Embracing His True Self
Chapter 3
It took only two weeks for the Dark Lord Voldemort to find the answers he was searching for. Which was amazing, all things considered, since he had so many plans in motion whilst recovering from the ritual. It was more so due to the fact he was working with only a few clues as to the answers he sought. Well, one clue, really. How did Harry Potter know what he'd said to his snake? There wasn't a single seer in the Potter lineage. Although, he had been surprised they shared a common ancestor, a Peverell, and naturally a Slytherin, which was where Potters Parseltongue skill came from. He'd gotten rid of his branch of the family, presuming there were no other branches left, which was, he realized, a mistake on his part.
Voldemort shook his head amazed, a common ancestor, he certainly hadn't expected that.
"Master's mail," Amita informed the Dark Lord, carrying it forward on a silver tray.
Voldemort wanted to groan, he had always detested groundwork that was mostly made up of paperwork. In the end he took the mail on the tray and she disappeared without needing prompting. Stretching out, groaning in satisfaction as the bones in his back eased at the single movement. Right away he recognized the handwriting, even after all these years. Fenrir still hadn't changed, he rarely put a quill to paper to write to anyone.
Fenrir was a friend of his whom he had taught non-verbal magic. If Voldemort knew how some of his Death Eaters treated the werewolf, they would have paid a very heavy price for it. Although that might have been something to do with his blind insanity getting to be too much for them. He had not been kind to anyone, and not even Fenrir was an exception to that. Voldemort had been unable to sleep, unable to eat, and the urge to kill the prophecy child had ruled out everything else. He knew his followers had lost a great deal of respect for him, due to his past actions. His fear of death had paralyzed him, causing a dark red cloud to form over him.
Setting the letters aside, his wand being nudged as he did so. He'd removed it from his sheath, and stared at it for at least twenty minutes. Potter had used the disarming spell, on him, Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard alive? There was no way the boy could have predicted the events that occurred next. The boy was an enigma, and a mass of contradictions, from what he knew of him. For the fiftieth time he couldn't help but regret the necessity for the death of such a capable wizard, it disgusted him to the core to see someone with so much potential wiped out. Magical blood shouldn't be spilled.
Back to his earlier dilemma, it was, ironically enough, the connection between him and Nagini that gave him his answer. Purely accidentally of course, he had slipped into Nagini's mind and watched her hissing about the prey she wanted to eat... well, it wasn't hissing to him, but rather English, with an underlying hissing. It had hit him then like a ton of bricks. He had somehow, someway, created a human Horcrux. Harry Potter was Lord Voldemort's Horcrux. He had meant to create one with the baby's death, but his magic, seeing his intentions, must have come apart as his body was destroyed... imbedding itself in the injured child. He was completely flummoxed; nowhere did it say humans could be turned into soul containers; his biggest worry was what did it mean? What did he do, more specifically? If he tried to kill Potter, he would destroy part of his soul as well. He had no idea of the effect it would cause; what if it left him completely insane? He had so many plans he wanted to implement; he wanted to change the magical world, to make it better, safer.
He shook off those thoughts, he needed confirmation before he panicked. There was no point in putting plans on top of plans until he knew for sure. Although, even as he said this, he knew that Harry Potter was his Horcrux.
Which would mean bringing Potter here. For confirmation. Considering the fact, he could slither out of trouble at every turn, he would have to make sure he couldn't get away. He wasn't sure what he would do if the boy was one of his Horcruxes. He would need to do more research, find out if it could be removed safely from its 'host' or container. He knew there wasn't, he had read the book he had from back to front, and he wasn't stupid enough to try something before understanding it completely. Perhaps a ritual of his own devising?
How did he get Potter from within the protective wards? He could not get near Privet Drive, nor could anyone that wished the boy harm. Not that he wanted to kill the boy…yet. Not until he had his answers, but the wards would still view him as a threat. Rubbing his long pale fingers across his chin, sitting comfortably on his chair, he began to think of ways to get his hands on Potter.
His red eyes flared as an idea hit him; a vindictive smirk flared across his face, which would have made all his Death Eaters cringe. Well, maybe with the exception of Bellatrix, who would have just cackled along with her 'Master' as she liked to call him. The others all called him 'My Lord'; as long as they had shown respect, he didn't mind. Lucius had been all too eager to spill everything, especially with the threat of being killed hanging over him.
The disgraced blonde had told him of Arthur Weasley successfully gaining entrance to his home to search for 'dark artefacts'. How he had worried about the diary being found in his possession; deciding to get back at Weasleys by planting a dark object in his daughter's school things. Of course, he hadn't understood what it would do, he explained while begging for forgiveness on his knees from his Lord. How his own House-Elf had betrayed him, warning Potter and inevitably being freed by the twelve-year-old. Oh, ho, Lucius hadn't wanted to reveal that, but Voldemort knew when information was being held back. A brief stint under the Cruciatus curse wiped any pride from the blond, and he revealed how Potter had done it, then what happened afterwards. A mere House-Elf had put Lucius Malfoy, a pureblood, on his arse ten feet down a corridor. He would love to have seen it, but he refrained from ransacking Lucius' mind.
"Amita!" Voldemort called, setting his face into an impassive mask. He would have to impress on her the importance of her task, if she could get passed the wards. So far, they were good at doing the tasks he appointed them; unfortunately, they hadn't served him long.
"Yes, sir?" responded the female House-Elf, who was dressed in a black, closed winter cloak, you could just make out the hem of a green skirt under it if you looked close enough.
"I have a very important task for you," Voldemort said, his red eyes gleaming, unable to help himself. Soon…. very soon he would find out if he was right or not. He knew he was; he wasn't the smartest wizard to grace Hogwarts' walls for nothing, beating most of Albus Dumbledore's scores in the process. Considering he'd known nothing about Hogwarts until he was eleven, and Dumbledore had been in the wizarding world his entire life... it had left him feeling smug, even if he hated the blasted manipulative, nosy old fool.
"What can Amita do?" she asked eagerly, proud to serve her Master in any way he needed.
"Go to number four Privet Drive, remaining unseen by all others in the house, and bring our new… guest to the dungeons. He will be the only magical wizard on the premises; bring me Harry Potter," Voldemort commanded, his voice becoming taut and even more demanding, if that was possible.
"Yes, sir," Amita said, not showing any reluctance; she lived to serve her Master and would do anything he asked.
The House-Elf Apparated directly into the smallest bedroom, finding herself staring directly into the vibrant, pained green eyes. With quick movements, she hooked her fingers into his clothes and teleported him away.
Harry lay on the bed in the smallest room in the house at number four Privet Drive. Multiple bruises were showing on his aching body; the pain was unbearable. His temple and the front of his head held the worst bruises; after he gotten him into the house, Vernon in his rage had pushed him. With the big man's brutal strength, he'd gone flying into the banister and then onto the stairs. No Quidditch reflexes could have prevented the attack, couldn't have stopped him being so viciously manhandled. It didn't help that Harry was still weakened from after the tournament; the Cruciatus Curse's after-effects didn't just fade away overnight. He had been so disorientated he hadn't felt the kicks he'd gotten to the stomach, he only deduced what happened later when he woke up and found himself in his room. Vernon and Dudley were as vicious as ever, after all, Harry only had to be able to write to them. The 'freaks' never came near the door; the bitterness that crawled through Harry since he knew the fat bastard was right left him feeling sick.
Other than coming into the small room to force him to write to the Order that everything was alright, he was pretty much left on his own, still locked up. Which didn't bother Harry for anything else. He did everything the Dursley's could think of inside the house, they never let him out. He never thought he'd be happy for the pain and distraction his chores offered him. Yet he was. There hadn't been a single owl delivering anything.
He hadn't received a single letter from his friends, and he seriously doubted it was anything Dobby was doing this time. They had been distant with him ever since the night before they left Hogwarts, starting directly after they had come from the headmaster's office. They were leaving him alone, unaware of what was happening in his world, totally cut off. The rage he felt when he thought about it left him panting in rage. He wasn't sure who he was angrier at, Ron and Hermione for going through with it, or Dumbledore for telling them not to write to him. Not even his own godfather had written to him. His godfather. Swallowing back the bitterness and tears, he closed his eyes sighing resignedly, from where he was on his bed. Touching the wound on his face delicately, it was finally beginning to scab over.
Had the Ministry acknowledged Voldemort being back? He somehow doubted it, and that probably made Voldemort happy. How had Voldemort survived that night? Did the reflected Killing curse not have enough power to kill him? And more importantly, why the hell did Voldemort want to kill him? He was fourteen-years-old…had been only one when the older wizard first came to kill him. It couldn't be just because he survived, surely; he'd wanted his blood for a reason. It wasn't just because of his mother's blood protection; there were millions of ways to kill someone in the magical world. He could have used anyone's blood, come back and laid low, without anyone being the wiser, and killed him without him any trouble. After all, he wouldn't have known; how could he have defended himself from something he didn't know was there?
No, there had to be reason; Dumbledore and Voldemort both knew that reason, and it disconcerted him. After all, one was trying to run his life, while the other wanted to make sure he didn't live to see his next birthday. He was completely at their mercy, until he was old enough to pass his owls and officially be an adult. That day couldn't come soon enough; he didn't care what Dumbledore said, as soon as he hit seventeen, he was out of here. Although he could get a house of his own at sixteen in the Muggle world it likely didn't count. The second he could, he really would be out here, maybe go to Australia or New Zealand maybe Egypt.
Harry continued to stare at the yellow ceiling imagining what it would be like to travel the world. To be free of the responsibilities, to do whatever he wanted. Without Dumbledore or the Dursley's telling him what to do. To publish his works and make more money for himself than he could possibly spend. It's likely the money he had wouldn't last long after he bought a house somewhere.
His imagination couldn't stop the growling his stomach was doing, it even cramped occasionally, but Harry was used to this. His entire life he had gone without much food. The summers nowadays were the worst, since he was used to getting meals at Hogwarts. At least on his birthday he got some food from Mrs. Weasley; her care packages at birthdays and Christmases always had food in them. They saved him from imminent starvation.
He startled when a House-Elf he had never seen before popped into his room. It would have been hard not to hear it arrive, since it sounded almost like Apparition, but without the more backfiring-car sound. There was a reason it was called 'popping' instead of Apparating, it sounded as if your ears had popped really loudly. Before he could open his mouth to ask who he or she was, she'd hooked her hand on his too large jumper and they disappeared.
Harry grunted when he landed on his backside, his green eyes wide as he looked around his new surroundings. Swallowing thickly, he realised that he was in a cell. Whatever would happen soon, wouldn't be good― he knew that. The question was where exactly was he? Malfoy Manor? Draco Malfoy had gone on about it often enough, or rather bragged about his home. As if nobody else had Manors in the magical world; seriously, he was an idiot. He got up to explore the confines of his latest prison better. Three stone walls and one cage wall with a door, locked, he realized as he pushed against it for confirmation. Surprisingly there was a bed at the side, a small one to be sure and a toilet. Harry screwed up his nose, the thought of doing the toilet in that was humiliating. There was a window ―barred, of course― above the toilet; he could open it if he wanted to, he realized as he climbed up to investigate it. He did so. leaving it open partially, and walked back to the other side of the cell.
The small movements had exhausted him tremendously, but he refused to lie down, even if the bed was calling for him. Craning his neck to see down the corridor, he found he couldn't do that and keep his glasses on. There certainly wasn't any point to doing it with them off, since he couldn't see squat without his glasses. They might not be the right prescription for him, but it was better than not being able to see at all, so he didn't complain. Nobody cared enough to do anything about, so why waste his breath? Listening intently at the bars, he heard nothing; where had that House-Elf dumped him? Sighing in agitation he stalked up and down the cell, worry churning in his gut. It didn't escape his notice that the damn cell was bigger than his bedroom at Privet Drive - irony abounds, he thought chuckling bitterly. Inhaling sharply, wincing at the pain in his head, ow, it was very painful, throbbing, it had healed moderately, so this spoke of an infection. This wasn't good, he tried to keep it clean, but stuck in his bedroom…didn't provide a lot of ways to do so.
Dumbledore obviously hadn't thought about House-Elves kidnapping him from Privet Drive. Which should have dawned on him, really, since Dobby had been in his house, even performed magic there. A frown worked its way onto his face; had the House-Elf Apparating into Privet Drive tripped the underage wards? No, it couldn't have, otherwise the Ministry would have been alerted the second Dobby appeared, but nothing had happened until Dobby had actually levitated the cake onto the Masons.
Would the Order know of his disappearance? Or would they only realize once he failed to write them? Three days then, before they would know he was gone. That was if they even bothered to check up on him; they were probably too busy doing stuff to try and stop Voldemort... he assumed so anyway, he wasn't sure. He knew nothing of what was going on, since his friends hadn't written to him yet and probably had no intentions of doing so either.
Exhaustion made Harry sit down on the bed. The pain from his ribs was almost making him double over. Hoisting himself further onto the bed, he leaned against the wall, ignoring the grumbling complaints that his stomach made for food. Well, at least he was looking at four different walls here; Hedwig had been out, so she wasn't stuck in her cage. He didn't want to imagine what his uncle would have done to her if she'd hooted at all hours to be let out. He hoped she had the sense to stay away.
Inhaling sharply, choking as he realized exactly what was happening, his scar began prickling ominously. Oddly, it wasn't the same burning agony he'd experienced weeks ago at Voldemort's rebirth. Rather, it was the same prickly feeling he'd had when he was eleven and had met Quirrell's eyes at Hogwarts after the Sorting ceremony before it begun burning.
Voldemort was here, and without his wand ― Harry knew he was a sitting duck. It seemed at long last as if his stubborn luck had run out. Harry's heart pounded steadily harder with each step he heard Voldemort taking; surprisingly, the scar didn't flare up again, other than continuing with the earlier prickling. It was as if it was just letting him know Voldemort was close now. Not that it would matter, surely, he wouldn't survive another Killing Curse?
"It looks like I'm not the only one you piss off, Potter," Voldemort said, gazing at the teenager who was so beaten and bruised. He was slightly surprised; after all, the Order kept an eye on the boy, surely, they wouldn't allow him to come to harm? Evidently that wasn't the case, and it was obviously Muggles that had done it― no wizard would bother using their hands in such an insipid display.
"Miss me?" Harry grinned cockily, quite successfully changing the subject and avoiding it. His grin was slightly lopsided from the swollen red sore on his mouth, courtesy of a punch by his uncle earlier that week.
"For a boy who could be killed any second, you are either stupid or think too highly of yourself," Voldemort hissed, glaring at the boy in warning through blood red eyes. Potter didn't need to know that, as of right now, he had no intentions of killing him.
"Might as well go out with a bang, don't you think?" sneered Harry, watching Voldemort like he was a poisonous snake ready to strike... a fair comparison right now, especially considering he looked like one.
Quicker than lightening, Voldemort had his wand pointed at the teenager and uttered "Petrificus Totalus!" and Harry, hindered by his injuries, couldn't move out of the spell's path in time. The red spell hit him full force, petrifying him and leaving him at the mercy of Lord Voldemort ― knowing what was going on around him, but not able to move or defend himself.
Voldemort unlocked the cell door and approached the teenager, irritated that he had the boy at his mercy and couldn't kill him. He was so irritating, and damn it, he wasn't used to people talking to him that way. He was the most powerful wizard in the world and he deserved respect. Every other teenager would wet themselves if they found out they were standing before Lord Voldemort! With the exception of this one, it seemed; he was too damn mouthy for words.
Staring into the blazing green eyes, he began to realize this boy didn't fear death. Harry was the exact opposite of himself; he feared death more than anything else. Perhaps that was why the boy had been destined to defeat him, not something he could do if he was one of his Horcruxes. He would need to keep the boy safe, out of harm's way. One piece of his soul had already been destroyed; he couldn't risk any others. If he was one, which the older wizard was about to find out for sure.
"Praecantatio summa subrigo sanctificavi te exhibeas nobis!" chanted Voldemort, keeping his hissing to a minimum, not wanting to interfere with the spell he was casting on Potter. Almost immediately after he finished, he saw a halo representing Potter's magical core; even just at the age of fourteen the boy was powerful. He'd known that, but to see it for himself…to know Potter was equal to him in magical strength burned him strongly. Then another halo emerged, just as strong but definitely not showing Potter's magical signature… no, it was one very familiar to him, since it was his own.
Such results were never immediate, unless this spell had been cast on him once before. Which meant someone had cast this on Potter in the past, which could mean someone might know he was already a Horcrux, unless they assumed he'd just gotten some of his magic. He could only think of one person who would want to do it: Dumbledore. Which meant it was bad news for him; the diary and now this…His Horcruxes were in danger; he had to move some of them or risk losing them. That was not something he wanted to allow; he had no idea what would happen to him if his remaining Horcruxes began to be destroyed.
Staring at the boy, Voldemort found himself almost wishing he could just end the boy's life while he was defenceless. This chance wouldn't ever come again; no, the boy was as sneaky as they came. He would try and get away, and there was only so much he could do to prevent it. Perhaps it was time to find out everything about Potter that he could, even the rumours, and build upon it. Try and get the boy to join his side. It wouldn't be easy, after all he had killed the boy's parents. The chances were slim to none but he had to try, the boy was too slippery. Cursing under his breath, Voldemort turned and stalked away from the boy, slamming the cell door closed and locking it with three different charms. Purely as an afterthought he flicked his wand at the boy and left, non-verbally casting 'Finite Incantatem' at him.
Harry jumped from the bed so fast it almost left him light-headed and staggered from the pain. Confusion the most prominent feeling in him right now; why hadn't Voldemort killed him? He'd lain there, unable to move, completely defenceless, and he hadn't killed him? Harry shivered with foreboding, feeling as though something was crawling up his spine. What the hell did Voldemort want from him if he wasn't going to kill him? Was he just playing a game? But why? What would he get out of it? Or was he simply waiting for his Death Eaters to get here and 'duel' with him again. If that was the case, it would be a pretty quick duel since he didn't have a wand on him.
What had the dark wizard done to him? He'd seen the halos surrounding him; he'd never heard of that spell before. In fact, he couldn't even remember half of what Voldemort had said. Biting his lip, he winced as he caught the sore spot; pressing his fingers to it he realized he'd caused it to bleed again. Wiping the blood down his clothes, he saw he had on Mrs. Weasley's red jumper, which was the warmest thing he had. His trousers were far too big though, since they were his cousin's cast- offs. What if that spell had affected his magic? Cursing quietly, he wished he knew what Voldemort had done, although it was obvious, he wouldn't find out any time soon.
Sighing softly, he climbed back onto the bed, feeling very lost; it made him feel vulnerable, and he did not like that. Voldemort had always been predictable, and the fact he wasn't able to predict his actions now left him highly agitated. He should just be glad the wizard hadn't tortured him really… but he felt wrong-footed. Looking at the window he observed that it was still light outside, but he couldn't tell how early or late it was. Was this going to be his last day? Would he soon be killed by Voldemort?
Bunching up the pillow he lay himself down, staring at the ceiling like he would do at Privet Drive. He might as well rest his aching body as much as he could; no doubt someone would be down to torture him sooner or later. The fact that it hadn't happened yet was beside the point, this was Voldemort he was talking about. He pressed his hand carefully to his ribs, knowing that despite the fact nothing was broken it would take weeks to heal them properly. He hated it, it was hindering his movement, and Voldemort wouldn't have been able to hit him with the first spell if he hadn't been injured.
Jerking out of his stupor, Harry looked around, quickly noticing the House-Elf in his cell, a different one who definitely hadn't brought him here. He then saw the tray of food and he laughed, and laughed, and continued to laugh even after the House-Elf squeaked and disappeared. The amusement didn't fade as he lay wheezing on the bed, trying to regain control of his equilibrium. His face was red as he tried to breathe through the pain in his ribs, until he lay there panting in exhaustion. Gulping nosily, he finally began breathing evenly; at last, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Staring at the food, his stomach grumbled nosily as he shook his head.
His own relatives refused to feed him, yet here he was, a captive of Lord Voldemort's, and he was getting food? Poison wasn't Voldemort's style; if anything, the man wanted to be the one to kill him personally. Although there might be something more nefarious in the food; did he dare touch it? Taking a deep breath, Harry turned to the little window and noticed that darkness was beginning to creep up. It was nowhere near black outside yet, but he'd guess it was around six, maybe seven o'clock at night right now.
His gaze couldn't help but wander back to the tray of food, which was still piping hot, if the steam coming off it in waves was anything to go by. It had been over two weeks since he'd had anything substantial to eat, just the occasional cold tin of soup being pushed through the flap, a lot of which he gave to Hedwig to keep her fit and strong. He would have never forgiven himself if anything happened to his familiar, his most faithful companion. It was little wonder his stomach felt like it was trying to rip itself out of his body to get to the food on the floor.
Cautiously Harry slid off the bed, and eased over to the tray, touching it tentatively as if he suspected it would vanish as soon as he touched it. When nothing happened, he slowly picked it up, grunting as he did; would his ribs just hurry up and heal already? Sitting down in the middle of the bed, he placed the tray at the bottom. Sweet and sour chicken on a bed of rice, a goblet of juice, and what he suspected to be Jam Roly-Poly in custard. Suspected only, since he'd never been allowed it, but he'd watched his cousin pig out on an entire trayful in one sitting.
Harry prodded at the food with the plastic fork provided; what, did they think he was going to hurt himself? Or use it as a weapon? Well…the second one would have been a good idea. Harry picked up a bit of chicken and nibbled it slightly, before placing the rest back on the plate and tensing as if he suspected he would be in a world of pain. Yet nothing happened, if anything his stomach grumbled more fiercely at having the smell of food so close, yet nothing in it. Obviously, it wasn't poisoned or drugged; he was still hesitant about eating it though, and why would Voldemort feed him? Unless he wanted him in perfect health when he killed him? That actually made an alarming amount of sense.
He was completely ravenous. Picking up the goblet he took a sip, wetting his parched mouth at the same time waiting to see if anything happened. It didn't taste like it had anything in it, and the only tasteless and odourless potion he knew of was Veritaserum.
Throwing caution to the wind, he decided to eat the food; he hadn't even eaten half of it when his stomach began to cramp violently. He was still starving, yet his stomach was protesting the influx of so much food. Harry didn't stop eating, he'd put up with a grumbling stomach and sore ribs for ages, so he could handle a cramping stomach. It was always the same as every time he went back to Hogwarts after being deprived of proper food for near enough during the summer.
Looking down he could have sworn his stomach looked bloated from the amount of food he'd eaten. Guzzling down the last of the juice, he watched the goblet filling back up in amusement. He left the dessert, at least for the moment, giving his body time to adjust to the large amount of food it had just ingested. The urge to eat the dessert was strong…uncommonly strong. He knew his own limits, but for some reason that was being overridden with the need to eat the sweet treat.
Picking up the plastic spoon, he dug into the dessert. "Ah, shit!" cursed Harry, his voice slightly slurred as the spoon fell with a thud into the nearly empty bowl. He had been drugged after all, not poisoned; no, this was a sleeping potion if he had to guess…it certainly acted like the one he'd been given in the hospital wing at the end of the year. This was his last thought before he fell into the arms of Morpheus, not even able to get worked up or worried.
A sadistic smirk stole across the Dark Lord's features; if anyone had seen it, they surely would have been running for the hills. The old book he had on his desk was laying there innocently enough, but the words on the page were way less than innocent. They were not meant for pure intentions, at least they hadn't been created for that. No, they had been created by a Roman leader, who happened to be a wizard of course, wanting to keep track of his people within his estate. Of course, he wouldn't put half of what Claudius had put into them.
"Armillam!" Voldemort murmured under his breath, flicking his wand in the movements dictated by the book. He watched as pure magic created a strap of what appeared to be bendable plastic, but he knew it would attach itself like a second skin. Un-removable and impenetrable, nothing would remove it, not even all the Wandless magic in the world. He smirked at the colour it had chosen to come out: green and silver, Slytherin colours. He wondered what Potter would think of that.
"Confidunt in vicibus suis," Voldemort chanted, watching as it glowed gold before settling once more. "Limes motus!" Again, it glowed gold. "Sensus," he added for the final time, gazing in satisfaction at his finished masterpiece. Once it attached itself there would be no removing it... well, not unless he did, which he wouldn't.
Looking at the time, he realized he had spent longer than he'd thought on it. He had other things to do tonight. Damn it, why did Potter have to be his Horcrux? Why did fate like screwing with him? Anyone else would have been preferable; Potter should be happy at least ― it had saved him from death. Now all he had to do was attach it to Potter's leg and it would be done.
As soon as he'd finished his dinner and taken his potions, which invigorated him and enabled him to be able do what he needed to without getting exhausted. He felt infuriated with his constant need to rest; he just wanted to get back to normal as soon as possible. Unfortunately, that was going to take a while, his new body was… fragile, but at least he had a body and hands, and the ability to move and eat by himself. It still horrified him that he'd had to rely on Wormtail for help, when he could sense in his mind that all the rat had wanted to do was run. Part of him would have liked nothing more than to kill the rat; he was useless, but regretfully he couldn't do such a thing without cause.
No, he had someone in mind just perfect for his little trip. A vicious grin spread across his face; there was nobody more deserving, he thought, striding though to the main room, which housed his throne and where his Death Eaters would stand when the time came to call them all once more.
"WORMTAIL!" Voldemort hissed, causing Peter to jump high in the air at the unexpected summoning.
"Yes, Master?" snivelled the wizard, cowering before Lord Voldemort, clearly terrified of him.
"Bring Crouch here immediately," Voldemort demanded, his red eyes flashing at the sight of the disgusting wizard. The rat would know which Crouch he was talking about, since Barty was already here. The House-Elves would ensure that Potter wasn't disturbed by either of his Death Eaters. He didn't trust Pettigrew not to harm his Horcrux, or Barty, come to that, but the time would come where he would need to tell them all that Potter was off-limits. They would listen to his House-Elves as if they were him; he knew that because Wormtail and Barty both knew the House-Elves couldn't lie about orders they had been given.
"Yes, Master," Pettigrew agreed, leaving immediately.
Voldemort waited impatiently for Pettigrew to return with the older wizard. Barty had wanted to kill him, but he had demanded otherwise. There was no telling when he might be useful, and here he was, being just that. At least being transfigured into something else meant Crouch Senior couldn't get to anyone and blow his plans. Which he had nearly done, time and time again, as he adapted to the Imperius Curse, fighting it off. Just like his son had, admittedly a lot later than Crouch Senior had, but Senior had been in much better health than his son who had been debilitated by his stay in Azkaban.
A few moments later Pettigrew returned with the 'bone' which he placed on the floor and backed away from shakily. Lazily putting his wand hand out, Voldemort summoned the 'bone', having no intention of turning him back until he needed him. After all, only one person would be able to get across in the boat.
"Remain here," Voldemort hissed, glaring at the wizard and daring him to defy him, before Apparating away to the cliff beside Crystal Cave. This was a place he had come during his bleak childhood. A feral smirk appeared on his face when he remembered the looks on the idiot Muggles' faces when he Apparated them here. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, fifthly Muggles who had dared to call him a freak; after that trip…needless to say, they hadn't once spoken or looked at him cross-eyed again. Even now, fifty years later, it caused him immense satisfaction knowing he had put them in their true place.
Jumping from the cliff, he didn't do as everyone else would have and fall into the water; instead, Lord Voldemort flew across the water and landed gracefully at the cave entrance. He didn't waste a second before going inside the outer, obvious cave and over to the 'hidden entrance', then piercing his thumb with a needle he had brought for just this occasion. One drop of his blood fell against the rocks, causing the entrance to give way.
Wandering over to the edge of an underground lake, his hand blindly sought something. Once he had a grip on it, he began to pull on the chain, which shortly afterwards became visible. Magic did the rest as it began to pull the boat towards him; once it had 'docked', so to speak, he stepped down into it, and began his journey to the tiny island that sat out in the middle of the hidden lake. Unlike any other who might have travelled along here, he did not fear the Inferi within the depths of the dark water, since he had created them. Once he was beside the podium which stood on the islet, and the font that contained his Horcrux, he returned Bartemius Crouch Senior to his normal self. Thankfully the man was still alive, but not for much longer; Barty would be disappointed not to see his father's death. Voldemort wasted no time before casting the Imperius Curse on the weakened wizard, to make sure he didn't receive any unsavoury surprises.
Flicking his wand, Voldemort conjured a goblet out of thin air, then he began to dunk it into the potion in the font and feed it to the willing wizard. Well, in this state he was willing; with the Imperious curse on him he was guzzling it down greedily, not feeling any of the potion's effects. He wouldn't remain that way for long. Goblet after goblet of the poisonous potion was poured down Bartemius' throat until at long last Voldemort was able to retrieve his Horcrux from within the font's bowl, placing it safely within his cloak pocket. Removing the Imperius curse from his victim, Voldemort watched with great amusement as the wizard began to show the effects the potion had on him. Moaning in agony, he began screaming and pleading that he shouldn't have done it, wheezing and grasping at his throat as he became increasingly thirsty. The driving need for water caused him to dive into the only available source, the lake; hands immediately began to drag the wizard under. Crouch's wild scrambling for the side of the islet was for naught as the Inferi had too good a grip on him, and he was soon submerged under the sea of water, never to return. Bartemius Crouch Senior was now one of the un-dead, an Inferi; unbeknown to Voldemort or even the currently dying Bartemius, Regulus Black had fallen prey to the lake's dwellers as well.
The goblet was dropped with a clang as Voldemort calmly began to make his way out of the cave. A short boat ride later had him at the entrance, and then he was flying over the intervening sea, since he had placed wards to prevent Apparition from the cave's immediate vicinity. Once he was at the cliff top, he Apparated back to his Manor. He would need to retrieve all of his Horcruxes; he didn't want them out of his sight. He couldn't risk it, if there was even the possibility of Dumbledore knowing about their existence.
A frown worked its way onto his face. There was something missing, he couldn't feel his Horcrux or even his magical signature on the locket. Baffled, he opened it before really thinking and his red eyes widened in shock at the parchment embedded within. Hissing in fury, he opened up the parchment, a scream of rage tore out of him. He had been betrayed! Regulus Black had better be glad he was dead! His wand in hand, he began to blast everything around him to smithereens, unable to contain the lava-like fury bubbling inside of him. The urge to kill and curse everyone within striking distance of him was strong. Where was his Horcrux? Who had it? Who had Regulus Black told?
Terrified, he hastened to the Gaunt residence to check up on another of his Horcruxes.
Here we are another chapter, you'll notice more deviations as I continue in fact, there's already been one :) I've used Corvus for the Lestrange father (Lord Lestrange) like in The Contract :) so I won't forget plus they did like using that name. It's so much better than the horrific one I actually used *facepalm* at least there will be zero confusion ;) R&R please
