voldemort gave his speech.
Run, run, run. A mantra in his head that he was trying to follow, he really was, but a part of him felt broken and his wand was so far away and bone cut his skin that looked paler than it should.
A Death Eater, one of the ones he did not recognize, spoke in a low voice. “My Lord, who is the boy?”
Voldemort let out a cold, high laugh. “Don’t you recognize Dumbledore’s saviour?” Murmurs of disbelief and confusion spread across the crowd, the most confused being Harry himself. They were part of a cult with basically the main objective being to kill him. That didn’t exactly lead to lack of recognition, even from normal Wixen.
“This momentous day calls for celebration, and our fold is looking smaller by the day. Our most valiant locked away, a few runaways- they’ll pay later, and of course our dear spies, trapped by Dumbledore’s side. I propose a new member.”
Sweeping hands and a gesture at his direction and he can’t even stand- and he tries to find a way out but the chains are so tight around his chest and his body feels wrong, whatever the ritual had done had hurt him too and eyes red as frozen rubies stared at him in a face too pale and the hand holding his left arm is so cold and so strong and the wand touches his skin and it had to be over, he wouldn’t actually do it. There was no way this was happening; he gave one final tug on the ragged iron.
It wasn't enough.
Nothing he ever did was ever enough.
Voldemort’s hand, the same smooth, cold texture all snakes share, gripped his arm tight. It was cold, no warmth under his skin as burning erupted on his forearm. Harry was sure he was screaming. There was no way he wasn't. It was agony, it was every time he was locked under the stairs, it was every stone Dudley had ever thrown.
He fell against the chains that continued to dig into his skin. He knew if he looked down he would see the dark mark prominent against his torn flesh. The idea twisted his stomach and he retched sweet stomach acid that clung to his teeth. A million thoughts ran through his head but none left his mouth, nothing concrete except for the plea of whywhywhywhy.
The Death Eaters, still circled and supporting those who had the painful unforgivable used on them, also seemed confused, however none were stupid enough to voice it. Harry distantly thought that it was a shame they wouldn’t, maybe another Crucio would set their minds straight as he hyperventilated against the gravestone. Voldemort stroked his hair as one would a pet as he tried to think of any way to escape.
“A new member to our circle.” He said, with almost affection in his voice as he continued to pet his hair.
Harry wanted to cry, wanted to throw a fit like a child as he slumped against the gravestone. He was so tired, and the only friendly face he had was dead on the ground next to a portkey.
Fear and adrenaline spiked through his veins, the idea of fight so entrenched in him but the chains were reinforced by magic stronger than anything he’s gone against before and who let him do this death tournament anyways?
Snaps of apparition brought him back to reality as the Death Eaters began to disappear. One undid his chains and levied their wand against Harry and cast a muttered spell he didn’t quite hear. The feeling of peace settled over him and oh how nice it would be to stand there for a bit, let himself be guided over and no this was wrong this wasn’t- but it was so nice and he didn’t have to be brave anymore but no!
Harry snapped out of it and made a break for the Portkey that brought him there, dredges of the curse still touching his mind as he shook his head, grabbed Cedric, his wand and touched the cup and-
Nothing happened.
“Foolish boy,” A sneer behind him as a hand roughly grabbed his arm and apparated him away into darkness.