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Harry had no time to think, not even a moment after the cup transported him and Cedric to this cold and eerie graveyard.
Cedric's cold, lifeless body lay before him, vacant glass eyes staring up at the night sky, and it was only then that Harry realized Cedric had stopped breathing.
The weight on his chest grew heavier as he became acutely aware that his ribs were being crushed by the scythe of a looming statue, keeping him pinned upright against what appeared to be a grave.
Panic, a sheer and terrifying panic, began coursing through Harry's entire being.
The approach of Wormtail, however, finally pulled Harry from his erratic thoughts.
Wormtail cast a spell at the grave, causing the epitaph to crack open and reveal a skeleton enmeshed in the soil beneath.
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son," Wormtail intoned, levitating a large, ash-white bone from the grave and dropping it into the awaiting cauldron with a quick slash of his wand.
The concoction within hissed and bubbled as the bone was consumed.
"Flesh of the servant, willingly given," Wormtail continued, his voice wavering as he brought a sacrificial blade down on his own forearm, severing it off with a sickening slice and wince of pain. The severed limb fell into the cauldron, making it hiss and bubble even more violently.
"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe," Wormtail finished, his gaze turning to Harry with a menacing look as he approached, the blade still wet with blood.
Harry stiffened as Wormtail drew nearer, the blade pressing into his skin and cutting deeply, so deeply that droplets of his blood splashed loudly onto the remaining skeleton in the cracked grave beneath. Harry could feel the sinister energy emanating from the blade, the dark magic feeding on the essence of his own magic as he screamed and howled into the night, his hatred for Wormtail's betrayal the only thing keeping him conscious.
Wormtail then returned to the cauldron, tapping the droplets of Harry's blood into the churning maelstrom.
As soon as the blood touched the concoction, which contained the emaciated remains of a dark lord, the skeletal remnants of a father, the reverent off-cuts of a zealous turn-coat, and Harry's own blood, the cauldron started sizzling and overboiling. Suddenly, it cracked down the sides and began melting away, revealing the floating creature that had been forming within - a monstrous, swirling figure that Harry knew was not a good sign of things to come. If he was panicked before, that feeling only multiplied tenfold now.
Harry's glasses had seen better days. Cracked and smeared with dirt and sweat, they offered a distorted view of the world — a world that was swiftly turning into a nightmare.
The haze in the air thickened, and through the blur, one thing remained painfully clear: a floating creature was taking shape, and it was not heralding anything good.
Panic coursed through Harry's veins, multiplying tenfold as he instinctively sensed that whatever was manifesting in front of him reeked of dark magic and impending doom.
Before him, the remnants of a sickly creature, one that had been unceremoniously dumped into a cauldron earlier, began to morph into something far more sinister — Voldemort.
He was a hulking figure of terror: tall, broad, and undeniably evil. Yet there was something jarringly unexpected about this dark figure; he was utterly, unabashedly naked, standing there as raw and exposed as the day he had been born.
From his vantage point, Harry found himself momentarily captivated despite the overwhelming fear clawing at his insides.
Voldemort's back was turned, showcasing the lean muscles of his shoulders and the sinewy tendons that traced under his skin.
For an instant, Harry's mind drummed up an absurd thought: with that build, Voldemort could probably have made an impressive Quidditch beater.
A current of disbelief mingled with another, sharper realization; looking at the dark lord’s physique was utterly inappropriate given the circumstances. He hoped fervently that his face wasn’t flushing, and he attempted to steady his racing heart with a deep, calming breath.
Lost in this surreal moment, Harry had failed to notice that Voldemort’s head had turned, their eyes locking in a suspended moment that felt like eternity. The crimson gleam of Voldemort’s eyes met the vibrant green of Harry's, and in that chilling pause, a silent recognition passed between them.
Time, for a heartbeat, seemed to stand still.
But the moment was shattered by the faint whimper of Wormtail, who was crumpled at Voldemort’s feet, dragging his bleeding stump away from the dirt. Harry shot a concentrated glare at the pathetic figure, harboring a dark wish for Wormtail's suffering to be as prolonged and painful as possible.
Voldemort, however, displayed little to no concern for his follower. His focus remained steadfast on Harry, the true target of his malevolence. Even while Wormtail writhed in pain, the Dark Lord’s attention was solely on the trembling boy pressed against the gravestone of his Muggle father.
“It’s time for you to die, Harry Potter,” Voldemort declared, a sinister thrill lacing his words.
As he stalked closer, Harry’s heart raced alarmingly, each beat punctuating the reality that his life was nearing its end. Harry felt the weight of Voldemort’s presence, the aura of violence and death that seemed to suffocate the space between them. Yet, as he trained his eyes on Voldemort’s hollowed collarbones, he involuntarily noted not just the darkness of the moment but also the absurdity of the situation — Voldemort was still naked.
Harry found himself torn, a pang of odd fascination mingling with his dread. It was an enviable physique from behind, and he dared not imagine what lay in front.
In a desperate bid to avoid further ogling the monstrous being, he diverted his gaze upwards, instinctively seeking solace in the moonlight overhead.
Voldemort registered the flicker of panic as Harry’s pulse quickened further, a smug smile creeping across his face. It was a sadistic pleasure for the Dark Lord to perceive the discomfort he was causing. Here he was, the feared and despised Voldemort, standing bare before his adversary, relishing the power it gave him — not just as a wielder of dark magic but also as a twisted embodiment of the monstrous absurdity of their world.
Voldemort surveyed Harry's reticence and grew increasingly annoyed by the fact that he refused to look at him, however, on closer inspection Voldemort could see a faint dusting of rouge blush painting Potters cheekbones. Surely not. Harry you sweet summer child.
A smirk curled on the dark lord's lips, revealing both amusement and malice.
Voldemort stepped closer, now aware that Harry couldn't look at him, because he was trying to avoid looking at his nakedness.
Precious.
While most would be horrified by such a revelation, Voldemort felt no shame in his nakedness. Instead, it presented an opportunity; a chance to toy with Harry, to watch the young wizard squirm. The discomfort in Harry's eyes was exhilarating. Voldemort thrived on the anxiety of his enemies, and he could practically taste Harry's unease in the air.
"Why Harry," Voldemort taunted, closing the distance between them, "you can look now. Don't be shy. Surely you share post-game showers with your teammates. Why be so prudish? You were so loud earlier with your appreciation of my many assets." The words dripped with mockery, embellished by his cruel charm.
Harry's face burned, caught in a mix of anger and confusion. He wanted nothing more than to unleash the pent-up frustration boiling within him. However, his gaze fell involuntarily, landing on Voldemort’s imposing presence—his nudity displayed in its entirety, unapologetically bold.
“Fucking hell!” Harry thought, grappling with an unexpected realization. “It’s massive. No wonder his wand is thirteen inches! There were two basilisks at Hogwarts it seems.” The thought was absurd, ridiculous, and yet unavoidably present in his mind.
But as Voldemort caught that momentary flicker of surprise in Harry's eyes—an inflection of intrigue and astonishment—he felt a rush of satisfaction ripple through him.
Perhaps he still possessed the power to utterly disarm, not just with caustic words or paralyzing curses, but with the sheer audacity of his presence.
However, before the moment could stretch uncomfortably longer, Harry regained his composure, quickly turning his gaze away. He refused to let Voldemort’s twisted game corner him into a pit of humiliation.
Every instinct screamed to fight, to stand against the embodiment of his worst fears.
Sensing Harry's discomfort but delighted by it, Voldemort decided to spare him further embarrassment. With a casual flick of his wrist, he summoned a dark green-black set of robes, allowing them to materialize around him. As the fabric enveloped his form, he felt the familiar power that came from being corporeal once more, a reminder of his dominion over life and death.
Voldemort breathed in deeply, savoring the heavy smell of death that clung to the air in the graveyard.
Thoughts of the fate that awaited his father and the rest of his lineage flashed through his mind, igniting a cold anger within him.
I'll never be buried here like my wretched father and his ilk, he mused darkly. For I’ve conquered death and shall never die.
The weight of those words felt reassuring, an affirmation of the place he had carved out in the annals of history, where his name would be eternally feared.
“Wormtail! Come here!” Voldemort barked, his voice cutting through the stillness like a knife.
The trepidation that filled Wormtail’s every movement was palpable as he scuttled to his master’s side, his head bowed low in deference. “What does my Lord command?” he asked, quaking under the weight of his own cowardice.
“Your arm, Wormtail,” he replied sharply, extending his taloned fingers with an unsettling grace.
Mistakenly, Wormtail offered the severed arm he kept as a gruesome trophy, only for Voldemort to hiss at him, “The other arm, Wormtail.”
With a whimper of submission, Wormtail relinquished the marked arm, and Voldemort, without a touch, summoned his Death Eaters with a flick of his wand.
As this tension unfolded, Harry watched with terrified eyes, trying to grasp the impending horror that loomed near him. The dread that hung in the air wrapped around him like a cold shroud, and he instinctively recoiled.
Pop after pop of apparition echoed through the graveyard, followed by the emergence of cloaked figures that encircled Harry like a pack of wolves, ready to pounce.
The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning: he was ensnared in a deadly game, and his odds of survival had plummeted.
Shit.
This is not good, he thought, grappling with panic when he felt the grip of the statue tighten around him. Unbeknownst to him, his struggles had not gone unnoticed, and that that good old fashioned Potter luck was about to run out. He decided to try and squirm his way out of the vice-like grip of the statue. Unfortunately his struggling alerted Voldemort to his presence. Did he forget! That. I. Was. Here!
Voldemort approached him thoughtfully, the glint in his red eyes betraying a mix of irritation and amusement.
“Don’t be idiotic, Harry. Not everything is about you,” he chided, but the fierce determination in Harry's emerald gaze refused to wane.
There was a strange sense of defiance stirring within him, a thought that perhaps, just perhaps, even in the darkest of moments, he could find a way to disrupt the sinister plans of the Dark Lord.
As Harry inhaled sharply, the breath escaped him in a stuttered gasp, causing an involuntary cough that sprayed right into Voldemort’s pale visage.
For a moment, Voldemort looked merely irked, like he was trying to hold in a fart for an hour at a formal event. The visual actually calmed Harry down somewhat, and he started to smile. He was very close to laughing outright, but thought better of it when he noticed the murderous glare that Voldemort was sending his way. Harry tried his best to suppress an unwelcome laugh at an entirely inappropriate time.
The absurdity of the situation briefly amused Harry, his courage momentarily buoyed by that shared absurdity.
“What are you going to do? Kill me with your paper-thin patience?” Harry shot back, his Gryffindor spirit undeterred by Voldemort’s anger.
It was a calculated move, but Voldemort's cold confidence began to waver.
"Harry, you are by far the most irritating person alive. You exhaust me."
That made Harry perk up. "So, in other words you've given up your goal of murdering me, and want to keep me around because my existence gives you purpose, and without me your life would be dull?" Harry's Gryffindor courage was legendary, and Voldemort had a front row seat.
"No. You must die. The Fates demanded it thirteen years ago. I must kill you."
That stunned Harry.
"Wait. Hold on a minute. Fates? What're you on about?" Harry was well and truly perplexed, but his curiosity won out.
"Tell me what you mean by tha-aahhh! What the fuck! What was that?!" Harry looked down at his feet, and there sticking out of the ground, was a literal arm clinging to his foot. A fully fleshed out arm, with muscles, skin, veins, and everything. It freaked Harry out so much that he screamed. He screamed so hard that it got stuck in his throat, making it a silent scream. He tried to pull his legs up and shake the arm off, but it stayed attached.
Voldemort couldn't help but be disappointed by Harry's reaction. He'd thus far been told that Harry had gone up against a fire-breathing dragon, and survived, so to think that an arm clutching at the boy, was the 'thing' to send him into hysterics. It made no sense to Voldemort. The boy made no sense.
This was the brat that was destined to kill me.
Disappointing.
Voldemort cast a petrificus totalus and silencio on the boy to make his irritating screeching go away, and his panicked rustling cease.
Waving his hand, the grave gave way and split completely open, with all the soil collapsing outwards towards Voldemorts feet.
From the gaping earth emerged a figure, disturbingly familiar—a man that looked astonishingly like him, but in a form long forgotten.
The death eaters, wormtail, Voldemort, and even Harry, were all stunned into silence. For there on the ground, between Potter and the Dark Lord, was a dirt covered man. But not just any man, the man was a spitting image of Tom Riddle in his prime.
Voldemort inhaled sharply, the weight of dread creeping in as he met the gaze of his own father’s body, seemingly untouched by time.
“Fuck!” he screamed inwardly, overwhelmed by a brewing tempest of emotions.
{{Why, after all he had sacrificed, must he endure this humiliation?}}
The Death Eaters shifted uneasily, the language of snakes swirling ominously in the air.
As the shadows of his lineage loomed over him, Voldemort's grip on his plans felt precariously close to slipping.
Meanwhile, Harry, now free of his fear, stared at the sight with intrigue. {{“What have you done now, Tom?”}} he thought in parseltongue, curiosity igniting a spark in his eyes.
Voldemort had underestimated the boy once again. He didn't realise he had the ability to speak the language of snakes.
I'll have to look into that later, he thought with changrin.
But back to the new problem at hand. My father.
{{Why? Why am I forever cursed with this filfth of a man?}}
The death eaters shifted uneasily on their feet whenever their lord reverted to speaking the language of snakes. Voldemort bristled at their obvious discomfort. He looked each of them in the eye to make them even more uncomfortable.
Meanwhile.
Harry was having a dilemma of sorts, busy oggling the naked form of Tom Riddle Senior, his eyes hungrily drinking in every detail of the older man's physique.
The broad, muscular shoulders tapered down to a trim, chiseled waist, the defined abdominal muscles rippling beneath the skin as Riddle shifted slightly in his unconscious state.
Harry's gaze lingered on the man's pert, shapely backside, admiring the firm, sculpted curves, before traveling lower to the impressive, well-endowed member nestled between his powerful thighs.
So this was where the Dark Lord's legendary virility came from - it seemed prodigious size and sexual prowess (Harry could only guess, not knowing if this was truly the case, he had no solid 'evidence'), truly did run in the Riddle family. Harry felt a flush of unexpected arousal as he took in the sheer masculinity and raw physicality of the older man, his body radiating an undeniable primal allure.
Voldemort's father was the very embodiment of rugged, unapologetic male beauty, and Harry couldn't help but appreciate every inch of his magnificent form with a mix of awe and lust. It was utterly, undeniably human.
Voldemort huffed into the cold, forming a small cloud of fine mist.
Then he looked at Harry. The boys eyes were fixed on his father lying on the ground. He didn't look scared anymore, as a matter of fact, he looked-
"HARRY! Will you cease that!" With a quick stab of his bone white yew wand, Voldemort divested his fathers body of filth with a thorough cleaning charm and dressed him in monochrome plain wizards robes.
He ignored the grumbling from his death eaters.
If there was anything that purebloods hated, it was to see a muggle in their garments playing dress up.
Of course none of them were brave enough to voice their displeasure.
Harry was mumbling something under his breath. Voldemort wasn't usually the type to entertain commentary, but he was always a studious person, so he lifted the silencio.
"Thank you." Harry calmly said, much to the surprise of Voldemort and his followers.
"I was just saying, that maybe you made a mistake with the ritual, and 'anyone' who shares genetic material with you, might also be resurrected along with you."
Voldemort's dark magic crackled in the graveyard, and his murderous glare had one target - a mister Harry James Potter. The mere insinuation that He, the magical wixen, the great Heir of Slytherin, made a mistake.
Abhorrent.
Harry took quick measures to ensure he lived for a little longer by quickly spluttering out, "Well, what other explanation do you have for why your father is here, IN THE FLESH!" the last part rushed out as a panicked scream.
Voldemort had to hand it to the infernal kid, he had a point. HOW?!! He didn't actually have an answer. And wasn't that just the most damning thing to admit!
Which of course, he never would.
If he ever admitted fault out loud, he simply couldn't bare his precious Bellatrix looking at him with disgust. Ousted by a malnourished runt of hormonal youth.
The embarrassment.
He'd never live it down.
He'd giftwrap and send his wand to Dumbledore himself if that ever happened.
"So, um, what now?" Harry asked a little to quietly, still stuck to the broken grave of his father.
Voldemort looked at his fathers body.
"Ennervate."
Tom Riddle Seniors body jolted a few times before he rolled slowly onto his back coughing and hacking up the dirt that was lodged in his trachea. He slowly opened his eyes and blinked a few times to get used to opening them. With a bleary-eyed hazy vision of a pair of thin feet and legs dangling next to him, and a tall black cloud to his other side, Tom Riddle Senior slowly made to get up. He stumbled almost immediately, like a new born calf just learning to stand, he kept stumbling. But eventually he was hunched over half-standing with his hands planted firmly on his knees to stabilise himself.
What felt like hours, was in reality, just a minute of two.
For some odd reason no one spoke or offered the former corpse assistance.
The purebloods for obvious reasons- not wanting to touch a muggle for one, Voldemort still shocked at seeing his father very much alive, and well Harry couldn't very well help now could he, being trapped as he was.
Tom Riddle Senior took some rapid inhales and then finally looked up and around at those gathered in the graveyard, "Hello, I'm not sure what's happened," he coughed a few times, and his voice was very hoarse and raspy from disuse, he heaved in a few more deep breaths to get his bearings, "could one of you gentlemen tell me what I'm doing here. I can't seem to remember how i got here." Tom Riddle Senior was looking around for some guidance, pleading really.
Voldemort was at his wits end. He started to lift his wand.
"Don't! Don't you bloody dare!" Harry all but bellowed at Voldemort. Forgotten was his panic, to be replaced by that sickening Gryffindor courage. "Don't you dare lay a finger on him Voldemort!" the death eaters flinched at hearing their lords name said so openly, "Leave him be! Obliviate him, and send him overseas for all I care, just don't do what I know you're about to do!" Harry was enraged. Which historians will say 'could mean nothing,' but we the readers know better.
Voldemort lowered his wand. NOT! Because of the wily idiocy of one 'mister-say-stupid-things-without-thinking-Harry-i'm-just-making-it-up-as-i-go-along-James-luck-is-always-conveniently-on-my-side-Potter,' but because he was vexxed. Well and truly vexxed. (It's almost like the most unhinged fanfiction authors plot one could possibly fathom and decided to write at 3am sleep-deprived, with no memory of what a blade of grass feels like, or how the suns rays look on freckled skin). Not because Voldemort was listening to Harry. Not at all. Not because of that.
Tom Riddle Senior was starting to lean dangerously to one side, and as it looked like he was falling, Harry quickly yelled, "quick, someone catch him, he's about to fall."
But before he could fully collapse, a wing backed armchair coalesced underneath him, and he fell gracefully into it with the help of a taloned hand.
Voldemort had quickly gripped him fathers arm, and placed him into the seat.
Again, for those wondering. No, his death eaters couldn't believe what was happening. Yes, they were wildly uncomfortable with the turn of events. No, they weren't going to speak up, lest their lives be forfeit. They're bigoted, not suicidal.
"Thank you." Tom Riddle Senior blinked up at Voldemort, not quite adjusting to the darkness yet. He smiled gently up at his son (whom he didn't know at the time was his son) for his assistance, not quite realising what it was he'd woken up to.
Voldemort never saw his father smile at him, a haunting absence that scarred his childhood.
In the orphanage, he often imagined the joyful expression on his father's face, hoped for a moment filled with warmth and acceptance. But those dreams evaporated as quickly as the remnants of a forgotten spell—leaving him bereft, with only shadows of what could have been.
Standing in the darkened graveyard, enshrouded by a darkness far more profound than the night, he felt an uncanny mix of longing and anger wash over him.
Here was a man who was supposed to be integral to his existence yet was nothing more than an enigma, a ghost of unfulfilled paternal affection.
Now faced with a reality he had not anticipated, Voldemort found himself struck mute, an oddity for someone so infamously clever.
But then, there was Harry—the prophesied savior of the wizarding world—unfazed by the tension in the air.
His voice cut through the silence, bright and almost naive: "This is rather a sweet moment. A sweet moment between father and son." Harry's interpretation of the scene was at odds with the raw emotions thrumming beneath the surface.
While Voldemort grappled with familial connection and rejection, Harry saw foundations ripe for redemption.
The stark contrast between their perspectives warped the gravity of the situation, as Tom Riddle Senior stood in stunned disbelief, grappling with the idea of being a father. The crumbling shadows of his past loomed large, threatening to swallow them all.
The revelation of Voldemort as his son rocked Tom Riddle Senior to his core.
"How could this be true?" The words fell from his lips like brittle leaves, rustling with disbelief and anger. "Your hers! You’re that harlot’s spawn!” Such contempt spilled forth, masking the confusion that wrinkled his brow.
In that moment, Voldemort's fury ignited; he was at the precipice of lashing out, a primal instinct to defend himself before this reluctant patriarch.
But Harry, intuitive and observant, interjected, suggesting proper introductions—a hint of diplomacy in the chaos.
He aimed to salvage the fragile thread of conversation, looking to bridge the unbridgeable chasm between father and son before it shattered completely.
Voldemort's anger flared yet again; the words Tumbled from him in a stoic demand for clarity. "What things did Dumbledore share with you, Harry? Out with it!"
Curiosity drove him now, a hopeless yearning mingled with the venom in his tone. Perhaps the truth held the answers he sought, perhaps it could illuminate the dark corners of his own identity.
But just as Harry prepared to unearth buried truths, Riddle Senior implored him to stop. “No, please don’t.” His voice was barely a whisper now, desperate and laced with pain. The agony of the past twisted into a knot in his chest, a suffocating reminder of what was lost and irretrievable.
He looked at Harry, his eyes pleading, basking in the muted glow of hope that maybe, just maybe, the past was better left undisturbed. “Let it be," he begged, the raw weight of vulnerability etched on his features.
"I really think he should know Sir. It might-."
"I said no damn it! Him knowing won't change anything! Just leave it alone, I beg you!" Tom Riddle Senior was now openly pleading with Harry. His pearlescent round eyes looking up at Harry with the unspoken plea of please don't, i can't bear it anymore.
Harry took pity on the man, and went silent. It must've been so traumatic for him. What Tom's mother did obviously scarred the man-.
{{What did my mother do Harry? Tell me now! Tell me right this instant, or everyone here, including you, dies.}}
Voldemort was obviously distraught. His magic was seeping erratically, infecting all those around him. The graveyards temperature dropped significantly. Even the stone pressed against Harrys back was warmer than the air around them.
Harry looked at the shaking form of Tom Riddle Senior, then back up to crimson eyes.
{{He's not to blame. He didn't mean to be apart of any of this. Your mother Merope drugged him, fed him a love potion. She forced him to marry her.}}
Harry stopped to catch his breath, speaking the language of snakes took up a lot of air, that he was getting light-headed.
{{Then she fell pregnant shortly after.}} Harry noticed Voldemort suddenly still, and snap his head to look over at this father, then back up at Harry, his eyes widened and then narrowed.
He was suspicious.
Harry almost rolled his eyes. Stupid old man! Why would I lie about this?!
{{Because, Harry, you want to disrupt my train of thought, and unseat me from my current path. You hope to do that foolish caricature of saviour that everyone has labelled you, and in doing so, save as many of them as you possibly can}}
Voldemort quickly nodded at his father, and turned back to Harry, to hear him deny it.
{{You'd do anything to save him from me. But you don't know how much he deserves death. He abandoned his only son and heir. You expect me to just believe your word.}}
{{Fuck off Tom! You're being a pompous twit! You overestimate your importance to me. You're not nearly as special as you think you are. I don't care whether you believe me or not. But I've seen the memories. I know more than you do. Maybe pull your snake-faced head out of your own arse for once, and see what's plainly infront of you.}}
Harry was honestly at his wits end with this evening. He just wanted to return to Hogwarts, with Cedric's body, and let Dumbledore deal with it all. He was done playing saviour.
Voldemort looked away from all of them for a moment, staring out over the graveyard and into the valley below where he could see some lights appearing in the windows of the cottage houses. The sunrise was approaching, lightening the horizon. He let out a long breath.
"Father. Tell me everything. I want to know. You owe me that much."
With the thin robes covering his frame Tom Riddle Senior looked up at Voldemort, his teeth chattering out a low whisper in response. Barely audible was it, that the convening death eaters had to lean forward to catch what he said. Yet they heard nothing.
Voldemort did. His preternatural enhanced senses allowed him to do many things others couldn’t dream of.
But Voldemort wanted to hear his father more clearly. So he cast a few warming charms on the man, and a crystal tumbler of cold water materialised infront of Tom Riddle Senior. He wrapped his hands around the crystal and shivered, Voldemort waved his hand and the cold water turned to hot tea. His father wearily bought the tea to his lips and drank small sips slowly like the high born aristocrat that he was. Voldemort scoffed.
Voldemort spoke to his people. "Leave us."
All of them left, except for wormtail, still nursing his bleeding arm.
Harry looked at the sorry excuse of a man. Rolling his eyes, about to say something scathing, when Voldemort suddenly beat him to it.
"Did you not hear me wormtail, I said leave!"
Wormtail was a coward, but at the same time, he thought that Voldemort would heal him.
Voldemort sneered as he brandished his wand, pointing it ominously at wormtails shaking form. An Avada on the tip of his tongue.
That's when his father intervened. He grabbed Voldemorts forearm and yelled at wormtail to go. "Hurry, Leave! Go!" Wormtail shaken turned abruptly and apparated away.
"You dare to tell my followers what to do!" he roared in his fathers face, spittle flying.
"No more! No more death! What has become of you?!!! How could you?" His father had a little colour return to his face. The hot tea had obviously helped him regain some strength.
Voldemort was about to yell back, when the most unwelcome sound made itself known.
A very large growling grumble from deep within Tom Riddle Seniors stomach bellowed.
It startled all three of the living occupants.
Voldemort looked at his father stunned.
His father looked at Voldemort stunned.
And Harry, well after that tummy rumble startled him from the lovely nap he was having, was looking at them both.
Harry just started giggling, until he threw his head back and started laughing heartily.
Tom Riddle Senior just looked extremely embarrassed.
Voldemort just looked constipated.
"I do not Harry! You quiet that stupid brain of yours this instant!"
"You know you're kind of cute when you're confused and embarrassed." Harry couldn't help but chirp and preen when he managed to get a reaction out of Vee (because that's what he'll call him from here on out).
Tom Riddle Senior stood up from the chair and placed the crystal of hot tea down on it. He stood up, and as he did the robes had come undone and his whole front was exposed, but he didn't notice it.
Harry noticed. Oh boy, did he notice.
Where Voldemort's newly formed body was emaciated, the ribs protruding and his skeleton clearly visible. Harry got a clear and uninhibited view of Tom Riddle senior in all his glory. The bright sunrise making its way slowly over the horizon casting a silhouette of amber and citrine halos around his form, from the dark brown slightly coiffed hair with strands of silver dappled throughout, with the trademark curl that Tom had had at Hogwarts, to the very real muscular and broad frame of a fully virile man in his late fifties. The man filled out so well. Broad, tall (taller even than Tom), and extremely handsome.
So that's what Voldemort would've looked like, if he didn't choose to turn into an ugly monster.
"HARRY!! Keep your insipid thoughts to yourself!" Voldemort wanted to strangle Harry for his wayward thoughts, not to mention his oggling eyes that were scanning his fathers body from head to toe like a lecherous hag.Harry just shrugged.
"HARRY JAMES POTTER!!! I swear to Merlin and back, I will hex you! Keep your disgusting eyes to yourself you pervert! Don't look at my dad like that!" Voldemort was out of breath, exasperated.
Voldemort looked up when he noticed the wily swot had no retort, which in his limited experience with the brat could only mean one thing...
Harry was smiling at him.
Fuck. Voldemort was so exhausted.
"What? What did you just say?" Hisfather was looking at him with an indescribable expression.
Voldemort looked at his father like he was dumb. "You don't want to know what the whelp was thinking. I'll give you a clue though, he's a hormonal teenager, and you're revealing more than just a little bit of ankle." Voldemort looked over at Harry with a disgusted sneer.
Tom Riddle Senior stepped closer to his son. "No, no I heard that. No, that's not what i was referring to. I meant. Y-you called me your 'dad'."
Voldemort blinked.
Voldemort blinked again.
Voldemort apparated.
It took a few seconds, but eventually the magic holding Harry released and he was free from the gravestone. He fell two feet before landing swiftly, his agile seeker skills always saving him from calamity.
Stretching his legs out a few times, to get them working again. He walked, well stumbled really, over to Tom Riddle Senior. Who was still shocked at the exchange he'd just had with his 'son'.
Staring at the vacant spot that Voldemort had just occupied, but now was empty, save for some shallow footprints in the soil, the only evidence that he'd been there at all.
Harry put his hand on Tom Riddle Seniors shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Tom turning around and looked down at Harry's much smaller diminutive size. Harry thought Voldemort was tall, but his father was taller. Much taller. And broader, much broader.
Bloody hell, I am a pervert, thought Harry.
"Excuse me sir, we must leave this place at once, it's not good to stay here, they could return and finish what they started. It's best we leave. I'll keep you safe. My headmaster can offer you shelter at my school. It's a magical place, and Voldemort and his followers can't breach it."
"Who's that?"
"Who's who?"
"Voldemort. Who is that?"
"It's a bit of a long story. I honestly don't know how much I can tell you. But if you come with me, I might be able to help you find some answers."
"Fine. I'll go with you. But first, Harry is it? Harry, I want you to promise me something. Promise me that you'll let me do the talking next time. For some reason you set him off, and I can't get through to him when he's angry. I need to talk to my s-so-son. I know he's burning up with curiosity about all of this. Just let me talk to him." Tom's demeanor had shifted to melancholy. There was a deep ravine of pain and hurt in him, and Harry could feel it everywhere the man occupied. Harry felt pity for him.
"Grab my hand, and I'll take us back to Hogwarts."
So Tom and Harry walked hand in hand towards Cedrics body. Kneeling beside it, Harry started to summon the portkey cup, when he heard Tom sniffle beside him.
"Did he do this? Did my son-Voldemort, did he do this?"
Harry was so exhausted, he wanted to choke back a tear, but he couldn't, he was completely depleted. Exhausted beyond his limits.
"Yes. Not directly, his follower Wormtail did it, but Voldemort-your son commanded it."
Tom placed his hand delicately on Cedrics shoulder, his tears falling and staining Cedric' champion sweater. Harry looked on in sadness. He summoned the cup, before the handle touched his hand, he swiftly reached for Tom's hand, and then all three were whisked away to the portkey's final destination. A brief echo of trumpets, band music, and cheering could be heard briefly before wailing and screaming were cut off.