This is a short horror story that popped into my head after mis-remembering part of Snape's explanation on lycanthropy in the third movie. I could have sworn he mentioned blood transfusions, but when I finally went back and rewatched the scene, I realised I must have made that bit up in a moment of whimsy. Luckily, this story still worked after a bit of tweaking, so please enjoy a short tale of murder, werewolves eating people, and a Harry who left his sanity buried somewhere in his aunt's flower garden.
"Flesh of the servant, w-willingly given, you will revive your master."
Harry's head snapped up, his nostrils flaring as a scream pierced the night, followed by the maddening tang of fresh blood. Wormtail was hunched beside the massive stone cauldron in the centre of the graveyard, fumbling for something on the ground at his feet.
Harry watched as the man picked up his own left hand, severed just below the wrist, and dropped it into the cauldron.
He ran his tongue over his tattered lips as the surface of the potion turned a violent, luminous red. Its glow washed over the manicured lawn, puddling on the polished faces of the tombstones and throwing into sharp relief each strand of the half-gnawed rope running over his right shoulder.
Wormtail steadied himself against the rim of the cauldron, the stump of his left wrist tucked tight against his chest. Then, with a moan of agony, he turned and staggered towards Harry. He'd done nothing to staunch the bleeding and the front of his robes hung heavy, glistening wetly in the unnatural light. He clutched a butcher's knife in his right hand, the blade stained dark with blood.
"Blood of the enemy," Wormtail wheezed, his watery eyes refusing to meet Harry's gaze. "Forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."
Harry bared his teeth and ducked his head to protect his neck, but Wormtail didn't slash his throat. Instead, he sliced open Harry's left sleeve, pushing the fabric aside awkwardly with the flat of the blade, before pressing the tip against the crook of Harry's arm. Wormtail hesitated a moment, the tip of the blade trembling.
Harry held himself utterly still, cold fury coursing through his veins as he waited for the man to regain his nerve. It didn't take long. Wormtail drew in a shuddering breath and jerked his hand down.
Harry grunted as the knife sunk into his flesh.
"You're dead, rat," he growled as Wormtail, still panting with pain, dropped the knife and fumbled in his pocket for a glass phial. While the man was distracted, Harry twisted his shoulders, his muscles bunching as he tilted his left arm up, craned his neck and, his chest thrumming with vindictive defiance, spat on his wound.
Wormtail's head jerked up as Harry spat a second time. He looked between the phial and the bloody gash on Harry's arm, blinking uncertainly, then shook his head. He pressed the phial against the wound until it was half-full of blood, then turned away and stumbled back to the cauldron.
Left alone once more, Harry turned his attention back to the rope. He bit and tore at it with his teeth, ignoring how the coarse fibres scratched his gums raw. One by one, the strands gave way until, with a mighty heave of his shoulders, the rope snapped and slid limply from his body, its binding spell severed. At the same moment, a monstrous figure rose from the cauldron with a spine-chilling wail.
Wormtail looked up, horrified.
The twisted, hairless creature hunched amidst the belching steam could hardly be considered human. A long forked tongue lolled between its misshapen jaws, which jutted from its skull like the muzzle of a cat. Each vertebra of its curved spine was visible through its pale skin, and its hips, just visible above the surface of the potion, canted forward at an unnatural angle. The hands that rested on the cauldron's rim had short, stubby fingers tipped with claws.
"Wormtail," the creature gurgled, its red eyes burning with a mixture of pain and fury. "What have you done?"
Wormtail's legs collapsed as he pushed himself away from the cauldron and its horrifying contents. "M-master– I…"
Laughter welled in Harry's chest. It burst from his lips, high and frantic, until he was bent in two. The dark lord raised his head, red eyes blazing at the mockery, but Harry didn't care.
"Poor Voldemort," he said between gasps. "You have so many enemies, but you just had to choose me." He straightened and stepped forward. "Seeing you like this makes everything that happened to me this past year worth it."
Harry paused beside Wormtail. Before the man could react, he pounced on him, locking his arms around his head and twisting sharply. Wormtail's neck snapped with acrackand the arm he'd raised to defend himself fell limp at his side. Harry fisted Wormtail's hair and jerked his head back, watching his eyes tremble, then fall still. Satisfied the rat was dead, Harry dropped him like an old rag.
"You–!" the dark lord rasped.
Harry sneered at him. "Surprised? I've wanted to wring that rat's neck since I learned he sold us out… to you."
Voldemort stepped back, the stone cauldron wobbling as he bumped against the rim. His eyes darted from Wormtail's body to a neat pile of robes at the base of a nearby headstone, then he threw himself out of the cauldron, reaching for the robes – and the wand no doubt hidden inside them.
Harry exploded into motion. His foot caught Voldemort in the chest before the dark lord had even hit the ground, sending him tumbling off course. Voldemort was dazed for only a moment before he scrambled onto all fours and lunged back towards his wand.
Low laughter rumbled in Harry's chest as he kicked Voldemort's arm out from under him and pressed a foot to his back, forcing the dark lord down on his belly. Voldemort struggled, spitting and scrabbling at Harry's legs, but his nails slid off the enchanted leather greaves of Harry's Triwizard uniform without leaving a scratch.
"What a state you're in," Harry said. He looked the dark lord's body up and down before grinding his heel into Voldemort's chalk white skin. "I thought I'd need to wait until moonrise, but you aren't really human anymore, are you?" He tilted his head, lips pulling into a cruel smile. "You know, I should probably thank you. I didn't expect the third task to take place in the evening and was in something of a bind. Being whisked off school grounds solved that problem nicely."
Voldemort collapsed, his chest heaving in exhaustion. "Who are you?" he snarled, twisting his head to stare up at Harry. "What did you do with Potter?"
Harry laughed. "I'm not an imposter, if that's what you mean. A lot can change in three years." His face suddenly darkened, and he looked up at the horizon, where the last rays of dusk were slowly fading from the sky. "I'm no longer the scared little boy you confronted next to the Mirror or Erised." He removed his foot from Voldemort's back and kicked him hard, flipping him over. Voldemort wheezed as the air was driven from his lungs and tried to roll onto his side, but Harry's boot slammed against his chest, pinning him in place once more.
Voldemort flailed his oddly jointed legs, kicking up dirt and clumps of grass as he struggled to pull free, his sharp nails reaching up to claw at the skin above Harry's greaves.
Harry swatted the dark lord's arms away. "You'll find out who I am soon enough," he said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his bent knee. "But I suppose there's no harm in talking a bit first."
Voldemort gasped as Harry's full weight shifted onto his chest. His hands dropped to Harry's ankle, wrapping around the sturdy leather and straining upward in a desperate attempt to ease the pressure on his lungs.
"Did Wormtail ever tell you about the night he fled Hogwarts?"
Voldemort's hazy blank stare was all the answer he needed.
"No? Well, about this time last year, I was out in the Forbidden Forest… with a werewolf."
Voldemort's hands trembled. "No… That can't be… I've heard nothing of you…"
Harry's tongue darted across the corner of his lips as the dark lord's pupils dilated, fear swallowing their eerie red glow in a sea of black. He began unlacing his robes, shucking the outer layer and tossing it over the gently curved wings of a marble angel perched on a nearby tombstone, her hands pressed together in prayer. His gauntlets joined the robe shortly after, followed by his belt, tunic, and undershirt.
The faint light of the stars traced his skin in silver, illuminating the dips and grooves of wiry muscles and a large white scar on his left biceps.
"I made the mistake of getting between a werewolf and an angry hippogryph," Harry said, tracing the scar with his fingers. "It was chaos. I'd never heard an animal scream like that before. One of them knocked me down – then I felt the teeth." He grimaced at the memory.
"Fortunately, Lupin doesn't remember biting me, so I've been able to keep myconditiona secret." Harry's eyes drifted back to the dark lord. "In fact, I should thank you for that as well. I'd never have managed if your diary hadn't led me to the perfect place to lock myself away each month."
"My diary?" Voldemort sputtered.
"Wormtail didn't tell you about that either, huh? It's gone now, same as the basilisk, but the chamber remains inaccessible to anyone who can't speak Parseltongue. It's the perfect little hideaway. Once I shut the doors, no one can get in, and I can't get out while transformed. It served me well… apart from summer break."
Harry grinned, flashing sharp canines. "Unfortunately for mypoorrelatives, the locks on my bedroom door weren't strong enough to contain a transformed werewolf." He giggled. "I told the neighbours they went on holiday. It took me a week to clean up all the blood and bury the leftovers in the backyard. I wonder if anyone's found them yet? You've got blood on your hands. What do you think?"
Voldemort heaved once more on Harry's foot, and Harry obliged him by removing it. The dark lord curled onto his side, coughing. "You're mad," he rasped once he'd regained his voice.
"Says the pot to the kettle," Harry replied as he kicked off his boots and stripped himself of the rest of his clothes. Then he turned towards the distant shadow of the ruined manor house and threw back his head. "It's almost time. Can you feel it?"
Voldemort shuddered as the full moon crested the horizon.
Twin howls of pain rent the night air as Harry and the dark lord doubled over, their bodies contorting as the transformation seized them. Bones crackled as they shifted, jaws elongating into muzzles faster than their skin could stretch, exposing teeth sharpening into deadly points. Their lengthened ears pressed back against their skulls as the soft skin of their palms and the soles of their feet thickened into tough pads and their tailbones extended, the tips bursting from their skin like spears to whip the air behind them.
When it was over, two werewolves rose to their feet. One was small, its lean frame covered in wild black fur that seemed to melt into the shadows. The other was a gangly, skeletal beast, its pallid skin mottled with patches of scales.
Awareness returned slowly to minds wiped blank by pain, and at first they merely ambled around the cauldron, stopping to sniff at the pile of discarded rope and nip the quickly cooling corpse that lay abandoned on the grass.
They bent their heads, both intending to seize the corpse's bloody stump, when green eyes met red. They froze, watching each other warily as their bodies stiffened, hackles rising. Growls rumbled in their chests and their lips curled back in twin snarls as surprise burgeoned into recognition, then hatred.
Wisps of cloud drifted across the moon, sending shadows dancing over the lawn, yet the wolves remained still, their eyes locked together, neither willing to submit and surrender the bloody prize lying crumpled between them.
A dog barked in the distant village, breaking the stalemate, and the wolves came together in a whirl of snapping jaws, fang clacking against fang as they grappled for each other's throats.
Momentum carried them onto their hind legs, allowing too-human paws to rake exposed chests and shoulders. Black fur flew, yanked out in tufts by the pale wolf's furious assault; but when the black wolf struck, its claws were stained with blood.
The pale wolf was forced back a step, then another, until its hind legs collided with the cauldron and one foot slipped beneath the tripod, onto the glowing embers. It yelped and kicked the cauldron over.
A wave of dark liquid flooded the clearing, staining the grass black and causing the embers to hiss and send up gouts of steam as they drowned.
The wolves broke apart at the unexpected sound, panting as they licked the blood from their lips and gouged noses.
Then acracklike gunfire split the night, and a figure appeared outside the circle of graves. The wolves' noses twitched, their heads swinging towards the man in concert as they watched him approach. He stumbled slightly in the darkness before catching himself on a headstone and straightening.
"My Lord?" he called.
The pale wolf's ears pricked, and it rose on its hind legs. Behind it, the black wolf vanished into the shadow of the graves, only the gleam of its eyes visible as it slipped behind the man's back.
Barty Crouch paused as his boots sunk into the muddy turf near the overturned cauldron. He narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the shadows cloaking the pale figure before him.
"My Lord…?" he called again, slowly drawing his wand and lighting the tip.
For a moment, Barty Crouch stood frozen, staring at the ghostly scaled creature who bore his master's familiar red eyes. Then he screamed.
The pale wolf bared its fangs, ears flat against its skull, and took a menacing step forward.
Barty Crouch raised his wand, the beginning of a curse on his lips. Then his body tumbled forward, a pair of jaws clamped around the back of his neck.
The pale wolf edged closer, its mouth open and forked tongue lapping the air as the black wolf shook the man viciously. Its gaze was riveted by the blood seeping from between the other wolf's fangs. It began to pant, its tongue running over its lips as saliva dripped down its chin.
The black wolf growled in warning and reared up, trying to drag its prize away.
Seizing the opening, the pale wolf lunged forward. Its fangs dug into the man's exposed chest, seeking his heart.
Barty Crouch died without a sound. He was not alive to feel the rending of his ribs or the tearing twist of his limbs being ripped off. If his ghost had manifested, it would have witnessed the wolves fighting over every scrap as they gorged themselves on his flesh. But Barty's soul did not linger, and was spared those horrors.
When their hunger was finally sated, the wolves dragged his bones to separate sides of the graveyard and laid down, their hatred forgotten as they gnawed lazily and waited for the sun to rise.
At dawn, Harry Potter dragged himself to his feet with a groan. He covered his mouth with a hand, burped, then rubbed his face. The wounds around his mouth had healed, but his stomach was heavy and his body was still caked in dirt and dried blood.
He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced when he felt a piece of skin stuck between his molars. He sucked at it, prodding it with his tongue until it popped free. Leaning over, he spat it out in a wad of pinkish spit.
Harry raised his arms over his head in a stretch, then he kicked away a leg bone and ambled over to the lump just visible next to the overturned cauldron. He rummaged through Wormtail's pockets until he found his stolen wand. Pointing it at his chest, he muttered the cleaning charm, shivering as the magic ran over his bare skin.
When he was satisfied, he pulled on his clothes and looked around.
"Pity," he murmured. "Guess I didn't eat you after all."
Voldemort was curled next to his father's grave, his limbs once more the twisted, misshapen things from his resurrection. A massive serpent was wrapped around him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
Harry stopped five paces away. He hooked a toe under a bone and kicked it in Voldemort's direction. The snake's head darted up, striking the projectile from the air.
Harry laughed. "Friend of yours?"
Voldemort glowered at him through red-rimmed eyes. "I will teach you the meaning of suffering," he rasped.
"Yeah?" Harry drawled. "You and what army? No wizard will follow a werewolf, and no werewolf will follow an abomination. You lost the moment I touched the Triwizard Cup, Voldemort, Lord of No One."
Voldemort flinched, hatred twisting his features. "I am not yet defeated!"
Harry levelled his wand at the dark lord's head.
The serpent shifted uneasily. She raised her head and hissed, baring a pair of long, needle-thin fangs, but Voldemort placed a hand on her neck, pushing her down. His face was hollow, drained of what little colour remained since his resurrection. "Cast your spell," he hissed, "if you dare."
Harry snorted and dropped his arm. "So eager to escape your new body? You survived death once. I expect you'll do so again, so, really, what's the point? All it would do is give you a second chance at conjuring up a new body, and I prefer you as you are now." He leered at the furious dark lord, his lips stretched in a wicked grin. "You're an old hand at killing, surely you can contrive some way to rid yourself of that body. That snake looks big enough to strangle you, or maybe you'd prefer slitting your own throat?" He mimed running a claw across the front of his neck. "You'll need to cut deep – werewolves heal quickly, after all."
Voldemort ground his teeth and dug his stubby fingers into the lawn. His breathing was uneven, and a low whine escaped his throat before he ruthlessly strangled the sound. The serpent nudged his leg with her nose, whispering a question, and he shoved her away.
"Can't do it?" Harry jeered when Voldemort fell still. "It figures someone obsessed with seeing their enemies dead would be a coward."
Voldemort's red eyes flared, nearly luminescent as he trembled with silent outrage.
Harry snorted and shook his head. "Whatever. I've got better things to do than stare at your repulsive mug all day. He tucked his wand away in its holster, then patted his swollen belly and said with a sickly-sweet grin, "Happy digesting."
Harry turned and picked his way back across the graveyard. He paused next to the Triwizard Cup, contemplating whether to bring it along, before he reached down and picked it up. He yelped in surprise as the portkey whisked him away, a forlorn howl quivering the air at his back.