Chapter Text
“Kill the spare.”
Harry barely has time to rub the dirt and the tears from his eyes before he is stunned and levitated upwards. The flash of green still burns brightly in his retinas and his glasses hang crooked on his nose, blurring his vision.
He can just make out the shape of the hooded man before him; his wand aimed at Harry.
"Piertotum Locomotor".
The wind is pushed out of him as stone arms wrap around from behind pulling him flush against the statue. His glasses fall to the ground; his vision becoming more distorted. He watches a blur bend out of sight, before his glasses are roughly slammed back onto his face.
“There now, Harry. We can’t have you missing the show, can we?”
Peter Pettigrew. Bastard.
Harry uses what momentum he has, flinging his legs forward. He hears a pained yelp as his foot connects with Pettigrew’s groin. He watches Peter stumble, his hood falling backwards revealing the man’s pained expression. Harry notices a bundle held protectively to his chest. Peter snarls as he rights himself, raising his wand hand as if to slap Harry across the face.
“Enough. We are wasting time.” Harry’s scar burns as the muffled words rise from the strange bundle of rags. With one last look of disdain thrown Harry’s way, Peter steps towards a stone platform and lays the rags upon it. He watches as Peter levitates a large black cauldron from behind a gravestone to a ready-made firepit. As the cauldron settles into place, flames rip upwards engulfing the base.
“Before we lose the light, quickly..” The fabric rasps its order as Peter opens a tome and begins his brew.
Harry tries to recall the various ingredients Peter cuts and levitates into the cauldron. He is a little embarassed by his unsuccessful recollection.
Okay. So maybe he should pay closer attention in Potions.
He's pretty proud of himself as he recognizes root of asphodel and tries to rack his memory for potions requiring it. He watches as Peter cracks open a pomegranate and stirs the seeds into a bowl. As it pours, the light of the flames reflects off the mercurial liquid. Unicorn blood.
Peter begins chanting in Latin as he starts to stir. The Triwizard cup lies behind him, next to Cedric’s lifeless body.
The portkey might not even be two-way, but it’s a potential escape.
Harry hears Snape's condescending tone in his head; pay attention, Potter.
His attention flicks back to Peter, and he makes a mental note of the clockwise stirring. Harry reluctantly agrees with the Snape in his head. He supposes this would be important information to divulge when he escapes.
If he escapes.
He tries to pull his arms free, in the hope that Peter’s spell may have weakened since he cast it. It hasn’t.
“Now, Pettigrew.” Harry watches as Peter gathers up the source of the voice and unceremoniously drops it into the now bubbling cauldron.
A flash of pain bursts across his scar as the liquid splashes upwards. Harry hisses as he feels blood begin to pour out of the now open wound. A droplet hits his eyelash.
Harry wiggles furiously as Peter’s attention changes back to him. He stalks forwards, flicking his wand, and Harry watches the soil at the statue’s feet begin to churn. He hears an almighty crack, as the wood of a coffin splinters violently. A skeleton lies within wearing a muggle suit.
Voldemort’s father. His namesake.
The memory of Tom Riddle’s revolted expression flashes through Harry’s mind.
With a nauseating snap, the skull comes apart from the skeleton. It levitates upwards, parts of the spine dangling below it.
“Bone from the father, unknowingly given.” Harry snaps his attention back to Peter as he floats the human remains towards the cauldron. He watches as a disgusting, black viscous potion boils over the sides.
Peter drops his wand, reaching into his robes.
Bone from the father. Bone from the father. Bone from th-
“Flesh from the servant, willingly sacrificed.” Harry flinches at the flash of silver, before watching the blade inefficiently tear through Peter’s wrist. He holds back the urge to vomit as he hears the metal scrape against bone; cries of pain echoing throughout the graveyard.
The over-flowing potion turns milky white as the hand hits the surface. It begins to form around the cauldron, completely encompassing becoming an orb of floating flesh. Harry gags as it appears to violently pulsate, and looks across to Peter who is now wrapping fabric tightly around the stump of his right arm.
Blood had splattered across Peter’s face during the self-mutilation. It drenches the front of his body as he holds his arm tightly to his stomach. He takes a rattling breath before turning back towards Harry, knife still tightly grasped within his good hand.
Harry somehow already knows what comes next.
Bone from the father. Flesh from the servant.
Bone. Flesh. Bone. Flesh.
Blood.
Harry’s blood. Harry kicks out frantically as Peter nears him and his knee hits Peter square in the chest forcing a gasp out of the man. He spits in Harry’s face.
“Blood from the enemy, forcibly taken.” He takes a swing at Harry’s trapped arm, grunting out a wandless stunner as he does. Harry feels the spell wash over him, his legs growing numb. But not un-moving. He aggressively kicks out again and again, Peter’s spell weak without a wand to channel through.
Forcibly taken.
Something clicks then, just as Peter attempts another frantic swing.
Think, Harry. They learnt about verbal components in brewing just last year. What was it Snape said?
‘Astonishing, Potter. Even after all this time under my dedicated tutelage, you have become increasingly more and more inept.’
Okay, what else did Snape say.
‘The most important aspect of a potion that requires ritual spellcasting, is the intent behind the brew. It is one thing to simply know the words; and another to mean them. Your desires or lack thereof, may very well leave a potion impotent.’
Forcibly taken.
Harry watches as Peter recovers from the last kick. He snarls, baring his teeth decidedly unlike a rat, as he charges forward once more.
Harry has seconds to make a choice. He just hopes he is making the right one.
Instead of fighting, he wills his body to relax as the blade slashes his left forearm. He bites his lip, to hold back a scream, as the skin splits; stinging. Harry trying to focus through the pain, barely hears Peter’s triumphant yell as he drops the bloodied knife and rummages in his pocket for a glass vial.
Harry flexes his arm as best he can and whimpers as blood begins to pour out of the new wound.
Well, in for a Knut; in for a Galleon.
He takes a deep shuddering breath and hisses quietly, “I willingly give it.”
The parsel-tongue sends a shiver through Peter’s body as he presses the vial to the skin, frowning up at Harry startled.
Harry watches as a flicker of fear crosses the man’s eyes, before it’s replaced with a hungry determination.
Peter smirks as he steps away. Harry spits at his feet.
He empties the vial over the orb and they both watch as the pulsating flesh turns to vibrant bloody muscle. Peter stumbles backwards, his good arm bracing against the rush of energy that permeates from the mass as it begins to take the form of a man’s torso.
Wrong choice.
Fear fills Harry as he watches arms stretch outwards; elongated, skin-less fingers clenching nothing as the body begins to writhe mid-air. The beginnings of a face-less head snap backwards as if in a silent scream and strong legs form; tendons tensing as long feet touch the earth. The body steps forward finding its balance, as the muscle splits across its face forming a gaping mouth.
A gut-wrenching scream echoes across the graveyard as a tongue rips itself upwards from the man’s jaw. Sockets in the face begin to sink deeper as web-like veins twist to form eyeballs within. Straight white teeth break the surface of bloody gums and cartilage rips forwards taking shape of a rather ordinary looking nose.
Harry can’t stop the bile this time, vomiting all over his front. His head hasn’t stopped pounding as blood continuously streams from his scar. He feels faint at every sound of a bone cracking into place.
He watches through lidded eyes as skin begins to stretch over the man, perfectly unmarred like a new born baby. The pale skin spreads downwards over a broad chest and toned stomach; remaining flat where a belly-button would be. He blushes and looks away as skin and tissue begin to take a rather phallic shape south of sharply defined hip bones. Morbid curiosity directs his attention back, and he shies a glance under his lashes.
Oh. A rather generously sized-
Harry feels bile rise again, ashamed and disgusted with himself. He blinks away tears as they form, diverting his gaze from the men before him completely. He can't afford to remain distracted. He needs to focus. He searches the ground for his wand and finds it laying where it dropped, not far from him.
He whispers an Accio under his breath, pouring all of his willpower and energy into summoning his wand. Nothing. He braves a look upwards; Peter is ignoring him still, his focus completely on the Dark Lord as he reaches the final stages of his transformation.
His whole body feels on fire as he tries to cast the summoning spell once more. The pain is excruciating and the pounding migraine is making it difficult to concentrate completely on the task at hand.
Harry's attention is drawn away as he hears Voldemort speak. It is directed solely on Peter; Harry fortunately ignored for the time being. He doesn't have long now.
It feels like an eternity as he tries again and again at summoning his wand closer. His clothes are soaked through with blood and sweat, the chill of the rain a welcome relief against the suffocating burn of his magical core being pushed to its limits.
His wand twitches on the ground at the 9th attempt. On the 12th it rolls a few inches closer. He hears a burst of laughter from the direction of his would-be murderers, and snaps his head upright. Voldemort is still paying him no mind, his attention still remaining on his servant. Harry knows it won't be for much longer.
Panic urges him on. The wand hits the base of the statue on the next attempt. The exhaustion is settling in; Harry's vision becoming more blurred from the drain of his core. He shakily aims his hand downwards, towards the ground.
This is it.
"Accio!" His wand soars upwards as numerous cracks echo around the graveyard.
A deathly silence fills the air, as he finally gains the attention of his enemy.
The first thing Voldemort realises is that re-growing a body is the most painful experience he has ever been through.
The second is that it had started to rain.
He curls his toes into the damp ground, blinking as drops of dew splatter outwards; grass staining his pale, almost translucent skin.
He stretches his arms watching veins dance with the clenching and unclenching of his fingers.
A brisk wind cools his sweat-drenched body, making him shiver as he takes an aching step forward towards his servant.
“My wand.” Voldemort rasps the order to a snivelling Peter. His throat is scratchy and his lungs ache as he involuntarily gasps in a deep breath. He is thankful for the rumble of thunder that disguises the sound, as he quickly replaces his pain with a façade of calm.
Peter fumbles one-handedly for Voldemort’s wand, letting out a wet sob as he drops it at the Dark Lord’s feet.
Voldemort’s mouth curls up into a snarl, “My wand is not much use to me down there, is it Pettigrew?.”
“I-I’m sorry my Lord. Oh merciful, powerful Lord, I am nothing but here at your aid, I swear it.” Peter drops to his shaking knees, raising the wand above his head towards his master.
Voldemort grasps his wand tightly; a surge of magic rushes through him and he closes his eyes to the onslaught off warmth that fills him. With a word-less flick down his body, he transfigures robes, before re-directing his attention back to the man at his feet.
"Your arm."
Peter frantically flings his mutilated arm upwards, a look of sheer astonishment on his pale face. "Th-thank yo-"
"Your other arm." Voldemort lets out a bark of laughter as Pettigrew's face twists into an expression of anguish. He doesn't wait for the arm to be offered, before grabbing it roughly, pulling the man upwards with a strength Voldemort was surprised he possessed so soon. Peter's feet scramble for purchase on the muddy ground, as his body is pulled completely taut. Clean, tidy nails dig into his wrist as Voldemort presses the tip of his wand to the faded dark mark.
"Accio!"
Voldemort drops Peter in astonishment as he spins to the boy he had foolishly left to his own devices. He masks his shock quickly, as his Death Eaters indicate their arrival with the deafening crack of Apparition.
For the first time all night he finally takes in the boy pinned to his father's grave. He looks small, and physically weak, but his jaw is determined and his eyes flash with a familiar rage as they meet his own.
Harry glares at the older version of Tom Riddle. The man's pitch black curls lie damp and flat against his forehead; his once warm brown eyes now a blazing blood red. He stands tall and menacing, unaffected by the downpour and the rush of wind that dramatically sweeps his robes around him like tendrils of dark magic.
Voldemort smiles mockingly before he turns to his followers, his arms sweeping theatrically.
Harry grits his teeth and tightens the grip on his wand, bracing himself.
It begins.
BONUS: Voldemort's Rebirth
