Disclaimer: nothing in this story belongs to me, I make this for fun and make no money out of it.
The Return Of The Dark Lord
Framed by the moon's malevolent glow, Voldemort sneered as he regarded Pettigrew. "Your arm, Wormtail," he commanded, his voice a venomous whisper.
"Thank you, my Lord." Pettigrew bowed, offering his mutilated limb with a misplaced sense of pride. Voldemort's lip curled in disdain as he looked at the pitiful stump.
"Idiot," he hissed. "I meant your other arm."
Pettigrew's face fell, but without protest, he extended his remaining arm towards Voldemort. With a languid flick of his wrist, Voldemort seized Pettigrew's forearm, revealing the Dark Mark etched into his pallid skin.
"I wonder how many of my servants will answer the call tonight?" Voldemort mused aloud, his red eyes narrowing.
He touched the tip of his wand to the twisted tattoo, and it began to pulse with an inky blackness. Pettigrew's breath caught in his throat as pain lanced through him. His body trembled beneath the Dark Lord's grip, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"Such loyalty," Voldemort drawled, amusement tingeing his voice as he held Pettigrew's gaze. He continued to apply pressure with his wand, the darkness engulfing the mark completely. A whimper escaped Pettigrew's lips, and Voldemort finally released him.
With a gasp, Pettigrew crumpled to the ground, his body wracked with agony. He lay there, panting and shaking, as Voldemort examined his handiwork with cold satisfaction.
"Pathetic," Voldemort muttered, turning away from the grovelling figure at his feet.
The Riddle Cemetery enveloped itself in a heavy cloak of darkness, the oppressive air only punctuated by the sound of apparitions. One after another, figures emerged from the shadows, their black robes billowing like smoke. They were all hidden behind masks, but Harry knew them well. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Avery, and Nott.
"Ah, my faithful servants," Voldemort drawled, the corner of his lipless mouth curling in disdain. "I trust you've been keeping yourselves busy during my... absence?"
"Of course, my Lord," Lucius replied, his voice silkily smooth despite the tremor of fear Harry could detect. "We have been working tirelessly to further your cause."
"Working tirelessly? I think not," Voldemort sneered, his red eyes boring into each one of them. "While I was planning my return, you have done nothing but cower and pretend to remain loyal."
As the words dripped venomously from Voldemort's mouth, Harry's attention waned. He knew he had little time to devise a plan if he had any chance of escaping alive. His wrists chafed against the cold chains binding him to the tombstone, the iron biting into his flesh with every movement.
"Last time, he let me fight back," Harry thought, recalling their previous encounter. "But now, with these new circumstances, there may be no duel. No opportunity for a fair fight."
He strained his ears to catch the faintest sound, the subtlest shift in the environment that might offer an advantage. But the cemetery remained eerily silent, save for the Dark Lord's continued berating of his followers.
Harry's heart pounded, a drumbeat of urgency reverberating through his body. He knew that, with each passing second, the odds of survival dwindled. But Harry Potter was not one to cower in the face of danger. He had fought too hard, lost too much, to give up now.
Voldemort's laughter echoed through the cemetery like a twisted lullaby, sending shivers down Harry's spine. The Dark Lord's gaze locked onto him, as if sensing the boy's inner turmoil.
"Ah, Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed, his voice dripping with mockery. "You must be wondering why you didn't die all those years ago on that fateful Halloween night. I must admit, your mudblood mother was quite clever in her attempt to protect you."
Harry clenched his fists, fury boiling within him at the insult to his mother. He forced himself to remain calm, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breaths. Now was not the time for blind rage; he needed to keep his wits about him if he was to have any hope of defeating Voldemort.
"Her ancient ritual provided you with a temporary shield," Voldemort continued, strutting back and forth in front of his Death Eaters like a demented peacock. "But she failed to account for the true extent of my power. You see, one cannot simply kill a god."
His red eyes gleamed with arrogance, enjoying every second of his dramatic performance. The Death Eaters shifted uneasily behind their masks, their fear palpable even in the gloom of the cemetery.
"Your pathetic attempts to evade me have only served to delay the inevitable, Potter," Voldemort sneered, turning back to face Harry once more. "Tonight, I shall finally end this tiresome game we've been playing."
Harry urged himself to think, his mind racing faster than a Firebolt. He scanned the faces of the Death Eaters, searching for any hint of doubt or wavering loyalty. But their features remained carefully guarded behind their masks, revealing nothing.
"Time's running out," Harry knew, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. "I need to act now before he decides to finish me off."
Voldemort went on another tirade about his powers but Harry tuned out the Dark Lord, focusing on the pressing issue at hand. He needed a plan, and fast. As his eyes darted around the cemetery, it quickly became apparent that there were few places to hide. The tombs scattered about were the only cover he could potentially use, but even then, they offered little protection. Fighting out in the open seemed inevitable.
"Think, Harry," he urged himself, mentally calculating the odds. With six Death Eaters plus Voldemort, the numbers were stacked against him. Even if he managed to beat the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters would be upon him in an instant. On top of that, he needed to ensure that Voldemort couldn't escape in case the tide turned in Harry's favour.
A plan began to form in Harry's mind. It was risky, no doubt, but then again, when had he ever been one for careful planning? With renewed determination, he set about scratching runes into the surface of the stone tomb to which he was bound. The sharp edges of the stone bit into his flesh, drawing blood, but Harry barely noticed; the adrenaline coursing through him acted as an anaesthetic.
He traced the intricate lines of the runes, each etch a symbol of defiance against the Dark Lord and his minions. They weren't perfect, as his nails only provided him with rudimentary etching capabilities, but they should still work – or so he hoped.
Harry completed the final rune just as Voldemort turned his attention back to him. The tombstone now bore a series of small ancient symbols, their power yet to be unleashed. It would be a long shot, but then again, so was everything else in Harry's life.
"Very well, Potter," Voldemort announced, his voice ringing out across the cemetery. "Your pathetic charade ends here. Prepare to meet your doom!"
"Bit dramatic, don't you think?" Harry mumbled, feeling a familiar spark of defiance flared up within him. If he was going down, it wouldn't be without a fight.
The moonlit cemetery was eerily silent as Voldemort's laughter cut through the night, a harsh and grating sound that sent shivers down Harry's spine. The Death Eaters joined in, their forced mirth like the creaking of rusted hinges on an abandoned door.
"Potter," hissed Voldemort, raising his wand, red eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "Any last words?"
Instead of cowering or pleading for mercy, Harry laughed. It was a genuine laugh, bubbling up from the depths of his soul, surprising even himself. He couldn't help but find humour in the absurdity of it all. Here he was, chained to a tombstone, facing the most feared Dark Wizard in history – and he had a plan that hinged on ancient runes and sheer luck.
"Pray tell," Voldemort sneered, his annoyance palpable, "What is it you find so amusing?"
"Tom," Harry began with a smirk, relishing the flash of anger that crossed the Dark Lord's face at the use of his given name. "You go on and on about how superior you are, and yet... here you are, trying to kill me while I'm bound to a tomb. After all these years, you're still afraid to face me."
Voldemort's fury was unmistakable, but Harry kept his smirk, determined to provoke him further. As the wind whistled through the graveyard, stirring dead leaves and whispering around the headstones, Harry focused on the runes he'd etched into the tombstone. They lay dormant, waiting for the opportune moment to be activated.
"Silence!" Voldemort roared, the air crackling with dark energy. But Harry had said what needed to be said, and now he would wait for the Dark Lord's next move, ready to spring his trap when the time came.
"Lord Voldemort fears nothing," he hissed, his red eyes boring into Harry's green ones. "Certainly not a snivelling child like you."
"Really?" Harry said, his voice steady. "Because it seems to me that you're terrified of many things – for starters, a fifteen-year-old boy who's managed to give you quite a bit of trouble over the past few years." He risked a glance at the Death Eaters, and saw a flicker of doubt in their eyes. They shifted uneasily, and Harry knew his words were hitting their mark.
Voldemort's face contorted with rage, but before he could snap back another retort, Harry added, "You know, Tom, it's rather sad when you think about it. All this power you've amassed, and yet you're too scared to face me without my hands chained to a tomb."
"Enough!" Voldemort roared, his anger boiling over. "Wormtail! Release him!"
Pettigrew scurried forward and fumbled with the chains, releasing Harry from his confinement. As he fell, Harry swiftly traced his fingers over the runes he had etched into the stone, infusing them with magic. To all appearances, he landed awkwardly on the ground, eliciting laughter from Voldemort and the Death Eaters – a sound as cold and hollow as the wind sweeping through the graveyard.
"Look at him," sneered Voldemort, his voice dripping with scorn. "The great Harry Potter, barely able to stand. Pathetic."
As the echoes of Voldemort's laughter died away, he composed himself, his face settling into a cold and cruel expression. "Very well, Potter," he said silkily. "If your last wish is to witness the might of Lord Voldemort, then I shall graciously comply." The Dark Lord gestured imperiously at the Death Eaters, who reluctantly backed away, forming a ring around the two wizards.
Harry struggled to his feet, his muscles protesting with every movement. He had been through too much and would not crumble now. He stood tall, shoulders squared, staring unflinchingly into the red eyes that promised nothing but death and destruction.
"Since we are playing by the rules of a cordial duel," Voldemort drawled, "you should bow before me."
A smirk tugged at the corners of Harry's mouth. "I think I'll pass on that one, Tom. But you're welcome to bow to me if you like."
Voldemort's fury spiked at the insolent retort, and without warning, he pointed his wand at Harry, hissing, "Cruciatus!" A wave of pain washed over Harry, threatening to tear him apart. He gritted his teeth, fighting to stay upright, but ultimately he fell to his knees, gasping for air.
Voldemort's laughter rang cold and hollow as he watched Harry struggle to regain his footing. "That's better, Potter," he jeered, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Now you may rise and take your position."
Harry's eyes narrowed, and with a sardonic grin, he asked, "Am I allowed to use a wand, or would that make it too difficult for you?"
Voldemort's face contorted with hate, and he snarled at Pettigrew. "Give him his wand!"
Pettigrew scurried over, fear etched into every line of his face as he pulled Harry's wand from his pocket and offered it to him. Harry snatched it from Pettigrew's trembling hand, feeling the familiar weight of it grounding him in the moment.
As he took up his position, Harry scanned the surroundings, ensuring that each element of his plan was in place. The Death Eaters were rooted to their spots like grotesque statues, waiting for Voldemort's command. Harry's gaze flicked from them to the tomb where he'd been bound just moments before, calculating the distance and timing.
The night air was thick with tension, the smell of damp earth and decay hanging heavy around them. Harry focused on the rhythm of his breathing, steadying his nerves as the whispered words of his plan echoed through his mind like a mantra.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed as he noticed Harry's gaze flitting between him and the Death Eaters. "What's the matter, Potter?" he hissed, a cruel smile spreading across his snake-like face. "Are you afraid of my followers?"
Harry smirked, meeting Voldemort's red eyes with defiance. "Afraid? No, not really," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I just know that once you start losing, your lackeys will be more than eager to jump in and fight for you."
Voldemort's fury roared like wildfire, but he managed to choke it down. "You insolent little—" He paused, taking a deep breath before turning to address his Death Eaters. "None of you are to interfere."
The air grew thick with anticipation as Voldemort and Harry began to circle one another like predators assessing their prey. The storm of thoughts and plans raging in Harry's mind began to clear, replaced by the singular focus of the duel ahead. This was where he thrived, casting spells and reacting instinctively to each movement, each flicker of magic.
As they circled, Harry's heart pounded a fierce rhythm, adrenaline surging through his veins. This was it, the final encounter he'd been preparing for since the start of this bloody war. There would be no more discussions, no more plotting; only his spells against Voldemort's.
Voldemort's voice cut through the stillness of the cemetery, dripping with disdain. "Let's see if you can survive this time, Potter."
In that moment, Harry felt the weight of all the lives lost bearing down on him, fuelling his resolve.