Radiating satisfaction, Voldemort turned, doubtless expecting Harry to follow.
Harry did. Not quickly, but as straight-backed as he was able, trying not to limp. Nagini slithered down his back once they reached the edge of the graveyard, and Voldemort bent to pick her up and drape her over his own shoulders.
"Nothing to say, Harry?" Harry met his stare, but said nothing. "You're injured," Voldemort added, eyes sweeping over him. Harry set his teeth, chagrined; he'd been trying not to let it show. Then, he realised Voldemort's eyes had landed on his blood-soaked forearm. "You must think me neglectful, not treating you when I did Wormtail." Voldemort held out a hand.
"No, thanks," Harry said, but Voldemort strode forward and seized his wrist. Harry tried to pull free, but Voldemort held firm as he pressed his wand to the skin there. Harry's scar flared, and his arm stung, but he felt the itch of healing, of skin knitting back together, though he didn't see it; Voldemort had pulled his sleeve back down to cover it.
Harry yanked his arm free and stumbled back. He could tell from the pain in it that Voldemort hadn't also healed his leg; to stop him from running, or because he didn't know about it, Harry wondered. He didn't care; he didn't want Voldemort using any magic on him again, ever.
"You needn't fear me, Harry," Voldemort said. "Not tonight." Harry scoffed.
"What do you want?"
"To speak," Voldemort said. Harry couldn't read his scent the way he could most people's, to guess his intentions or sort truth from lie; Voldemort smelled cold, unnatural. Inhuman. "We've hardly had the chance."
"Well," Harry said, "in fairness, the first time we met I don't think I was old enough to talk. You know, when I was a baby, and you tried to-" His mouth clamped shut against his will, and Voldemort gave him a dangerous look. After a moment, the invisible pressure on his jaw vanished.
"I confess myself impressed," Voldemort said. "And Lord Voldemort does not give praise lightly."
"Lucky me," Harry said, and received a cold look in return.
"When I secured your position in the Tournament, I confess it was primarily a means to an end. A way to guarantee your presence here tonight to restore me and then die. I expected you to coast by on luck and the advice of better wizards, but you have stood on your own merit." Voldemort gave him a sideways look. "A worthy Champion indeed."
"I'm not your Champion," Harry said.
"And yet you wear my Mark. My uniform." Voldemort's eyes lingered on the Walpurgis emblem. Harry had no rebuttal to that, so he said nothing. Voldemort was half a step behind him, but it was clear enough where they were going; there was a narrow dirt and gravel path linking the graveyard to the large house on the hill. "There's going to be a war," Voldemort said. Harry gave him a sharp look. "You and I have the power to prevent it before it starts."
"By dying, you mean?" Harry asked stiffly.
"A war needs sides, Harry. If there are no sides, there can be no conflict." Harry had pulled himself together but he still wasn't thinking that clearly. What Voldemort said was true enough, he supposed. but it didn't make sense. He didn't know what Voldemort meant by it. He said nothing. "For so long, you and I have been the source of that conflict, but perhaps that will not always be true. Perhaps it need not be true."
"I don't understand," Harry said finally.
"Join me, Harry." Harry stared at him. Voldemort's lip curled; it was clear he didn't appreciate being made to spell it out so clearly, and was probably equally unimpressed by Harry's lack of response. "Surely you must have considered it-"
"Never," Harry said. "Why would I consider it? We're- you killed my parents! You tried to kill Sirius, and you had Quirrell try to kill Remus, tried to kill Ginny through your diary, and you've tried to kill me... however many times now! You've been torturing me all year! You had Wormtail cut my arm open just before, and tie me to a tombstone-"
"Because until now, we have been opposed," Voldemort said. "Until now, those you care for have stood against me. Did your godfather not condemn Wormtail to a life in Azkaban, despite knowing the toll Azkaban has on a man?"
"It was Wormtail's fault Padfoot was arrested in the first place," Harry snapped.
"But did your godfather not try to murder Wormtail in the forest last year? Did you yourself not maim him?"
"I- he… It's not the same," Harry said.
"No?" Voldemort continued up the path toward the house, running a hand down Nagini's scaly side. "Have you not tortured me? Each time I have allowed myself to hope that I would be restored, you have been there to snatch my chances away. For years I have had to live in other bodies, like a parasite, or in a crippled form, small, barely able to hold a wand, in constant pain and utterly dependent on others and for years you have done what you could to keep me that way. Weak. Powerless. Desperate." Harry opened his mouth, but Voldemort spoke over him. "What did you fear? Has my rebirth been such a terrible thing? With my return to power, I have wrought magic to heal, not to destroy."
"You were going to kill Cedric," Harry said.
"No spell left my wand, Harry."
"I- you- You don't want to ally with me," Harry said, almost desperately. "You want me dead."
"If you will not join me, then yes," Voldemort said. "You will have to die. But if you do join me… aligned, Harry, we could be great."
"I'm not going to join you," Harry said. "So you might as well kill me now." Anger flashed over Voldemort's expression and his arm twitched as if he'd like nothing more than to lift his wand and end Harry there and then, but he didn't.
"What do you want, Harry?"
"You to not get what you want," Harry said. Voldemort flicked his wand and pain zapped briefly through Harry, who arched, gasping. His leg crumpled beneath him and he fell to the ground, but the spell was lifted as quickly as it had been cast.
"You want peace, do you not?" Voldemort asked, looking down at him. "A quiet, safe life with your friends and your family. I know how you fear for them."
"You're the reason," Harry said. He hunched over on the ground, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to look small and defeated, while he palmed James' wand out of its arm holster and up his sleeve. "And if I want peace, you want power." Wand secured, he looked up at Voldemort. "You want no one standing in your way, so you can do whatever you want-"
"And is there a reason we can't both have what we desire?" Voldemort asked. "You could stop opposing me. You could let me have the power I desire. I have my body back. I have no reason to keep hunting you, keep fighting you, unless you continue to put yourself between me and what I want. You could take a step back and have your peace. And if you stepped back, stopped fighting, so would others. You would no longer be my enemies. You would no longer have anything to fear from me. Better yet, you could join me properly." He flicked his wand and it took everything Harry had to smother his reflexes - to shake James' wand into his hand and respond. But he didn't, didn't resist, and invisible hands picked Harry up off the ground, setting him back on his feet at Voldemort's side. "I would have you at my side - Lord Voldemort values power, after all, and you have it, Harry. And my uniform suits you."
"I don't agree with anything you stand for," Harry said. "Blood purity, hating muggles-"
"I don't care for blood," Voldemort said dismissively. "Why would I - you know the truth of my parentage." Harry opened his mouth but before he could speak, Voldemort continued. "I care for power. Bravery, and cleverness. Talent. Loyalty. Do you not also value the same?"
They'd reached the house, and Voldemort waved his wand at the door to open it, then stood back to allow Harry through. The tip of James' wand was against his palm, and Harry knew he had better chances out here in the open than in the confined space of the house, but Voldemort was barely two feet from him, and Nagini was in striking distance.
Harry stepped inside.
"This was my father's home," Voldemort said. "Like yours, he came from wealth, but like you, I was raised by muggles in the beginning. And yet, we were always different to others, weren't we, Harry? We just never understood why until we learned about magic, and found our true place in the world."
The house had a wide entryway, and a staircase off to the right - not dissimilar to Grimmauld - but the staircase that went down was off to Harry's left rather than further down the hall, and he could see an empty dining room ahead of him.
"Are we truly so different, you and I?"
"Yes," Harry said firmly. Something ugly flicked over Voldemort's expression, but this time it stayed:
"Perhaps you are right. I, after all, never allowed myself to be used by others. I recognised my power and I embraced it, learned to wield it. It has taken my influence for you to start to do the same."
"The only person who uses me is you," Harry said.
"Oh? You have control the rest of the time, then? You make your own choices, fight your own battles? Or are you kept tucked away, protected until the moment is right? Excluded from the adult conversations until it suits them to bring you in, to demand things of you. Never made to fight, never allowed to fight, until suddenly they thrust you out like a shield between them and me, never prepared, always alone-"
"No," Harry said. He shook his head. "That isn't-"
"I alone have never treated you like a child. To me, you have always been an equal, always taken seriously. Can you say Dumbledore treats you the same?"
"Dumbledore's never tried to kill me," Harry said.
"Dumbledore left you with the muggles," Voldemort said, "oblivious to our world, while he condemned Black to rot in Azkaban. He promises you protection, promises those in his care protection, and yet never delivers it. Where was he when you faced me at eleven? It was not him that saved little Ginny from the Chamber, or your other friends from Wormtail - that was you. He could not protect you from the Tournament, and nor did he train you, prepare you, help you-"
"Neither did you," Harry said.
"But I have shaped you," Voldemort said. "Certainly more than anyone else can have claimed to. I have challenged you, motivated you, given you opportunities to prove yourself."
"By trying to kill me, or my friends. None of those things you just talked about that Dumbledore couldn't protect me against would have been problems in the first place if it wasn't for you-"
"And now, perhaps, you understand," Voldemort said, looking satisfied instead of angry. "I want power, I do not deny it, and I will do what I must to achieve it. I will not be merciful to my enemies. And Dumbledore cannot protect you, or those who fight alongside you. But you can, Harry, and I can. Alastor Moody walks around on a lump of wood because Dumbledore cannot heal him the way I healed Wormtail tonight."
Voldemort cocked his head.
"Where was Dumbledore tonight, when his Champion needed him? Cedric Diggory left here alive because you willed it so, and I allowed you to. Does Dumbledore have such power? I offer you a place beside me - a true place - or I offer you the true chance to step away from this fight. Can Dumbledore offer you the same? Has Dumbledore ever given you a choice, Harry? A true choice?"
Harry's mind was spinning, reeling, because this was wrong, Voldemort was wrong, but he wasn't lying. Twisting the truth to suit him, perhaps, but not making things up.
"My choice is to keep fighting you," Harry said through numb lips.
"Fight me, then," Voldemort said. "Kill me, even, if you so desire." He twitched his wand, and James' wand slid from Harry's sleeve into his hand. Voldemort had known he'd had it all along - had Nagini felt it there and told him? - just hadn't cared. "You know the words. Or would you prefer to make me bleed?" James' wand became Gryffindor's sword - an illusion only, because Harry could still feel the narrow grip of it. It gleamed silver in the space between them and Harry- couldn't. "You're not a killer, Harry. I know it, and Dumbledore knows it. And so, you will fight, and fight, and your friends and your family will fight with you and they will fall because you cannot bring yourself to end it. You will lose and lose, and lose until that soft, kind heart of yours grows hard enough to let you do what you must, and even then you will fail. I can never die at your hand."
Harry's brain was working too slowly to understand exactly what he meant, but he assumed it had something to do with the prophecy; either must die at the hand of the other. But if Voldemort wouldn't die by Harry's hand...
"Kill me then," Harry said. "Except you won't because you know me dying won't end it, you know they'll keep fighting even if I'm not there."
"And they'll lose," Voldemort said. "Such a waste of magical blood. But together… together, we could save them all."
"You don't care about saving them, though," Harry said. "You don't care who dies, as long as it's not you-"
Voldemort smiled a chilling smile.
"You're right. I will kill each and every one of them if it becomes necessary. But you do care, and I care enough to make you the offer, to give you the choice." Lord Voldemort twisted his wand between long, pale fingers, considering it. "Lord Voldemort is not wasteful. You could protect them, make it so their deaths are not necessary, and I- I could agree to let you, as I let you save Cedric. We could end this war before it begins."
And Harry couldn't think; everything he knew, everything he believed, was screaming at him that this was wrong, that Voldemort was wrong and couldn't be trusted, but that was just what he thought. This choice wasn't just for him, it would affect his friends, his family, the Order. If he chose to fight, he'd be signing each and every one of them up to fight a war alongside him, and condemning the entire wizarding world to living through one.
It was one thing for him to know and accept the prophecy, to know that he would have the key role to play in Voldemort's defeat, and to be willing to fight all the same. But it was another thing entirely to make a decision that he knew would affect the futures of more people than he could begin to guess.
And what if he got it wrong?
What if he chose to keep opposing Voldemort and failed? What if the prophecy meant for Harry to defeat him by ensuring there were no sides anymore? It said one of them had to die, but Voldemort had died to Harry once, sort of, or perhaps it was meant to be a metaphorical death - the death of Harry's mystery power - whatever it was - in exchange for peace?
And if it wasn't, if the prophecy was meant to be interpreted literally, then what hope did Harry have? If he wasn't prepared to kill Voldemort, what was the point in fighting at all? People would keep fighting and keep dying in a never-ending war, until Voldemort killed Harry, and with him, any chance of being defeated. And then Voldemort would probably go on killing everyone who'd ever stood with Harry, to punish them because he could.
If Harry couldn't kill him, then he might as well join him, or step away from the fight. In all likelihood, Voldemort would eventually kill him, but probably not straight away - he'd want to use Harry, want to gloat, first - and Harry could make a condition of their alliance or neutrality an Unbreakable Vow, or some other sort of promise on Voldemort's part not to hurt or kill anyone. And not just Harry's friends and family, but anyone.
But even then, even if he agreed, what would the world look like if Voldemort's return went unchallenged, or worse, was endorsed by Harry?
You killed the basilisk, a voice in Harry's head murmured.
That was different.
You killed when you needed to.
"What do you say, Harry?" Voldemort asked.
Join him, step away, or be prepared to kill him, Harry thought. Join him, step away, kill him…
His stomach churned.
End this war before it begins, he thought to himself, and straightened, lifting his chin.
Voldemort cocked his head ever so slightly.
"Avada Kedavra," Harry said. His voice was barely a whisper, and he thought he might vomit. The words burned his throat, tasted like ash on his tongue, and left him feeling hollow. He wanted to take the spell back before he'd even finished speaking it, not because he didn't want Voldemort dead, but because of the way the spell made him feel, the wrongness of it. This was the spell that Voldemort had used to murder Harry's parents, and now it was blooming sickly green out of James' wand at Harry's command, and there was nothing poetic about it, just Harry stooping to Voldemort's level, attacking him unexpectedly and with something Unforgiveable; Voldemort had his wand out, but it was resting at his side, and there wasn't anything he could do to block it, anyway, not this spell.
Harry saw surprise on his snakelike face, but also fear - genuine fear - and then the green light struck him in the chest and he collapsed.
Nagini flung herself at Harry from her master's shoulders, hissing incoherently, and he deflected her past him and further down the corridor into the dining room. He jabbed his wand at the door, shutting her inside, and then hurled himself at the stairs, ignoring the pain in his leg; Voldemort was not dead. Harry knew it without having to look; he could still hear his breathing, his heartbeat, but he could feel it, too, because his scar was burning with the intensity of what Voldemort was feeling, and also because, connected as they were, Harry was sure he'd feel it if Voldemort really died.
He scrambled up the stairs, and he was picking himself up off the ground, wand clenched in his hand, and he was Lord Voldemort and he had underestimated the boy again, and he was Harry and he wasn't a killer, though he'd just tried to be.
He stumbled a little on the stairs, heart pounding as if it knew how close it had come to stilling, and his leg was excruciating but he pressed on because he had to escape, could not let him escape.
Harry'd been stupid to try that, knew he would have been better going for a Disarmer or even a good Stunner that would have done what they were meant to, but Lord Voldemort could not believe the boy had tried to use the killing curse at all, would never have expected him to. Harry didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed it had failed, only that Lord Voldemort had been right that he was no killer, was too soft.
He was at the top of the stairs now, with Voldemort just behind him, and the boy was just in front. He should attack him, but what good would that do? He needed to run and not waste time engaging, needed to slow him down, though it didn't really matter because there was nowhere for him to go, nowhere to escape - his options were a bathroom, two small bedrooms, the master suite, or the drawing room-
He remembered the Floo, with panic, with desperation, and hope, and fury, and disbelief, and he Voldemort stumbled on the top stair, for no other reason than that his leg was on fire and his head was going to explode-
It felt like something tore as Voldemort pulled himself free of Harry's head, but Harry didn't stop, scrambling forward until he heard the whoosh of a spell and had to throw himself into the nearest room to avoid it.
He spelled the door closed behind him and pushed himself upright, taking in the room - a bedroom, fancy, no Floo, no obvious way out except the window-
He thought of the streets of Hogsmeade and spun on the spot, only to bounce off anti-apparition wards.
Should have expected that, Harry thought. Ostendere me omni-
The door tumbled inward off its hinges and Harry stopped it from bowling into him with a hasty Shield charm and then the room trembled as Voldemort's wand slashed through the air. There was an explosion of force - he felt James' wand splinter in his hand - and then Harry was lifted from the ground and flung through the air like he weighed nothing at all.
Glass shattered against his back and side, sharp and loud and painful on his hands and face and neck, and then he was falling.
Mollis impulsum, Harry thought, but James' wand only sparked weakly, and before he could do anything else, he'd hit the ground.
The impact drove the air from his lungs and he recognised the sudden sharpness in his side as at least one broken rib. Gasping, he tried to push himself upright, but pain, pain like he'd never known the like of, suddenly exploded through him, and his ribs and his leg were nothing in comparison. Every inch of him was being burned and stung and stabbed and ripped into at once.
Harry might have screamed - he couldn't have said. He might even have blacked out for a few seconds. All he knew was the agony, that it was unbearable and that he couldn't take another second of it, or even another fraction of a second of it, but he did, because it kept hurting-
Cedric wasn't sure what he'd expected when the portkey stopped spinning and his shoes alighted once more on the grass, but it wasn't deafening noise:
He flinched, lifting his wand up, then realised the Cup had returned him not to the centre of the maze, but to one of the starting platforms at the entrance to the maze, before the judges and the stands of people who'd come to watch.
Dumbledore was there, clapping, but also looked a bit confused-
"The Cup was a portkey," Cedric said, but didn't think anyone heard him over the crowd. "Headmas-"
"Congratulations, Diggory," Pemberley said, coming to pat him on the shoulder. Cedric tried to look past him to Dumbledore, but Pemberley kept getting in the way. "A solid performance- is it just the Cup, or did you retrieve a crest too?"
"The Cup's a portkey," Cedric said, grabbing Pemberley's arm. "Potter's still there - it took us to a graveyard, we have to help him, we have to find him-"
Pemberley frowned and adjusted his clipboard, and his wand, which was resting on it.
Cedric felt suddenly light-headed, and a lot less stressed than he had been.
"Give us a smile, Diggory." Cedric did, so wide he thought his face might split. "That's it," Pemberley said encouragingly. "You're happy - you've just won the Tournament, since we both know Potter won't be returning with any crests." He was smiling, and Cedric should have found the words chilling, but he couldn't stop smiling.
He felt good, happy.
Wrong.
He knew this feeling, had felt it in Defence with Professor Black when they were working to resist the Imperius curse.
Cedric hadn't been able to.
Potter probably would have been able to, Cedric thought. If he'd been able to get away instead of me… Fight this!
"Give the crowd a wave… your parents are over there - show them the Cup." Cedric hefted it into the air and saw rather than heard his dad whoop, and the shining smile on Mum's face. "Excellent," Pemberley said. "Now, I'm going to take you to the Champion's tent - your arm is very sore, by the way." It wasn't - Cedric all but forgotten about his run in with the sphinx - but then it was, so he tucked it against his body. "Let's go." He gave Cedric a friendly pat on the back and adjusted his clipboard. On it, Cedric could see what looked like a map of the maze, complete with moving dots - he could see Delacour and Krum's names moving around within it, and Marlene McKinnon, whoever that was. There was also another piece of parchment on it, and Cedric could see his own name in what looked like a message, a warning-
Because he was supposed to be warning people. He was supposed to be getting help for Potter, and failing that, if he was too late, at least telling people about You-Know-Who in the graveyard, and Pettigrew, and helping them find it again so they could retrieve Potter's body. If Cedric had died there, he'd have wanted his body to wind up with his parents, and was sure Potter would want the same for Black-
Say thank you to Dumbledore, Pemberley prompted.
"Thank you, sir," Cedric said, blinking. "Sorry… it's just taking a bit to sink in… I might have won!" He laughed, disbelieving.
"You may have indeed," Dumbledore said. "I - and the whole school, I'm sure - are very proud indeed." He was smiling, though it didn't quite reach his eyes; he seemed distracted, eyes flicking between the maze, and Maxime, who was asking indignant questions of Sprottle:
"-a portkey, then zis whole thing is a scam! Fleur would 'ave been removed from ze maze like Diggory was, without any chance at ze crests! How was she ever supposed to win?!"
"Do you know what happened to the Cup, William?" Sprottle asked, looking quite frazzled.
"No," Pemberley said. "I was just asking Diggory…" He turned to Cedric. "I know you'll be reluctant to part with it, but do you mind leaving it with us while we wait for the others…?"
"Sure," Cedric said, and passed it over to Pemberley, who sat - clipboard face down - and tapped the Cup with his wand.
"Leaving it with us?" Dumbledore asked; he was frowning at the maze, and at his phoenix, circling above it, probably worrying about Potter and looking for any sign of him. Cedric felt a tiny stir of resentment - he'd been unable to help feeling from the get go that he was Dumbledore's second favourite Champion, despite the fact that he was the real Hogwarts Champion - but pushed it aside, hating himself for even thinking that way; Dumbledore had every right to worry about Potter; he was younger, had been entered under mysterious circumstances, had claimed You-Know-Who's involvement all along, and - as he had with Weasley in the second task, and Delacour's sister in the second - had a habit of making sure he got other people out of danger, regardless of what it meant for himself.
Cedric was living proof of that.
Although, Cedric thought he might be in real danger here, now.
"Are you not waiting with us, Cedric?" Dumbledore asked.
"I will," Cedric assured him, though he would not be. "I'm just going to get a jumper from the Champions' tent - it's a bit cold now I've stopped moving, and I might get Pomfrey to take a quick look at my arm, too."
Dumbledore surveyed Cedric with intense blue eyes - keep me here, please - then glanced at the mouth of the tent, barely thirty feet from where they were, then relaxed a little, and nodded.
No.
"Before you go..." Dumbledore stroked his beard and Cedric stopped - though only because Pemberley had let him. "Have you seen Harry? No one has in some time, and there were red sparks-"
"I saw him a few minutes ago," Cedric said, shrugging. It was true, but what was not was his calm delivery; he was screaming on the inside. Potter was in danger, Potter was with You-Know-Who, alone, because Cedric had left him there. And leaving was probably the best thing to do - Cedric was no match for You-Know-Who - but he should be helping others find Potter now and wasn't, couldn't. "He was at the centre of the maze."
Dumbledore frowned and opened his mouth, but Pemberley interrupted with a yelp, drawing Dumbledore's attention.
"Whoever tampered with this didn't want anyone to know about it," Pemberley said, running his wand over the Cup. "I just don't understand what happened-"
You have a wand? Pemberley asked. Cedric gave a tiny twitch of his head. Take mine. He slid his wand into Cedric's hand, using the table as cover. Go.
And though Cedric's hands were on the wand holding him prisoner in his own mind and body, he still couldn't fight it, couldn't do anything about it. So, he did as he'd been told, and went.
"Eet seems to me zat someone wanted Potter to win," Madame Maxime said. "If he 'ad claimed ze Cup, 'e would 'ave won, but if not, whoever did - 'is next greatest competition, likely - would 'ave been removed from ze maze! Zen Potter need only collect a few crests to win-"
Cedric heard no more about it - he was far enough away that he couldn't hear the judges over the crowd anymore. He walked into the tent, and then, at Pemberley's instruction, Disillusioned himself as he had in the first task and slipped right back out.