CHAPTER 7
He was kneeling at the end of a long, dimly lit chamber. Behind him, towering stone pillars entwined with serpents rose to a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place. The battered, sightless corpse of the enormous basilisk lay lifeless to his left. The girl set to his right, motionless, as the last of her living essence slowly faded away.
The ghostly image of a young man appeared to materialise as the girl's life essence wasted away.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle…" said the ghostly young man and the letters forming his name etched in the air. With a flick of the young man's fingers, the letters rearranged to -I am Lord Voldemort".
Without knowing what else to do, he raised the basilisk's fang and plunged it deep inside the diary as if it was a living organism. Black ink flooded the pages, and he glanced at the ghostly young man. He watched him extend his hands, a wide smile crept on his face. "Finally, …" the ghost of the young man muttered and the black ink trickling down from the book simmered and swirled, exploding in a writhing mass of darkness…
Harry screamed at the top of his lungs, his heart hammered in his chest. He opened his eyes but he couldn't see, he tried to speak but no sound seemed to escape his lips. The faint sound of chanting reached his ears, but it felt so distant. Thud. His heart thumped in his chest again, another scream escaped him but his lips didn't move. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he again was cast into oblivion.
"Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never been wavered, and you, unfortunately, do not fulfil either requirement."
…
…" Magic, especially Dark Magic, leaves traces. If am I to uphold this persona to the best of my ability I cannot perform the ritual. The die is cast on you, Wormtail, to go through with it. Failure is forbidden. This will be your one and only chance to prove your loyalty and competence."
...
As Diggory's body hit the ground, he stood up and dusted his clothes. "Finally!" he exclaimed and extended his arms, letting the cool, night breeze wash over his face.
He neared his servant and extended his arm over the cauldron. The man named Wormtail unsheathed a silver, rune dagger with a skull-shaped hilt. With trembling hands, he approached and touched his master's skin with the long, thin blade. Blood poured into the cauldron. The already bubbling liquid swirled and heaved as if it savoured this new edition to its substance… As the final ingredient fell inside the cauldron, the liquid turned blinding white. The man named Wormtail muttered an incomprehensible incantation and the liquid shot out bright sparks. It simmered, before it died out and a thick white steam arose, along with a figure. As the steam dissipated and pooled to the ground forming a mist, the figure's full image came to view. The facial features resembled that of a snake, the eyes empty and pitch-black. It stood lifeless, limp, with stitches and patches of different flesh decorating its torso.
"My lord..." the servant Wormtail said, and with a flick of his wand the mist closed around the lifeless figure materialising into flowing dark robes, "the vessel is yours to command"
"Excellent work, Wormtail. For this you will be rewarded. Give me your hand." With a swift, fluid movement of his want a silvery-hand appeared, replacing Wormtail's maimed limb. "Now, give me the other. The rest need to be notified of my return."
Harry's body shuddered. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, showing white. Foam drooled of his mouth, like a rabid dog. His body writhed and convulsed as he floated mid-air, with arms extended and legs limp, like a crucifix. The voices kept chanting.
"My lord are you sure this is going to work? The prophecy..."
He raised his hand, silencing her. "Prophecies are tricky, my Bella. They always have more than one definition. Besides we have come too far to stop now, we have planned and played carefully. If there is a risk, it is one I am willing to take. In the meantime, while I still share my consciousness with Potter's, I trust the vessel's control to you."
"Won't the boy suspect?" She asked.
"Hogwarts' magic is too strong, so are the protective wards Dumbledore placed at his filthy muggle family house. The boy remains oblivious."
"But the images he sees..." She tried to counter.
"Images only I let him see. When he falls asleep, I take over." She smiled wickedly and gave her Lord a small bow. "For the meantime Bellatrix, control the vessel. Snape can never find out the truth. My true visage will remain secret to the ones truly loyal to me, the ones that came during the end of the Triwizard Tournament and you my dear Bella."
Harry shot his eyes open. A bright light blinded him as images and memories of two lives flooded his brain. His body writhed and convulsed again. He tried to speak, but only a gargling noise left his lips.
"Dumbledore is the only obstacle we face. If he goes the boy will be defenceless. For our benefit, the old man is already set on the path we led him. Searching hopelessly for the horcruxes. But we need to escalate the game."
"How my Lord?" Bellatrix said.
"With Draco. Have him take the mark, and task him to kill Dumbledore."
"But...my Lord, Narcissa will never allow this..."
"I am counting on it, Bellatrix. I am counting on her to convince Snape to protect her son. At all costs."
"My Lord..."
"Tell her the truth only after she managed to coax Snape's Vow. Leave Lucius out of it. Lately I am starting to believe I have asked the wrong member of that family to join my ranks."
Harry's head throbbed, his eyes bulged through his skull. The runes underneath his floating body ignited into blue flames. The flames danced and morphed taking various images and faces. The voices kept chanting as the barriers of his brain demolished, like a dam breaking from the sheer force of an unhinged river, wiping away all the false memories of a life he believed to be true. He remembered. He remembered he was not the 37-year-old History school teacher in Massachusetts. This life was all a sham. He was the boy who lived. The boy responsible for the fall of the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort.
The boy who was tasked again, from a very young age, to prepare himself for the Dark Lord's return. That oblivious boy who fell for the Dark Lord's trap to destroy the diary, thus becoming his puppet. He remembered, the ghost of young Tom Riddle laughing in his face as the black ink from the diary morphed into a writhing mass of darkness taking a life of its own and merging with his body.
As the bluish flames rose and reaped, he remembered his last year with Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley. How they searched for the remaining horcruxes, following Dumbledore's breadcrumbs. He remembered being captured by the snatchers, and was taken hostage in Malfoy Manor. He remembered how he stood in front of Bellatrix, Narcissa and Draco, explaining to them his elaborate plan.
He remembered the battle of Hogwarts. How he appeared in front of the army of Death Eaters and snatchers, their gasps and their shocked faces, when the whole truth was revealed.
Suddenly, the chanting ceased and the runes exploded. The blue flames enveloped Harry's body. He screamed at the top of his lungs, as the flames liked his skin and marred his flesh. He screamed until his heart gave out, and silence fell.
Tick. Tick.
His body quaked and within him a violent torrent of darkness with a reddish-core escaped. His body slowly floated to the ground. As the dark vortex, whirled and morphed, covering his frame like a cloak, he remembered everything…
Lord Voldemort has finally returned.