"B-blood of the enemy… forcibly… taken…"
Harry was helpless. The ropes cut so tightly into his arms and chest that, no matter how hard he twisted or strained, he could do nothing but stare at the gleaming tip of the dagger, trembling in Peter Pettigrew's remaining hand.
However, the fat man held the dagger near Harry's eye for a brief moment only before bringing it down.
It was not his eye, at least, Harry thought with a dry gulp as he watched the silver tip move ever so slowly, while more sweat trickled down his forehead.
It was still going to hurt though, and true to his thought, in the next instant he felt something sharp pierce the crook of his right arm.
"Ugh—"
He wasn't pretending, it hurt a great deal. The stupid rat's hands were shaking so badly, with the dagger buried in his flesh, that Harry even thought of complaining to the Dark Lord about having such unprofessional minions.
"mmrrgh…"
He let out a muffled cry against the gag in his mouth, his eyes dropping to the spot where blood was seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes.
Peter Pettigrew, though he looked as though he were on the verge of tears, panting in pain with snot streaming from his nose, did not pause. He fumbled in his pocket, then drew out a small glass vial and held it beneath the cut, allowing a thin stream of blood to drip into it.
Unprofessional. Harry could only complain inwardly. He even saw a drop of that disgusting snot from the rat's nose fall and mix with the blood going into the vial.
After the vial was half full, Peter then staggered back to the cauldron and, without pausing, poured it inside. The liquid within immediately churned, then flared into a blinding white.
And with that, it looked like Peter was finished with his clumsy work. He dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then lurched sideways and crawled a little with one arm before collapsing onto the ground. Clutching the bleeding stump of his arm, he lay there, gasping and sobbing.
Good. Harry did not feel a shred of sympathy as he watched.
His attention turned back to the big bubbling pot again, which was now simmering almost uncontrollably, sending sparks of thick liquid in all directions. The thick, viscous liquid inside was even glowing, glowing so brightly that everything else seemed to fall away into velvety blackness.
But then, suddenly, the sparks from the cauldron went out almost as quickly as they had begun. Instantly, a surge of thick white steam burst from it, rolling outward and swallowing everything in its path. In an instant, Harry's view was gone.
Did… something go wrong?
Harry squinted against the momentary flash, then slowly opened his eyes again. He could no longer see Peter Pettigrew, or anything at all, only dense white vapor hanging in the air.
Could it be that Pettigrew's snot had mixed in and had really ruined the ritual?
Voldemort was the son of a bitch who he hated most, but then again, his resurrection was also necessary for professor Caesar's schemes.
He didn't know whether to feel bad or relieved when, all of a sudden, through the mist before him, he saw the dark outline of something humanoid, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from within the cauldron.
Hiss.
Harry gasped, even ignoring the foul stench of the gag in his mouth. As the mist cleared, the first thing he saw was… it was a bare butt. Pale as snow, thin, and almost completely lacking muscle, naked ass.
It turned slowly, and Harry's eyes bulged so wide it felt like they might fall out. His face twitched in pure horror before he snapped his eyes shut at once. Absolutely, he didn't want to see what was on the other side.
"Robe me," he heard a high, cold voice, followed by Peter Pettigrew's sobbing and shuffling.
Harry kept his eyes squeezed shut for a moment longer. Whatever had come out of that cauldron had to be the Dark Lord, back in the flesh… and, from the sound of it, currently dealing with a rather urgent wardrobe issue.
Thank Merlin, at least even villains had their priorities straight.
He listened to the fumbling, the quiet whimpers, and the rustle of fabric. Only when he heard that cold, thin voice again did he dare to open his eyes.
"At last…"
Harry looked and saw a fully robed Dark Lord now standing before him, but the Dark Lord's attention was not on him just yet.
Voldemort seemed to be inspecting his own body first, understandable, new body and all. Harry also, meanwhile, did the same.
Voldemort's hands were pale and spiderlike as he moved them slowly over his chest, then along his arms, and finally up to his face. His long white fingers traced each part as though he were testing them. His red eyes, their pupils thin slits like a snake's, gleamed brightly in the darkness.
He lifted his hands and slowly stretched his fingers, his face alight with a strange, almost triumphant satisfaction. He seemed utterly oblivious to Peter Pettigrew, who lay twitching and bleeding on the ground, as well as to the other figure standing nearby in silent reverence, and even to Harry himself in that moment of self-absorption.
Then he slid one of those unnaturally long fingers into his dark robes and drew out a wand. It seems Wormtail wasn't entirely useless, and had at least remembered to keep that ready.
Harry watched as Voldemort stroked the wand almost fondly, then raised it, aiming it at… uh, why is it Peter again?
The poor rat was yanked from the ground like a piece of meat, flung through the air, and slammed against the headstone to which Harry was bound.
Harry even felt the stone tremble, the rat was fat af, before he crumpled at its base, sobbing weakly. His robes were now slick with blood, wrapped tightly around the stump of his arm.
"My Lord…" he choked, shivering and staggered forward again, "My Lord you promised… you did promise…"
"Hold out your arm..." Voldemort said to him lazily.
"Oh, Master… thank you, Master…" Wormtail quickly extended the bleeding stump, thinking his gracious boss had finally recognised his hard work and was about to heal him.
However, "the other arm, fool!"
Voldemort didn't seem even slightly bothered by his miserable appearance.
"Master, please—"
Peter was still whimpering when the Dark Lord bent down and seized Wormtail's left arm, pulling it out forcefully. He shoved the sleeve of Pettigrew's robes up past the elbow, revealing something on the skin there, something like a tattoo: a skull with a snake slithering from its mouth.
Harry, who had been watching the twisted master and servant scene, recognized it the moment he saw it. It was the same mark that had burned green in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup… the Dark Mark.
Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail's uncontrollable weeping, then finally spoke softly, to no one in particular, "It is back… they will all have noticed it… and now, we shall see… now we shall know…"
After saying, he pressed his long, bony forefinger to the tattoo on Wormtail's arm, making the fat man let out another fresh howl. The Dark Lord then lifted his finger from the mark, and Harry saw that it had now turned jet black.
A look of cruel satisfaction spread across his face, Voldemort then straightened up, threw back his head, and gazed around the dark graveyard.
"I wonder, how many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?" he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. "And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?"
He began to pace up and down before Harry, Wormtail, and the other man, his eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while.
An eerie silence settled, and Harry wondered how much longer he would have to suffer. Now that the Dark Lord was resurrected, shouldn't the professors be making their move? At least remove this disgusting gag.
Finally, Harry didn't even know how long it had been when Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon him… he let out a high, cold, mirthless laugh, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face.
"Didn't I say, Harry Potter… just as your mother died to defend you as a child," he gestured with his bony arm toward the grave. "And see how useful the father I killed has proved in death…"
The Dark Lord paused, as though recalling something pleasant, the thin, unpleasant smile never leaving his snakelike face.
"Ah, yes…" he murmured. "I suppose I should tell you my story as well. After all, it was Lord Voldemort who brought about the deaths of your foolish parents."
He laughed, then began to pace up and down again, his gaze roaming over the graveyard as he spoke, "you see that house upon the hillside, Harry Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch from this very village, fell in love with him… but he abandoned her the moment he learned what she was. He did not like magic, my father…"
"He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born. She died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage… but I vowed to find him. I took my revenge upon that fool who gave me his name… Tom Riddle…"
Still he paced, his red eyes flicking from grave to grave. "Listen to me… reliving family history…" he said softly. "I am growing quite sentimental… and yet, I cannot deny it was my own blood that made my resurrection possible…"
"However," he continued, coming to a halt, his tone also sharpening, "I do not consider them my family..."
Harry didn't know how it was possible for that wicked, snakelike grin to grow any wider, but he saw it happen.
Voldemort concluded his twisted speech by spreading his arms wide and lifting his head toward the sky. It was already heavy with clouds, but now it seemed even darker, more oppressive, as though the night itself had deepened. Thin streaks of lightning flickered now and then through the clouds above.
"My true family… heed my summons… and come to me!"
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