Resurrection
Harry shuddered against the grave as he watched the being leave the cauldron.
A lean, lithe pale scaled figure with deep red eyes stepped out, focus trained solely on Harry.
“Robe me,” was the order it gave to the sobbing Wormtail, who was still clutching his arm missing a hand.
Despite the obvious pain, Wormtail was quick to follow the man's orders and within moments the tall figure was dressed in luxurious long black robes.
Voldemort. The being that had haunted Harry's nightmares for the last four years stood before him, staring straight at him.
The pain Harry had been in when they first landed in the graveyard had passed and he was left feeling wrung out and the cut from the ritual dagger on his arm stung something fierce. Harry's breathing behind his gag was harsh. But it was his heart that was in the most pain as his mind replayed the dead, dead, dead gaze of Cedric. Cedric who had tried to get their quidditch match score recalled because of Harry fainting from dementors. Cedric who had awkwardly hinted how to uncover the secrets of the golden dragon egg from the first task. Cedric who had been alive not even ten minutes ago.
Cedric who was dead.
Something feral and hurt whined deep within the recesses of Harry's mind and Harry barely refrained from whimpering. He didn't want to appear any weaker than he already did before the man in front of him.
Harry waited for something. Some dramatics or theatrics, as was common in his encounters with the man. But strangely the man stood quiet, merely turning his head to the side and continuing to stare at Harry.
“Harry Potter...” he finally hissed out but stopped before saying anything else.
The slow slithering sound of the giant snake became audible.
“Master, what is wrong?” came the hissing question that only made sense to two of the three people present.
There is quiet for a few moments before, “Tell me Nagini, do you sense anything about the boy bound there?”
Nagini hisses in surprise, before slithering closer to Harry. “What about the hatchling, Master?”
Voldemort froze at the snake's wording.
He walked forward a few steps, ignoring the whimpering Wormtail on the ground. A vindictive part of Harry relished in the man's suffering but most of him was focused on the threat of Voldemort.
As the man stepped closer and closer to the bound teen, Harry felt his heart pounding furiously and loudly in his ears, like increasingly loud war drums.
When Voldemort was within touching distance of Harry he stopped.
This close, Harry could see the pale colored scales were technically a shade of blue, though they were so pale that they were closer to white. The red eyes were slit like a snakes and bore down into Harry with an intensity that honestly scared him.
“Harry Potter,” he repeated again, “What are you?”
And then a hand reaches out to tilt Harry's head up to meet his red gaze full on.
Harry doesn't know what he expects; pain perhaps, or something else, but what feels like a backwards movie reel of his entire life playing through his head is not it.
When in moments it is over, Voldemort drops his head like he had been burned, much like Quirrel was in Harry's first year. But now there is no burns on Voldemort's skin. There is only confused and intrigued red eyes.
The man's mouth opens as if to speak, only to pause and stay open for moments longer as he takes in a long inhale. Harry watches in confusion as the confusion on Voldemort's face compounds itself and the man lets out an animalistic sound filled with confusion. Some mix of a whine and a growl. It was bewildering to the teen. Especially the part of him that understood it perfectly.
Voldemort wasn't the only one confused after all. Harry was too.
After all, why wasn't Harry being killed right now? Why was he still alive when Cedric, brave, kind Cedric, had been killed within seconds?
Finally it all became too much and his own body let out an animalistic sound, a needy whine filled with confusion and desperation.
It felt as if a part of Harry was broken, had broken when the other teenager had fallen to the ground, unliving, and now Harry was in pieces and nothing was going the way he expected. Where was the fight to survive? Why wasn't Voldemort attacking him as he always did?
Why was the man himself shaking and reaching a hand back up to touch Harry's cheek?
“Who are you, Harry Potter?”