Beta: Cloudy

Trigger warnings, if you're sensitive or in a bad mind state already: proceed with caution.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

It came too suddenly.

I knew what had to be done, really, I understood it.

Power of Plot had proven too strong for me to overcome on my own. Lily and James still died, Quirrel still got possessed, the diary was still given to Ginny, someone broke out of Azkaban, the tournament still happened... and now...

Now Voldemort was going to be resurrected. I acknowledged it'd be futile to stop such events. If the Dark Lord had to return, I wanted it to be on my terms—or at least as much as I could make them my terms. I wanted to use the situation to my advantage so in the end I would come out the victor, and he the loser.

Above all, I could not sit by and allow my dear little Harry to go through such events when I was willing to fall on that grenade.

Mentally, and physically I was prepared as I could be.

Emotionally I had to admit I was lacking. No matter what words I said, or reasoning I provided, there was a deeply ingrained fear inside my heart. Echoes of that horrible night would never leave me. The nightmares, I feared, would persist for all of my life. In the worst of it, I would only see those red eyes and hear that high-pitched cold laughter.

Voldemort scared me.

He was a monster, a powerful force that I had to fight.

Yet fight it, I would.

Because I was so anxious and dreadful of that terrible task, time flew by quicker than what I would have liked. All too soon it was the evening of the task. I was able to eat a bland breakfast, but nerves prevented me from eating lunch or dinner. It was nice that they allowed Sirius, Remus, and the Weasley's—per Sirius's insistence—to visit me before the task, but it did nothing to soothe the jumbled nerves I felt.

With a dry throat, a wobbly stomach, and a resigned heart, I set out to the maze.

The Third Task.

Nervously, I brushed down the hem of my skirt. My fingers ran over my emergency port-key. I bought it years ago to use in case a heist went wrong. It would definitely disqualify me to use it, but if Voldemort was too dangerous to face or if he even uttered Ava I was friggin' using it.

I highly doubted Voldemort would kill me out right. The megalomaniac would want a long drawn-out monologue of bragging to his followers. He'd want to intimidate me to the fullest extent of his capabilities. He'd—

There was a flash of another memory, one that hurt so much to think about it left me breathless.

He'd do to me what he did to Lily.

"Nervous?" teased Tom, picking up on my anxiety. "How unlike you."

"I'm only human. I have no idea what we'll be facing inside the maze."

"You'll be fine."

"I hope so."

Tom's magic softly brushed against my own and I wished I had a warm hand to hold.

My eyes screwed shut as I listened to the students enter the stadiums at the front of the maze. They were loud, boisterous and ignorant of what was to come. I found myself envious of their innocence for a moment, and then I slapped my cheeks to shake off that nonsense.

Wishing was useless.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! In first place, with ninety-two points Miss Rosaline Potter, of Hogwarts School!" The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. "In second place, with eighty points—Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!" More applause. "And in third place—Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!"

"So... on my whistle, Rosaline!" said Bagman. "Three—two—one —"

He blew the whistle, I dove into the maze.

The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they were so tall and thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment I entered the maze.

With my wand out, I muttered, "Lumos."

And so began my journey through the maze.

Honestly after being a thief and sneaking around shit for so long I had an innate instinct to avoid the worst of it. There was only one obstacle I couldn't get around.

It was a sphinx. It had the body of an over-large lion: great clawed paws and a long yellowish tail ending in a brown tuft. Its head, however, was that of a woman. She turned her long, almond-shaped eyes upon me as I approached. She was not crouching as if to spring, but pacing from side to side of the path, blocking my progress. Then she spoke, in a deep, hoarse voice.

"You are very near your goal. The quickest way is past me."

"Oh kind and beautiful sphinx, won't you let me pass?"

"No," she said, continuing to pace. "Not unless you can answer three of my riddles. Answer on your first guess for each—I let you pass. Answer wrongly—I attack. Remain silent—I will let you walk away from me unscathed."

I held my wand aloft. "Okay. May I please hear your first riddle?"

The sphinx sat down upon her hind legs, in the very middle of the path, and recited:

"First think of the person who lives in disguise,

Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies.

Next, tell me what's always the last thing to mend,

The middle of middle and end of the end?

And finally give me the sound often heard

During the search for a hard-to-find word.

Now string them together, and answer me this,

Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?"

"Person who lives in disguise. A fake, a clown, a mask," I trailed off, "masquerade? Spy? Mn. But deals in secrets and lies, ehhh that'd be a spy." My brow furrowed in concentration as I thought. "Sound often heard... I'm sorry, could you repeat after that?"

The sphinx smiled as she did that.

"I heard er the most. String together... Spy-er. Spif—Spider?"

"That is one," agreed the sphinx.

Relieved, I asked, "May I hear your second riddle?"

"Echoes from a shadow realm,

Whispers of things yet to come,

Thought's strange sister dwells in night,

Is swept away by dawning light.

Of what do I speak?"

"Dream."

"HEY!"

"Sorry, it slipped out.

"Dream," I answered, frowning because Tom beat me to it.

The sphinx nodded.

I let out a long sigh. "Okay. One more! May I please hear your final riddle?"

"What costs nothing but is worth everything,

Weighs nothing but lasts a lifetime,

That one person cannot own but two can share?"

Worth everything—?

The word tumbled out, "Love."

The sphinx beamed at me. She got up, stretched her front legs, and moved aside to allow me to pass.

Onto the path I went, goosebumps crawling down my arms.

"Oh no," I complained to Tom as a giant, hairy, spider descended from above me to block the path. "So much ew."

Unfortunately for that spider I knew a lot of offensive sills. My wandless, silent, Accio ripped apart its legs and a Bombarda made its head explode into a gooey mess.

My nose wrinkled in disdain. "Ugh, bloody disgusting things."

Side-stepping the corpse of the monster, I headed on down the path. At the end was the Triwizard Cup. A flutter of butterflies danced in my stomach, the nerves making me hesitate. I double-checked my emergency portkey in my pocket, sighing with relief it was still there.

Here goes everything, I thought, grasping at it.

There was a tug behind my navel and my world warped as I was whisked away.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

I landed gracelessly on some grass. Letting out a shaky breath, I looked around to assess my surroundings.

"Part two of the maze?" inquired Tom, intrigued by the abrupt transition. "Or was the cup a trick?"

"I don't think this was meant to be part of the tournament, Tom."

Tom did not answer right away as I looked around the dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above me to my left. I could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside.

"Wait—that—that can't be—"

Whatever Tom was about to say was abruptly cut off. I heard the crunch of grass behind me, felt a lurch of fear, and whirled around to face what was to come.

Things did not go as expected.

"Crucio."

Pain.

What a small word for something so impactful. The Cruciatus Curse was beyond description aside from that one word. It was not hot, it was not cold, it was not sharp, nor dull—nothing could be used to describe it aside from pain. Agonizing, debilitating, unforgettable pain.

The kind of pain that the mind literally cannot comprehend. The kind of pain that once it's over the mind refuses to think about it anymore other than yeah that hurt.

I had thought that being reborn was going to be the most excruciating experience in any of my lives. I thought having repeated aneurysms for months as my magic repaired the damage was going to be the epitome of pain I could experience.

I was wrong.

The Cruciatus Curse was worse by such a significant amount I was honestly surprised.

Pain.

That was it. Pain from the top of my scalp to the tip of my toes, only pain.

In reality, it was a second, maybe two.

It felt like minutes. I could not breathe, I could not catch my breath long enough to let out a scream. I could only drop to the ground like a sack of stones tossed into a dark lake, as silent tears unwillingly seeped from my eyes.

Pain.

It exploded into my mind palace, shattering nearly every barrier I had set up. I had not prepared, not anticipated, not expected such a world-shattering horrendous experience. Never in my wildest nightmares could I have imagined how excruciatingly arduous the Cruciatus Curse was. I could not gather thoughts, let alone respond to Tom's fervent cry of dismay as I fell to the cold, wet, grassy floor.

Then it was gone.

"ROSIE! ROSIE! Are you—Are you—"

He was flustered, bewildered by the unexpected assault. His magic spread around me, and I could catch echoes of his alarm with each haggard breath I took.

I knew the Cup would transport me to the graveyard. I wanted Voldemort's resurrection for the explicit purpose of using him as bait to draw out those who would have otherwise slipped under my radar. Anyone who would side with him, I wanted to eliminate from the political sphere.

I had anticipated some terror, but I had not considered the fact that I would be assaulted with the Cruciatus right off the bat. Voldemort ought to have been too weak to do such a Curse straight away. I also thought he would want me alive and coherent to torment and terrorize me during his resurrection. Using Cruciatus could addle my mind too much for me to be properly scared of him.

The plan was to allow myself to be captured, witness his resurrection—and ideally see who came to his side to confirm my targets—then use the emergency Portkey in my pocket to immediately leave.

My fingers twitched as I moved to my pocket.

If the Dark Lord was strong enough to do that much already, I needed escape and reassess. It would be foolish to stay any longer.

My fingers grazed against the portkey.

Nothing happened.

Tom, who had known about my emergency portkey prior, was shocked. His magic jumbled and tumbled as I caught the whispers of fear from him.

Death did not scare me, but I was afraid to leave my loved ones alone. After the Yule Ball, I had set things up so if I had died Kreacher would hire someone else using my funds to help Tom get a body. I would hate for my friend to be stuck in limbo, isolated for who knew how much longer. I had also set it up so if I died prematurely Professor Dumbledore and Harry would receive a letter detailing "dreams" I had experienced since I was young. I had prepared that little measure when I was eight or nine.

But—

The thought of seeing my little Harry clutching Iris at my funeral—

His eyes would have been bloodshot and puffy. He would have been pale, flushed, and lanky, unable to eat or sleep.

Would he have been more angry or afraid?

Sirius would have fallen into grief again. He was still mourning James and Lily, if I died too soon would that break him?

Remus was strong, yet terribly fragile at the same time. He would put on a face for Sirius and Harry, but he'd stop taking care of himself in the process. Who would pick him up?

And Tom—

Tom's magic was a mess, a chaotic concert of things the boy was too emotionally immature to know how to handle. Fear for me, concern for himself, rage at the attacker, confusion that the portkey didn't work, and everything in between.

"Change of plans, my dear."

"Rosie..."

I made a move to stand up but—

"Crucio."

The breath left me as I fell back down from the tidal wave of pain that pressed upon me.

Three seconds in reality, thirty minutes in my mind.

Perhaps that was the power of magic, or perhaps that level of pain transcended the mind's capability to comprehend time.

The end result was me laying on the ground, my body shuddering involuntarily from the echoes of the muscle spasms. I was loose, my fingers unable to clench into a fist tight enough to pick up a blade of grass, let alone use my wand.

My eyes drifted up and I saw a harrowed man, beady eyes glaring hatefully at me. I did not recognize the man right away, but I did notice the dark bundle he carried in his arms.

"Wormtail," came a high pitched voice, "that's enough."

Wormtail?

The pain had left my mind in a hazy state, things were fractured and splintered. Words were difficult to form in the foggy mess my mind had melded into.

"Yes, my lord," simpered the beady-eyed man as he used his wand to levitate me into the air.

Peter... Pettigrew?

Due to the damage done to my mind, my mind palace was in shambles. The memories that came to me were immediately shared with Tom. I recalled a picture of the man in question as he became listed as a Wanted Terrorist.

"It looks like him but he's..." Tom struggled to find the right word. "Wasted away. What happened to him?"

"I don't know... I don't know..."

Peter Pettigrew had deteriorated to a husk of man. Wherever he had been spending the past decade, it had not been the life of a well-fed, pampered, pet. His sunken eyes bored into my own, glittering with plain loathing and dark disgust. He levitated me in the dark, placing me in the arms of a cold, stone statue. The statue came to life by magic, grabbing me and holding me still. My wand laid at the ground at my feet, untouched.

I had not anticipated Peter to be at Voldemort's side. Rookwood had escaped Azkaban, after all. Where was he? Why was Peter here instead?

Peter set down the dark bundle and a large snake slithered around it. The traitor then pushed a stone cauldron in front of the statue that held me. It was full of some type of liquid.

There was something in the bundle Peter had placed on the ground. It stirred persistently, as if trying to free itself. Peter busied himself at the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. wand. Suddenly there were crackling flames beneath it. The large snake slithered away into the darkness. The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat very fast. The surface began not only to bubble, but to send out fiery sparks, as though it were on fire. Steam was thickening, blurring the outline of Peter tending the fire. The movements beneath the robes became more agitated.

I listened to the high, cold voice hiss out, "Hurry!"

The whole surface of the water was alight with sparks now. It might have been encrusted with diamonds.

"It is ready, Master."

"Now," ordered the cold voice.

Peter pulled open the robes on the ground, revealing what was inside them, and I cringed at the sight. I had thought those Blasted-End Skrewts were gross, but the wrinkly flesh of baby Voldemort was so much worse. It was hairless and scaly-looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs were thin and feeble, and its face—no child alive ever had a face like that—flat and snakelike, with gleaming red eyes.

Those eyes...

"What—what is that thing?" Tom asked, his tone betraying a hint of nausea. "If that's another one of Lord Voldemort's followers then I truly pity the Dark Lord."

Being held hostage by the concrete angel, and seeing those eyes made me remember that night. That horrible, horrible night.

"Mom...."

The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its thin arms, put them around Peter's neck, and Peter lifted it. Peter lowered the creature into the cauldron; there was a hiss, and it vanished below the surface; I listened to its frail body hit the bottom with a soft thud.

Peter began to speak. His voice shook; he seemed frightened beyond his wits but there was a gleam of bitter hatred in his eyes that pushed him on. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"

"Wait—"

The surface below the angel that held me cracked. A fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Peter's command and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

Peter whimpered once, but another glance at my direction hardened his malice. "Flesh of the servant willingly given you will revive your master."

His scream pierced the night. I watched as he sliced his arm off and it fell into the cauldron with a splash.

Despite the pain Peter was in, he hurried over to stand before me.

"B-blood of the enemy... forcibly taken... you will... resurrect your foe."

The shining silver dagger in Peter's hand shook as he dug it through my right hand. There was an involuntary gasp of pain. I fought against the reflex to immediately break free.

Peter had just severely injured my wand hand, and my emergency port-key no longer worked. Things had deviated enough from canon that I did not have much faith in the Cup transporting me back. I needed time to reassess.

But if I waited too long...

I didn't have much of a choice. My body still trembled from the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. I didn't think I'd be able to cast any wandless spells with how frazzled my state of mind was. I needed to calm down.

Patience. I needed patience. Look for the opportunity. Regain control. Patience.

He staggered back to the cauldron with my blood. He poured it inside. The liquid within turned a blinding white. Peter, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.

The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety blackness. Nothing happened...

And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of me.

But then, through the mist, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

"Robe me," said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Peter, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master's head.

The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at me.

It wore the face of a monster. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake's with slits for nostrils.

"Lord Voldemort," I whispered.

"WHO?! WHAT?!"

Voldemort sneered at me, looking away and examining his own body. His hands were like large, pale spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face; the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cat's, gleamed still more brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant.

Voldemort slipped one of those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Peter, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the angel where I was tied; he fell to the foot of it and lay there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon me again, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh.

That laughter, coupled with those eyes—

I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to hear the screams again.

"My Lord... " he choked, "my Lord... you promised... you did promise . . ."

"Hold out your arm," said Voldemort lazily.

"Oh Master... thank you, Master... "

He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again.

"The other arm, Wormtail."

"Master, please... please... "

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Peter's left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail's robes up past his elbow, revealing the Dark Mark tattoo.

Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Peter's uncontrollable weeping.

"It is back," he said softly, "they will all have noticed it and now, we shall see... now we shall know... "

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Peter's arm. Upon contact, it rapidly darkened.

A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard.

"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 me and Peter, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, he looked down at me again, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face.

"Ah, yes. You."

Me.

Voldemort held out a wand. "Silent, weren't you? Will you stay silent when I use it?"

Use—

"Crucio."

My body convulsed from the pain, the pain, the pain, the pain—

Two seconds. A taste, a sip, a little dip into that bucket of agony, and already I was reaching my limit. Tom's magic jumped in fear around me, concern and anxiety echoing between us. He was clearly disturbed by what he was witnessing, yet more than that he hated how he couldn't do anything about the situation.

His voice had a pleading tilt, reminiscent of a terrified child who was about to witness Daddy shooting the dog, "Let me talk to him, Rosie. I can reason with him."

"That thing c-cannot be re-reasoned with, Tom," I returned, a tad harsher than I wanted to.

"Rosie, I know it looks bad but—"

"But wh-what?" It was hard to form the words. It was hard to find them. "You th-think that-t because yo-you share a s-soul that you are the s-same? That it will spare yo-you? It will o-only view you as a threat-t.

You—You know? For how long—

"Can't breathe during it?" mused Voldemort. "Let's test it one more time, shall we? Crucio."

Five seconds.

Five seconds in reality.

I couldn't stop shaking, I couldn't stop, I couldn't—I couldn't—I can't—I can't—I can't—Ican'tIcan'tI can'tIcan'tIcan't—

He was laughing, Voldemort, that high-pitched delighted squeal of laughter. Those eyes and that laughter threw me back in time. Broken and helpless, I could only watch the memory come back to life in my shattered mind.

Behind my eyes, Tom watched as I remembered Lord Voldemort murdering my mother. That high-pitched squealing laughter of delight as he mocked her, taunted her, and tortured her as Peter had done to me.

Lily Potter was not granted a clean death. No.

He made her scream in agony as he assured her that he would let her live.

Despite how she quivered in pain, when Lord Voldemort began to cast the Killing Curse, she somehow scrounged up the energy to literally throw herself in the way.

One final act of sacrifice; the desperate determination of a mother who did not want to outlive her children.

It was her face that would stay with me until the end.

She died in pain, never knowing if she had saved her children.

Tears slipped from my eyes as I stared back into the maddened red gaze of her murderer. Grief, and shame, curdled in the pit of my stomach. No noise dared to escape my lips as I silently wept in the arms of that concrete angel.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry... I tried... I—I'm so... I...

Voldemort looked away from me, elated. "Oh! Look who returns."

The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward... slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes. Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort, and kissed the hem of his black robes.

"Master... Master... " he murmured.

The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind, a rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered.

"Welcome, Death Eaters," said Voldemort quietly. "Thirteen years... thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday.... We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?"

He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening.

"I smell guilt," he said. "There is a stench of guilt upon the air."

A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare, to step "I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact—such prompt appearances!—and I ask myself... why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?"

No one spoke.

"And I answer myself," whispered Voldemort, "they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment...

"And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living?

"And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort... perhaps they now pay allegiance to another... perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?"

At the mention of Dumbledore's name, the members of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them.

"It is a disappointment to me... I confess myself disappointed... "

One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort's feet.

"Master!" he shrieked, "Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!"

Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand. "Crucio!"

The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked a terrible sound.

Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured Death Eater lay flat upon the ground, gasping.

"Get up, Avery," said Voldemort softly. "Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years... I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?"

He looked down at Peter, who continued to sob.

"Rookwood brought you to me. You stayed with me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Master," moaned Peter, "please, Master... please... "

"Yet you helped return me to my body," said Voldemort coolly, watching Peter sob on the ground. "Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me... and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers... "

Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air. A streak of what looked like molten silver hung shining in the wand's wake. Momentarily shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a gleaming replica of a human hand, bright as moonlight, which soared downward and fixed itself upon Peter's bleeding wrist.

Peter's sobbing stopped abruptly. His breathing harsh and ragged, he raised his head and stared in disbelief at the silver hand, now attached seamlessly to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling, picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it into powder.

"My Lord," he whispered. "Master... it is beautiful... thank you... thank you... "

He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robes.

"May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail," said Voldemort.

"No, my Lord... never, my Lord... "

Peter stood up and took his place in the circle, staring at his powerful new hand, his face still shining with tears. Voldemort now approached the man on Peter's right.

"Lucius, my slippery friend," he whispered, halting before him. "I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius.... Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay... but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?"

"My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," came Lucius Malfoy's voice swiftly from beneath the hood. "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me —"

"And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?" said Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking abruptly. "Yes, I know all about that, Lucius.... You have disappointed me.... I expect more faithful service in the future."

"Of course, my Lord, of course.... You are merciful, thank you... "

Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the space—large enough for two people—that separated Malfoy and the next man.

"The Lestranges should stand here," said Voldemort quietly. "But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me.... When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us... they are our natural allies... we will recall the banished giants... I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear... "

He walked on. Some Death Eaters he passed in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to them.

"Macnair... destroying dangerous beasts for the Ministry of Magic now, Wormtail tells me? You shall have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord Voldemort will provide... "

"Thank you, Master... thank you," murmured Macnair.

"And here"—Voldemort moved on to the two largest hooded figures—"we have Crabbe... you will do better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And you, Goyle?"

They bowed clumsily, muttering dully.

"Yes, Master."

"We will, Master."

"The same goes for you, Nott," said Voldemort quietly as he walked past a stooped figure in Mr. Goyle's shadow.

"My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your most faithful—"

"That will do," said Voldemort.

He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red eyes, as though he could see people standing there.

"And here we have seven missing Death Eaters... three dead in my service. One has already set out on a mission for me. One, too cowardly to return... he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever... he will be killed, of course... and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service."

One sent on a mission? Could that be Rookwood? What mission?

The Death Eaters stirred, and I saw their eyes dart sideways at one another through their masks.

"He is at Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our young harlot arrived here tonight...

"Yes," said Voldemort, a grin curling his lipless mouth as the eyes of the circle flashed in my direction. "Rosaline Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call her my guest of honor."

There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the right of Peter stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy's voice spoke from under the mask.

"Master, we crave to know... we beg you to tell us... how you have achieved this... this miracle... how you managed to return to us... "

"Ah, what a story it is, Lucius," said Voldemort. "And it begins—and ends—with my young friend here. Oh? Still silent?"

Is he wanting me to scream in pain? To beg?

I coolly stared back at him. The tears had dried halfway through his speech. Thankfully I had plenty of time to recompose myself during his theatrics.

"She thinks her little mind is strong enough to withstand me?" he laughed, delightfully high pitched as he shot me with another Cruciatus, the Dark Lord relished in the way he said, "Crucio!"

For an insane monster, he was meticulous in making sure the Curse only lasted a few seconds. Not enough to break my mind like the Longbottom's, but enough to skirt the edge. With each touch of the Curse, I felt a piece of me break.

Color faded from the world around me, a detached sort of misery floated on the depths of my mind. Images of another life briefly flashed before me; one of ash and apathy. Thoughts were harder to form, my senses barely tangible enough for me to process.

"Rosie, stay with me. Focus, stay focused. Rosie, Rosie, Rosie—"

Was it because I was a girl? He wanted to duel Harry. He saw Harry as an equal, but not me?

Lord Voldemort did not view me as enough of a threat to immediately kill, but evidently, I had irritated him far more than canonical Harry for him to go out of his way to torment me. It might have been a sexism thing—his words relied heavily on it—but it could have also been because of an action I had done.

I was someone who had assumed control of Slytherin—something he had done in the past. I knew there were plenty of rumors about me being arrogant—which was true, I would deny that vice—and many more about what I had accomplished. Did he view me as enough of a stain on his precious Slytherin legacy that in his deranged mind I warranted his rage?

Or did I look too much like Lily, the witch who thwarted him?

I raised a chin up and continued to stare coolly back at him, refusing to respond.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed into slits. "Such a terribly rude thing aren't you? You think you can ignore me? Me?"

"Does the sun answer to the whines of beasts?" I rasped out.

His lips curled back in a silent snarl. "Whores should bow to their superiors. Crucio."

My breath was stolen away from me as that painpainpainpainpainpain—

It went on like that. Voldemort would begin to recite his tale of how he regained his body, but every so often he would pause to grant me a couple more seconds under Cruciatus. He always seemed to know how to give me just enough time to regather my thoughts and regain my sanity before he cast it once more all the while insisting I was nothing but a dirty whore.

Every time that spell landed on me, Tom's magic violently lurched. His confusion had abated, he was nothing but dark rage and fear. Fear for me, or himself, I did not know...

I was strong. I was strong, or so I had thought, but each Crucio wore me down. I was in a haze of pain, my thoughts only barely coherent.

"I..."

"Rosie... Rosie, stay with me. You said you were my friend, aren't you?"

"Yes..."

"Rosie... Rosie... you are the cleverest witch I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. You are strong, intelligent, and charming. Because you are so brilliant you know you have your limits. You can't do this on your own—you don't need to."

"What.... are yo... you saying.... Tom?"

"I am your friend. Let me help you."

"What..."

"Let go, Rosie. You trust me, don't you?"

"I do... Tom... The Cup... it might... "

"Shh. Don't worry. I'll handle it, Rosie. Go to sleep."

My eyes drifted shut and I surrendered myself entirely to his chilling magic.

Tom Marvolo Riddle took complete control over my body as my mind sunk into the depths of oblivion.

ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ

Yes, Rookwood is the one on the mission. Only he can do it which is why Peter was there instead. And the whole Peter thing will be addressed later in the story. Same for the prepared portkey not working.

Canonically, Voldemort saw a lot of himself in Harry and (unintentionally?) treated him closer to an equal. Rosie is not an orphaned boy, and that kind of comparison would be harder to make. She was also not meant to be the "Prophesied One," yet she is credited equally for his defeat which infuriates him. And yeah, I feel like a deranged Voldemort would lean towards sexism.

Answer: Bullshit

Question: Which generation from the Potterverse would you like to go to school with?

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