The Ritual
Harry Potter ran into the clearing holding the Triwizard cup at the same time as Cedric Diggory. The fourteen year old girl blushed as the other Hogwarts Champion trailed his eyes down her body.
Her clothes were torn in the process of getting through the maze, and they weren't torn in specifically appropriate places like what happened for actresses in the cinema. The girl crossed her arms self-consciously and the boy smirked.
"Ladies first, Potter. I'll see you at the stands."
She eyed the Hufflepuff warily but ended up nodding before she grabbed the Triwizard cup, and found herself torn off the ground and sent spinning through the air. It was a portkey.
Harry hit the ground hard with a groan. She shivered as a cool wind blew through the tattered remains of her clothes and the frigidness of the ground soaked into her bones. Looking around, the teen found that she was surrounded by headstones. They were all weathered, clearly not recent additions to the graveyard.
"Where-?"
A red beam of light hit her from behind and the Girl-Who-Lived blacked out.
Peter Pettigrew stood over her prone form.
He dragged the girl over to the tombstone and tied her with a simple incarcerous. Wormtail paused, eyes on pale unbroken skin. On the rare occasion that he went up to spy on the Potter girl and saw her slowly starting to develop, he had thought to touch, if it wouldn't give himself away. Now here she was, unconscious. Pliant, and at his mercy.
"Wormtail!"
For as weak as the Dark Lord was, his voice was cutting and had the cowardly man flinching back away from the girl.
"Yes, master."
The ingredients were quickly gathered, and the ritual begun. Harry slowly regained consciousness as they reached the portion where they needed bone, flesh, and blood.
She stared at the bubbling cauldron with a sort of detached curiosity.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son."
She had been fighting to survive for so long now, even before she came into the wizarding world.
"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master."
She was so tired of fighting. She didn't want to just survive, she wanted to live.
"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."
She could never live while fighting against Voldemort.
"I give you my blood willingly, as a gift, that I might truly live." she hissed under her breath just before her blood was added to the potion.
The mixture hissed and popped as Wormtail gather the small creature that was his master, and submerged it into the concoction.
Harry let her head hang as the magic took its course. She gritted her teeth against the pain of her injuries from the maze. The position she was in gave her no leverage to alleviate her discomfort, at the pain or the way she felt exposed to who was supposed to be her parents' old friend and the Dark Lord who rose from the cauldron in a cloud of smoke. She lifted her head as the smoke cleared and saw not some monster to fit the tales of his deeds, but a handsome middle aged man.
Tom Riddle was bare, yet showed no sign of self-consciousness. His dark brown hair was wavy and smooth, his complexion an unearthly pale that nearly seemed to glow. His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut and his jawline was strong.
He assessed his own renewed form before summoning and donning clothes, and turning his attention to his guest.
Tom Marvolo Riddle walked closer to where the supposed "Saviour" stood, bound to the tombstone of his dead father. Her chest was mostly bare, breasts heaving as she gasped through the pain.
He reached out and caressed the side of her face with his pale hand. Her green eyes met his red as she trembled in the cold. A flick of his wrist released her from her bonds, leaving her to collapse against him.
He summoned his own cloak from the house on the hill and, with a surprising level of care, wrapped the dark heavy material around her shoulders.
Harry shuddered but couldn't stop herself from soaking in the warmth of the covering. The idea of Wormtail seeing any of her, knowing who he was and what he has done, somehow made her skin crawl more than the idea of Lord Voldemort seeing her body through tattered robes.
"You changed the ritual," Tom stated, his voice smooth as silk and low in a way that thrummed through her comfortingly.
"I- I don't know if I actually did anything," she whispered cautiously.
Wormtail was still whimpering over his lost hand, but Voldemort simply enshrouded the pitiful man in a silencing ward so as to remain undisturbed with who he suspected was more important than he originally anticipated. He could feel a familiar hum within her, one that hardly anyone would've sensed.
"Oh but you did, I could sense it the moment it happened. You made my resurrection even more successful than I could have anticipated. Tell me, little one, why?"
Glassy green eyes stared dazedly at him, her shivering frame, far too small and frail for a fourteen year old girl.
"I didn't want to survive anymore."