A/N: An AU whose divergence points will become clear later on. For now, all that's necessary to know is that Harry is older, and that this is in no way canon-compliant for anything occurring after the death of the Potters. Rated M for language and violence.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
I stood in the cemetery, whistling merrily. The moon was full, the sky clear, but the night dark. A cool breeze whistled through the naked branches of the trees surrounding the graveyard. Before me, a circle was inscribed upon the ground, etched in and filled with salt, and at its center was a small pile of ashes, stained red. It was a ritual, and a dark one. I was impressed that anybody still knew how to perform it. Presumably Voldemort was the one who had rediscovered it. Brilliant bastard.
Peter Pettigrew's corpse lay on the ground beside me, bloodied and broken. It had probably been a poor choice on his part, fighting me. Peter Pettigrew had lived his life as a coward, hiding behind more powerful wizards – I had dominated my life. Others hid behind me. Ironic, really; his cowardice made him brave, in the end.
Well, not really, but close enough for a poet.
Rituals are strange things and it's necessary to be very clear about what's going to happen before you start one. Some of them are straightforward, and spell out just what they want you to sacrifice – others make you guess and infer and essentially shoot blindly in the dark. I once sacrificed no less than six Death Eaters in increasingly gruesome ways in six attempts to make a summoning ritual work, and in the end it had turned out that all that had to be sacrificed was a lemon drop.
Back to my point, however: rituals are strange, and that is something that both Peter Pettigrew and I should have taken into account. Peter because he agreed to assist Voldemort in this stupidity. Me for getting in the middle of it. Peter's agreement had been a contract; his body and blood were promised to some horror older than the soil we stood on – alive or dead. He hadn't known, of course, and Voldemort had probably been coercing him; Peter was never known for his intelligence or strength of will.
Of course, I shouldn't say anything; by killing Peter and interrupting the ritual, I had initiated an unspoken contract as well.
Which was why I now found myself standing in a graveyard, whistling a jaunty tune, and counting the minutes until midnight so that I could resurrect Lord Voldemort. How I even knew the steps to this particular ritual was actually a very long story involving three Egyptian pyramids, several not-yet-dead mummies, and five Veela who weren't willing to take no for an answer, but the important thing was that I did know it, and so knew that the flesh had to be offered at five till midnight.
To complete this section of the ritual, Peter would have only had to place his hand inside the circle. Unfortunately, that was contingent upon his life. The demon would have taken his life and been entirely satisfied, no special steps needed – there's power in the unspent life of a wizard. Because I had unexpectedly borrowed Peter's remaining years, a bit more preparation was necessary, a bit more finesse.
Changing the tune of my song slightly, I flicked my wand and conjured a silver knife. I knelt at Peter's side and tapped his arm with my wand, making it hover solidly in the air before me. My other hand, wielding the knife, moved smoothly, with no wasted motion, slicing the robes from his arm, then busily filleting his flesh.
It was imperative that none of Peter's bone entered the mix. I didn't actually know the name of the being that was being bargained with, but I did know that he didn't like his meals crunchy.
For a brief moment, whilst my hands were occupied, I imagined changing the terms of the deal when the demon arrived – but that rarely ended well. There were also advantages to Voldemort regaining corporeal form that couldn't be ignored, such as his soon-to-be-newly-rediscovered ability to die. Last time he'd had fail-safes in place – this time I'd make damn sure he didn't.
With my thoughts miles away, my hands slipped. The knife sliced into my index finger, and I cursed quietly, moving that hand well away from Peter's corpse. If Peter's bone would mess up the ritual, I had no doubt my blood would be approximately ten times worse.
I murmured a congealing charm, and the wound closed over, leaving me again with two hands to work with. The delay had cost me seconds, but if I was timing it anywhere near right, I should still have time. Details, rituals are all in the details.
I finished separating a section of Peter's arm from the bone, and carried it over to the circle. Poor Peter – 'armless in life and 'armless in death, am I right?
I made a mental note to tell that one to Voldemort, when I resurrected him – he'd appreciate my wit. If this ritual had called for evisceration I could've made a 'gutless' pun as well, and it almost seemed like a shame I was going to miss the opportunity.
You can't have everything in life, I suppose.
I levitated Peter's flesh into the circle, beginning to chant softly under my breath as I dropped it on the ash pile. The words were gibberish. They had probably meant something a long time ago, but not now – not to me. To the being I was about to call, though... that was a different matter entirely. I could feel the shape of the words as they left my lips and I could taste their weight. Each syllable felt like vomiting fire, burning hotter and hotter as I soldiered onward to the finale.
The final word was the most crucial in that it named the demon, and it was always an extraordinarily nasty word. These words were fire in my throat; the end word would be worse. Throat-rippin'-good, my wise old mentor would have said.
I don't think he actually ever did say that, but he probably would have if he'd thought of it.
I spoke the second to last word, then paused, and an eerie silence fell around the cemetery. No crickets, no breeze, just perfect dead silence all around.
Speaking the demon's name into that silence felt like killing something innocent, but something creepy enough that you don't really feel all that guilty about it and sort of think maybe it wasn't that innocent anyway.
The demon's name sounded something like Har'trai, simplified. Properly pronounced, it felt like expelling a thousand tiny blades from my throat, tearing and clawing its way out. My mouth didn't escape its fury; my tongue was covered in tiny lacerations, and my cheeks felt as if they had been shredded.
The word seemed to hang in the air for longer than a normal series of sounds, but I wasn't focused on that; I had tilted my head forward in an effort to keep the blood draining out of my mouth rather than down my windpipe. Drowning in your own blood is a terribly uncomfortable and embarrassing way to go, and so I wanted to avoid it if possible.
Given a minute with my wand, my throat would be, if not like new, at least patched up decently enough until I could get it properly healed. It's a very poor idea to use magic anywhere near demons however and so I couldn't risk it until after the transaction was completed.
This was one of the better-designed rituals I knew about, even if its purposes were a bit questionable. It was designed in such a way that no verbal communication was needed with the demon after it was summoned, which was good in this case.
I could feel the magical shochwave as the demon materialized but didn't look up. Most demons are fairly business-minded sorts but some are a bit strange and you never know what they might do. I had one decide that I was her soul mate once, which I might not have been especially opposed to - she was a lust-based demon, after all - but for the fact that she wanted us to live our life of bliss in a hell dimension which, while like a vacation in Tijuana for her, was a tad deadly for me. I still can't quite remember how I escaped, but in the end I turned up six months later, naked and sunburnt in the middle of the Himalayas and was found by a band of nomadic tribespeople who thought I was the reincarnation of their goddess in male form.
Lost my train of thought there. Ah, yes - as educational as that experience had been, I didn't have any real desire to repeat it and so I studiously avoided any sort of contact with the demon. A hand extended into my vision - a normal hand, with a very faint red glow. This demon wasn't one of the typical pretentious types, then.
It took the flesh offered delicately, almost gingerly, and the hand exited my vision. An undefinable sound split the air, and wind began whipping through the cemetery, though I couldn't feel a thing. Eye of the storm, and all that. I began counting seconds. You can always count on demons to be very timely creatures which is a great asset when conducting rituals.
A flash lit the area, violet-tinged, as I hit five. A tearing sound acompanied it, but the sound continued until I reached seven, at which point it, the wind, and hopefully the demon all disappeared.
I looked up to see the demon gone, Voldemort in his place. Demon for a demon, there was a joke in there somewhere. Voldemort was naked, which wasn't especially attractive, and his skin was a deathly white-grey. He opened his eyes, and I could see that they were crimson, and slitted - snake eyes.
I drew my wand and tapped it to my throat, hand moving blindingly fast, and the damage caused by the demon's name was healed. Voldemort, reacting instantly despite only just regaining his form, rolled to his side and behind a gravestone. Throat now marginally functional, I croaked a Russian incantation and obliterated the stone, throwing Voldemort back a good ten feet.
The fucker landed on his feet, and took off running.
I gave chase. It's always a bit of a decision, chasing after somebody or not when dueling them, because it's nearly impossible to aim a wand while running. In this case, though, Voldemort was just entirely too fast for me not to follow.
It was also looking like he might be too fast for me to catch. That meant it was time to take a risk. I slid to a stop, glanced at where Voldemort was going, and twisted on the spot, disappearing with a crack.
Apparition is actually a very easy sort of thing to do and most people have some innate talent for it. It's because of this that most don't tray to develop that at all. People aren't impressed by somebody who's awesome at Apparating, because it's just not as sexy as dueling. That's why I never bring up my prodigious Apparition skills at parties; it makes for very dull conversation. After all, most people couldn't care less about landing within a half-inch of your destination, or arriving so fast you almost go back in time.
I could do both.
I reappeared in exactly in front of Voldemort, so close that he almost gored himself on my wand. Before he could do anything, he was bound hand and foot, and falling on top of me.
This was, of course, the moment when six successive pops heralded the arrival of the Order of the Phoenix.
It's a very awkward situation to explain, laying on the ground with a naked and bound Dark Lord on top of you.
