Chapter Text
If Harriet Potter had been forced to sum up her entire existence into a single word, she felt that 'ironic' would be most appropriate.
Ironic in the way a fire station is burnt to the ground.
Or, perhaps, in the way a man's car is hit by an ambulance on his way to the hospital.
And the more she reflected on the word, the more ascertained she was that it was her perfect, lifelong companion. The ever-present theme to all of her experiences; a seemingly private joke she was not privy to understanding. Because even now, huddled behind a crumbling gravestone, her dirt-caked fingers trembling about her wand, she could find it reflected in her current situation: the irony.
After all, Hogwarts, widely deemed to be the safest place for young witches and wizards, chose to host a competition designed to torture and maim its competitors— the very same students the school was supposed to be protecting.
Lord Voldemort, a man who sought to evade death at every turn, chose for his rebirth to take place on the Reaper's own front doorstep— a graveyard.
And Harrie— the naive girl she was who simply yearned for just one uneventful school year— found herself unwittingly spitting on the solemn declaration she'd made to Hermione and Ron at the beginning of term: "Nothing will go wrong this year, I just feel it." Of course, in hindsight, she did wonder how she'd even been capable of such a hope to begin with? Or, for a different matter, why she’d verbally expressed such a desire in the first place? 'There's a reason why Muggles don't say their wishes out loud,' she thought, glancing down to her jagged fingernails and grimacing at the fact each one was now broken and dirty from scrambling in the mud.
Yes, there was no other way of looking at it: she had jinxed her fifth-year. Because instead of being in her beloved common room and in front of a roaring fire, steadily nursing a mug of hot chocolate and wiggling her toes in her garishly coloured wool socks, she was here. Hidden behind someone's decaying grave— their memory as faded as the name etched into the stone— crouching in the damp earth and shivering from the cold as the Dark Lord was brought into existence once more.
Oh, the irony was abundant.
"Wormtail. The girl,” Voldemort's hissed command came without warning; a drawn-out sort of whisper that moved her skin to crawl. It yanked her from the safety of her thoughts, her introspection, reminding her of just who, exactly , was waiting on the other side of the tombstones.
Her breaths devolved into shallow bursts, quiet by all means yet somehow still thunderous to her ears. However, they were as loud as she dared to let them be— as loud as necessary to keep herself from passing out— too afraid of giving herself away and relinquishing her hard-earned freedom. After all, while Wormtail had been busy marvelling at the frothing cauldron, enraptured with the resurrection of his Lord, she'd managed to slip his flimsy bonds. And sure, was it perhaps a bit cowardly to run? Yes— she could admit that much. But all the same, Harrie felt no shame in taking advantage of his distraction, nor for choosing to hide in this moment. For doing what she knew best. Why should she? It was a talent she'd acutely honed over the years, developed out of necessity for survival: how to make herself small. Insignificant. Unnoticeable . In a household where too-loud steps were readily punished and the phrase 'children should be seen, not heard' was taken to a literal degree, she'd long since discovered the importance of not drawing attention. Of how to slip under the radar to avoid heavy hands, and to seek out the best hiding spots on a mere moment’s notice. Such a skill especially came in handy during bouts of her cousin's favourite pastime: Harrie-Hunting. But oh, how vindictive was she in her glee when she'd spend hours watching the boy search high and low, colouring purple with his frustrations before eventually giving up.
But Dudley was just a Muggle.
Dudley didn't have magic.
He couldn't weasel her out with location spells or conjured fire— couldn't search for her signature or potentially hear her thoughts. Plus, the threat of him was never real . He never sought to kill or irreversibly maim—mere child's play compared to the situation she now found herself in. And she likewise knew, with a marrow-deep certainty, that hiding was only prolonging the inevitable. A piss-poor bandage of a solution. That, unlike Dudley, Voldemort wouldn’t be so easily deterred. Discouraged.
A cry of thinly-veiled horror resounded from between the dilapidated tombstones. Her absence, it would seem, was finally noted.
Fingers flexing about her wand, she cradled it to her chest— the press of warming holly against the dulling beat of her heart. A drawn breath was held, refusing to be let go despite the burn in her lungs. No, this time she dared not to exhale.
“M-my Lord, she’s gone,” Wormtail stuttered.
Silence ensued.
The dampness of the spring night clung to her exposed arms, the fog’s fine mist a chilling shroud. Her ears strained to make out what was happening past the scattered symphony of the crickets, their relentless chirping floating out somewhere beyond the iron fence. But apart from them, it was quiet.
Unnervingly so.
That lethargic pulse of hers gave way to a flighty cadence, adrenaline spiking as her heart thudded against the confines of her ribs— too much pressure attempting to pass through too thin veins. The world spun, dimming at its edges. 'This is it,’ she thought. ‘He knows.’
Her mind supplied the sound of nearing footsteps; of a skeletal monster outfitted in tattered robes looming ever so closer. Voldemort had found her. Was toying with her and—
Reedy screams fractured the quiet.
Green eyes blinked in the darkness, alarmed as the sound morphed into a wet, gurgling noise— and then into the grating wails of a man in pain.
Harrie instinctively shrank back against the rough stone, ignoring how it bit into her bare shoulders and scraped the skin raw. And despite some shred of morbid curiosity, she couldn't quite bring herself to look over the gravestone's edge, the bravery such would require eluding her. Then again, her mind was imaginative enough in that regard. Conjuring gruesome image after gruesome image, she could easily guess what was happening to Wormtail. The torture he was enduring. Merlin, she was going to retch.
Shaking hands clamped over her ears as she tried to block out the screams, praying for the quiet to come back— a mercy when it finally did.
“Well, it is no matter. She is still here, somewhere. I can sense it,” Voldemort muttered.
There it was again: the chill ghosting through her, goosebumps prickling over her clammy skin at that voice.
His voice.
For reasons that escaped her understanding, Harrie found there to be a strange familiarity in the way Voldemort spoke. An odd recognition. And she knew, even if blindfolded, she could pick him out from a crowd if asked to do so, despite having only heard him speak twice— because that's all it took. All it took for his voice to be forever imprinted into her memory.
Two times hearing it and she remembered.
And it wasn't for the distinct sibilance his voice possessed, nor the way his vowels were carried with an irrefutable authority. No, it was more so that there was a quality to it that resonated deep within her— an instinctual resonation. But such a thing defied all rhyme and reason, especially when considering their previous interactions had been limited to a face on the back of Quirrell's head, and an afterimage of Tom Riddle— both of which weren't even truly him. No, those were just shells. Empty husks. Poor imitations that paled in comparison to the very real monster standing a few feet away in the dew ladened grass.
This was different.
It terrified her more than she cared to admit.
Squinting into the darkness, Harrie sought another exit, the need to escape only heightening. However, much to her dismay, there appeared to only be one— and it was clear across the cemetery, a good yard or two of exposed lawn. Even with the training she’d been put through to become Gryffindor’s Seeker— the endless laps she ran around the perimeter of the Black Lake in preparation for their upcoming matches— she doubted she would be quick enough to make it unnoticed.
Her gaze narrowed to reconfirm the distance to the wrought iron gate, groaning when she arrived at the same conclusion. 'Brilliant. Just brilliant.'
Slumping down against the grave's marker, the crown of her head bumped absentmindedly against it— a desperate attempt to spark some ideas through the repetitive motion. Options raced by at a dizzying speed, bitterness bright on her tongue when the best plan— the only plan— she managed to come up with was to catch Voldemort by surprise.
‘Heavens, help me.' It was a reckless idea; one that far surpassed even her standards for what was excusable. But she would be damned if she was to be slaughtered with only crickets and moss-covered names to bear witness to her final moments.
The muscles in her calves tensed— the coil of a spring tightening— ready to bolt. Stupefy had already formed on the tip of her tongue, her jaw set in determination.
“Stupefy, then run. Stupefy. Run. Stupefy. Run,” she chanted under her breath, a holy mantra.
Wand clamped between her teeth, numbed fingers double-knotted the muddied laces of her worn sneakers for good measure. 'Stupefy. Run. Simple enough. You got this, Harrie.'
Drawing in a shaky breath, she searched to find her centre, her calm, and summon forth the adrenaline that would lead her into a blind charge. However, just as she was ready to leap out in true Gryffindor fashion— to, more likely than not, go down in a blaze of glory— several rather distinct 'pops' gave her pause.
A successive series of rapid-fire gunshots, they defiled the hush of the cemetery and interrupted the melodic chorus of the crickets. Brows knitting together, her locked knees went lax. 'What the hell?' And for the first time all night, Harrie chanced a glimpse over the tombstone’s edge.
What greeted her was disconcerting, to say the least.
Off to the side of the overturned cauldron, there was the listless body of Wormtail face down in the mud, his stump of a hand glinting wetly in the moonlight. She had to force herself to look away from him— to let her attention skip past and focus instead on the wizards now loitering among the graves. There were seven from what she could see, all outfitted in austerely cut robes and silver masks and tall, pointed hoods. And it took her a second to piece together what’d happened: Voldemort had summoned his followers.
Harrie cursed silently— a slew of such foul words that it would’ve made even Ron blush— as she retreated quickly back into hiding. The heels of her dirty palms pressed unkindly into her eyes. A lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t help. Not when the one plan— albeit a half-baked one— she’d been banking on had fallen apart before it could even come to fruition. The golden window of opportunity had passed and all that was left was an embittered understanding she was undeniably trapped.
“Shit,” was her frustrated hiss as she forcefully tossed her holly wand to the ground.
Maybe if it had been just the Dark Lord and herself, she could have had a fighting chance. However, even her luck was bound to run out when faced with seven capable and grown wizards. Especially considering that she'd yet to complete her own schooling with grades barely passable at the best of times. And admittedly, it was moments like these that Harrie couldn't help but compare herself to Hermione. What would the girl do if she were dropped unexpectedly into a similar situation? She wasn’t sure— but she was quite certain of one thing: her friend still wouldn't be here, cornered like a muddied rat.
'That damn cup.' Her gaze slid towards the night sky, holding no small amount of contempt as it fixed mutinously on the flickering northern star. 'I wouldn't even be here if I hadn’t bloody touched it in the first place.'
Wait.
A slow blink; another to follow. Her mouth, the bottom lip split from a rather nasty fall in the maze, parted as the revelation hit her in full force. How did she not see it sooner? How did she not realise there was magic imbued into the cup? Distantly, there was a chiding voice in her mind— the clipped pronunciation eerily similar to Hermione's— telling her that the head on her shoulders was there for a reason.
“Merlin, I'm an idiot,” she mumbled, pressing her chilled hands to her forehead. “It’s a portkey.”
And if it was a portkey?
Well, that meant it went both ways.
Boldly sparing a second to peer around the tombstone, her eyes cast wildly about the grown-over graves and unruly weeds in search of the trophy. Even with her, admittedly, rather limited vision, she should be able to see its brightness, its beckoning light. And there — on the other side of the winged statue and a few feet from the arched gate. The warm flush of triumph filled her to the brim and, were it not for the fact there were a number of questionably dark wizards occupying the cemetery, she might have cried out in relief.
Finding herself renewed with hope, she mouthed a rush ‘thank you’ to the sky— to the universe and to whatever gods that may be watching— before snatching her discarded wand from the mud.
A deep breath in.
A controlled exhale out.
She tried to recall the motions for the summoning spell, her green eyes fixed determinedly on that distant, blue light. "Accio cup!"
Nothing happened.
The trophy remained in its cast-off position, unbothered and unheeding her call. When a second attempt yielded the same result, she swore under her breath at the conclusion her spell wasn't strong enough. She would have to get closer.
Head snapping to the left, tilting slightly, she strained to listen in on Voldemort's continuing speech. He was still droning on about his inevitable triumph over death, about his prowess and his might. How he was undefeated, and would remain so until the end of time. In a way, it almost reminded her of those poorly written Bond villains— the ones so obsessed with the deliverance of their monologues that they failed to notice when their nemesis slipped out right past them. The sort that Dudley was enamoured with, glued to the television set on Saturday nights while the channels looped black and white reruns. 'What a narcissist.'
Reaching up to tighten her fraying ponytail, her hair matted with dirt and sweat, her shoulders rolled in an attempt to loosen the tension held in them. A shaky breath was let go; an exhale through chapped lips. The hand not holding her wand curled into a fist in a bid to stop its trembling.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she bolted.
Ducking behind the closest gravestone, heart set into a punishing tempo, she paused there for an anxious moment to see if anyone had noticed her.
One.
Two.
Three seconds passed.
No sounds of alarm were raised. ‘Maybe this is going to work.’ It was a hope she knew she shouldn’t have dared to entertain, at least not right now, but one she indulged in all the same. Breaths kept shallow, a pulsating drum in her ears, she counted down from ten. Her lips moved soundlessly as she did so, muscles taut in anticipation— ‘Now!’
Scurrying onto the next grave, attention fixed resolutely on the trophy, it had taken her by surprise when the headstone to her left erupted without warning.
There was the deafening crack of stone splitting. A stray piece clipped her calf. With a cry of shock, she dove the last few inches to safety.
“Ah, there you are,” Voldemort’s voice was eerily casual, unbefitting of the situation. “I was beginning to wonder where you had disappeared to.”
Harrie, however, had barely registered Voldemort was addressing her, the sharp throbbing in her leg demanding all of her attention instead. 'Shit, shit, shit.' A shaky moan bubbled past her lips as she glanced down; a belated sense of regret. Oh, she really shouldn't have looked. Below her knee, a considerable gash had been torn through the fleshy muscle, the wound deep and— Merlin , that wasn't her bone, was it?
Sourness rose in the back of her throat, the taste of bile sickly-sweet in her mouth.
It took considerable effort to look away— but she knew she had to if she was going to keep her wits, and, more importantly, the contents of her stomach down. Grip tightening on her wand, she tried to breathe through the coldness of panic and the pain radiating up along to her thigh.
“Come now, Harriet. Do you know how rude it is to ignore someone when they are speaking to you?”
That was the only warning she received before another tombstone shattered.
Flinching at the display of violence— at the thunderous sound of stone exploding and the resulting quake that rippled through the earth below— she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. But even as the spell ended, that yellowed light lingered— flickering sunspots in her vision— superimposed afterimages of destruction. And it was the slow understanding of what he was doing, of what he was trying to achieve by destroying the graves, that caused her blood to chill further: Voldemort was flushing her out.
Teeth sank deeper, worrying her split lip until the taste of copper overpowered all else. She needed a plan, a way out, now. And yet, her mind was content on remaining disparagingly quiet.
On her periphery, the trophy pulsated: a beacon of hope. Of freedom. It was so close. Just a little further and she could reach it. Just a little further.
She had to run for it, despite her mangled calf. There was just no helping it. It was either that, or— no.
No, she couldn't dare to entertain that possibility. Not now. Not when she was this close.
With a resolute nod for her own benefit— trying to convince herself it was a solid enough plan— Harrie tentatively rose on shaking legs. Blood began to flow in earnest from the wound as she did so, warm rivulets slipping down into her sneakers, her socks.
“Well, don’t you know how rude it is to ruin someone’s grave? Honestly, show some respect for the dead," she snapped back, squaring her shoulders in what, she hoped, would appear to be a brave gesture.
Emerging from her hiding spot, time itself seemed to suspend for a moment— a minute of weighted appraisal, stretched and drawn-out.
Shamelessly, Harrie took the temporary ceasefire as an opportunity to study the Dark Lord, curiosity rooting her in place. It was strange, she decided. He was strange. Surreal, almost. There was an unnatural stillness about him, his silhouette rigid and immovable as though he were a statue rather than a living being. Hell, he could have been for all she knew, given the colour of his skin. Every exposed bit of it was white, pure white, and, she noted with some revulsion, stretched too far over his skeletal frame, revealing every blue vein, every filament, and every sinew that composed his newly-constructed body. And instead of having a nose, two snake-like slits remained to serve as an indication of where it once had been.
In contrast to his paleness though, his robes— loosely tailored and animated with a mind of their own, curling and kissing his feet in reverence— were cut from a cloth so black, they blended into the night. And his magic. Whereas he was physically lifeless, his magic was anything but. She could sense it as it rolled off him, so dark, so twisted, that it was practically palpable in the air.
‘Sweet Merlin, he’s tall,’ was her first coherent thought. And it was true. A numb sort of horror gripped her as her gaze raked over Voldemort's towering form, belatedly realising she was craning her neck. Even the wizards standing closest to him were dwarfed in comparison. Up, up, up she looked— right until she met those glowing eyes. They were the most striking detail, as red as the blood trickling down her leg. Slitted pupils punctuated them, contracting and dilating in the darkness as they stared unblinkingly into her own— a testament to his lost humanity; of the brimstone and hellfire that he was, most certainly, crafted from.
This Voldemort was nothing like the pathetic husk on the back of Quirrell's head, or the ghost of a handsome young boy from a diary. No, this Voldemort was entirely too real. Too solid. Too unnerving. He was in a league of his own, the other forms he'd once possessed a waned juxtaposition to the one standing a few feet away. And although Harrie tried her best to suppress her shiver when that burning gaze trained itself upon her, she couldn't. The look held there was unreadable. Calculating, assessing. 'A monster from a nightmare', she thought grimly, shifting the weight off her injured leg.
Taking in the battered girl before him, Voldemort's first impression was that she was a peculiar sight to behold. Smaller than he’d expected, her stature was a touch too slight, too delicate, even for a fifteen-year-old. From the few sparse spots where mud had yet to collect, or where bruises weren’t blooming in sickly-purpled shades, he noted she was quite fair— nearly cream-coloured in complexion. A result, he wondered, from not spending enough time in the sun? Or maybe it was simply the way she was? He was inclined to believe the latter, though he wasn’t entirely certain as to why. She just had this air about her— a near feral quality, like she belonged more in the woods, the outdoors, than she did in a classroom or behind stone walls. Perhaps it was her hair that gave him that impression? A few shades darker than her mother’s— at least from what he could recall— it was wild and coming undone from the ponytail atop her crown. Unkempt. A mess. But yet, strangely enough, it suited the girl. Utterly defiant, right down to the fiery strands that refused to be wrestled into an orderly fashion.
Cocking his head, his forked tongue flicked out, scenting the air. The bright copper of fresh blood; the earthiness of overturned dirt. The tang of sweat; the underlying sharpness of oddly familiar magic. He could taste it all on her, clear as day. Although not necessarily a pleasant scent, by most civilised standards, he could appreciate it, nevertheless: the way it spoke to her resolve. Her will to survive. The extent to which she persisted, despite the odds. Oh yes, feral was a fitting description for Harriet Potter.
But still, not even that— the filth covering every square inch of her, nor the tattered Muggle clothes she wore— could fully detract from her looks. It was an honest assessment on his part when he considered she was what some would refer to as conventionally attractive. Refined features, pointed and elegant, large eyes, and a heart-shaped face; all undeniable evidence of the purposeful breeding her lineage had sown.
His gaze roamed over her, halting only when they reached her eyes. It was what ultimately drew him to her in the end: that unnatural shade of green.
Her eyes startled him, as ethereal and vivid as his own; a rebellious glint in their depths that made them glow underneath the moonlight. They served as a mocking reminder of his failure— an echo of the killing curse that should have gotten rid of her when she was nothing but a mere child. Unwittingly, it was those eyes that conjured images from the night he'd been reduced to a wraith— had lost everything he’d worked for and built up throughout the decades.
It was those eyes that inspired his wrath now— and a fear he refused to openly acknowledge.
The Dark Lord studied the trembling girl for just a moment longer; a second of prolonged silence where his gaze dragged, once again, in a slow, purposeful rake— a vain attempt to commit her to his memory.
And then hell was unleashed.