Chapter 7: Blind Devotion

  The graveyard lay under a dark sky, shrouded by mist. Tombstones rose out of the earth like silent sentinels, their surfaces worn. Harry pressed himself against the weathered marble of a particularly large gravestone. Cold ran down his back, but not from the air.

  A swaddled baby in a hooded figure's arms. There was no doubt about who that could be. His thoughts whirled frantically. Did they discover me? Did I trip a ward somewhere?

  Harry focused, threading power into the hazy barrier that surrounded him like a second skin. Magic thrummed in time with his heartbeat. Under his gaze, his hands and robes slowly turned transparent, until they had completely vanished from sight. Even his breath had been stolen - the wispy condensation of his exhales had disappeared. The thick haze enveloped his vision, dulling his senses until he was viewing the world through a blanket weaved from fog.

  He peered around the tombstone.

  Footsteps, trodding through the grass.

  Two hooded figures emerged from the mist, their cloaks swirling. The short hooded figure scuttled forward, hunched and twitching, clutching a bundle to his chest. A taller cloaked man strode behind with his wand lit, his gaunt frame rigid with purpose. He clutched a dagger at his belt, its edge catching the light like a sliver of ice.

  A gust of stale wind blew through the graveyard, rustling the dead yew branches. The pallid moon brightened as clouds cleared. Harry's invisible fingers dug into the moss-slick marble as moonlight shone onto the shorter figure's hand, revealing a missing finger. Wormtail.

  "H-here, my Lord," Pettigrew rasped. His hands trembled as he set the wrapped cloth down at the cracked base of the Riddle grave, revealing the grotesque infant within - scaly, dark, raw. Lidless scarlet eyes glowed with malice. Although he was ready for it, Harry's stomach still twisted at the sight, his hand almost instinctively reaching for his scar. Voldemort.

  The tall man unshrunk a black stone cauldron - its surface etched with faint, serpentine runes - and dropped it onto the earth before the grave. The thud reverberated through Harry's bones. When the man pulled back his hood, he revealed his identity.

  Barty Crouch Jr.

  His pale face was a mangled mixture of madness and ruin. The left side almost looked like Mad Eye's face, with scars sunk deep into his skin like claw marks. His missing left eye was an empty void, but the right one gleamed - a single pupil dilated wide, unhinged, fixated on the bundle of cloth by the grave. Harry had only seen him twice before: once in Dumbledore's Pensieve, a boy screaming as his father sentenced him to Azkaban, and again in Moody's office, drugged by Veritaserum. But this … this was a man reshaped by agony, a fanatic sculpted into something feral.

  Had Barty Crouch Sr. done this, when he imprisoned his son? Or were these injuries from the previous war?

  A hiss sounded, right next to him.

  Harry stiffened. To his left, a giant snake's massive coils rippled across the grass, scales polished like oil under moonlight. Her tongue flicked, tasting the air to check for prey - him? Harry's heart jumped wildly as he stayed utterly still. The Cloak clung, its magic shivering in sync with his racing pulse. Don't move. Don't breathe. Nagini paused, her head tilting toward his hiding spot. For an uneasy moment, her lidless eyes locked onto the space where he crouched.

  She can't see me.

  The snake slid past, her bulk almost brushing against his leg. Cold sweat dripped down Harry's spine as she settled around the Riddle grave, her head lying close to the swaddled Voldemort.

  Horcrux. Harry gripped his wand tight, his knuckles pale. The snake was vulnerable right now. But he had no basilisk venom, and no sword.

  By now, Wormtail had finished lighting the fire underneath the cauldron. Barty knelt beside it, his voice a whisper. "Anything for the Lord." He unsheathed the dagger and pressed the flat of the blade to his lips, murmuring a silent prayer.

  Harry's heart sank. He knew what they had planned, of course - the resurrection of Voldemort. Watching the echo of his past repeat itself was torturous. He had almost finished destroying the grave, too.

  There was something missing though. Bone of the father … flesh of the servant … But whose blood? He scanned the graveyard again, wand slick in his grip. No prisoners, no bound enemies - just rows of headstones and wilting yew. Unless … His stomach churned. Did Barty somehow steal a vial of Iris' blood? Or were they planning to use someone else's?

  "Begin …" A cold, hoarse voice came from the foot of the Riddle grave.

  Wormtail pulled open the cloth and lifted the ugly, slimy homunculus. The traitorous man's hood fell back as he lowered the creature into the cauldron, revealing his pale forehead gleaming with sweat. The potion bubbled, spitting out white sparks that lit the creature's face - a nightmare of stretched skin and scales.

  Now. Harry's fingers twitched on his wand. Confringo. Blast the cauldron, destroy the evil within. But his arm felt leaden, the Cloak's protection siphoning his magic. Two Death Eaters. Nagini. Would he be able to fight them off and escape afterwards?

  What if you fail? The doubt sapped at his mind. Voldemort might simply possess a new homunculus, like changing clothes … and this time he'd know someone had interfered, that someone other than Dumbledore knew of his true identity as Tom Riddle.

  The Dark Lord might even bury his horcruxes and rewrite his plans. The Gaunt ring, the cave with the fake locket … The Matron's warning echoed: "Tread carefully, son of fate. Knowledge must be paired with wisdom."

  Wormtail whimpered as Voldemort's body sank to the bottom of the cauldron with a thud. The potion lustred like diamonds, casting flitting shadows across the cemetery. Harry bit down hard until his teeth ached. Coward. He hated this feeling of powerlessness; it felt like he was back in the Astronomy Tower, hiding frozen underneath the Cloak as Dumbledore fell.

  But he thought of Sirius' pale face, encased in amber. He thought of how, in his recklessness, he'd been pulled into this dimension. Harry slowly lowered his wand. Not yet. This time, he'd wait.

  "Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!" Wormtail's frightened voice resounded in the night. A fine trickle of dust floated from the Riddle grave at Wormtail's direction, entering the potion with a volatile hiss.

  Barty Crouch Jr. rose from worship, his motions fluid as if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. Electric blue glow illuminated scarred flesh, emptied socket, and cracked lips. His remaining eye was filled with a zealot's calm - fire buried under the weight of ritual.

  "My Lord," Barty gasped, voice heavy from his sins. "Flesh of the servant w-willingly given - you will revive your master!" He lifted the silver blade, sharpened to a fine point. His hands trembled as a single tear streaked down his right cheek, catching moonlight like a crystal.

  A wave of disgust swept over Harry as realization dawned on him. Yet, in his horror, he couldn't bring himself to look away.

  The point hovered, inching toward Barty's last eye with agonizing slowness.

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  Then it struck.

  A wet snick split the silence. Barty's scream was raw, primal - a sound that shredded the night. Blood welled thick and black in the moonlight, spilling down his face like viscous ink. His fingers tighten, the dagger sawing further, deeper.

  Across the clearing, Peter crumpled to his knees, terror seizing him. His feeble whimpers were swallowed by the inhuman shrieks erupting from Barty's throat with every push. Desperate, the rat-like man clawed at his ears, trying to block the sound, his huddled frame quivering as if caught in a storm.

  Blood mingled with the earth as Barty pressed on, his resolve unshaken. "F-for my Lord–" he choked, gagging on the coppery flood filling his mouth. His throat spasmed from the agony. Each horrid second stretched into eternity. With a final, resolute gesture, he cast the offering into the cauldron. A soft plink rang out as it struck the water, the potion frothing a deep crimson.

  Barty collapsed, his body contorted, yet his scar-strewn, eyeless face was warped into an expression of mad triumph. Hideous laughter gurgled from his throat, wet and broken. Let the blood choke him. He had given everything … his devotion was absolute.

  Wormtail recoiled, beady eyes darting between the twitching Barty and the churning cauldron. Fumbling in his cloak, he produced a vial of murky blood. "B-blood of the enemy … forcibly taken … you will … resurrect your foe." He poured it in with shivering hands. The potion immediately burst into a dazzling white, causing him to back off, bowing with his forehead pressed to the dirt. "M-master–"

  The cauldron roared. Blinding light broke through the night. Steam billowed until clouds suffocated the graveyard. Harry's heart pounded as, once again, he saw the dark outline of a man rise, tall and skeletal.

  Wormtail sobbed, scurrying over and draping black robes over the thing's shoulders. The snake-like monster turned. Slitted nostrils flared. Scarlet pupils filled with wicked delight.

  The nightmare had returned once more.

  The grave clearing was thick with the odor of blood. Barty Crouch Jr. was curled up on the ground, his palms pressing against his empty sockets, his ashen face smeared with dirt and flesh. Beside him, Wormtail cowered, not daring to move or look up.

  Lord Voldemort stretched his newborn body with languid grace, pale spindly fingers trailing over his body like a sculptor admiring his work. His slit nostrils flared as he inhaled the stench of Barty's suffering. He slipped a wand out of his robes, caressing the white wood before he gave it a flick, launching Wormtail against a tombstone. The man squealed, but Voldemort's attention had already shifted.

  "Master …" Barty rasped, dragging himself forward on his elbows. His voice was hoarse, yet fervent, as though the act of speaking Voldemort's title alone brought him euphoria. "You're … glorious. Be-beyond all–"

  Voldemort's bare foot - veins snaking blue beneath translucent skin - shot out to press against Barty's collarbone, halting his advance. Slowly, he lifted Barty's chin, forcing the man's trembling face into the moonlight.

  "What did you learn, Bartemius," he murmured, "when you let Iris Potter slip through your fingers?"

  Blood trickled between Barty's fingers, clamped over his wound. "Th-that my pain is … is a gift. A testament. To your mercy." His face, void of eyes, had an almost religious expression. "You let me… bleed for you. Serve you. Even after I failed."

  "Mercy?" Voldemort laughed. He crouched, robes pooling like ink, and seized Barty's left arm. The sleeve fell back to reveal the faded Dark Mark - red and raw. "You mistake duty for compassion. Your failure demanded recompense… and your flesh has bought you a second chance."

  His dark fingernail dug into the Mark. Barty gave an excruciating scream as his skin blackened, the tattoo curling like living smoke under Voldemort's touch. Harry bit down on his lip; his scar almost felt like it had seared with the mark.

  "Remember this agony," Voldemort whispered. "Let it bind you to me. For when the time comes …" He released the arm, and Barty collapsed, shivering. "... you will take what I require from Iris Potter. Her blood. Her defiance. Her life."

  Barty's response was a choked whimper of gratitude.

  Behind his tombstone, Harry fought nausea. This isn't the same ritual, he realized. Voldemort's still fixated on Iris' blood … that must mean he used someone else's.

  Soon, the soft pops of Apparitions came from all corners of the graveyard. Dark, hooded shadows appeared, their robes billowing as they gathered hesitantly. The Death Eaters fell to their knees one by one, masks glinting silver as they crawled forward.

  "Master … master …" Each approached, kissing the hem of Voldemort's robes, before backing away and forming a wide circle.

  With a dreadful face, Voldemort began his "welcoming" speech, sowing fear and unease amongst his followers. Harry, however, had begun carefully inching away from the graveyard. Although he dearly wished to continue listening in, to glean more information about the Death Eaters' plans, his time was running short. He could feel exhaustion setting in - he could not maintain the Cloak's concealment for much longer. Should he be caught in the middle of the annual Death Eater meetup … well, he doubted there could be worse fates.

  Gravestone after gravestone, Harry stepped carefully, listening in. The familiar screeches of Avery, tortured under the Cruciatus. The presence of familiar names: Malfoy, Macnair, Nott, Selwyn, and Yaxley … the flight of Karkaroff … the absence of Snape … so far, the Death Eaters present matched his own memories. Then, faintly, came Iris' name … and Harry stopped, ears straining.

  "Iris Potter lives," Voldemort's voice cut through the darkness. He turned slowly, crimson eyes narrowing on Barty, who knelt in the dirt, his hollow wound still weeping red. "... because my loyal servant failed to subdue a child." The words dripped with derision. "In my absence, have you all forgotten how to use a wand?"

  Barty gave strangled growl, his eyeless face distorting with fury. "I-I beg to rectify it, my Lord. Let me capture–"

  "Silence." Voldemort raised a bone-white hand, and Barty choked. "You are fortunate I still tolerate … imperfection." He gestured lazily at the fearful Death Eaters groveling nearby. "Unlike these sniveling wretches, you did not flee. You bled for me."

  The Dark Lord stepped over the still-twitching Avery. "The girl survives … for now. But the old magic shielding her will not last. Azkaban's walls will crumble, and soon the girl's fate will come to an end." He paused, savoring the weighted silence. "And when it does … her death will be your redemption, Bartemius."

  Barty shuddered, yet his voice was awash with zeal. "Y-yes … my Lord. I will bathe in her blood. I swear it–"

  "Enough." Voldemort pointed his wand, and a ghastly orb shot out from Barty's robes. With a jolt, Harry realized it was Moody's severed Eye, milky and lifeless. "You wish to prove yourself? Then see." Dark magic streamed from the yew wand, crimson bright, sinking into the Eye until its pupil ignited like a hellish star.

  Barty gasped, half in terror, half in rapture, as the enchanted Eye hovered toward his ravaged wound. "T-Thank you–"

  "Carve your dedication into flesh," Voldemort hissed.

  The sight of Moody's Eye had sent alarm bells ringing in Harry's head. By now, he'd reached the edge of the graveyard. The Cloak's misty barrier felt like a heavy shroud, obstructing his breathing. His magical reserves were sputtering like a dying lantern, and he felt the concealment start to thin. Every step toward the graveyard gate felt like wading through tar.

  Harry risked a glance back. Barty was crouched, trembling. Then, the glowing Eye melted bone, crunching into Barty's socket. A guttural scream erupted, Barty's dirty fingernails digging new scars into his cheeks.

  Go. Now. He needed distance to Apparate without interruption, without alerting the enemy.

  Harry sped up, the haze around him flickering. The iron gate ahead stood crooked with rust.

  Almost there–

  Barty fell silent, panting on the ground. The orb was still at first, then twitched. A scarlet glow cast horrific shadows across Barty's mangled face. Swiveling in its new home, the Eye scanned the graveyard with unnatural speed, slicing over shadows, over tombstones–

  –and froze.

  On Harry.

  "M-My Lord!" A wicked screech tore through the night. Barty's bloodstained finger jabbed in the air.

  Shit.

  Harry sprinted. His robes flapped around his legs. Wisps of silver trailed him, dissolving into thin air. Hurling himself at the gate, his calf burned as he spun on his heel, picturing his destination.

  Forest of Dean–

  Air surged. He could practically see the sickly green bolt, its death energy prickling the back of his neck as it screamed towards him.

  The world squeezed inward, hook yanking his stomach–

  –until he collapsed onto dead leaves, retching from adrenaline. The echo of Voldemort's roars still lingered in his ears.