Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Co. all belong to J.K. Rowling, not me. I just
borrow them every once in a while. All the dialogue in this fic is taken
directly out of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, American version,
chapters 32-34, as is the situation and all actions. The only parts that
belong to me are Voldemort's internal thoughts and impressions.
A/N: ahhh, the dark side of staying up until 2 am with coffee. The plot bunnies become bloodthirsty and rampant, and occasionally force me to write something like this. I'm endeavoring to get inside the head of a homicidal megalomaniac of an evil genius who, despite being the main villain of the books, is only afforded 2 chapters of purely himself. I'm sure we will see a lot more of him in Order of the Phoenix, but until then I am forced to use my own imagination.
Black Pyre
I hate this.
I hate being this helpless. It reminds me of being back in the orphanage, the smallest of the kids, always picked on and beat up by the stronger, tougher ones. And this is worse. Infinitely worse. Instead of being able to try and stand up for myself as I did in my youth, to fight, my fate is consigned into the hands of one of the most worthless, spineless, and altogether incompetent Death Eaters I have ever recruited. Wormtail. Such a fitting name for a traitor like this one. Frankly, I am rather surprised that the fool has managed to survive this long, but he has an uncanny knack for running and hiding when need be.
I can sense it. The time is close. We are waiting in the graveyard, and I can feel him shiver from the cold wind that whispers among the headstones. Or is it because he holds me in his arms, cradling me like a child? I know I revolt him. He flinches every time he looks at me, shudders whenever he touches me. No matter. Soon I will be strong enough to never have anybody touch me again, and the flinches will turn to salutes of fearful respect. The mere thought warms me, and I smile as well as I can, like a satisfied kneazel.
With a "pop!" the signal is given. My prey has arrived by my faithful servant's Portkey, finally. Wormtail leaves the shadows under the yew tree and approaches cautiously. I hear voices. "Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" "Nope. Is this supposed to be part of the task?" "I dunno. Wands out, d'you reckon?" "Yeah." A pause. "Someone's coming."
By now I know that something has been slightly altered from the original plan. I scowl slightly. He was supposed to be alone. I recognize one voice, although deeper than the last time I heard it, three years ago. The other . . . must be the other champion from Hogwarts. Poor Dumbledore. I chuckle to myself. About to lose two promising students, both annoying do-gooders who would have been a threat to me. After tonight, no longer. I peer out of the bundle of robes that Wormtail has wrapped me in. Sure enough, there is the boy, simply standing there looking at us. Abruptly he keels over to the ground, dropping his wand as his hands shakingly clutch his forehead over the infamous scar. Interesting. Can he sense me? Does my mere presence really cause him such pain? The other boy looks surprised and confused, turning from us to his companion.
I hate him on sight. Exceptionally handsome, with a straight nose, dark hair and gray eyes. He reminds me too much of me, of Tom Riddle, the boy I once was. Now look at me. Shriveled and helpless, barely alive, cradled in this fool's arms. But with power beyond reckoning and within arm's reach of immortality. I coldly order Wormtail, "Kill the spare." He dares not disobey. Raising his wand with a swish, he screeches out, "Avada Kedavra!" I watch with satisfaction as the boy falls to the ground dead right next to my prey. No more than squashing an insect beneath my foot as I walk. Wormtail knows that time is running out, so he sets me down on the ground near the headstone and walks over to the boy. I shift again to see through a gap in the robes. The boy is in shock, staring down at the corpse of his companion with a blank look of surprise on his face, even as Wormtail grabs his arm and hauls him up, heading for the tombstone. In the flickering light I can see comprehension dawn in his eyes as he spots the name on the stone, then he is slammed up against it and Wormtail begins tying him up to it.
The boy is scared, still stunned, but like a good little Gryffindor he still struggles against his bindings and Wormtail hits him. I snarl silently. The boy is mine. After 13 years of this hellish existence, I want to be the only one to cause him pain. Oh well. A little slap won't do much. He gasps out "You!" and I know that he recognizes Wormtail. Wishing you had let your godfather kill him a year ago now? Your compassion will be the death of you, boy, just like your father. Wormtail has finished with the knots and gags him, then hurries away into the darkness to fetch the cauldron. I can feel the time drawing nearer, like an itch on my skin, and I shiver with terrible excitement within the robes. Ahh, I see that Nagini has arrived. Such a faithful pet. She can smell the fear on my young guest and circles at his feet, hissing slightly.
Wormtail is back, straining to drag the cauldron across the uneven terrain. The potion inside is delicate, and Wormtail is useless with levitation charms, as he is with so many other things. The magic is gathering, growing, and I struggle within my confines, wanting to be out, to have my own body back, with the strength borne of the darkest of magics flowing through my veins. Wheezing and gasping for breath, he lights the fire beneath it, and soon the fiery sparks are shooting out, lighting the night even as the steam dampens them. Hidden to the mortal eye, the dark tendrils of power necessary for this ritual slither amidst the stones, crawling closer, summoned by their master. I kick against the smothering folds of material and order my servant, "Hurry!"
"It is ready, Master." Finally. "Now . . ." Wormtail pulls back the robes to expose me to the outside world again, and I hear the boy try to scream through the gag. I know I look hideous, but at least this form is physical, unlike the last time we met. I raise my arms to wrap them around Wormtail's neck and he lifts me up. The expression on his face is pure revulsion as he carries me over to the cauldron, but now I pay it no mind. I can feel the power so intensely that I can nearly see the magic congealing around us before Wormtail lowers me into the diamond-encrusted potion. This is it. I sink to the bottom with a soft hiss.
The potion is perfectly warm, and I find I can breathe comfortably for the moment. I cannot see, but soon enough. I hear my servant start the ritual, the liquid magnifying the sound until it pierces my head like a skewer. "Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!" I sense the ground cracking open, and then the dust touches the potion, the world around me turning blue as I writhe. The potion forces the dust of my despised late father, a filthy Muggle, into this rudimentary body, and I shudder in pain as the bones reform within me, stretching my limbs out to their normal length but tearing through the skin I have. It is pure agony, but I take it willingly. Soon, soon. Never thought that your son would one day use you, you bastard, to revive himself did you, Tom Riddle? I avenged my mother and myself long ago on you, but this, the equivalent of spitting on your grave, makes it extra sweet.
"Flesh - of the servant - w-willingly given - you will - revive - your master." I hear the sobs around the incantation. This is the part I was most concerned about. He has proved himself traitorous before, with a strong aversion to pain and suffering, especially his own. This will cement his loyalty to me forever, if he has the nerve to go through with it. He was in Gryffindor for a reason though, and the scream echoes through the night as he gives his right hand for his master.
The severed limb drops into the potion, where it is immediately disassembled and altered, wrapping me in flesh again as the potion around me turns blood red and freezing cold. Immediately my insides writhe as new organs are formed, stretching and filling their proper places. My heart swells as the muscles contract, yet there is nothing yet to pump. Lungs strain for air, but there is nothing yet. The suffocating feeling is crushing my chest, but it is nothing compared to the rest of my body as it is encased again with flesh. I feel it stretching over my head, drawing taut over the skull, the bones in my fingers suddenly acquiring muscle and tendons and skin again. I try to flex them, to distract myself from the pain and ice as it crawls over the rest of my frame, but I cannot as one ingredient is still lacking. The most important and powerful one, which will provide the life flowing, sustaining me in this physical form once again.
"B-blood of the enemy . . . forcibly taken . . . you will . . . resurrect your foe!" I smile with satisfaction as the final invocation is spoken. This is what all the months of plotting and waiting and scheming had led up to. The one thing that will make me stronger than when I had fallen. The protection that had once nearly ruined all would now be my savior, as well as the key to destroying him. A sudden blinding white light surrounds me, and I feel the dark magic working. The blood has been added; the mark the foolish woman left on her son infuses itself into me as his blood begins to pump through my heart, giving me life and warmth. I feel something unexpected; a trace of my old power left in this pure strength. I left my own mark on him that night then, something far beyond the infamous scar. Just as well, this unanticipated bonus bodes well. The Dark magic binds itself once again to me, dark tendrils wrapping and being absorbed into my self, my soul. The potion is evaporating, leaving me crouching naked in this giant cauldron. The mist hangs ominously in the air as I breathe in shakily for the first time in 13 years. I do not just exist; no, I live again!
I stand slowly, relishing the feeling of stretching my body, the muscles working together smoothly as the blood flows and gives them strength. "Robe me," I order Wormtail, who is huddling on the ground whimpering over his bleeding arm. Pathetic. He does not know pain as I do. Life is pain, and the search for immortality is agony. He manages to pull the black robes, once my swaddling and now my badge, over my head and I tug them into place once again, savoring the scratch of material on my skin. I raise my head and meet the eyes of the one who made this possible, his green eyes wide with shock and horror. Yes boy, it is me. I Live.
I ignore him for the moment and examine my own body with exultant rapture, flexing my fingers in front of my face to watch the coordination of the muscles and tendons, then pull out my wand from a pocket. My dear companion, always faithful. I consider it as I caress it lovingly. Yew, thirteen and a half inches, with a core of phoenix feather. Appropriate. Die in flame only to be born again from the ashes. I wonder briefly if the yew comes from this ancient tree in the graveyard. The guardian of the dead, the wood will have extra powers from the death surrounding it. I dismiss my wandering thoughts and focus them again, pointing the wand at Wormtail to throw him against the tombstone, closer to me.
I turn then to the boy and laugh right in his face. His expression is priceless, the wide green eyes so familiar to me. Did you know that your mother looked exactly that way before I killed her? That same stubborn mix of horror, realization, pride, courage, and a touch of hopelessness. Do you miss her, the worthless Mudblood whose foolish actions nearly cost me everything? Do you even remember her? The eyes are the same; they have haunted my existence these last 13 years. The exact shade of the Avada Kedavra, yet nearly luminescent. Few humans have those eyes, and yours look so old. Has my face given you nightmares, boy? I hope so.
Wormtail is twitching on the ground, choking on his sobs. "My Lord . . . My Lord . . . you promised . . . you did promise . . ." he begs pathetically, the smaller boy pleading with the bully to protect him from the others. Not yet Wormtail. First you must rejoin your brethren. "Hold out your arm," I say lazily, yet he mistakes my purpose, as I planned. "Oh Master . . . thank you, Master." He extends toward me the pitiful stump of an arm, squirting weak blood at my feet, and I laugh again, this time at him. "The other arm, Wormtail." His squinty eyes widen as he whines, "Master, please . . . please . . ."
He obviously was in no shape to cooperate, so I bend down and pull out his left arm, forcing the sleeve up to expose the Dark Mark branded into his forearm, a vivid blood red at the moment. I am pleased to see it again. The last time I managed to see a Death Eater's brand, right after my first fall as I fled, it had faded nearly to nothing, simply a shadow like myself. "It is back," I murmur to myself, "they will all have noticed it . . . and now, we shall see . . . now we shall know . . ." I pressed one of my fingers to the brand; with a faint hiss and a howl from Wormtail, the Dark Mark burns jet black, reflecting the souls underneath. I straighten up in satisfaction and raise my eyes up to the heavens. Gazing around the graveyard then up at the stars, I whisper, "How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it? And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?" I know already, save in a few cases, but this test will confirm my suspicions.
I begin to pace, waiting for my faithful to return to me. A flash of green commands my attention, and I look down to meet the scared eyes of the boy, smiling cruelly. "You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father," I hiss at him. "A Muggle and a fool . . . very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child . . . and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death . . ." Yes, useful, as he never was in life. I laugh again as I continue to pace, and decide to relate some family history to the boy.
"You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was . . . He didn't like magic, my father . . . He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage . . . but I vowed to find him . . . I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name . . . Tom Riddle . . ." My eyes flick from gravestone to gravestone, noting some familiar names on them. My grandparents. Over there; Old lady Grechen, the only nice one at the orphanage. I remember when she died, one of the first Muggles to perish under my reign, with the rest of them at the orphanage that May night.
I do not like to linger on those memories. Not when my future draws near. "Listen to me, reliving family history . . ." I say quietly, "why, I am growing quite sentimental . . . But look, Harry! My true family returns . . ." The first of my Death Eaters has just Apparated in, followed by several more. The swish of their dark cloaks is as comforting to me as the voice of a loved one. They are hooded and masked, just like the old days, and approach cautiously, as one confronting an apparition that defies their perceptions. I wait silently for them, eyeing them, evaluating. One, Nott I believe, falls to his knees and crawls to me to kiss the hem of my robes. "Master . . . Master . . ." he murmurs with reverence. Yes, he remembers.
As if that was a signal, the others follow suit, crawling forward to pay me homage before forming a circle around me. I find incredible satisfaction in making these men, some so proud and arrogant in their social standing and lineage, crawl on their knees before me. I wonder how much more revolted they would feel if they knew that I was not even a pureblood, but a halfblood, just like the wretched boy beside me. Especially Lucius. He has always been so arrogant about the fact that his family is a line of purebloods tracing back centuries, with power and money behind them. And I, a poor orphan who suffered growing up amid Muggles until I was of age, could command him to do anything, and he would fall over himself to do it. I chuckle at the irony even as I look into their masked faces.
"Welcome, Death Eaters. Thirteen years . . . thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday . . . We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?" I lean back and sniff the air. "I smell guilt. There is a stench of guilt upon the air." I relish these games I can play with them, these tests of loyalty and nerve, for it inspires fear as evidenced by the shiver that runs through the group. "I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt appearances! - and I ask myself . . . why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?" No one dared move for fear of drawing attention to themselves, the tension thick upon the air. "And I answer myself, they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment . . . And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living?
"And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort . . . perhaps they now pay allegiance to another . . . perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?" Several Death Eaters mutter and shake their heads in denial, but I know this to be true for at least one, if not more of them. The spy would have to have nerves of steel, but now I move to prevent others from following that route. "It is a disappointment to me . . . I confess myself disappointed . . ." and a disappointed Dark Lord does not help your day to get any better. The tension causes one to snap, and Avery flings himself at my feet to collapse in a heap.
"Master! Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!" I begin to laugh at his sycophantic begging and raise my wand. "Crucio!" Ahh, how I've missed this: The sweet pleasure of torturing someone without having to lay a finger on them, the power of life or death literally at my fingertips. After a long moment I release him, and he lays on the cold ground, gasping for air. "Get up, Avery," I tell him, "Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years . . . I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?" Yes, paid in blood and flesh and pain for thirteen years of hiding in comfort while I struggled to live in agony.
"You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don't you?" Yes, turn the blame rightfully back on him, as the guilt is rightfully his. Your Master only gives you the pain you deserve. "Yes, Master," he moans out, "please, Master . . . please . . ." I interrupt him. "Yet you helped me return to my body. Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me . . . and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers . . ." I raise my wand and whirl it through the air to leave a silver streak, which twists and forms itself into a hand and attaches itself to Wormtail's severed wrist. His sobs desist abruptly, and he stares in disbelief at his new hand, a gift from his Master to make him mine forever. The hand is full of Dark magic, and his soul belongs to me. He does not know this yet, and stands in awe as he crushes a twig to powder with his newfound strength.
"My Lord, Master . . . it is beautiful . . . thank you . . . thank you . . ." He scrambles forward to kiss the hem of my robes, and I warn him, "May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail," and he whispers, "No, My Lord . . . Never, My Lord . . ." before joining his brothers in darkness. I begin my inspection of the others, beginning with Malfoy. "Lucius, my slippery friend, I am told you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius . . . your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay . . . but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?" Yes indeed, Lucius was always my best for torturing Muggles. His hatred of them knows no bounds, and he has no qualms about subjecting a nursery school full of children to the Cruciatus if I ask, and I have. If only those fools at the Ministry knew that their biggest contributor to the St. Mungo's fund was also the one responsible for most of the patients in the Muggle Victims unit.
"My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," his swift response tells me he is covering his tracks. "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me . . ." Yet his son knew from his first year that I had been there. And again this previous summer . . . "And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?" My lazy question shuts the git up with the reminder that his Lord knows all. "Yes, I know all about that, Lucius . . . You have disappointed me . . . I expect more faithful service in the future." His pleasing voice is all too eager to agree. "Of course, My Lord, of course . . . You are merciful, thank you . . ." Merciful? Lord Voldemort does not show mercy. He shows expediency, and rewards faithfulness and competency. Mercy has no place in my ranks.
I move away from him to the large space next to him, and decide to set an example. "The Lestranges should stand here. But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me . . . When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us . . . they are our natural allies . . . we will recall the banished giants . . . I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear . . ." Yes, that is my dream, to conquer and rule the world with fear, to crush all who oppose me under the might of the Darkness.
I continue on, passing by some Death Eaters and commenting to others on their current positions and promises, to prove that I indeed know what they have been up to. They can hide nothing from me. I only stop again when I reach the largest gap, and for a moment I can almost see the masked figures standing there as in the old days. "And here we have six missing Death Eaters . . . three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return . . . he will pay." Karkaroff always was a fool, naming others for his paltry freedom, and for this treachery he shall pay with his life. "One, who I believe has left me forever . . . he will be killed, of course . . ." Personally, I was a bit surprised to realize that Severus was probably the spy, even after thirteen years of contemplation, as I thought his grudge against all Gryffindors and a few in particular would seal him to the Dark, "and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service." Yes, and managed to accomplish a task all of these others would have failed. "He is at Hogwats, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our young friend arrived here tonight . . ."
"Yes," I grin with diabolical glee as they focus on the boy, still restrained to the tombstone. "Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honor." Such dry remarks; I am sure that if he could, Potter would snort with incredulity then run like hell to get away from this place. But that is not in my plans tonight. Lucius gathers his courage to ask how this seemingly impossible miracle could occur, and I smile as I slip into a lecturing mood. Once I was a very good storyteller, and that old passion has yet to leave. Maybe because I need to illustrate just how powerful I really am, so I relate my story to them, starting with that fateful Halloween night thirteen years ago. I have one last test for myself, to prove that I have hurdled the last barrier preventing me from exacting my revenge on the boy. I touch his face. That young face, so like his father's, contorts in agony as I lightly press my finger to his cheek, much as I did to Wormtail's arm.
Satisfied, I turn away from him with a soft laugh in his ear and continue my tale, of long years of solitude, hopes dashed, plans thwarted, until a ray of possible hope came in the form of Bertha Jorkins. From there the plans to set up this revival were set into action, leading up to this very moment . . . "and here he is . . . the boy you all believed had been my downfall . . ." I slowly turn to face him and raise my wand. "Crucio!" It is lovely, absolutely beautiful: the green eyes rolling back into his head, the face screwing up in pure anguish, the helpless jerks against the tight cords, the shrieks of pain muffled by the gag . . .
I lift the curse and he slumps against his bindings, daring to meet my eyes as the Death Eaters laugh. Yes, they laugh whenever it is not them under the curse. Yet they can never meet my eyes afterwards, even when I command it. This boy has a core of steel my minions lack. No wonder he is a serious threat to me, despite his age. It is slightly unnerving, so I command their attention again by speaking. "You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever be stronger than me. But I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And now I am going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left with no doubt which of us is the stronger. Just a little longer, Nagini," I whisper aside to my pet, the symbol of my heritage and the fear I spread like basilisk venom.
"Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand." The rat does as he is told, pulling out the gag roughly and cutting through the ropes with a single swipe of his new hand. The boy barely found his feet in time, and even as he looks as if he might try to run, I notice the blood running from one leg as it shook under his weight. So he has been injured the whole time. That could make him a little easier to deal with, and much more fun to torment, as one might torture a small wounded animal. Yet my traitorous brain chooses this time to remember that this animal had teeth, and he is far more dangerous that I know. I scowl; now is not the time to be developing multiple personalities, especially not insolent ones like this. An aftereffect of the ritual? But it had created a nagging doubt in my mind: what if the boy won? What if I could not kill him again this time? How much would my followers doubt me in turn, to see me bested by a fourteen year old?
Mentally I put the Cruciatus on the stupid voice that sounds remarkably like Tom, the boy I once was and have destroyed. The last vestiges of him were swept away in that ritual in the Black Forest over twenty five years ago. I am Lord Voldemort, the most feared Dark wizard in a century, and I had defied death to be reborn stronger than before. I had learned from my mistakes, and now nothing would stop me, especially not a prepubescent boy. Wormtail returns with the boy's wand and shoves it into his hands before returning to the circle, watching and waiting. I smile as I cast all doubts aside. "You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?" I ask softly, hoping that he has, to make the duel that much sweeter. He does not answer, so I choose to enlighten him. "We bow to each other, Harry," as I give him a fractional bow but never breaking eye contact. "Come, the niceties must be observed . . . Dumbledore would like you to show manners . . . Bow to death, Harry . . ." The insolent boy does not even twitch a muscle, and for a moment I think maybe he has frozen from fear. Then I realize that he will not play along with my little games. He has a determined and disgusted glint in those fierce emerald eyes.
My smile turns to a brief scowl at his defiance. "I said, bow," raising my wand and forcing him to bow deeply before me. The Death Eaters around us laugh harder than as I smile again. "Very good," I praise him mockingly and I allow him to straighten. "And now you face me, like a man . . . straight- backed and proud, the way your father died . . . And now -- we duel." The dig at his father is calculated, hoping to unnerve him, show him that if his father, a full-fledged wizard could not stand against me, how could he hope to now? I quickly perform the Cruciatus on the boy, he has no time to react, and he falls to the ground screaming hideously. Yes, the greatest pain one can suffer, all without anything physically touching the victim. It is all mental; he is forced to feel pain that is not real. I think that is why I find the curse so appealing.
I remove the curse, and he quickly scrambles back to his feet, shaking and staggering. I am briefly impressed as the Death Eaters shove him away, back to the center of the circle. No one I have seen recovers that fast from the curse; even the Death Eaters lay there for a minute afterwards. Maybe the boy just has a high tolerance for pain. My eyes light up at the prospect and my nostrils dilate with excitement. This could be even more fun than I thought, for it will take a lot more to break him. "A little break, a little pause . . . that hurt, didn't it, Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?" Ahh, the perfect blend of sarcasm and condensation to break a spirit, perfected over eleven years of torturing Muggles and wizards alike. Most would be babbling and sobbing at this moment, begging me not to do that again.
But the boy does not answer. He glares at me, as if he knows he is going to die yet he refuses to obey me. Defiant and insolent to the last, eh? "I asked you whether you want me to do that again," I tell him softly, and he stubbornly clenches his jaw. I snarl a bit at him, "Answer me! Imperio!" Another favorite, the ability to control people absolutely, to force them to do anything I want against their will. He will beg at my feet before the night is over, I will make sure of that. A mere boy cannot resist my power. I see his eyes glaze over as the curse wipes his mind, and his body relaxes, waiting for my command. Here's your first lesson in obedience, boy. We will start out simple. Just answer no . . . say no . . . just answer no . . .
I watch his eyes as they flicker a bit, and I can sense that he is fighting it. He unconsciously presses his lips tight together. Just answer no . . . just answer no . . . His eyes flicker again. Finally his mouth opens and he speaks, but it is the wrong answer. "I WON'T!" he bellows out boldly, then blinks at the last of the curse dissipates. I am furious; no, incensed. This little brat dares to defy me yet again? How dare he?! "You won't?" I repeat quietly, in a tone that would set the bravest Auror shaking in his boots. "You won't say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die . . . perhaps another little dose of pain?"
I finger my wand as I raise it again, but this time the boy is ready. As the light issues from my wand, he dives to the ground and rolls out of the way, behind the headstone of my father. The curse hits it and cracks a large piece of marble out of it, right below the date of death. Such a memorable day. I regain my composure as the duel becomes more interesting and to my advantage. "We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry," I taunt him softly as I approach, and my followers laugh of course. They need to just shut up sometimes. "You cannot hide from me. Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, Harry? Come out, Harry . . . come out and play, then . . . it will be quick . . . it might even be painless . . . I would not know . . . I have never died . . ." I continue to close in on the headstone and my hidden enemy, a malevolent grin stretching my face as I sense that the time is near. Soon the boy will be dead, and everyone will know who the greatest wizard the world has ever seen is. I can hear him breathing, quickly and shallowly as if preparing.
I have my wand raised as abruptly he flings himself back around the tombstone, his own wand pointed right at me. Those emerald eyes are glittering with power and determination and pride, and he yells out "Expelliarmus!" just as I cry out "Avada Kedavra!" Without his mother's protection he cannot stop it this time . . . the red and green lights meet and mix . . . then suddenly they transform into gold and connect to both our wands. My wand begins to vibrate and shake, and I grip it tighter to keep from dropping it, though I doubt that I could let go even if I wanted to at this point. My eyes meet with Harry's across our wands, and we are equally startled. Nothing like this could ever have been suspected. Our feet lift from the ground and we begin drifting through the air, still connected in our dueling stances, until we land on a patch of earth near the yew tree clear of graves.
The Death Eaters are chasing us, shouting, asking for instructions from their Master, pulling their wands as they run. Before they can do anything, however, the golden light is broken into thousands of little tendrils which form a domed cage of light around me and the boy while still keeping our wands connected. My followers circle outside, still calling out to me. I shriek back at them, "Do nothing!" trying to break the golden thread, to release me from this infernal cage. "Do nothing unless I command you!" I need to figure out what in the seven circles of hell is going on, and how to stop it! The boy is as perplexed as I am. But I am Lord Voldemort! I am not supposed to be trapped in a golden cage with a boy! Especially not this one! Not when he is so near to death at my hands!!
I keep trying to break the thread, but suddenly I hear something that causes me to freeze in my actions. The thread is . . . singing?! I recognize the sound: phoenix song. I hate it immediately, and my heart seems to shrivel in my chest as the notes resonate through my bones. I feel the first traces of . . . fear?! No! I am the most feared Dark wizard in a century! I cause fear, I do not feel it!! I look at the boy with uncharacteristically wide eyes, to find him staring at me with the most peculiar expression. I struggle to figure it out, then it hits me.
He. Is. Not. Afraid.
If anything, he seems more alive and confident than ever, those damn eyes assuring me that he will destroy me, given the chance.
The thread chooses that moment to change, as beads of light form along it, and instinctively I force them away from me, toward the boy, and am gratified to see his wand shaking violently in his grasp. If only he would drop it . . . I focus on getting one of the beads to touch the boy's wand, to make him drop it, to leave my way open to kill him. It is about to touch . . .
But no. The boy narrows his eyes and fixes his gaze on that bead, and I sense him shoving it back, away from him. I resist him, pushing harder. But slowly, the beads stop, then begin creeping back toward me, toward my wand, which starts shaking and vibrating like never before. Those faint stirrings of fear are growing as I frantically push to no avail. The boy refuses to give up, and eventually, a bead inches up and touches the tip of my wand.
Instantly echoing screams of pain emit from it, followed by a smoky outline of the hand I created for Wormtail. I am astonished; no, more than that. Shocked stupid. Priori Incantatem?!?! How . . .?! I can only stare as my wand continues to regurgitate spells. More pain-filled screams . . . then something larger, dense and smoky emerges, squeezing itself out to drop to the ground and straighten up in front of Potter. It says something to him, then turns to me. I gasp. It is the boy, the other Hogwarts champion. I glance over, and just through the cage I can see his body lying a distance away, yet he is standing right in front of me. He leans closer, blocking my view of Harry, and whispers harshly, "How brave and powerful of you, killing off people just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Harry's going to beat you here, and then he will come back and kick your arse back into the fiery pit you slithered from." His shadowy eyes promise that this is no mere threat.
He stepped to the side, and I see that another one of these ghosts has joined the boy. The old Muggle, who found me up at the Riddle House and who I subsequently eliminated, comments on something to Harry, hobbles towards me with his stick, leans down and sneers at me. "You may be a real wizard, but this boy has got more gumption than you'll ever dream of having. You're not even a real man. You're something much lower, somethin' filthy and slimy and low enough to consider killing boys and old men a good sport. That boy there, I respect him. He's goin' to beat you here."
By now the shade of Bertha Jorkins has joined him, and as the two males start to stalk around the edges of the cage, she starts in on me. "You low- down filthy snake-breath piece of bloody rat dung git! I swear, you may be powerful, but you can never defeat Harry! He's got a good heart, unlike your sorry excuse for one. You picked the wrong kid to mess with this time, so I hope you die horribly and painfully, just like you have caused to so many other good people." If ghosts could spit, she would have, right in my face. Instead, she gives me a final glare and prowls around the perimeter of the cage with the other two, murmuring to Harry while glaring and hissing at me. Shaken and more than a bit afraid, I glance at the boy over the still connected wands. He is blocked by two more shadows which are speaking quietly to him, so quietly I cannot hear. The shadow boy whispers to him, and Harry answers, "Yes. I will." What are they saying?
Suddenly Harry yells out, "NOW!" and wrenches his wand up with amazing strength . . . and the thread breaks. The song dies. My eyes widen further, but as I try to recover the shadows are upon me, hissing and shouting in my face. I meet the combined glare of Lily and James Potter, standing together with their arms crossed, blocking their son from my gaze. Lily smirks as she says, "You cannot destroy what you do not understand. Harry knows love, and that is what will be your downfall." James, ever the infuriating Marauder, sweeps down into a mocking bow and says with a twisted grin, "We may be dead, but we look a lot better than you do, snake-face. Go rot in hell." The old man is back, ranting about how I remind him of the more cowardly soldiers under his command in the war, the ones who ran away under fire, too scared to face anything.
I have had enough. With an enraged snarl I sweep my wand through them, and the bodies dissipate in the air in wisps of dark smoke. I see Potter running through the graveyard, dodging the tombstones and the curses the Death Eaters are sending after him. They are too old and out of shape to catch him, especially with his speed and reflexes. I watch as he dives behind a tombstone just as three curses slice the air where he once stood. I scream out, "Stun him!" and they all immediately respond, filling the air with red jets of light. He dives behind another stone, then darts out again and screams a hex over his shoulder. Avery is not careful enough, and he goes down, cracking the side of his head on the corner of a headstone as he falls with an indignant yell.
I am so completely rattled and furious that I can literally see red as I hurry closer, leaving the site of the duel. I expect the boy will grab the cup and disappear in less than a moment, but instead he jumps over the Portkey to snatch the other boy's arm. I spot the opportunity and shriek out, "Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!" The boy is debating; he will not leave the other, but he cannot reach the Portkey either. My smile grows wide and I raise my wand to finish it, but too late. The boy raises his own and yells, "Accio!" summoning the cup to him. In enraged disbelief I watch as he grabs it out of midair, and I scream with fury as he disappears with a swirl of color.
The echo of my scream rebounds through the graveyard, gradually fading away until only silence remains. I stand completely still, breathing heavily with my eyes closed, trying to focus. I did not just lose to a little brat! Again! He did not just beat me in a straight duel! Unfortunately, the truth keeps coming back, intruding on my thoughts. He got away! Alive! Back to Hogwarts!!
That makes me calm down. At Hogwarts I still have my faithful Death Eater. Potter was not supposed to return, and definitely not alive, so he will take care of that for me. His disguise is carefully cultivated and not easily broken. He is faithful, truly loyal to me, who took him as my own when his father disappointed him. He will manage that task, and then report back to me on his success. Potter is as good as dead now. I am alive again. I have returned, and knowing Fudge, I have time to rebuild my army before I launch my campaign against the unsuspecting world.
My focus regained, I open my eyes to coldly scan my Death Eaters. They are awaiting my command, nervously eyeing my wand to see which of them will get the blame for this fiasco. I slowly smile at them, and am gratified to see many wide eyes, as by all rights I should not have cause to smile at the moment. I wait another moment to see if anyone dare speak, then comment offhandedly, "You forget. I still have my faithful servant at Hogwarts. The boy will be dead before tomorrow, and then nothing shall stand in our way." I sweep around and stalk back toward the cauldron where it all began, hearing them follow me somewhat reluctantly. With a swish of my wand the cauldron is shrunk to a convenient carrying size, which Wormtail scurries to pick up. I glance back at them all. "Come with me. We have a world to conquer."
I regally stride toward the Riddle House on the hill with Nagini at my heels, my head held high and my composure intact. I am alive. I have conquered death. I am Lord Voldemort, and the world will soon know of my reign.
A/N: ahhh, the dark side of staying up until 2 am with coffee. The plot bunnies become bloodthirsty and rampant, and occasionally force me to write something like this. I'm endeavoring to get inside the head of a homicidal megalomaniac of an evil genius who, despite being the main villain of the books, is only afforded 2 chapters of purely himself. I'm sure we will see a lot more of him in Order of the Phoenix, but until then I am forced to use my own imagination.
Black Pyre
I hate this.
I hate being this helpless. It reminds me of being back in the orphanage, the smallest of the kids, always picked on and beat up by the stronger, tougher ones. And this is worse. Infinitely worse. Instead of being able to try and stand up for myself as I did in my youth, to fight, my fate is consigned into the hands of one of the most worthless, spineless, and altogether incompetent Death Eaters I have ever recruited. Wormtail. Such a fitting name for a traitor like this one. Frankly, I am rather surprised that the fool has managed to survive this long, but he has an uncanny knack for running and hiding when need be.
I can sense it. The time is close. We are waiting in the graveyard, and I can feel him shiver from the cold wind that whispers among the headstones. Or is it because he holds me in his arms, cradling me like a child? I know I revolt him. He flinches every time he looks at me, shudders whenever he touches me. No matter. Soon I will be strong enough to never have anybody touch me again, and the flinches will turn to salutes of fearful respect. The mere thought warms me, and I smile as well as I can, like a satisfied kneazel.
With a "pop!" the signal is given. My prey has arrived by my faithful servant's Portkey, finally. Wormtail leaves the shadows under the yew tree and approaches cautiously. I hear voices. "Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" "Nope. Is this supposed to be part of the task?" "I dunno. Wands out, d'you reckon?" "Yeah." A pause. "Someone's coming."
By now I know that something has been slightly altered from the original plan. I scowl slightly. He was supposed to be alone. I recognize one voice, although deeper than the last time I heard it, three years ago. The other . . . must be the other champion from Hogwarts. Poor Dumbledore. I chuckle to myself. About to lose two promising students, both annoying do-gooders who would have been a threat to me. After tonight, no longer. I peer out of the bundle of robes that Wormtail has wrapped me in. Sure enough, there is the boy, simply standing there looking at us. Abruptly he keels over to the ground, dropping his wand as his hands shakingly clutch his forehead over the infamous scar. Interesting. Can he sense me? Does my mere presence really cause him such pain? The other boy looks surprised and confused, turning from us to his companion.
I hate him on sight. Exceptionally handsome, with a straight nose, dark hair and gray eyes. He reminds me too much of me, of Tom Riddle, the boy I once was. Now look at me. Shriveled and helpless, barely alive, cradled in this fool's arms. But with power beyond reckoning and within arm's reach of immortality. I coldly order Wormtail, "Kill the spare." He dares not disobey. Raising his wand with a swish, he screeches out, "Avada Kedavra!" I watch with satisfaction as the boy falls to the ground dead right next to my prey. No more than squashing an insect beneath my foot as I walk. Wormtail knows that time is running out, so he sets me down on the ground near the headstone and walks over to the boy. I shift again to see through a gap in the robes. The boy is in shock, staring down at the corpse of his companion with a blank look of surprise on his face, even as Wormtail grabs his arm and hauls him up, heading for the tombstone. In the flickering light I can see comprehension dawn in his eyes as he spots the name on the stone, then he is slammed up against it and Wormtail begins tying him up to it.
The boy is scared, still stunned, but like a good little Gryffindor he still struggles against his bindings and Wormtail hits him. I snarl silently. The boy is mine. After 13 years of this hellish existence, I want to be the only one to cause him pain. Oh well. A little slap won't do much. He gasps out "You!" and I know that he recognizes Wormtail. Wishing you had let your godfather kill him a year ago now? Your compassion will be the death of you, boy, just like your father. Wormtail has finished with the knots and gags him, then hurries away into the darkness to fetch the cauldron. I can feel the time drawing nearer, like an itch on my skin, and I shiver with terrible excitement within the robes. Ahh, I see that Nagini has arrived. Such a faithful pet. She can smell the fear on my young guest and circles at his feet, hissing slightly.
Wormtail is back, straining to drag the cauldron across the uneven terrain. The potion inside is delicate, and Wormtail is useless with levitation charms, as he is with so many other things. The magic is gathering, growing, and I struggle within my confines, wanting to be out, to have my own body back, with the strength borne of the darkest of magics flowing through my veins. Wheezing and gasping for breath, he lights the fire beneath it, and soon the fiery sparks are shooting out, lighting the night even as the steam dampens them. Hidden to the mortal eye, the dark tendrils of power necessary for this ritual slither amidst the stones, crawling closer, summoned by their master. I kick against the smothering folds of material and order my servant, "Hurry!"
"It is ready, Master." Finally. "Now . . ." Wormtail pulls back the robes to expose me to the outside world again, and I hear the boy try to scream through the gag. I know I look hideous, but at least this form is physical, unlike the last time we met. I raise my arms to wrap them around Wormtail's neck and he lifts me up. The expression on his face is pure revulsion as he carries me over to the cauldron, but now I pay it no mind. I can feel the power so intensely that I can nearly see the magic congealing around us before Wormtail lowers me into the diamond-encrusted potion. This is it. I sink to the bottom with a soft hiss.
The potion is perfectly warm, and I find I can breathe comfortably for the moment. I cannot see, but soon enough. I hear my servant start the ritual, the liquid magnifying the sound until it pierces my head like a skewer. "Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!" I sense the ground cracking open, and then the dust touches the potion, the world around me turning blue as I writhe. The potion forces the dust of my despised late father, a filthy Muggle, into this rudimentary body, and I shudder in pain as the bones reform within me, stretching my limbs out to their normal length but tearing through the skin I have. It is pure agony, but I take it willingly. Soon, soon. Never thought that your son would one day use you, you bastard, to revive himself did you, Tom Riddle? I avenged my mother and myself long ago on you, but this, the equivalent of spitting on your grave, makes it extra sweet.
"Flesh - of the servant - w-willingly given - you will - revive - your master." I hear the sobs around the incantation. This is the part I was most concerned about. He has proved himself traitorous before, with a strong aversion to pain and suffering, especially his own. This will cement his loyalty to me forever, if he has the nerve to go through with it. He was in Gryffindor for a reason though, and the scream echoes through the night as he gives his right hand for his master.
The severed limb drops into the potion, where it is immediately disassembled and altered, wrapping me in flesh again as the potion around me turns blood red and freezing cold. Immediately my insides writhe as new organs are formed, stretching and filling their proper places. My heart swells as the muscles contract, yet there is nothing yet to pump. Lungs strain for air, but there is nothing yet. The suffocating feeling is crushing my chest, but it is nothing compared to the rest of my body as it is encased again with flesh. I feel it stretching over my head, drawing taut over the skull, the bones in my fingers suddenly acquiring muscle and tendons and skin again. I try to flex them, to distract myself from the pain and ice as it crawls over the rest of my frame, but I cannot as one ingredient is still lacking. The most important and powerful one, which will provide the life flowing, sustaining me in this physical form once again.
"B-blood of the enemy . . . forcibly taken . . . you will . . . resurrect your foe!" I smile with satisfaction as the final invocation is spoken. This is what all the months of plotting and waiting and scheming had led up to. The one thing that will make me stronger than when I had fallen. The protection that had once nearly ruined all would now be my savior, as well as the key to destroying him. A sudden blinding white light surrounds me, and I feel the dark magic working. The blood has been added; the mark the foolish woman left on her son infuses itself into me as his blood begins to pump through my heart, giving me life and warmth. I feel something unexpected; a trace of my old power left in this pure strength. I left my own mark on him that night then, something far beyond the infamous scar. Just as well, this unanticipated bonus bodes well. The Dark magic binds itself once again to me, dark tendrils wrapping and being absorbed into my self, my soul. The potion is evaporating, leaving me crouching naked in this giant cauldron. The mist hangs ominously in the air as I breathe in shakily for the first time in 13 years. I do not just exist; no, I live again!
I stand slowly, relishing the feeling of stretching my body, the muscles working together smoothly as the blood flows and gives them strength. "Robe me," I order Wormtail, who is huddling on the ground whimpering over his bleeding arm. Pathetic. He does not know pain as I do. Life is pain, and the search for immortality is agony. He manages to pull the black robes, once my swaddling and now my badge, over my head and I tug them into place once again, savoring the scratch of material on my skin. I raise my head and meet the eyes of the one who made this possible, his green eyes wide with shock and horror. Yes boy, it is me. I Live.
I ignore him for the moment and examine my own body with exultant rapture, flexing my fingers in front of my face to watch the coordination of the muscles and tendons, then pull out my wand from a pocket. My dear companion, always faithful. I consider it as I caress it lovingly. Yew, thirteen and a half inches, with a core of phoenix feather. Appropriate. Die in flame only to be born again from the ashes. I wonder briefly if the yew comes from this ancient tree in the graveyard. The guardian of the dead, the wood will have extra powers from the death surrounding it. I dismiss my wandering thoughts and focus them again, pointing the wand at Wormtail to throw him against the tombstone, closer to me.
I turn then to the boy and laugh right in his face. His expression is priceless, the wide green eyes so familiar to me. Did you know that your mother looked exactly that way before I killed her? That same stubborn mix of horror, realization, pride, courage, and a touch of hopelessness. Do you miss her, the worthless Mudblood whose foolish actions nearly cost me everything? Do you even remember her? The eyes are the same; they have haunted my existence these last 13 years. The exact shade of the Avada Kedavra, yet nearly luminescent. Few humans have those eyes, and yours look so old. Has my face given you nightmares, boy? I hope so.
Wormtail is twitching on the ground, choking on his sobs. "My Lord . . . My Lord . . . you promised . . . you did promise . . ." he begs pathetically, the smaller boy pleading with the bully to protect him from the others. Not yet Wormtail. First you must rejoin your brethren. "Hold out your arm," I say lazily, yet he mistakes my purpose, as I planned. "Oh Master . . . thank you, Master." He extends toward me the pitiful stump of an arm, squirting weak blood at my feet, and I laugh again, this time at him. "The other arm, Wormtail." His squinty eyes widen as he whines, "Master, please . . . please . . ."
He obviously was in no shape to cooperate, so I bend down and pull out his left arm, forcing the sleeve up to expose the Dark Mark branded into his forearm, a vivid blood red at the moment. I am pleased to see it again. The last time I managed to see a Death Eater's brand, right after my first fall as I fled, it had faded nearly to nothing, simply a shadow like myself. "It is back," I murmur to myself, "they will all have noticed it . . . and now, we shall see . . . now we shall know . . ." I pressed one of my fingers to the brand; with a faint hiss and a howl from Wormtail, the Dark Mark burns jet black, reflecting the souls underneath. I straighten up in satisfaction and raise my eyes up to the heavens. Gazing around the graveyard then up at the stars, I whisper, "How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it? And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?" I know already, save in a few cases, but this test will confirm my suspicions.
I begin to pace, waiting for my faithful to return to me. A flash of green commands my attention, and I look down to meet the scared eyes of the boy, smiling cruelly. "You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father," I hiss at him. "A Muggle and a fool . . . very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child . . . and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death . . ." Yes, useful, as he never was in life. I laugh again as I continue to pace, and decide to relate some family history to the boy.
"You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was . . . He didn't like magic, my father . . . He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage . . . but I vowed to find him . . . I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name . . . Tom Riddle . . ." My eyes flick from gravestone to gravestone, noting some familiar names on them. My grandparents. Over there; Old lady Grechen, the only nice one at the orphanage. I remember when she died, one of the first Muggles to perish under my reign, with the rest of them at the orphanage that May night.
I do not like to linger on those memories. Not when my future draws near. "Listen to me, reliving family history . . ." I say quietly, "why, I am growing quite sentimental . . . But look, Harry! My true family returns . . ." The first of my Death Eaters has just Apparated in, followed by several more. The swish of their dark cloaks is as comforting to me as the voice of a loved one. They are hooded and masked, just like the old days, and approach cautiously, as one confronting an apparition that defies their perceptions. I wait silently for them, eyeing them, evaluating. One, Nott I believe, falls to his knees and crawls to me to kiss the hem of my robes. "Master . . . Master . . ." he murmurs with reverence. Yes, he remembers.
As if that was a signal, the others follow suit, crawling forward to pay me homage before forming a circle around me. I find incredible satisfaction in making these men, some so proud and arrogant in their social standing and lineage, crawl on their knees before me. I wonder how much more revolted they would feel if they knew that I was not even a pureblood, but a halfblood, just like the wretched boy beside me. Especially Lucius. He has always been so arrogant about the fact that his family is a line of purebloods tracing back centuries, with power and money behind them. And I, a poor orphan who suffered growing up amid Muggles until I was of age, could command him to do anything, and he would fall over himself to do it. I chuckle at the irony even as I look into their masked faces.
"Welcome, Death Eaters. Thirteen years . . . thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday . . . We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?" I lean back and sniff the air. "I smell guilt. There is a stench of guilt upon the air." I relish these games I can play with them, these tests of loyalty and nerve, for it inspires fear as evidenced by the shiver that runs through the group. "I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt appearances! - and I ask myself . . . why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?" No one dared move for fear of drawing attention to themselves, the tension thick upon the air. "And I answer myself, they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment . . . And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living?
"And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort . . . perhaps they now pay allegiance to another . . . perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?" Several Death Eaters mutter and shake their heads in denial, but I know this to be true for at least one, if not more of them. The spy would have to have nerves of steel, but now I move to prevent others from following that route. "It is a disappointment to me . . . I confess myself disappointed . . ." and a disappointed Dark Lord does not help your day to get any better. The tension causes one to snap, and Avery flings himself at my feet to collapse in a heap.
"Master! Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!" I begin to laugh at his sycophantic begging and raise my wand. "Crucio!" Ahh, how I've missed this: The sweet pleasure of torturing someone without having to lay a finger on them, the power of life or death literally at my fingertips. After a long moment I release him, and he lays on the cold ground, gasping for air. "Get up, Avery," I tell him, "Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years . . . I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?" Yes, paid in blood and flesh and pain for thirteen years of hiding in comfort while I struggled to live in agony.
"You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don't you?" Yes, turn the blame rightfully back on him, as the guilt is rightfully his. Your Master only gives you the pain you deserve. "Yes, Master," he moans out, "please, Master . . . please . . ." I interrupt him. "Yet you helped me return to my body. Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me . . . and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers . . ." I raise my wand and whirl it through the air to leave a silver streak, which twists and forms itself into a hand and attaches itself to Wormtail's severed wrist. His sobs desist abruptly, and he stares in disbelief at his new hand, a gift from his Master to make him mine forever. The hand is full of Dark magic, and his soul belongs to me. He does not know this yet, and stands in awe as he crushes a twig to powder with his newfound strength.
"My Lord, Master . . . it is beautiful . . . thank you . . . thank you . . ." He scrambles forward to kiss the hem of my robes, and I warn him, "May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail," and he whispers, "No, My Lord . . . Never, My Lord . . ." before joining his brothers in darkness. I begin my inspection of the others, beginning with Malfoy. "Lucius, my slippery friend, I am told you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius . . . your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay . . . but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?" Yes indeed, Lucius was always my best for torturing Muggles. His hatred of them knows no bounds, and he has no qualms about subjecting a nursery school full of children to the Cruciatus if I ask, and I have. If only those fools at the Ministry knew that their biggest contributor to the St. Mungo's fund was also the one responsible for most of the patients in the Muggle Victims unit.
"My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," his swift response tells me he is covering his tracks. "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me . . ." Yet his son knew from his first year that I had been there. And again this previous summer . . . "And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?" My lazy question shuts the git up with the reminder that his Lord knows all. "Yes, I know all about that, Lucius . . . You have disappointed me . . . I expect more faithful service in the future." His pleasing voice is all too eager to agree. "Of course, My Lord, of course . . . You are merciful, thank you . . ." Merciful? Lord Voldemort does not show mercy. He shows expediency, and rewards faithfulness and competency. Mercy has no place in my ranks.
I move away from him to the large space next to him, and decide to set an example. "The Lestranges should stand here. But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me . . . When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us . . . they are our natural allies . . . we will recall the banished giants . . . I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear . . ." Yes, that is my dream, to conquer and rule the world with fear, to crush all who oppose me under the might of the Darkness.
I continue on, passing by some Death Eaters and commenting to others on their current positions and promises, to prove that I indeed know what they have been up to. They can hide nothing from me. I only stop again when I reach the largest gap, and for a moment I can almost see the masked figures standing there as in the old days. "And here we have six missing Death Eaters . . . three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return . . . he will pay." Karkaroff always was a fool, naming others for his paltry freedom, and for this treachery he shall pay with his life. "One, who I believe has left me forever . . . he will be killed, of course . . ." Personally, I was a bit surprised to realize that Severus was probably the spy, even after thirteen years of contemplation, as I thought his grudge against all Gryffindors and a few in particular would seal him to the Dark, "and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service." Yes, and managed to accomplish a task all of these others would have failed. "He is at Hogwats, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our young friend arrived here tonight . . ."
"Yes," I grin with diabolical glee as they focus on the boy, still restrained to the tombstone. "Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honor." Such dry remarks; I am sure that if he could, Potter would snort with incredulity then run like hell to get away from this place. But that is not in my plans tonight. Lucius gathers his courage to ask how this seemingly impossible miracle could occur, and I smile as I slip into a lecturing mood. Once I was a very good storyteller, and that old passion has yet to leave. Maybe because I need to illustrate just how powerful I really am, so I relate my story to them, starting with that fateful Halloween night thirteen years ago. I have one last test for myself, to prove that I have hurdled the last barrier preventing me from exacting my revenge on the boy. I touch his face. That young face, so like his father's, contorts in agony as I lightly press my finger to his cheek, much as I did to Wormtail's arm.
Satisfied, I turn away from him with a soft laugh in his ear and continue my tale, of long years of solitude, hopes dashed, plans thwarted, until a ray of possible hope came in the form of Bertha Jorkins. From there the plans to set up this revival were set into action, leading up to this very moment . . . "and here he is . . . the boy you all believed had been my downfall . . ." I slowly turn to face him and raise my wand. "Crucio!" It is lovely, absolutely beautiful: the green eyes rolling back into his head, the face screwing up in pure anguish, the helpless jerks against the tight cords, the shrieks of pain muffled by the gag . . .
I lift the curse and he slumps against his bindings, daring to meet my eyes as the Death Eaters laugh. Yes, they laugh whenever it is not them under the curse. Yet they can never meet my eyes afterwards, even when I command it. This boy has a core of steel my minions lack. No wonder he is a serious threat to me, despite his age. It is slightly unnerving, so I command their attention again by speaking. "You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever be stronger than me. But I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And now I am going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left with no doubt which of us is the stronger. Just a little longer, Nagini," I whisper aside to my pet, the symbol of my heritage and the fear I spread like basilisk venom.
"Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand." The rat does as he is told, pulling out the gag roughly and cutting through the ropes with a single swipe of his new hand. The boy barely found his feet in time, and even as he looks as if he might try to run, I notice the blood running from one leg as it shook under his weight. So he has been injured the whole time. That could make him a little easier to deal with, and much more fun to torment, as one might torture a small wounded animal. Yet my traitorous brain chooses this time to remember that this animal had teeth, and he is far more dangerous that I know. I scowl; now is not the time to be developing multiple personalities, especially not insolent ones like this. An aftereffect of the ritual? But it had created a nagging doubt in my mind: what if the boy won? What if I could not kill him again this time? How much would my followers doubt me in turn, to see me bested by a fourteen year old?
Mentally I put the Cruciatus on the stupid voice that sounds remarkably like Tom, the boy I once was and have destroyed. The last vestiges of him were swept away in that ritual in the Black Forest over twenty five years ago. I am Lord Voldemort, the most feared Dark wizard in a century, and I had defied death to be reborn stronger than before. I had learned from my mistakes, and now nothing would stop me, especially not a prepubescent boy. Wormtail returns with the boy's wand and shoves it into his hands before returning to the circle, watching and waiting. I smile as I cast all doubts aside. "You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?" I ask softly, hoping that he has, to make the duel that much sweeter. He does not answer, so I choose to enlighten him. "We bow to each other, Harry," as I give him a fractional bow but never breaking eye contact. "Come, the niceties must be observed . . . Dumbledore would like you to show manners . . . Bow to death, Harry . . ." The insolent boy does not even twitch a muscle, and for a moment I think maybe he has frozen from fear. Then I realize that he will not play along with my little games. He has a determined and disgusted glint in those fierce emerald eyes.
My smile turns to a brief scowl at his defiance. "I said, bow," raising my wand and forcing him to bow deeply before me. The Death Eaters around us laugh harder than as I smile again. "Very good," I praise him mockingly and I allow him to straighten. "And now you face me, like a man . . . straight- backed and proud, the way your father died . . . And now -- we duel." The dig at his father is calculated, hoping to unnerve him, show him that if his father, a full-fledged wizard could not stand against me, how could he hope to now? I quickly perform the Cruciatus on the boy, he has no time to react, and he falls to the ground screaming hideously. Yes, the greatest pain one can suffer, all without anything physically touching the victim. It is all mental; he is forced to feel pain that is not real. I think that is why I find the curse so appealing.
I remove the curse, and he quickly scrambles back to his feet, shaking and staggering. I am briefly impressed as the Death Eaters shove him away, back to the center of the circle. No one I have seen recovers that fast from the curse; even the Death Eaters lay there for a minute afterwards. Maybe the boy just has a high tolerance for pain. My eyes light up at the prospect and my nostrils dilate with excitement. This could be even more fun than I thought, for it will take a lot more to break him. "A little break, a little pause . . . that hurt, didn't it, Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?" Ahh, the perfect blend of sarcasm and condensation to break a spirit, perfected over eleven years of torturing Muggles and wizards alike. Most would be babbling and sobbing at this moment, begging me not to do that again.
But the boy does not answer. He glares at me, as if he knows he is going to die yet he refuses to obey me. Defiant and insolent to the last, eh? "I asked you whether you want me to do that again," I tell him softly, and he stubbornly clenches his jaw. I snarl a bit at him, "Answer me! Imperio!" Another favorite, the ability to control people absolutely, to force them to do anything I want against their will. He will beg at my feet before the night is over, I will make sure of that. A mere boy cannot resist my power. I see his eyes glaze over as the curse wipes his mind, and his body relaxes, waiting for my command. Here's your first lesson in obedience, boy. We will start out simple. Just answer no . . . say no . . . just answer no . . .
I watch his eyes as they flicker a bit, and I can sense that he is fighting it. He unconsciously presses his lips tight together. Just answer no . . . just answer no . . . His eyes flicker again. Finally his mouth opens and he speaks, but it is the wrong answer. "I WON'T!" he bellows out boldly, then blinks at the last of the curse dissipates. I am furious; no, incensed. This little brat dares to defy me yet again? How dare he?! "You won't?" I repeat quietly, in a tone that would set the bravest Auror shaking in his boots. "You won't say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die . . . perhaps another little dose of pain?"
I finger my wand as I raise it again, but this time the boy is ready. As the light issues from my wand, he dives to the ground and rolls out of the way, behind the headstone of my father. The curse hits it and cracks a large piece of marble out of it, right below the date of death. Such a memorable day. I regain my composure as the duel becomes more interesting and to my advantage. "We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry," I taunt him softly as I approach, and my followers laugh of course. They need to just shut up sometimes. "You cannot hide from me. Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, Harry? Come out, Harry . . . come out and play, then . . . it will be quick . . . it might even be painless . . . I would not know . . . I have never died . . ." I continue to close in on the headstone and my hidden enemy, a malevolent grin stretching my face as I sense that the time is near. Soon the boy will be dead, and everyone will know who the greatest wizard the world has ever seen is. I can hear him breathing, quickly and shallowly as if preparing.
I have my wand raised as abruptly he flings himself back around the tombstone, his own wand pointed right at me. Those emerald eyes are glittering with power and determination and pride, and he yells out "Expelliarmus!" just as I cry out "Avada Kedavra!" Without his mother's protection he cannot stop it this time . . . the red and green lights meet and mix . . . then suddenly they transform into gold and connect to both our wands. My wand begins to vibrate and shake, and I grip it tighter to keep from dropping it, though I doubt that I could let go even if I wanted to at this point. My eyes meet with Harry's across our wands, and we are equally startled. Nothing like this could ever have been suspected. Our feet lift from the ground and we begin drifting through the air, still connected in our dueling stances, until we land on a patch of earth near the yew tree clear of graves.
The Death Eaters are chasing us, shouting, asking for instructions from their Master, pulling their wands as they run. Before they can do anything, however, the golden light is broken into thousands of little tendrils which form a domed cage of light around me and the boy while still keeping our wands connected. My followers circle outside, still calling out to me. I shriek back at them, "Do nothing!" trying to break the golden thread, to release me from this infernal cage. "Do nothing unless I command you!" I need to figure out what in the seven circles of hell is going on, and how to stop it! The boy is as perplexed as I am. But I am Lord Voldemort! I am not supposed to be trapped in a golden cage with a boy! Especially not this one! Not when he is so near to death at my hands!!
I keep trying to break the thread, but suddenly I hear something that causes me to freeze in my actions. The thread is . . . singing?! I recognize the sound: phoenix song. I hate it immediately, and my heart seems to shrivel in my chest as the notes resonate through my bones. I feel the first traces of . . . fear?! No! I am the most feared Dark wizard in a century! I cause fear, I do not feel it!! I look at the boy with uncharacteristically wide eyes, to find him staring at me with the most peculiar expression. I struggle to figure it out, then it hits me.
He. Is. Not. Afraid.
If anything, he seems more alive and confident than ever, those damn eyes assuring me that he will destroy me, given the chance.
The thread chooses that moment to change, as beads of light form along it, and instinctively I force them away from me, toward the boy, and am gratified to see his wand shaking violently in his grasp. If only he would drop it . . . I focus on getting one of the beads to touch the boy's wand, to make him drop it, to leave my way open to kill him. It is about to touch . . .
But no. The boy narrows his eyes and fixes his gaze on that bead, and I sense him shoving it back, away from him. I resist him, pushing harder. But slowly, the beads stop, then begin creeping back toward me, toward my wand, which starts shaking and vibrating like never before. Those faint stirrings of fear are growing as I frantically push to no avail. The boy refuses to give up, and eventually, a bead inches up and touches the tip of my wand.
Instantly echoing screams of pain emit from it, followed by a smoky outline of the hand I created for Wormtail. I am astonished; no, more than that. Shocked stupid. Priori Incantatem?!?! How . . .?! I can only stare as my wand continues to regurgitate spells. More pain-filled screams . . . then something larger, dense and smoky emerges, squeezing itself out to drop to the ground and straighten up in front of Potter. It says something to him, then turns to me. I gasp. It is the boy, the other Hogwarts champion. I glance over, and just through the cage I can see his body lying a distance away, yet he is standing right in front of me. He leans closer, blocking my view of Harry, and whispers harshly, "How brave and powerful of you, killing off people just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Harry's going to beat you here, and then he will come back and kick your arse back into the fiery pit you slithered from." His shadowy eyes promise that this is no mere threat.
He stepped to the side, and I see that another one of these ghosts has joined the boy. The old Muggle, who found me up at the Riddle House and who I subsequently eliminated, comments on something to Harry, hobbles towards me with his stick, leans down and sneers at me. "You may be a real wizard, but this boy has got more gumption than you'll ever dream of having. You're not even a real man. You're something much lower, somethin' filthy and slimy and low enough to consider killing boys and old men a good sport. That boy there, I respect him. He's goin' to beat you here."
By now the shade of Bertha Jorkins has joined him, and as the two males start to stalk around the edges of the cage, she starts in on me. "You low- down filthy snake-breath piece of bloody rat dung git! I swear, you may be powerful, but you can never defeat Harry! He's got a good heart, unlike your sorry excuse for one. You picked the wrong kid to mess with this time, so I hope you die horribly and painfully, just like you have caused to so many other good people." If ghosts could spit, she would have, right in my face. Instead, she gives me a final glare and prowls around the perimeter of the cage with the other two, murmuring to Harry while glaring and hissing at me. Shaken and more than a bit afraid, I glance at the boy over the still connected wands. He is blocked by two more shadows which are speaking quietly to him, so quietly I cannot hear. The shadow boy whispers to him, and Harry answers, "Yes. I will." What are they saying?
Suddenly Harry yells out, "NOW!" and wrenches his wand up with amazing strength . . . and the thread breaks. The song dies. My eyes widen further, but as I try to recover the shadows are upon me, hissing and shouting in my face. I meet the combined glare of Lily and James Potter, standing together with their arms crossed, blocking their son from my gaze. Lily smirks as she says, "You cannot destroy what you do not understand. Harry knows love, and that is what will be your downfall." James, ever the infuriating Marauder, sweeps down into a mocking bow and says with a twisted grin, "We may be dead, but we look a lot better than you do, snake-face. Go rot in hell." The old man is back, ranting about how I remind him of the more cowardly soldiers under his command in the war, the ones who ran away under fire, too scared to face anything.
I have had enough. With an enraged snarl I sweep my wand through them, and the bodies dissipate in the air in wisps of dark smoke. I see Potter running through the graveyard, dodging the tombstones and the curses the Death Eaters are sending after him. They are too old and out of shape to catch him, especially with his speed and reflexes. I watch as he dives behind a tombstone just as three curses slice the air where he once stood. I scream out, "Stun him!" and they all immediately respond, filling the air with red jets of light. He dives behind another stone, then darts out again and screams a hex over his shoulder. Avery is not careful enough, and he goes down, cracking the side of his head on the corner of a headstone as he falls with an indignant yell.
I am so completely rattled and furious that I can literally see red as I hurry closer, leaving the site of the duel. I expect the boy will grab the cup and disappear in less than a moment, but instead he jumps over the Portkey to snatch the other boy's arm. I spot the opportunity and shriek out, "Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!" The boy is debating; he will not leave the other, but he cannot reach the Portkey either. My smile grows wide and I raise my wand to finish it, but too late. The boy raises his own and yells, "Accio!" summoning the cup to him. In enraged disbelief I watch as he grabs it out of midair, and I scream with fury as he disappears with a swirl of color.
The echo of my scream rebounds through the graveyard, gradually fading away until only silence remains. I stand completely still, breathing heavily with my eyes closed, trying to focus. I did not just lose to a little brat! Again! He did not just beat me in a straight duel! Unfortunately, the truth keeps coming back, intruding on my thoughts. He got away! Alive! Back to Hogwarts!!
That makes me calm down. At Hogwarts I still have my faithful Death Eater. Potter was not supposed to return, and definitely not alive, so he will take care of that for me. His disguise is carefully cultivated and not easily broken. He is faithful, truly loyal to me, who took him as my own when his father disappointed him. He will manage that task, and then report back to me on his success. Potter is as good as dead now. I am alive again. I have returned, and knowing Fudge, I have time to rebuild my army before I launch my campaign against the unsuspecting world.
My focus regained, I open my eyes to coldly scan my Death Eaters. They are awaiting my command, nervously eyeing my wand to see which of them will get the blame for this fiasco. I slowly smile at them, and am gratified to see many wide eyes, as by all rights I should not have cause to smile at the moment. I wait another moment to see if anyone dare speak, then comment offhandedly, "You forget. I still have my faithful servant at Hogwarts. The boy will be dead before tomorrow, and then nothing shall stand in our way." I sweep around and stalk back toward the cauldron where it all began, hearing them follow me somewhat reluctantly. With a swish of my wand the cauldron is shrunk to a convenient carrying size, which Wormtail scurries to pick up. I glance back at them all. "Come with me. We have a world to conquer."
I regally stride toward the Riddle House on the hill with Nagini at my heels, my head held high and my composure intact. I am alive. I have conquered death. I am Lord Voldemort, and the world will soon know of my reign.