The day was the 24th of June, though day was somewhat inaccurate.
A blustery night had fallen over the sleepy town of Little Hangleton; a ghost town really, with the sole exception being the manor house on the hill.
A single flickering light present in the second floor master bedroom, an orb of light suspended by naught more than magic.
The room played host to three men. A stout, short and jittery one with protruding front teeth and whisker-like facial hair. A taller, paler man with freckled cheeks and hair the colour of straw. And a final figure, who could barely be considered human, bone white skin and blood red, cat-like eyes.
Peter Pettigrew, Bartemius Crouch Jnr and their mutual Dark Lord: Voldemort. They awaited the latter man's familiar Nagini, called for by the sibilant tones of Parseltongue nearing fifteen minutes ago.
She had failed to arrive.
The Dark Lord was sat in a high backed chair, venomously ignoring any comfort or aide offered by his concerned follower Barty. The enthusiasm the man had portrayed at his job well done tempered by the state in which his Lord had found himself in after dismissing his returned followers.
The plan had gone off without a hitch, a truly ingenious one it was. The Triwizard Tournament, a century old tradition returned for the modern era. Who better a candidate to provide the blood required to return the Dark Lord than the Champion who stood victorious? Her vicious, horrified screams falling silent were an ecstasy he had long missed in his decade as a wraith.
Yet... in this moment of triumph, all he could feel was the deepest and most infuriating sense of unease.
"Master?" An unease he, a Master of his mind and emotions, could not keep from displaying on his face.
The Dark Lord kissed his teeth at his grovelling servant and waved him off,
"I am well, Barty. The resurrection was a success as expected. Allow me a moment to gather myself." He snarled, Bartemius flinching back from his Lord with a hurt but relieved expression. Voldemort straightening his back (ignoring the solid shiver that danced down the length of his spine); the man looking the part of a Dark Emperor seated upon his modest throne,
"Forgive me, my lord, I mistakenly sensed uneasiness from you."
Insolence. An insolent statement he'd meet with the Cruciatus Curse... any other time but this night.
Something was wrong. A pressure in the air that stayed his hand from disciplining his follower. An alarm bell that, to his logical minds disbelief, decreed he would need all the aide and support he could muster that night.
As the window panes rattled, wind howling through gaps in the glass and masonry, the Dark Lord stunned both men with a sigh and a frown, hands steepling together as his crimson eyes closed,
"The ritual was a success, I feel more powerful than I was before my fall." He nodded as he spoke, words firmer than he felt. His heartbeat (a sound and sensation he had no idea he would miss so dearly) hammering painfully in his marble white chest as his volume decreased, "Yet... I sense a presence. A presence I haven't felt... since..."
Wormtail was choking.
The Dark Lord words barely passing his pale lips before his shaking hands grasped and wrung at his own throat. Unbeknownst to Bartemius and his Dark Lord (until a few moments later) an invisible force had crushed the rat's thorax flat, long before the caster had even approached the master bedroom door. The animagus lay writhing for some time before falling still. In that time, the door clicked open and a young man entered.
Unceremonious was his entrance, and seemingly unremarkable was the slip of a man who entered. A child to be more accurate. Skinny, seen even in his long flowing robes; black and emblazoned with the red and gold of Gryffindor House. Messy black hair that stood up in all directions, daring gravity to deny it, with bottle green eyes whose intensity was barely tempered behind a pair of large, circular glasses,
"P-Potter." The Dark Lord was on his feet, inclining himself in a bow at the waist to the boy who'd entered. Harry James Potter's expression impassive at the show of decorum (said deference enough to leave Crouch open-mouthed).
"Riddle." Clipped, but otherwise betraying no emotion. His lips forming into the slightest of pouts whilst his eyebrows quirked up by barely an inch, almost as if he were surprised to find him here. Bartemius drew his wand, Voldemort daren't draw attention to it, "May I come in?"
The words did not come to his suddenly very dry throat, but he managed to school his face and gesture (with an added flourish) for the boy to cross the threshold.
He could not contain the shiver as he stepped over Pettigrew's still body; less than a glance spared to the corpse at his feet. The door sliding shut behind him without movement by anyone.
The boy looked around, a sub-audible hum of intrigue from the child as his green gaze took everythign in: the dusty drawers and cabinets, the clouded mirror on the wall, the king sized bed with the shattered frame.
He nodded, Voldemort wondering what there was to satisfy the child, said child crossing to the vanity and drawing a long (what the Dark Lord now noticed to be gloved) finger across its surface. Dragging a path through the thick layers of dust and coming away with a large clump of grey on the tip of his forefinger,
"I am impressed to see you survived our... encounter by the Mirror, Tom."
He bristled at the name, his hands curled into fists at the condescension, his steadying breath shaky when he saw the boy checking his own reflection instead of providing eye contact,
"I have delved into many fields of magics to ensure my immortality, Potter." His tone was conservative, bordering on uber-polite. The man praying that it came across as non-confrontational. Barty pacing like a caged tiger behind him likely ruining whatever atmosphere he was setting up.
"Hmmm. You have a funny definition of ''Immortality'' Tom. But I suppose I'll allow it." Harry shrugged, running his dusty forefinger against his thumb before brushing his entire left hand along his trouser leg. Turning his head to hold his gaze only when satisfied, "You have entirely returned from the grave, a feat few can and will match. Congratulations, you're worthy of praise."
Seething. The Dark Lord was seething when the boy turned the rest of his body to face him. Fiery hot rage tempered by the cold feeling he got from facing the Potter boy again AND simultaneously realising he could no longer sense Nagini through the intimate bond they shared.
Swaying; feeling as if the ground was eating away at his legs and feet, the Dark Lord teetered. Barely holding himself upright under the weight of the Boy Who Lived's blinkless stare.
"You've returned, but now what Tom? What plans do you have for your future?" Head cocked, eyebrows fully raised, "You have a new lease on life. You could turn a new leaf, set your skills and knowledge to a worthy, more humanitarian cause."
The Dark Lord's face changed, fear and airy arrogance giving way to contrition and sympathy,
"Once upon a time Potter, I simply wished to be a teacher. To remain at Hogwarts, my home. Had Dumbledore or Dippet allowed me to, all this-" His hands, in all their spider-esque glory, swept around the dishevelled room, "-would never have occurred."
He had no need to fake his sigh, his mind's eye cast back to the dual rejections and lingering on what could have been,
"You... understand," He morphed his face into a smile. It was gentle, imploring, almost sweet. All whilst his fingers encircled the yew wood hidden within his robes, "don't you?"
Potter's eyes found his at once with an unnatural weight behind them, as if his gaze had the force of a mallet swing,
"Hmm, what a shame." Intermingled with a sigh of his own, his eyes fluttering shut and a light frown marring his features, "It appears all those years as a spectre has left you an awful liar."
"Potter? What do you-"
A KRAKOOM echoed across the hills. A wall of the Riddle Manor shattered outwards. Hurling stone, masonry and shattered furniture into the vicious gales assaulting Little Hangleton. Dust and stone whipped about, interrupting the call of gravity, as a pair of men were slung through the air.
Lesser wizards would have succumbed to death or injury after being shunted through a wall in such a manner, but the Dark Lord and his lieutenant were anything but. Landing softly on the grass after soft swipes of their wands, neither hiding their movements now. The Dark Lord holding now illusions that their subterfuge had gone at all unseen.
"My lord?" Barty hissed but was met with the barest, yet firmest, of head shakes. Glittering red eyes never leaving the place from which they'd come. Both of their necks craned up to see the silhouette of the boy who'd assailed them, eyes on his shape until the ball of light behind him blinked out,
"He's coming." The only warning Voldemort could spare.
The Dark Lord Voldemort had celebrated his return with a rallying of his followers, succeeded by a ''duel'' against the Champion whose blood had been utilised for his revival. As one would expect from the notorious being, capable of standing alone against Dumbledore, the Beauxbatons seventh year had been childsplay. Battered, bruised and far out of her league: embarassed, humiliated and utterly broken long before he'd left her to her grim fate at his followers hands.
This... this did not compare.
Potter was young, a near four year age gap between himself and her. Which (on paper) should have meant an almost laughable level of ease on his part. Let alone with the support of Bartemius, a skilled duellist in his own right.
But with a crack of displaced air to their left as an announcement, the duo were left to compete with a veritable wall of light hurled in their direction. Potter's wand a literal blur as spell after spell left the grinning boys wand.
Grinning, a low and darkly amused chuckle ever present to the pairs ears, over the screeching of the wind.
Shields and weaving, dodges the main focus of Bartemius whilst the Dark Lord sought to hold his ground behind a shimmering grey shield he recast every few seconds (deep cracks burrowing into its surface with every impacting spell). Trained eyes sought, and saw, gaps and patterns in the flow of magic. He used this knowledge to send back sprays of spell the boy either effortlessly sidestepped or sent careening into the shattered ruins of the Riddle family home. Neither dared look away from the boy, absently noting he'd not moved from the place he'd appeared.
Barty dancing between beams of light; deflecting and blocking what he could whilst desperate to make his way to his Lord.
His Lord held no such notions, every thought sheared away to accommodate a vicious sense of fight or flight. He was forced to fight now (the ghosts of his arrogance refusing to allow him to fall at the Potter boys hands again) so he could gather himself and flee later. He would never say this was a battle he could not win... however-
BANG! He cursed. A hex sent careening back at him (from the surface of the boys suddenly manifested shield) exploded at his feet. He'd barely dodged.
Distraction had him caught, thick roots bursting from the dirt and ensnaring him like wooden constrictors. The Dark Lord's arms pinned at his side with immediate effect, instinct causing him to struggle physically before his mind reminded him of his wand.
Potter passed him in that time, lips moving. Whatever he'd said was lost to the wind, but the gleam in his eyes and the sneer was not.
He wanted to tell Barty to run, he really did.
Their duel occurred at his back, the resulting conflict lost to the man desperately attempting to wiggle free of the encircling roots.
His wand, even as he writhed and struggled, snapped hither and fro. Black and red light slashing clean through the earth stained roots until his wand arm was free enough truly free himself. A single flourish all that was needed.
He span about, wand already swinging to re-join the fray...
A splatter of blood following the single pirouette Potter performed, the boy making bisecting Bartemius into some sort of dance. The Dark Lord met with the sight of Barty's torso seperating from the rest of his body.
His back couldn't have been to them for more than a few seconds.
His lieutenant's gaze found him in the end. Desperation giving way to betrayal as his eyes glazed over. The Dark Lord not lingering on his dying servants, though he would later (a part of him hoped) mourn the passing of such a useful tool.
Green eyes found red, a devilish grin dancing across the young boys features as he threw an empty hand in Barty's direction. Sending his two halves off into the darkness with a wave of invisible force...
Cold. The Dark Lord felt ice in his veins as he realised he held the boys attention in its entirety. The amused smirk slipping into a pitious yet loathful scowl, eyes glittering in the dark as his words came slowly,
"Like Professor Dumbledore always says. Death isn't something you should fear." The grin returned here, coy with a glimmer worthy of the accursed Headmaster present behind his spectacles, "I look forward to further proving that..."
This time was different.
Potter didn't stand hurling spells, he was a hurricane in motion. The distance, several feet, disappeared in an instant and he was on top of him. Outmaneuvering his shield with no difficulty as not just curses and hexes left his wand.
Charms had his robes coiling around his legs, the ground itself morphed into a bog that unleashed more roots and vines to stab and snatch at him. Desperate wand movements brought transfigured beasts and items up to absorb the flurry of spellfire sent his way, yet he found them gone (riddle with holes and cast aside by a less than impressed adversary) or turned upon him in moments of true terror. His own wolves and serpents snapping at his legs and torso after a deft movement from Potter's wand and eyes.
He'd never know how long he lasted. In those moments of 'battle', where his adversary danced around him hitting from all sides at once, the Dark Lord felt as if eternity was passing him by. Wound after wound opening across alabaster skin. Robes torn or scorched to rags, hanging from his skeletal form. His new body battered into near-death barely hours after he'd risen; slumped and defeated in a blackened crater on his dead father's lawn. Harry James Potter, glaring down upon him from the mouth of it...
Hopelessness gave way to terror when he Splinched, a desperate Disapparation attempt left him missing his right foot, just above his ankle. An Expelliarmus hit him like a cast stone when he moved to repair the damage, lifting him from his feet and sending him sprawling as his wand left his hand without issue.
There were tears now,
"Mercy, Potter, please! I don't want to-"
A shushing sound, a warm finger pressed against his cold lips. When had he crossed the distance?
Potter's eyes bored into his, they were almost gentle. Maybe even sympathetic? His tone certainly was when he addressed him,
"And you won't... not for a long time Tom." He felt, rather than saw, the smirk. His voice low when he spoke again, "Because you're going to learn two things in this new form of yours."
There was no incantation for the Cruciatus Curse. There was only the blissful before and the agonising sensation after that wrenched screams and tears from the proud Dark Lord.
It could barely have lasted a few seconds,
"The first. That death is not the worst thing that can befall another being."
Again, not even a whisper of the word before white hot knives assaulted his every nerve, leaving him convulsing when let free. Crimson eyes screwed shut but his ears not missing a syllable,
"With the second, of course, being that there is. No. Mercy..."
The day was the 24th of June, though day was somewhat inaccurate.
A blustery night had fallen over the sleepy town of Little Hangleton; a ghost town really, with the sole exception being the manor house on the hill.
A wizard lay screaming and writhing under the ministrations of a boy with a wicked grin on his lips...