The Tenth Weasley - CH - 151

Harry hit the ground hard.

The world spun, his stomach lurched, and the familiar nauseating yank behind his navel released all at once. For one disorienting heartbeat he lay still, fingers still locked around the Triwizard Cup, before cold air knifed into his lungs and the smell of damp earth and rot filled his nose.

He rolled to his knees in one smooth motion, letting the Cup clatter to the grass beside him.

Graveyard.

Old stones, crooked and worn. A broken iron fence in the distance. A low hill. A sky the color of dirty dishwater, moonlight struggling through thin clouds. The air felt heavy here, steeped in history and magic and something darker, fouler.

Little Hangleton.

He recognized it from Barty Crouch Jr.’s memories—the flickering glimpses he had torn from that twisted mind. The layout was the same: the path winding between graves, the huge dark shape of a yew tree, the massive marble headstone at the center of the hill.

And beyond it, exactly where he remembered, the cauldron waited.

It was huge, black, and ugly, set in a shallow depression in the earth. Runes were etched around its base, pulsing faintly in a sickly green light. Bundles of dried herbs lay ready beside it, along with phials stoppered with wax. The grave at its back bore a name Harry did not need to read.

Riddle.

Every muscle in his body tightened.

Enemy territory.

He rose slowly to his feet, wand already in his hand, senses stretched to breaking. His eyes flicked over his surroundings—trees, shadows, stones, the shape of the cauldron, the paths. He felt for wards, for pressure in the air, for the faint tingle of magic against his skin.

Strong wards. Old. Layered.

No obvious way out.

He didn’t panic.

He’d seen this place before—through Barty Crouch’s eyes. He knew what was meant to happen here. The path, the timing, the ritual. He had arrived early enough, perhaps, to disrupt it.

A faint crunch of gravel sounded from ahead.

Harry turned toward it, wand rising a fraction higher, shoulders loose and ready.

A man emerged from behind one of the larger tombstones, thin and hunched, carrying something bundled in ragged cloth against his chest.

Peter Pettigrew.

His hair was greasy and thinning, his eyes wide and watery in the dim light. His silver hand gleamed dully at the end of his sleeve. When the Portkey light had flashed, he’d hurried forward with a nervous eagerness that now curdled into confusion.

He stopped dead when he realized who stood in front of him.

“Y–you?” Pettigrew stammered, voice trembling. “You’re not—”

He had been expecting a scarred forehead. The Boy Who Lived. The Potter heir.

He got Harry Weasley instead.

Harry’s lips curled, not quite into a smile. “Disappointed?”

The bundle in Pettigrew’s arms shifted. A high, cold, impossibly thin voice cut through the graveyard like a knife.

“What is this, Wormtail?”

It came from inside the bundle. From the thing Pettigrew was cradling like a child and weapon both.

Pettigrew flinched. “M–my Lord, the Portkey— the Cup—it activated, but—but it’s not the Potter boy. It’s— it’s the Weasley brat.”

There was a long, terrible pause.

Then the cloth shifted again, and a pale, waxy hand—more claw than human—curled feebly around the edge of the fabric. Red eyes, slitted like a serpent’s, glared from within the folds.

Voldemort.

Half-formed. Pathetic.

And disgusting.

Harry met those eyes and did not look away.

Voldemort’s lipless mouth twisted.

“This is not the child I ordered,” he hissed, each word dripping with venom. “I have waited months, plotted every detail, and when the moment finally comes, you bring me the wrong boy.”

Pettigrew fell to his knees, nearly dropping the bundle. “M–my Lord, the spell was set on the Cup! Crouch assured me—he swore—it would bring the Potter brat—”

“Crouch is not here,” Voldemort snapped. “You are.”

Pettigrew cringed as if struck.

“We can still use him, my Lord,” he added desperately, gesturing with a shaking hand toward Harry. “He’s powerful—strong—everyone says he’s dangerous—”

Voldemort’s gaze raked Harry slowly, thoughtfully.

Harry stood very still, wand held loosely at his side, green eyes shining with something between contempt and amusement.

“Use him?” Voldemort repeated, voice silk over steel. “Do you have any idea how delicate this ritual is, Wormtail? The circle has been designed, the runes anchored, the chain of power calculated to the last drop of blood. It requires my enemy.”

“He could be—” Pettigrew began.

“He is not the one who destroyed my body,” Voldemort hissed. “He is not the subject of the prophecy. He is not the symbol I intend to erase.”

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed, studying Harry more closely.

“Though,” he added slowly, “he is… interesting.”

Pettigrew licked his lips nervously. “My Lord?”

Voldemort’s gaze never left Harry’s face.

“I have heard of you,” he murmured. “Harry Weasley. The little Gryffindor who conjured Grindelwald’s fire. The boy who wields magic he should not even know exists. They whisper that you will become another Dark Lord someday. Is that true, little serpent?”

Harry’s mouth twitched.

“You flatter me,” he said evenly. “Being compared to you and Grindelwald in the same breath? I might blush.”

A cold, brittle chuckle escaped Voldemort’s throat.

“Arrogant.”

His eyes gleamed. “Good.”

Pettigrew shifted uncomfortably, sweat glistening on his forehead. “M–my Lord, what should we do? We don’t have time to prepare another ritual, and if Dumbledore notices—”

Voldemort’s voice cut across his. “Silence.”

The graveyard fell utterly quiet. Even the distant insects seemed to stop.

Voldemort’s red eyes remained locked on Harry’s. “You are right about one thing, Wormtail. We cannot use him. Not as the ritual was designed. The bindings are specific. The magic will reject a substitute.”

He sounded displeased, but beneath that irritation there was calculation. Curiosity.

Harry’s wand hand flexed slightly.

He could feel the wards pressing in around him—strong, layered, cunning. Apparition wouldn’t work. Portkeys wouldn’t work. The Cup lay a few feet away, inert and harmless now that its job was done.

No easy way out.

He would have to make one.

Pettigrew swallowed hard. “Then—then we must kill him, my Lord. Before he escapes. Before he—”

Voldemort’s eyes flicked toward his servant with a look of pure disdain. “You always choose the crudest solution, Wormtail.”

“He’s dangerous—”

“And so am I,” Voldemort hissed. “Do not insult me by implying I cannot handle one schoolboy.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Careful. Underestimate me too much and you’ll end up sharing a grave with your father, Tom.”

Pettigrew flinched away as if Harry had shouted an Unforgivable.

Voldemort went very still.

Slowly—very slowly—his head turned, gaze sliding toward the marble tombstone looming behind the cauldron. The one engraved with TOM RIDDLE.

Then he looked back at Harry.

“You know much for a child,” he said softly.

“I make a habit of learning things you don’t want people to know,” Harry replied.

For a moment, they simply stood there, measuring each other.

In another life, Harry thought, he might have admired Voldemort’s intelligence, his ruthless will, his ability to bend magic to his vision.

In this life, he’d make sure the man never got his body back.

Voldemort’s voice took on a musing edge.

“You remind me of someone,” he murmured. “The way you move. The flavor of the magic you used on my servant. You carry a trace of his touch.”

Harry knew who he meant before he said it.

“Gellert,” Voldemort whispered, eyes gleaming. “Grindelwald. My old… idol.”

He tasted the word with something like nostalgia and contempt combined.

“His magic was elegant. Precise. Terrifying.” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “You wield the same sharpness. The same disregard for conventional boundaries. I can almost smell his spellcraft on you.”

“Interesting theory,” Harry said lightly. “Pity you won’t live long enough to write about it.”

Pettigrew stared between them, increasingly frantic. “My Lord, we are wasting time! Hogwarts will notice he is missing. Dumbledore—”

“Dumbledore,” Voldemort said softly, “will do nothing quickly with the Ministry crawling over his castle and his precious students locked down. We have time for a conversation.”

He shifted in Pettigrew’s arms, the deformed homunculus-body trembling with barely contained rage and impatience.

“But since you are here, boy, I will not waste the opportunity entirely.”

He raised his tiny, clawlike hand.

“Wormtail. Bind him.”

Pettigrew fumbled for his wand and pointing it at Harry with a mixture of fear and desperation.

“D–don’t move!” he squeaked. “St—”

The spell never finished.

Harry’s wand flicked—a tiny, silent movement.

Invisible force slammed into Pettigrew’s legs, sweeping them out from under him. He crashed to the ground, the bundle in his arms jolting violently. Voldemort snarled, clutching at Pettigrew’s robes to keep from being dropped.

“USELESS FOOL!”

Pettigrew squealed in terror, scrambling on the ground like a beetle.

Harry didn’t press the attack. He had no illusions about Voldemort’s helplessness—body or no body, the Dark Lord was still a master of magic. A reckless lunge could end very badly.

Instead, Harry took a single measured step sideways, angling himself so he could see both Pettigrew and the cauldron at once.

The runes around its base pulsed steadily. The circle was ready. The potion inside simmered with a faint, unnatural glow.

One mistake, one stray spell, and the ritual could begin even without its intended sacrifice.

Voldemort righted himself with Pettigrew’s aid, eyes burning now with open fury.

“You think you can fight both of us?” he hissed. “Here? In my chosen ground?”

“I think you’ve overestimated your position,” Harry replied calmly.

He smiled, sharp and humorless.

“Bad planning.”

Voldermort stared at Harry, gaze slicing like a knife.

“You have seen what is meant to happen here, haven’t you?” Voldemort murmured. “You recognize the shape of the ritual. You know how close I am to rebirth.”

Harry said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Voldemort smiled—thin, terrible.

“Then you also know this, Mr. Weasley: whether I rise tonight or not…” His eyes gleamed with madness and certainty. “…you have stepped into my story now. You’ve made yourself my enemy.”

Harry’s fingers tightened on his wand.

“Good,” he said softly. “I was getting bored.”

Pettigrew made a terrified noise.

Voldemort’s tiny hand lifted again. The air grew heavy, pressing in on Harry’s lungs. Power gathered in the dead grass, in the cauldron, in the stone itself.

“You will not leave this place easily, boy,” Voldemort whispered. “If I cannot use you to rise, I will use you. To hurt what Dumbledore values.”

A cold wind swept through the graveyard, rattling the dead branches.

Harry steadied his breathing, mind racing, every scrap of training, every forbidden spell, every trick he had ever learned rising to the surface.

No easy escape. No safe ground. No backup.

He smiled again, sharp and defiant.

“You’ll find I’m not easy to keep,” he said.

Voldemort’s eyes flared red.

“Then let us see,” he murmured, voice like the promise of a nightmare, “what my would-be heir to darkness can do… when there is no one left to save him.”

The graveyard’s wards thrummed in response.

Magic thickened.

One moment, Peter Pettigrew was clutching at bundle, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. The next, the bundle in his arms convulsed violently—and then burst apart.

Black smoke poured from it.

It was not ordinary smoke. It was thick, oily, alive—coiling and writhing like a living serpent made of shadow. The air temperature dropped sharply as it surged forward, leaving the rags empty and collapsed on the ground.

Harry felt it instantly.

Ancient magic.

Possession magic.

“NO—MY LORD—!” Pettigrew screamed, his voice breaking as the smoke slammed into him with bone-crushing force. His mouth opened in a silent cry—

—and the smoke forced its way inside.

Pettigrew’s scream cut off abruptly.

He convulsed, back arching unnaturally, his hand twitched violently, then went still. His chest rose once… twice…

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened.

The man standing now was no longer Peter Pettigrew.

The posture had changed.

The trembling cowardice was gone.

The hunched shoulders straightened with unnatural authority.

Pettigrew—Voldemort—bent down, picked up the wand lying in the dirt, and turned slowly toward Harry.

Red eyes burned from within a familiar face that no longer belonged to its owner.

“Oh,” Voldemort said softly, testing the voice, curling the words around Pettigrew’s tongue. “This is… unpleasant.”

He flexed Pettigrew’s fingers, examining the wand with open distaste. “Crude. Weak. Fragile.”

Harry didn’t move.

“This form will not last,” Voldemort continued calmly. “But it will suffice.”