Harry was in his bedroom. Not his dormitory. Not the room that the Dursleys gave him every summer. Not the room he stayed in while at Malfoy Manor. His own bedroom, his nursery, the room that his parents had painted blue and decorated for him. His own bedroom, where he had slept in as an infant, listening to the delicate sound of the music box that still sat on the nearby dresser. His own bedroom, where his mother had given her life to protect him. His own bedroom, where Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew now prepared the potion that would resurrect the Dark Lord.
Harry was propped up in the corner of the room, next to the quaffle-sized hole in the floor that led to the living room below. Above him, most of the roof had been blasted away, no doubt where Voldemort's curse had backfired fourteen years ago. In the center of Harry's nursery was a cauldron, bubbling and boiling atop a small fire. Pettigew moved about the cauldron, adding bits of this and that, making sure that the potion was perfectly prepared. In Harry's crib, a twisted shadow squirmed and wriggled. The awful homunculus that housed Voldemort's spirit barked directions at Pettigrew in a voice that was not meant for this world.
Harry averted his eyes, not wanting to see the desecration that was taking place. But when he looked down, through the hole in the floor, he could see the legs and feet of Cedric Diggory, dead next to the fireplace. The sight made him sick to his stomach.
He should have done something. He should do something. But Harry was wandless. Powerless.
"I apologize for your wait, Harry Potter," rasped Voldemort. "You arrived early, and thus this potion was not fully prepared. My servant at Hogwarts told me that you had become arrogant and lazy, and that I should not expect you to arrive quickly."
"Glad to prove you wrong," Harry said. Again, his stomach lurched. There was only one person at Hogwarts who taunted Harry about arrogance. Harry had told himself all year that Sirius was wrong. That there was no way that Snape was a Death Eater. And yet, here was Harry, trussed up like a goose, waiting for Pettigrew to carve him open.
Voldemort continued to speak. Harry had the feeling that Voldemort's words were meant more for Voldemort himself than for Harry. "The scene of my greatest defeat will become the site of my greatest victory," Voldemort said. "I will rise from the ashes of my own destruction, born anew, having conquered death itself. The monument that Dumbledore and his foolish blood traitors have created will become instead a monument to my greatness. And I will finish the task that I began fourteen years ago, proving to all that Lord Voldemort is Death, and that none can escape me."
Pettigrew shuffled toward the crib, his head bowed. "The potion is ready, master."
"Then begin," ordered Voldemort.
Pettigrew reached into the crib and removed the homunculus. He gingerly carried the figure to the cauldron, and lowered it gently into the bubbling water. The misshapen body sank into the potion and disappeared.
Pettigrew turned away from the potion, and rummaged in a sack that lay nearby. He removed a large bone that Harry strongly suspected was human.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son." Pettigrew tossed the bone into the cauldron, and the color of the potion changed to white.
Pettigrew turned back to the sack and removed a large, silver knife with a wicked edge. He walked to the cauldron, and held his hands above the bubbling potion. "Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master." Harry watched as Pettigrew slashed the knife through the air, severing his own hand. Pettigrew cried out in pain as the hand fell into the potion, and the potion turned blood red.
Pettigrew gasped and sobbed for a moment. Then, clutching his wounded arm to his body, he once again turned to the sack. He removed a crude stone cup and, holding the knife in the same hand, approached Harry in the corner of the room.
"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe." Pettigrew raised the knife to Harry's face. Harry pulled away, but he was unable to escape. Pettigrew used the knife to slice open Harry's cheek, starting just below Harry's eye and moving down to his jawline.
The knife was so sharp that Harry didn't feel any pain, at first—just pressure, and then a warm wetness moving down his face. As Pettigrew raised the stone cup to Harry's cheek, the wound began to burn like fire.
Harry moved his head, trying to prevent Pettigrew from gathering his blood in the cup. Pettigrew raised a knee, violently and quickly, and struck Harry in the groin. Harry's vision blurred, and he let out a cry of pain. Harry bent forward involuntarily, and was unable to move. Pettigrew calmly collected his blood in the cup, and added it to the potion.
The potion in the cauldron immediately stilled and became calm. The surface of the liquid began to harden, and the cauldron rose into the air. The shape of the cauldron began to flow, slowly changing from the shape of an open-topped pot to the shape of an enormous, pewter egg. The surface of the egg began to ooze green ichor, evacuating the contents of the cauldron. The liquid was foul smelling and viscous, and it fell to the carpet with a corrosive hiss.
The metal egg rattled. It shook. And with breathtaking suddenness, an arm burst through the metal shell. A second hand appeared, and together, they peeled away the pieces of the metal egg.
Lord Voldemort emerged. Red-eyed and bald, he resembled a snake, with thin lips, a shapeless lump of a nose with vertical nostrils, and a green tint to his pallid skin. The Dark Lord took a deep breath, reveling in his new body.
Pettigrew stepped forward and wrapped Voldemort in a black cloak. Voldemort held his open hand at his side, and Pettigrew placed both Voldemort's wand and Harry's wand in the Dark Lord's outstretched hand. Voldemort immediately tucked Harry's wand inside his cloak.
"Give me your arm," Voldemort said to Pettigrew.
"Thank you, master," said Pettigrew, holding out his stump.
"The other arm, you fool."
Pettigrew cringed, then extended his other arm. Voldemort pulled back Pettigrew sleeve, and Harry saw the Dark Mark on Pettigrew's arm. Voldemort jabbed at the Dark Mark with his wand; Pettigrew howled, and Harry felt an awful pain surge from the scar in his forehead.
"Come to me," Voldemort whispered. He released Pettigrew, practically throwing the smaller wizard away. Then Voldemort turned to Harry.
"Welcome home, Harry Potter. Did you recognize it?"
Harry said nothing.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Voldemort said, content to continue speaking. "I certainly recognized it. This room, a child's nursery, the scene of my greatest and only defeat. It has been branded in my mind for thirteen long years. But now…"
Harry heard a noise downstairs, a popping noise. He glanced down, through the hole, and saw a figure in a dark cloak move through the living room.
"Ah," Voldemort said. "My servants return. Go downstairs and fetch them, Wormtail."
"Yes, master," Pettigrew said. He lurched out of the nursery, toward the stairs, clutching his bleeding stump to his chest.
Harry heard another pop, and another, and suddenly the living room was filled with swishing black cloaks. Pettigrew called them upstairs and the figures filed into the room, one by one. Each wore a black cloak and a white skull mask, the uniform of the Death Eaters. They crowded into Harry's nursery, filling every space, until there was barely room to move about.
Voldemort launched into a speech, alternately praising and accusing the Death Eaters. The words had clearly been prepared—what else did Voldemort have to do while plotting his return? Despite his feelings of dread, Harry could not help analyzing not only what was being said, but also why it was being said. He had spent far too long in Slytherin to ignore the meanings behind Voldemort's words.
Voldemort was reasserting his power. His dominance. By instilling fear in the Death Eaters, he would rule them.
One Death Eater threw himself to Voldemort's feet, begging forgiveness for them all. Voldemort responded with a Cruciatus curse, lifting the Death Eater into the air and causing him to writhe in pain.
"I do not forgive," said Voldemort, releasing the curse. The Death Eater crawled to his former position and dragged himself to his feet. "I do not forget. But service to me is not without its rewards. Wormtail helped me return to my body, and for that, he will be rewarded."
Voldemort waved his wand and spoke an incantation. A silver mist formed in the air, and coalesced into the shape of a human hand. The hand raced through the air and affixed itself to Pettigrew's bleeding stump, the silver flowing upward and around his forearm and staunching the flow of blood.
Pettigrew clenched and unclenched the silver hand, marveling at his new appendage. "Thank you, master," he whispered.
Voldemort turned away. He walked from Death Eater to Death Eater, calling them by name. The first Death Eaters were Avery and Macnair—Avery was the Death Eater who had begged for mercy, and Macnair was apparently a ministry employee. Harry's heart was beginning to sink—the fact that Voldemort revealed so much meant that Voldemort did not intend for Harry to survive the night.
The next two Death Eaters caused Harry's stomach to lurch with surprise: Crabbe and Goyle, who assured the Dark Lord that they would serve him better than in the last war. The next Death Eater was obsequious, practically prostrating himself before Voldemort. Voldemort looked at him with contempt: "Get up, Nott. The same goes for you."
Nott. Crabbe. Goyle. The fathers of Harry's housemates. The fathers of his friends.
Then Voldemort began to muse aloud regarding the missing Death Eaters. The Lestranges, still locked in Azkaban. Three dead in his service.
"And four," Voldemort said. "Four who have not returned. Four who are at Hogwarts tonight. One is too cowardly to return, and he will pay for his crimes. The second, I fear, is lost to me forever. The third is my most faithful servant, who has already re-entered my service. And the fourth… the one who has committed the vilest of betrayals… he, too, will suffer."
As Voldemort finished speaking, Harry heard the telltale pop of apparition downstairs.
Voldemort smiled. "But hark. One of the lost sheep returns to the flock. Who has returned to ask his lord's forgiveness?"
Harry listened as footsteps moved through the living room and up the stairs. He felt cold and nauseating certainty that the latest arrival would be Snape, come to mock Harry for his arrogance, his laziness, his complacency. The footsteps grew nearer, and a masked and robed figure appeared at the doorway to the nursery. Upon seeing Voldemort, the man immediately dropped to one knee.
"My lord," he said.
Harry recognized him. There was no mistaking that hair, that voice. Harry felt the icy hand of betrayal wrap around his heart. It couldn't be… but it was.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a dangerous voice. "Rise, Lucius Malfoy. Rise, and explain why I should let you live."
"My lord, I returned immediately when called," Lucius said as he stood. His voice was even and smooth, full of composure even when faced with death. "It is impossible to-" There was a hitch in Lucius's voice. His eyes, as they glanced around the room, had finally fallen upon Harry. Lucius swallowed, looked away from Harry, and began again. "It is impossible disapparate from the grounds of Hogwarts, and it took some time to reach Hogsmeade-"
"But why were you at Hogwarts?" interrupted Voldemort. "What cause did you have to be at Dumbledore's stronghold?"
"The Tri-Wizard Tournament, my lord. A momentous occasion-"
"Momentous, indeed," said Voldemort, interrupting a second time. "The tournament has brought about my resurrection, through the diligent efforts of those loyal to me." Voldemort paused, and his eyes narrowed. "Does that include you, Lucius? Are you loyal to me?"
"Always, my lord," Lucius replied.
"Wormtail says that you have not renounced the old ways, even though you present a respectable face to the world. You incited a riot at the Quidditch World Cup, but you ran from the Dark Mark when my faithful servant raised it in the air."
"The time was not yet right, master."
"But it was," Voldemort said. "The first steps down the path to my resurrection had already been taken. And you fled."
"I am ashamed, my lord," Lucius said, casting his eyes down.
"As you should be. What have you done in thirteen years to aid your master? What have you done, other than increasing your own wealth and power?"
"I have done more than Bellatrix and Rudolphus Lestrange," Lucius said boldly. "Their time in Azkaban was wasted. My estates will provide the resources necessary to achieve your goals… our goals."
"Perhaps," Voldemort said. "But you have ignored the first order I gave you tonight. I ordered you: tell me why I should let you live. I remain unconvinced. Do you deny me yet again?"
"No, my lord. I have never denied you. Had there been any sign, any hint of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately!" But Harry knew this to be untrue. Lucius knew of at least one instance of Voldemort's attempted return—the diary—because Harry had told Lucius himself.
"But you have denied me," Voldemort said coldly. "You denied your lord, and instead clutched a scorpion to your breast. You were at Hogwarts tonight because of Harry Potter."
"My lord…"
Voldemort's wand was suddenly raised and pointed directly at Lucius's head. "Do you deny that your son has embraced Harry Potter as his friend?" Voldemort shouted. "Do you deny that Harry Potter has walked the grounds of Malfoy Manor, and slept under your roof? Do you deny that you have spoken on Potter's behalf at the ministry? That you have purchased him gifts?"
Lucius swallowed. His composure had finally cracked, as did his voice. "No, my lord. I do not deny it."
"THEN WHY DOES HARRY POTTER YET LIVE?" Voldemort was screaming, now. "Why did my 'faithful servant' stay his hand? Why did you not kill the very symbol of my defeat?"
Lucius sank to one knee and bowed his head. "It is true that my son befriended Harry Potter…"
"Then perhaps I should execute your son!"
"…but in my son's actions, I saw an opportunity! I took no action until the Potter boy was sorted into Slytherin, but once he was, I tried to raise Harry in the old ways, as I had raised Draco. I tried to show him the truth of blood purity. And I thought, my lord… what greater weapon against Dumbledore? Harry Potter alone is more beloved, more highly regarded, more well-known than Dumbledore."
"I have offered Harry Potter the chance to join me once before," Voldemort said. "He… declined."
"I was unaware," Lucius said, lowering his head further.
"It is of no matter," Voldemort said. "I have no further need for Harry Potter. Tonight, we Death Eaters will return to Hogwarts via portkey. My loyal servant awaits us. We will slaughter Dumbledore and his foolish supporters before he can reassemble his so-called 'Order of the Phoenix,' and none will oppose my reign." Voldemort paused. "Do you find this plan suitable, Lucius? Will you join me once again?"
"I will, master," Lucius said immediately.
"Very well." Voldemort turned to Harry and raised his wand. "Cruicio!"
Pain flared to life, igniting on every inch of Harry's body. It was pain unlike anything Harry had ever experienced, unimaginable and awful and… gone. Suddenly gone, as Voldemort lowered his wand. Harry gasped for breath. How? How was Voldemort's magic able to touch him?
And then, Harry knew. It was his blood. Harry was protected by blood wards. Now that Harry's blood was inside Voldemort, Voldemort himself was inside the wards.
Voldemort raised his wand again. "You have no further protection from me, Harry Potter. Your death is the last business that I shall conduct before I storm the halls of Hogwarts."
A voice spoke. Pettigrew's. "But… Master…"
"What do you want, Wormtail?" Voldemort snapped.
"Master… you promised to give me a new face…"
"A new face?" asked Voldemort contemptuously, turning back to the small man. "Am I not generous? I have given you a hand. I have replaced that which you gave in service of me. Is it not marvelous?"
"It is, it is," said Pettigrew. He was wringing his hands together.
"The creation of your hand was an unprecedented feat of magic. And yet you make further demands of me? Just as I have regained my powers, you wish to test their limits?"
"No, not at all, my lord," said Pettigrew. It was plain, now, that he was groveling.
Voldemort laughed. The rest of the Death Eaters began to join in, first slowly and quietly, and with greater vigor as Voldemort himself laughed louder.
"Wormtail, I said that I would give you a different face. Not a new face." Voldemort began to smile, drawing his lips back from his teeth. "Why don't you fetch the face of the boy downstairs? Slice it off and bring it back here. You can have his."
Pettigrew grinned and moved toward the door. When he was almost out of the room, Harry couldn't stand it any longer.
"NO!" The words burst out of Harry's mouth. "You can't! I won't let you!"
Voldemort turned slowly. "He can't? How, exactly, do you propose to stop him?"
Harry was breathing deeply, struggling to control his temper. The edge of his vision was going green. He wouldn't let them mutilate Cedric. There would be no more desecration. No more corruption.
"Give me my wand," Harry said fiercely. "I'll show you."
The Death Eaters began to laugh again. Voldemort cocked his head slightly to one side, as if he were actually considering Harry's offer. Then he, too, began to laugh.
"How delightfully brazen!" Voldemort waved his wand, and the chains binding Harry's arms fell away. With his other hand, Voldemort reached into his robes and removed Harry's wand. "Here it is, boy."
Harry crossed the room to Voldemort, ignoring the mocking gazes of the Death Eaters. Voldemort held out his left hand, atop which lay Harry's wand. Harry stopped in front of Voldemort and looked upward into his snakelike eyes.
Harry had a chance, right here, he realized. He could end it all. As soon as Harry grabbed his wand, he could blast Voldemort with a killing curse, directly in the chest. No room to dodge, no chance to miss. Of course, Voldemort would kill him, as well. And if Voldemort didn't, the Death Eaters certainly would. But Voldemort would be gone. Now was his chance. Now.
As Harry reached out, Voldemort raised his own wand and pointed it at Harry's heart.
"Take care," Voldemort hissed.
Harry hesitated. Naturally, Voldemort expected the ambush. Betrayal and trickery were Voldemort's stock in trade. And if Voldemort knew it was coming, there was no way for Harry to be quick enough to cast a curse—Harry would be dead before the words left his mouth. With a sinking heart, Harry abandoned his plan. He would have to settle for getting his wand back, and figuring the rest out as he went.
"Master?" said Pettigrew, still standing in the doorway. The rat-faced wizard was confused, looking back and forth between Harry and Voldemort. "What's happening?"
"You should prepare yourself, Wormtail" Voldemort said lightly. "I am curious to see how the Boy-Who-Lived plans to stop you."
Pettigrew, suddenly afraid, began to fumble in his robes, desperately grasping for his wand, but he was too clumsy and too slow.
Harry reached forward and took his wand from Voldemort. As soon as Harry's fingers wrapped around his wand, he slashed toward Pettigrew. Harry didn't even look—as he crossed the room, he had taken careful note of Pettigrew's position in the doorway.
"Diffindo!" Harry shouted.
Harry's aim was true. The bright light flew from Harry's wand and struck Pettigrew in the neck. For a moment, it appeared as though nothing had happened. Then, a thin, red line appeared, just below Pettigrew's chin. Pettigrew raised his left hand and grabbed at his neck as blood began to spurt from the wound, but he could not staunch the flow of blood. It moved over and around and through his fingers, pouring onto the carpet.
With his silver hand, Pettigrew was finally able to remove his wand from his robes. As he lifted his wand, Pettigrew's mouth opened and closed, attempting to produce sound. Harry wasn't sure what spell Pettigrew was attempting to cast. It might have been a healing charm, or it might have been a last, vengeful curse. It didn't matter. Harry wasn't going to allow it.
"Expelliarmus." Harry's spell struck Pettigrew in the chest. Pettigrew was thrown to the ground, and his wand was tossed into the air. Harry deftly caught the wand and immediately tucked it into his back pocket.
Harry took two steps forward and stood over Pettigrew. This was the moment that he had waited an entire year to see, ever since Pettigrew had been revealed in the Shrieking Shack. Peter Pettigrew, betrayer of James and Lily Potter, was wandless and dying at Harry's feet. Strangely, unexpectedly, Harry felt no joy. No happiness. Instead, a cold feeling spread through his heart.
Harry tried to tell himself that it was the feeling of satisfaction.
Pettigrew's mouth continued to move, as if he had some final message to give to Harry. A bubble of blood rose from the back of Pettigrew's throat to his lips, where it covered his mouth for a moment before bursting. Harry turned away in horror and disgust, and when he turned back, Peter Pettigrew was dead.
A/N: Getting close to the end, now! Sorry that I didn't get a chance to respond to reviews last week. I'll try not to make a habit of that.
Earlier this week, an anonymous review asked, "Anyone know more fics like this one?" It's one of the most flattering one-line anonymous reviews I could imagine. So, let's help this reviewer out: does anybody know any more fics like mine? I'm curious to know what, if anything, comes to mind.