Disclaimer - don't own.
Anima
anima, (noun)
1. soul; life
2. the inner personality that is turned towards the unconscious of the individual
Little Hangleton,
Present
Peter Pettigrew woke with a start.
There was a dull thud somewhere; the man quickly got to his feet, drawing his wand.
"Lumos."
The light from his wand illuminated the room, showing a young boy sitting in a chair right ahead, looking completely at ease.
Jet black hair. Green eyes. A scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead.
Peter knew him all too well. The portly man aimed his wand, but the kid was faster.
A binding spell froze the man in place, only his eyeballs free to move. The pale blue eyes darted this way and that, searching for an escape, a way out...
There was none.
Harry smirked, lips curving in a cold parody of a smile, his eyes chips of green stone. If Pettigrew could have shivered, he would have. Those eyes haunted his dreams, ever since their encounter in the Shrieking Shack...
"I should have killed you, in the Shrieking Shack," the boy told him, voice toneless. "I wanted to, I would have - if Remus hadn't stopped me. You got lucky once... but tonight?" The boy twirled his wand, the length of wood spinning in between his fingers. "Tonight you will die."
And Peter believed him. There was a quiet conviction in the emerald eyes. Peter was going to die.
The boy hit him with another spell. "You can try to change into a rat, but I'm afraid it won't work now. I looked up this spell especially for you. Don't you feel... honored?"
A red beam of light issued from the boy's wand, and Peter sank into unconsciousness.
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Voldemort was angry. Voldemort was scared.
Trapped in this pitiful homunculus, he had no way to aid himself. One second he was looking at the ceiling, the next second he was covered with a cloth, and being carried away. He shouted out, but Peter didn't come. Nor did Nagini.
The cloth was lifted away, and Voldemort found himself staring into cold, merciless emerald eyes.
"Harry Potter."
"I'm so glad you recognize me," the boy replied, his tone almost sincere.
The next second, Voldemort was staring down the end of a wand.
The Dark Lord laughed, a high cold bark of laughter. "You think you can kill me?"
The boy levitated Voldemort up into the air. Ropes formed from nothing, wrapping the tiny, helpless body Voldemort was inhabiting against what felt like solid stone.
Voldemort knew where he was. Little Hangleton, at the Graveyard.
"I've tied you to your father's headstone," Harry told him. "Rather symbolic, don't you think? Birth, death, resurrection..."
Voldemort twisted his head to look around. They were alone. A single cauldron simmered softly behind the boy, a long silver sword propped up against it.
The boy waved his wand, and a body soared through the air, bound by ropes. Pettigrew. Harry propped the body up against a headstone to the side, near the cauldron. A nonverbal spell, and Pettigrew awoke, struggling at once. Another spell, and the wizard could no longer struggle, his eyeballs roving about in fear and desperation.
The boy waved his wand again, and a dark shape soared from behind the grave Voldemort was tied to, falling down just in front of the Dark Lord.
"Your snake was hostile," Harry said, sounding apologetic. "I had to..." he gestured to the snake's head, severed from it's body.
Anger rushed through Voldemort - and a tiny bit of fear.
"You asked me if I could kill you..." the boy shrugged. "Not today, I can't. But you made a mistake when you bound yourself to that homunculus, unable to leave that body without help. I can take my time, decades, centuries if needed - to find out how to destroy you permanently... I've already destroyed two of your horcruxes..."
Voldemort's eyes widened, as true terror ripped through his body. Fear. Panic.
"How, you wonder?" Harry turned around, moving over to the cauldron. The boy pointed at the sword. "That is the Sword of Gryffindor. Listen closely Voldemort, this is the last story you will ever hear..."
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Chamber of Secrets,
Two years ago,
"Get away from him!"
Tom Riddle cast a jet of red light at the Phoenix, but the deed was done. The gold and red creature soared through the air, evading the curse.
Harry's vision cleared, his senses returned. The fire in his arm subsided.
To the boy's left was a single Basilisk fang - long, sharp, lethal.
To the boy's right was a sword - long, silver, inset with rubies. The sword of Godric Gryffindor - not that Harry knew it.
Ahead, just a few feet away, lay a Black Diary.
Harry blinked rapidly. Tom Riddle was saying something - but his words were lost in the roar - the pounding in Harry's ears.
Clarity. He understood what he needed to do.
The boy scrambled to his feet, stumbling towards the right. His fingers wrapped around the grip, and he held up the Sword.
Fear gripped him - but it didn't paralyze him. He knew what he had to do. He hated himself for it, but he did it anyway. He was a Gryffindor, the blade itself testified to that...
The Sword rose.
The Sword fell.
The tiny body jerked, and crimson blood began to flow from Ginny Weasley.
The ringing in Harry's ears subsided - just in time to hear Riddle screaming as his body disappeared, dissolving into nothing.
Harry pulled on the Sword, but he couldn't get it out. His eyes widened as he saw a silver mist spreading from the wound, rising up, curling around the Sword.
Ginny's eyes opened. She gasped, blinked, then fell back, her eyes closing, her muscles relaxing.
Harry Potter watched Ginny Weasley die.
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Little Hangleton,
Present,
"You're a smart wizard," Harry said, face blank, expression toneless. "I've told you enough for you to understand..."
Harry raised the Sword. The inset rubies glittered strangely, glowing brightly, then dimming, waxing, waning...
"It changed me completely," the boy said, almost as if speaking to himself. "Ron abandoned me. Hermione - she helped a little, at the beginning, but then..." he shook his head. "I have no friends. At least I've grown powerful, learnt so much...
"So why this?" Harry gestured all around. "That day, in the Chamber of Secrets, something unpredictable happened. You see, there was a sliver of soul in the Diary, a piece of your soul. And there was Ginny Weasley - her soul was being torn apart, split this way and that...
Harry pointed to the glittering rubies, inset in the Sword. "A part of her soul took residence in here. Imagine my surprise when the hat insists on speaking to me, and gives me the Sword, telling me to take it as my own..."
"It was a long and difficult journey. I failed my third year - my teachers was so disappointed - but I didn't care. I learnt about the darkest of magics, but I never used them..."
The boy dropped the Sword into the cauldron. "I came across the term 'horcrux.' And my scar has a most convenient link into your snake, it was not difficult for me to find you...
"I'm fairly sure I know which ritual you wanted to use, and I'm going to use the same ritual to resurrect Ginny Weasley. I'll only change it a little, just a word here and there... do you appreciate the irony?"
Voldemort understood the irony - he didn't appreciate it. He was terrified - he had never been more scared in his life.
"Bone of the Mother, knowingly given, you will resurrect your Daughter," Harry chanted harshly, drawing a small packet from his robes, and emptying it into the cauldron.
The boy smiled at Voldemort. "That was the hardest to get. I had to disguise myself and convince Molly Weasley... It would have been easier to just take it forcibly, but I wouldn't want Ginny to have a strange, unnatural body. Curious isn't it - how a few changes can take a ritual from the darkest of magics, to..." Harry grinned. "Well, this isn't noble magic either..."
The boy's voice turned harsh again. "Flesh of the Servant, willingly given, you will revive your Master." He drew another bag, and emptied it into the cauldron.
"That was painful," he told Voldemort. "I had to cut my own finger... I did it last night. Regrowing it was agonizing..."
Harry walked over to Pettigrew, and knelt besides the immobile wizard. The boy drew a knife, and a vial. A slash, and blood poured into the vial.
"I'd have liked to use your blood," he told Voldemort. "But I don't want the dark magic within your blood to corrupt her new body."
Harry's tone turned harsh again. "Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."
The cauldron began to smoke. Pettigrew passed out from fear. Voldemort watched with a morbid fascination. Harry watched with an expression of hope - for the first time in over a year, looking like the young kid he truly was.
The smoke dispersed. A figure emerged, stepping out of the cauldron.
Small, bald, innocent features, emerald green eyes.
Ginny Weasley was alive.
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A/N : Credit to FreelanceBum for the idea. You could check out his profile, but he doesn't have any fics...he does however, have a pretty good list of favorites. This is a small, curious one-shot while I continue to write To Master The Dark.
Yes, it's a one-shot.
FreelanceBum was very interested in the irony of Harry using the same ritual, reversing the ritual in the Graveyard, with Harry performing it. It led to this, and I hope you enjoyed it.
Thank you for reading.
toodles,
timefreak