- Chapter 13 -

The first thing he noticed upon waking was the smell of burnt wood. He tried to raise his hand to cover his mouth and nose only to find that he couldn't move. He was bound. Tight ropes were digging into his flesh.

Careful not to attract any attention, Harry slowly opened his eyes. He was surrounded by tombstones, rows upon rows of tombstones darkly silhouetted against the setting sun. A shiver went through him. If all the books he'd devoured in quiet moments had taught him anything, then that nothing good ever happened in graveyards - especially after sunset.

Far more alarming than the general scenery, however, was the oversized cauldron atop a crackling fire, and the plush armchair next to it, where an ugly toddler with an oversized head was sitting wrapped in blankets.

Was this some kind of joke? No… Al would never…

Al.

The blood… Al falling... No…

"Our guest is awake," a too-high, too-thin voice said coldly.

Harry's eyes snapped to the- the thing, that didn't seem to be a toddler after all, but something else entirely. When their eyes met, Harry's scar, the one he hadn't paid a second thought to in years, exploded with pain. It was agony, worse than splitting his head open, worse than drowning- worse than anything he had ever experienced. The pain reached a crescendo, bile clawed up his throat and he threw up, soiling his robes.

"Hurry!"

Out of the corner of his eyes – he didn't dare look at the creature again, even as the pain was ebbing away – Harry saw a tall man bustling about the cauldron. The liquid inside was simmering, emitting thick steam and fiery sparks.

"It is ready for you, Master," the man said reverently. As he picked it up, the blankets fell away, revealing a truly hideous body. It had black, scaly skin, bony arms and legs, and every rib visible on its emaciated body.

Horror struck, Harry watched as the man carefully almost lovingly lowered the thing into the cauldron, where it vanished beneath the surface.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!" the man cried, and the stone to Harry's feet cracked with a thundering noise. From the gap, a swirl of grey dust rose and floated towards the cauldron. When it touched the surface, sparks flew into the air, and the Potion turned a luminous blue.

Next, the man pushed back the sleeve of his left arm, and with a smile on his lips, held it over the cauldron.

"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your Master," he said reverentially, and then – Harry didn't want to watch, but couldn't look away either – he raised a long, silver dagger and cut off his own fucking hand. His scream of anguish pierced the air, but the expression on his face- it was pure bliss.

This was some next-level crazy.

Harry pulled against his restraints as hard as he could, and when they didn't budge harder still. He had to get away from here right now.

But it was too late. The man, his bleeding stump now wrapped in the abandoned blanket, walked towards Harry.

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. First bones, then flesh, what was next? What did they need him for? His heart maybe… a healthy, young heart…

He didn't want to die. He really, really didn't want to die. He struggled, tried once more to free himself, but in vain.

"I will kill you," Harry whispered, trying to put every detail of the other's face, every single freckle, to memory.

He didn't get an answer, but curiously enough the other wizard returned the inspection, even raised his remaining hand and let it hover above Harry's cheek, almost but not quite touching him.

Then he pulled out the dagger, and a manic grin split his face.

He dragged the pointed tip of the dagger from the crook of Harry's arm halfway down to his hand. The pain felt like a dull echo, compared to what he had experienced earlier, but Harry had to grit his teeth to stop himself from crying out nevertheless.

The dagger hit the ground with a dull thud, and Harry watched as the wizard retrieved a small glass vial, held it next to Harry's arm, and filled it to the brim with his blood.

The vial in hand, the wizard walked back to the cauldron, his steps slow and deliberate, yet his body shaking with excitement.

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe!" he cried, before emptying the vial into the cauldron.

The liquid within started to shine in a brilliant white. The cauldron began to vibrate, and sparks of light flew in every direction.

Then, as if someone had turned a switch, all light was gone, and a tall and naked creature stood where before had only been the simmering potion.

Harry closed his eyes. He didn't want to see this. This was not happening. It wasn't real. It was-

"Robe me."

Harry recognised the voice from before. It had belonged to the toddler-thing. His eyes opened of their own accord, just in time to see the servant pick up black robes from the ground, mumbling reverentially while he clothed the creature.

Its long, spindly fingers smoothed down the robes, then slowly moved up its arms to its face, as if it was getting to know its body, examining if everything was in order. Finally, it reached into the pockets of its robes and drew out a wand.

"Barty," it said quietly, and the wizard, who had been following the procedure, eyes alight with joy, fell to his knees in front of it.

"My most faithful," the creature said. "Hold out your arm."

"My Lord," Barty breathed, and held out his good arm, and the creature – the Lord - pulled back his sleeve, exposing the vivid red tattoo of a skull.

*"It is back," the Lord said softly, "they will all have noticed it… and now, we shall see… now we shall know …"

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Barty's arm. A sharp pain seared through Harry's scar. When the Lord lifted his finger, Harry saw the tattoo turn pitch black.

"How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?" it – he – whispered. "And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?"

In Harry's mind, staying away from all this was the only sane thing anyone could do.

The Lord turned back to the wizard, still kneeling in the dirt to his feet.

"Now your other arm, Barty."

"Oh, thank you, my Lord. You are too good, too grand," the wizard whimpered, and with his good hand pulled the blanket off his wounded arm, exposing the bleeding stump.

Harry's stomach revolted.

The Lord raised his wand, drawing small circles in the air until what looked like a small, silvery marble fell from its tip. It hovered above Barty's head, vibrating and expanding, writhing and stretching, taking on the form of a silvery, human hand, that soared downward and fixed itself upon Barty's bleeding wrist.

"My Lord, thank you. It is magnificent."

The creature nodded benevolently. "May you always remain my most faithful, my most devoted."

"Always," Barty breathed, and Harry thought for a moment he saw tears of gratitude shimmering in the corners of Barty's eyes - which would be all kinds of fucked up. Then again, what about this scene wasn't?

They had ignored him for so long, that Harry had dared to hope – albeit feebly – that his part in today's events was done, that maybe they would just let him go.

(Thanks for your blood, you seem to be a little weak on your feet, should we perhaps call you a taxi?)

Harry chased away the ludicrous thought. Sweet Merlin. The madness was contagious.

As if aware of Harry's wandering mind, the Lord for the first time turned towards him. "Harry Potter," he said, savoring every syllable. "So we meet again. You are quite the elusive young man, almost impossible to track down, or so my servants would have me believe. But of course, I would not have done this without you. One only gets so many fated enemies, after all."

Harry, who could neither remember meeting the Lord before nor recall being anybody's fated enemy, did not get a chance to ask the creature to elaborate, because right then the silence in the graveyard was disturbed by a string of loud cracks as wizard after wizard, a good two dozen at least, appeared between the gravestones.

They wore white masks and had the hoods of their robes drawn up over their heads.

"Master, master," they murmured, shuffling closer until they were standing in a semicircle in front of Harry and their Lord.

The Lord remained silent, his vivid red eyes moving over them, and a shudder of unease went through the crowd, until one of the wizards – Malfoy, Harry thought, recognising his long blond hair – fell to his knees, crawled towards the Lord and kissed the hem of his black robes. Soon, the others followed his example, and only when the last wizard had returned to his place in the circle, did the Lord deign to speak again, of his disappointment in his followers, who had not come looking for him, his half-life as a specter, possessing animals and humans alike…

As he listened, a bone-deep horror took hold of Harry, because everything he had learned over the last couple of years, from Al and his books, told him that nothing about this was normal or natural, even by magical standards.

"I had almost given up hope," the Lord said, his words dripping with accusation, "when at last a faithful servant returned to me." He turned towards Barty, gesturing with one long, pale finger for the wizard to step forth. "Guided only by rumours, he succeeded where none of you even tried: He found me, in the woods of Albania, and took upon himself the task to see me return to a body.

His loyalty shall not be forgotten."

"It was my honour, Master, my duty."

"Your duty, indeed."

Another shudder went through the crowd, and Harry had the feeling he wasn't alone in his wish to be anywhere but here.

"Of course, there is one more person, that we have to thank for making Lord Voldemort's return a reality: Our guest of honour, Harry Potter."

Guest of honour, was he?

"The mere rumours of my continued existence chased him from the Wizarding World, drove him to spend his life secluded, hidden away… Not that it did him much good. Let his example be a reminder to you all: You cannot run and you cannot hide. Lord Voldemort will find you, wherever you are."

This still left the, in Harry's opinion rather pertinent question, why Lord Voldemort had even wanted to find him in the first place.

"Now, after all these years," Lord Voldemort continued, "the day has finally come to show the world that nothing and nobody can stand against Lord Voldemort. That Harry Potter is not a saviour, but simply a lucky child."

Saviour?

Harry didn't have time to ponder the choice of words, for when Lord Voldemort continued to speak the blood froze in his veins:

"And to prove this to you, I will kill him, here and now, in front of you all, where there is no mother to die for him, nowhere for him to hide. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger."

The ropes restraining Harry loosened and rolled up at his feet. Surprised by the sudden freedom, Harry staggered away from the gravestone, almost fell, but caught himself at the last moment. His legs felt numb and tingly, but he wouldn't crawl in the dirt to the monster's feet, not if he could help it.

"Lucius," Lord Voldemort called softly. "I believe you still have Harry's wand? Give it to him."

Malfoy walked towards Harry, his head held high, his grey eyes surveying Harry as emotionlessly as ever. There was no sadness, no mercy, nothing – and Harry was glad for it. Finally, his fear and confusion gave way to an emotion he could work with: hatred.

He snatched his wand from Malfoy's hand, then whispered, because he couldn't stomach the idea of dying without knowing, "Where's Al?"

"Don't worry about that," Malfoy said, and Harry was sure there was a mocking smile lurking behind that awful mask. "You'll be reunited soon enough."

It was as if someone had dropped a bucket of ice water on him. Harry had expected it, of course, but to hear it uttered so casually-

Malfoy had already turned away and was walking back to his place in the circle, and suddenly Harry knew with clarity, that if he ever wanted to avenge Al, he had to act now because all things considered, he probably wouldn't live to see another day.

"Secate," Harry cried, his wand pointed straight at Malfoy. The masked wizards shouted Malfoy whirled around, eyes wide. Someone tried to cancel the curse, but only managed to deflect it… A piercing cry echoed through the graveyard.

One of the masked wizards behind Malfoy sank to his knees in pain. "No," he cried. "No, no, no." He was holding on to something small, pale, and very bloody. "My hand! My hand…"

"Calm down, Aldrich," the wizard next to him said, bending down to him. "We'll reattach it. Or grow it back."

"Always the moron, Goyle," the wounded wizard spat. "Didn't you hear the incantation? It's gone. For good."

"Indeed it is," Voldemort said. "But don't blame Goyle for his lack of expertise. This is, after all, neither simple nor well-known magic. Which makes it all the more curious that it was the first curse our little saviour here thought to use."

Voldemort seemed to be almost… delighted?

"I know of course who raised you," Voldemort continued. "But it has to be said that you exceed expectations. Had nobody intervened… Had the curse met its target as you intended, I dare say Lucius would be half the wizard he used to be."

And pretty dead, too.

Malfoy gave a strangled cry, but Voldemort ignored him. "Now, we've dallied long enough," the Lord said. "Let us duel before you get the idea to cripple another one of my servants.

And just like that, his short reprieve was over.

Harry gripped his wand tightly. He wasn't ready to die, he really, really wasn't, but he had no illusions that he could win a duel against a wizard of Voldemort's caliber.

"We bow, before we duel, Harry," Voldemort said, bowing a little, keeping his eyes fixed on Harry, who remained standing upright.

He would not bow to his murderer.

"That won't do," Voldemort admonished. He raised his wand, and there was pressure at Harry's back as if the very air behind him was conspiring against him. Slowly, painfully, his upper body moved downwards. The masked wizards cheered.

"Excellent manners," the Lord said. "It's almost a pity you have to die."

"Then why? Why are you doing this?" Harry shouted, desperate. "You have my blood, why not let me go?"

Voldemort laughed, a cold, high sound. "It's nothing personal, Harry," he said. "I am the Dark Lord, and you are their precious saviour. It's… fate."

Fate? More like madness.

"I'm nobody's saviour," Harry said. "I don't have anything to do with this."

A handful of wizards laughed again, but Lord Voldemort shushed them with a sweeping motion of his arm.

He regarded Harry curiously. "You seem to really believe that," Voldemort said slowly. "Could it be that you truly don't know?"

"Don't know what?" Harry said, resenting the desperation that was creeping into his voice.

"Some fifteen years ago, give or take a few months, I killed your parents," Voldemort said. "And then I decided to kill you too. Only, I had not considered that your mother's sacrifice could provide you with a protection… foolish of me, I admit… so when I turned my wand against you, my own curse backfired… robbing me of a body, and leaving nothing but the scar on your forehead behind on you."

What?

"But, my parents died in a car accident," Harry blurted. That was what Petunia and Vernon had told him, about his drunk, good-for-nothing parents, who had wrecked their car and died in the process.

"A car accident? A… muggle death?" The Dark Lord sounded almost insulted. "They died at the hand of the most powerful wizard to ever walk this earth, the hand of Lord Voldemort!"

But why would the Dursleys… Had they known that Harry was a wizard?

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, because all of this was ridiculous and terrifying and unfair and confusing, and-

And he would die today because Lord Voldemort was pissed he hadn't been able to kill him as a baby.

Apparently, nothing cleared his mind like the threat of impending death. Harry stood a little taller, gripped his wand a little tighter…

"Yes, I agree," Voldemort said. "The time for words has passed."

A pale red beam of light sped towards Harry, who promptly flung himself to the left, seeking shelter behind a large stone. A gravestone. How fitting.

"I have no interest in childish games, Harry. Face me, face me and die like a man, like your father. I promise to make it quick."

Harry's heart beat in his ears. He wiped his sweaty palms on his robes and tried to calm his breathing. He could hear the other wizards, their robes rustling in the wind, their whispers…

Hunched over, he snuck to the edge of the gravestone. He aimed his wand at Voldemort, tried to recall everything about the Curse he was going to cast, the intonation, and the pale green light-

"Avada Kedavra."

Cries of outrage ripped through the crowd of wizards, and hope flared in Harry's chest, but-

"I see you are done playing too."

The voice came from behind him. Harry spun around as fast as he could. Voldemort had already raised his wand, his red eyes were narrowed to slits, his lipless mouth opened-

"Avada Kedavra," they cried in unison. Their spells met mid-air, but instead of canceling each other out, or steering each other off path, instead of whatever else normally happened when two Killing Curses collided, a connection formed between Harry's and Voldemort's wands.

Harry's wand started vibrating, and before he knew what was happening, they were lifted off the ground. Harry saw his own shock reflected in the vivid red eyes of his opponent. It comforted him that Voldemort too had no idea what the hell was going on.

Large beads of light grew out of the thread linking their wands and started sliding up and down the connection, like pearls on a string.

All Harry knew was that he didn't want to die today, that he wanted to break the connection and run, while Voldemort was still preoccupied. He tried to whip his wand to the right, but it wouldn't let him. The golden thread remained unbroken, and the glowing beads began to slide in his direction.

His wand quivered angrily, and once more Harry tried to break free, and once more he was denied. His wand grew increasingly hot in his hands, and a bead of light was almost at the tip of his wand, and with sudden clarity, Harry knew that he shouldn't, that he couldn't allow it to touch, but the understanding had come too late.

The glowing bead enveloped the tip of his wand, and Harry had the feeling it might burst in his hand any minute, it grew so hot, so angry-

And then it screamed.

Harry had never heard a more heart-wrenching sound.

A smoky replica of a hand – Aldrich's hand - grew out of the tip of his wand and vanished… A flock of ghostly birds followed, dissolving as soon as the last had broken free from his wand.

It was as if the connection forced his wand to relive its past.

Then something of a darker grey colour, of a more solid, albeit still smoky, appearance was born from the tip of his wand, and with a jolt, Harry recognised it as the squirrel he had killed not too long ago in the woods. More animals followed. A bird, a rabbit, another squirrel, a stag with large antlers…

And none of them showed any inclination of dissolving into thin smoke. Instead, what had legs ran upon the air towards Voldemort taking position behind him, flanking him, and the birds circled above them, from time to time emitting an otherworldly battle cry.

Voldemort surveyed the ever-growing number of animals, a disturbed look crossing his snake-like visage before he turned his attention to Harry.

"This has gone on long enough," he whispered, and with one strong pull on his wand, the golden thread splintered.

The ghostly animals ran towards Harry, circling him, obscuring his view. The birds shot down on him too, screeching, claws extended…

Harry tried to get away, stumbling backward, but he couldn't see. He turned around, and an oversized rabbit – no, the ghost of one – jumped at him, its claws sharper, its teeth pointier-

With a swerve to the right, he avoided the animal's attack- only to be confronted by the ghostly form of a stag, which was stood next to a gravestone, as if waiting for him. Harry was moving too fast to stop, but tried anyway- he fell, hitting the ground so hard all air was forced from his lungs.

As he was lying there, a sharp pain shooting through his head, colourful lights dancing before his eyes, the ghosts finally vanished.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Lord Voldemort draw closer, but he saw something else too… something was moving through the grass, gently, smoothly…

Maybe he could use this. He could distract the Lord for a moment and -

And what? Get thirty more seconds to live?

Well, it wasn't like he had any other options left.

Harry concentrated on the wriggling movements in the grass, imagined the snake he knew to be there, and said, "Attack the man. Bite him. Wrap around him. Squeeze. Bite. Attack. Now."

Man and snake stilled abruptly.

"Attack, he says," the snake repeated. "Attack now." Regrettably, it didn't do as it was told.

Lord Voldemort, apparently haven gotten over the shock of hearing Harry make nonsensical hissing noises, walked up the Harry, and knelt down on the ground next to him. Harry's heart was beating against his ribcage as if it were trying to break free, unwilling to accept that its time had run out. The Lord reached out, and with one of his unnaturally long, pale fingers pushed Harry's hair away from his forehead. For a long, quiet moment, he stared at Harry's scar, then moved on to Harry's eyes.

Harry refused to avoid his gaze; he would not cower before his murderer.

And he would die, here, now. That he was sure of. There was no way out.

Voldemort lifted his hand from Harry's forehead, and raised his wand…

At the moment before his death, Harry's life flashed before his eyes.

He was at the Dursleys'. Petunia had sent him to his cupboard earlier than usual. He was leaning against the thin door, listening to his aunt and uncle ask Dudley about his first day of school… Telling him how proud they were…

He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, staring at his big toe poking out of his holey sock. At school, a teacher's hair had turned blue, and Vernon was shouting at him like it was his fault. A hard blow whipped his head upwards. Vernon had struck him. Harry jumped from the sofa, tried to run past Vernon, but his uncle grabbed him…

He was fighting with Al about seeing Courtney…

Al… Al who was dead, who he would never see again… Harry gasped. The memory was too painful…

Suddenly the memory of Al's face was replaced by Voldemort's very real one.

Why wasn't Harry dead yet?

Voldemort was twirling his wand through his fingers, regarding Harry thoughtfully.

"You are not what I expected," he said. "Not what I expected at all. A wizard with your talents, your interest in experimenting with the more… rewarding branches of magic, your ruthlessness… Such a wizard could have a place within my ranks. If he were so inclined."

"You want me to become one of your servants?"

"I am offering you a chance to become one of my trusted companions, a chance to live. Think before you speak, for your decision will be final."

Harry stared up into the face of his parent's murderer, Al's murderer (at least by proxy)…

At the thought of Al, an image of Lucius Malfoy's smug visage danced before his eyes.

Malfoy was still alive, still breathing, still going home to his family - his loved ones. If Harry died today, Lucius Malfoy would get away. Nobody would be left to care about the old man's fate. His death would never be avenged.

But if he got to live another day, if he bid his time…

Voldemort's red eyes bore into his. "Have you made a decision?"

Harry nodded. "I want to live."

Lord Voldemort smiled. "Then bow to me."

Still lying on the ground, murder on his mind, Harry awkwardly lowered his chin to his chest.

- End of Part I -

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