69 Chapter 69: Ritual!

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It was a spell he had discovered in the journal of Lord Potter, too powerful for even its creator to cast without immense preparation.

It had taken Harry a month of work to create a device able to store it and use it at a later date. It would probably take him a similar amount of time if he sought to ever replicate it.

Nonetheless, it had been entirely worth it to use it now. The flash was just the first part, and then came the immensely increased amount of gravity localised where the thing sat.

Harry didn't see it, but he heard men scream as they were yanked from their feet and towards the device, helpless against its immense force.

Bones broke and flesh squelched. And then came the explosion. Those who had been pulled nearest to the device became pink mist. Those who had been slightly further out became body parts and blood.

His vision clearing, Harry climbed to his feet, grinning as he surveyed the broken corpses. No one had stood a—

His skin tingled and he felt his limbs lock into place. A moment later, he tumbled to the floor, sword and wand falling from his grip.

"Most impressive, Potter!" hissed Voldemort's voice.

Somehow, Harry didn't think it was a Star wars reference.

"Perhaps if you had not been so arrogant, I would be a spirit once more." Voldemort's servant—Harry was unsure as to whether or not it was the one who had been holding him before—stepped into view. Voldemort had probably been able to shield them, even in that pathetic form of his.

"Prepare the ritual, Malfoy."

Harry was helpless as he was levitated into the air and tied to a stone statue. His limbs loosened, but his movement was still incredibly slow.

And without moving his now restrained hands, he couldn't do any form of wandless magic that wouldn't result in further harm to him.

And so he did nothing as a boiling cauldron was filled with ingredients, Malfoy listing them off as though they were a shopping list. Nothing but desperately try to figure out a means of escape.

'What the hell do I do, Loki?'

Loki cursed. 'You're going to have to wait until you have full control of your body. Before that I cannot do much to help you.'

A fear that Harry had not felt in years welled up inside him, as, for the first time, he was truly helpless, at another's mercy.

It just so happened that the one whose mercy he was at hated him. Just his luck. Why couldn't he be kidnapped by benevolent people?

He was torn from his thoughts and Malfoy attempted to cut his wrist with a knife. Disregarding his fear as best as he could, he stared down at Malfoy, smiling as he failed once again to open his skin.

"Good luck with that, Malfoy," he said. "When I get out of here, I'm going to see how easy it is to cut your skin. I think the human body can live with over two hundred cuts. Shall we see how much I can prolong that with magic?" Harry bared his teeth in a grin.

"When you finally bleed to death, I think I'll see if your son holds up any better."

Voldemort was apparently not at all phased by Malfoy's failure to cut Harry. "Use a cutting curse, you fool."

The first cutting curse failed. So did the second. The third—one that would likely take the wrist off a human—finally did the job, and Harry could only watch as his blood spilled downwards into the cauldron.

And then Malfoy lowered Voldemort Junior into the cauldron.

'A body restoration ritual,' Loki murmured.

Harry paused. 'You're thinking that might work on you. Is this really the best time to be thinking about that?'

'No,' he admitted, 'but still…'

Promptly, Harry stopped all conversion as a horrid sight rose before his very eyes: Voldemort. Ever so slowly, the man—if he could still be called a man—was rising from the cauldron, his pale, scaled body naked, bald head shining in the moonlight and eyes glinting with malevolence.

The newly-resurrected Dark Lord threw back his head and cackled. Harry felt his limbs become free once again. He would only have one chance.

Voldemort was powerful, but hopefully, in his new body, he was also vulnerable.

Like he had practised a thousand times before, Harry, ever so slowly, began to weave an illusion about himself.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed, moving up to Harry. Then he turned, exposing his back as he took his robe and his wand from Malfoy. "You thought you could defeat me."

"Actually," Harry said, "I didn't believe I could beat you. I only turned up here because of a dodgy Portkey, and, quite frankly, don't want to be here. That applies to the whole wizarding world, actually." He frowned.

"If some idiot hadn't put my name in the Goblet of Fire, I wouldn't have had to be here at all." He glared at Voldemort. "Did you put it in there?"

"Yes, it—"

"At least it wasn't Dumbledore—and I asked if you put it in there, not why. I don't need your bloody life story."

Harry spoke no further as Voldemort walked up to him and let his wand hover and inch from his cheek. "Crucio."

Harry didn't react. Only looked at him, his expression unchanged. If it had been a moment later when Voldemort had realised something was wrong, Harry would've gotten his spell off.

But no, Voldemort was adjusting his aim downwards to where Harry crouched as the illusion of him flickered out of existence.

Voldemort would have finished his spell much faster than Harry. Luckily, Harry's wand could turn into a spear in a split second.

And at such a close range, when it warped and elongated, it was suddenly through Voldemort's torso, angled to go through both his left lung.

Somehow, he still finished his spell, even if his aim was thrown way off, his spell crashing into the statue and bringing it tumbling down towards him. Even with a spear through him, Voldemort managed to stop it falling on him with relative ease.

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