Tomarry One Shots

Closer

Summary: The Graveyard scene goes very differently.

Ship: HarryPotterxTomRiddle/Voldemort

All credit goes to DarthPotter on Ao3

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It does what all babes do when they take their first breathe amongst us: it wails.

It calls out to be cuddled, to be protected, to be known. Like a crescendo calling forth the audience's attention, a soprano hitting their highest notes.
'Look at me. I am here.'

Yes. It is here. It cries out but I cannot give it the attention it craves in this pivotal moment. I hear the nurses about the room. They are also calling out to me. Everyone wants a piece of me right now and I cannot give what I do not have.

I do not even know if I am me anymore.

I remember being bold, being brave. I was told often that I was very brave. Brave against the very real monsters that children are only supposed to hear about in fantastical stories.

I knew this was an inevitability. I've known for months, yet nothing could prepare one for this. The screaming. It's still calling out to me.

How long has it been since its first note? I could be stuck in this first minute, the world coming to a stand still. Stuck facing this reality. Can I be brave still?

It wails, but not the growl of a monster or beast. It is not the high pitch thrall of its sire. It is, in this moment I realize I have never heard before: a baby. A human baby by the sound of its calls. Its crying.
Is it scared? Does it feel true hunger for the first time? Does it reach out for a teet that doesn't exist. The elixir I was forcibly given only provided me just enough to perform what was expected.
By the sound of the tears, my duty is fulfilled.
Am I allowed rest now? The task is complete. I have grown it amongst my bones, flesh and blood.
It sounds like one should sound, it cries so deeply. How can I do what is expected of me now? How can I nurture when I come from such broken beginnings? How can I love something that was conceived in such evil? How can I be brave when I look into it's eyes?
Will they be his eyes?
Will they be mine?
How can I possibly be even more bound to this monster? He has taken everything, and watches my descent with horrifying joy.
He has given me you.

How can I be your mother?

I take the cursed child in my arms.
It's quiet now. It knows my flesh, my warmth already. The kids rise for just a second, as if answering the haunting question.

They are green.

/s>

***

A monsterous being stepped from the cluster of dark smoke. Tall, and so pale, the bones under the face are still setting in place. Long, thin fingers reach up to feel flesh it has not experienced in over a decade. The smoke billows over shoulder and torso, wrapping around the elegant being, forming robes black as pitch. A portion of the shadow-like smoke weaves its way towards the helpless wizard, restrained against a colossal gravestone. The ropes dig deep and the rough stone is unrelenting against the captive's back as the smoke approaches, encasing him. It slithers around Harry's triwizard uniform, clinging to it, changing it. The cotton top and trousers mold together, the bottom dropping out, the sleeves rising towards shoulders. The clothes' new form resembles a long, oversized hospital gown, and black as the smoke that has now dissated. It's a dress, simple, but a dress nonetheless. Which leaves Harry not only horrified by the current goings on, but confused at his new ensemble.

The Dark Lord seems to have finished assessing his new vessel and has turned his attention to Petigrew, whimpering off to the side. He regrows a shiny silver hand for the rat and Harry can only think the man deserves nothing less than being eviscerated.

Black shadows fill the desecrated gravesite as his alleged loyalist arrives to witness the resurrection. The newly formed monster addresses them individually, berating and humiliating their lack of obedience. All the while Harry continues to be strapped to the rough stone, struggling against them in a vain attempt to escape. A small moan of pain regrettably leaves him as he moves wrong, causing the stone to cut into his back in a particularly unpleasant way. Unfortunately, this garners the attention of the Dark Lord, who sets his deep red eyes on the struggling captive. Harry is frozen under that stare, so familiar to his nightmares. The demon-like man approaches him, a wicked smile advancing the all-too pale features. The nearer he gets, the more Harry notices more details, more to fill out this never ending horror. This creature is regal in stature, almost floating in his movements, the robes fall around him to enhance this proud picture of preeminence. It's captivating and horrifying all at once.

His voice is low, a near whisper, intimate and only for Harry. The surrounding lemmings seem to disappear, as if the only thing that occupies this world is Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.