Chapter Text
Harry James Potter was terrified.
He was hurt and he was scared and he felt very very alone right now. He wasn't physically alone, there was a creepy little man with one hand crying and sniveling near a big black cauldron resting upon a magical flame, but that man was no friend of his. The only person he had that could even come close to being called that, was lying a dozen feet away. Dead.
Thick ropes bound him to a gravestone and Harry felt his stomach roiling in protest as his head throbbed. He glanced down at a sluggishly dripping cut on his forearm and winced almost imperceptibly. His blood had been taken to be used in a dark ritual. A ritual that was meant to bring the darkest wizard to exist in centuries, back to full power. It was meant to give him his body back and in time, allow him to take over magical Britain and possibly, someday, the world. He would lead his regime with segregation and the massacre of those he deemed unworthy. Harry was sure there was a muggle equivalent in history but right now all he could think about was the panic twisting in his stomach, the pain rendering his thought nearly incoherent and the guilt of not being good enough, strong enough to protect the people he cared about.
In another lifetime, Harry would have stewed in his feelings of failure and ineptitude until Voldemort rose from the bubbling cauldron before him like a slimy, nudist jack in the box. But in this lifetime. The fates had other plans.