"You're dead," Tom stared at Voldemort. "Your horcruxes are gone."

"Ah, those little things," Voldemort scoffed, pulling away from Tom and waving a finger in a circle, casting a spell that left Tom frozen in position with his hands behind his back. "Is that what 'I' did? Trinkets with pieces of me that left me vulnerable?"

Then, Tom noticed it. This Voldemort had a nose. Less ashen complexion. More human looking. The red eyes were the same, and the forked tongue was new but unsurprising, but this was… a different Voldemort, albeit still fucking bald. (Harry would get a kick out of that, he thought distantly.)

"No wonder your father died, if he settled for horcruxes," this Voldemort sneered.

"Where did you come from?" Tom sharply asked. "There's no spell or ritual that could have possibly let you travel dimensions."

"Not recorded, no." Voldemort eyed Tom amusedly as gestured to Rookwood to prepare something behind him. "But all it takes is the knowledge of your ancestors and… poking a hole, so to speak. You've met one of Salazar Slytherin's dear great grandsons, yes?"

"The locket?" Tom's mind whirled. "You sent it here?"

"A test. And an opportunity."

"Send the locket to see if the dimension travel will leave you intact," Tom murmured. "And as a scout, I suppose. If your counterpart existed here, he would've taken notice of a Slytherin locket identical to his. But you couldn't have known what happened to it after it breached the wall - unless you had a specific kind of tie to it."

"My, my, aren't you clever," Voldemort mused. "Well, you are supposedly my son, after all. I've always been proud of my mind. Shame about the face though, it would've been better if you looked a lot less like your filthy grandfather."

"From what I've seen, my genes' choices were rather slim," Tom neutrally said. "All things considering, I'd rather have this face than my namesake's."

"I'll concede to you on that."

Tom watched as Rookwood prepared a cauldron behind Voldemort, taking out vials of liquids and powders and a very elaborate dagger that had Tom tensing at its sight. Voldemort smiled humorlessly at him, picking up the dagger and running a finger gently against the blade's edge.

"The power of ancestors is a very curious thing," the otherworldly man hissed quietly. "A very powerful thing, and I admit that the trip between worlds has left me… drained. Which is why I'm in need of your cooperation, my son. Help me regain some of my lost magic, and I'll let you run back to your beloved Harry Potter."

"You're lying," Tom sneered. "You wouldn't just let me go after all the trouble you went through just to get me here."

Red eyes flickered to him and Voldemort rasped a chuckle. "Rookwood, fire the cauldron."

"Yes, my lord."

Voldemort picked up a vial, shining the few drops of red liquid in the moonlight. "A shame we couldn't get more than this. You and young Harry did an impressive job with the young Krum. Rookwood had to call in a favor to get the scant drops of Harry Potter's blood that we have."

"Spider animagi are useful fellows to be acquainted with," Rookwood quietly said as he emptied a light, glimmering powder into the cauldron. "My friend was rather delighted with the chance of biting Harry Potter's bottom, and would be happy to do so any other time, my lord."

Tom flared in irritation. "The bite Harry received during the Yule Ball. Of course."

"It is quite curious how attached you are to the boy," Voldemort hummed. "Of course, since your father died when you were quite young, proper guidance was remiss during your childhood."

"I received better guidance than he - or you - could have ever given," the teenager grinned unkindly. "You'll find no sympathy nor relationship from me."

"A shame," Voldemort stared at him coldly. Tom looked at him in the eyes and matched the intense, blood red gaze with his own. Voldemort waved a hand and a misty orb appeared over his palm, showing the image of Harry and Viktor still sitting worriedly in the stands. "It would be easier for all of us if you would cooperate tonight. You think the silencing curse was the only thing on your friend? That was just the red herring."


A sudden grip on his shoulder jolted Harry, taking his attention from the increasingly worried crowd to the ashen Viktor.

"Viktor?" Harry asked, alarmed. "Viktor, are you okay?"

"I think," Viktor rasped, "I'm about to vomit."

That itself was concerning, but the blood red sludge that came out of Viktor's mouth and onto the floor had everyone surrounding them exclaiming in shock.

"We need a professor!" Hermione yelled. "Someone get Madame Pomfrey!"

"Holy shit," Neville quietly cursed from behind Harry as he struggled to keep Viktor upright. Beside him, Draco looked pale white.

"We need Severus," Draco said faintly. "That- if it's what I think it is - That's very, very dark magic."

"Stay with me," Harry urged the shivering Durmstrang student. Around them, Viktor's classmates hovered worriedly at their schoolmate, one of them even conjuring a bin for Viktor to vomit into. Another one carefully banished the discerning sick on the floor, while another started a spell to monitor his vitals.

"What's going on!" Madame Pomfrey broke through the crowd and sucked in a breath at Viktor's state. Professor Snape followed, and like Draco, stopped in his tracks as he very obviously recognized the curse. Karkaroff was silent and ashen at his student's condition.

"He needs St. Mungo's," Snape snapped at Promfrey and Karkaroff. "We have to floo him in immediately."

Suddenly, Viktor jerked violently and fell forward hard.


"Stop it," Tom gritted, not taking his eyes off the panicking crowd around his convulsing friend. Inwardly, he was cursing himself for falling for the trap. He and Harry should've been more thorough. And no doubt Harry was similarly thinking the same at the moment. "What do you need?"

Voldemort's victorious smirk only made Tom angrier. "Rookwood, let's start."

Shredded fairy wings, crushed boom berries, powdered erumpent horn, scorched fluxweed. A vial of unicorn blood and a drop of re'em blood. Tom frantically took note of the ingredients Rookwood carefully put in the cauldron one by one, but he couldn't recognize what this Voldemort was possibly making. A feat, considering his centuries worth of experience.

"Bone of the ancestor, unknowingly given, share your magic to your descendant for he shall bring glory to your name," Rookwood recited, dropping a brittle femur into the potion. Tom watched as the Death Eater picked up the vial with Harry's blood in it, glancing at Tom minutely before uncorking it and gently dropping the liquid in. "Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, strengthen your foe for he shall not be defeated once again."

"What is left is the flesh of the son, willingly given," Voldemort said as he looked down at Tom with a mockingly gently smile. "What do you say, my boy?"

'Go to hell,' Tom wanted to say, but he knew that if anything else, he had to get out of this shitshow alive. He nodded. "Flesh of the son, willingly given."

Voldemort's grin was toothy as Tom's arm was forcibly presented to him, and he was almost careful as he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and skinned his forearm with his dagger.

Tom didn't cry out at the blinding pain coming from his forearm, and a distant part of him wondered if this was karma for when he had gotten Harry's own forearm slashed by Pettigrew. 'What goes around, comes around, I suppose,' he wryly thought.

"I wonder if you will try to kill me one day," Voldemort whispered as he patted Tom's cheek with blood stained fingers. "I look forward to it - I'm sure you will grow to be a wizard that could have stood by my side as my right hand. Could have - if you grew up properly that is."

"Flesh of the son, willingly given, renew your father with your power for he shall rise again - as the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Tom watched in horrified fascination as the potion glowed and swirled with powerful magic while Rookwood finished the ritual. Voldemort filled a silver chalice with it, drinking an entire cup's worth, and afterwards breathed in deeply before letting out a chilling laugh. "Power," Voldemort hissed as his body exuded a suffocating aura, "is oh so sweet."


Snape felt another sharp pain on his left forearm and he swallowed the dread building up inside of him. 'No,' he thought desperately as he and Pomfrey struggled to keep Krum stable as they rushed across the castle grounds to the nearest Floo-connected fireplace. 'Please, God, no. Never again.'

This tournament was a disaster from the start, and of all things that could have topped it all of, his dark mark acting up like 'back in the day' was the worst possible scenario. Snape could only fucking hope that Gaunt came back still on Potter's side of things, because he may hate the brat and was slightly terrified of the duo altogether, he wouldn't wish the betrayal Lily had felt when he had turned to the Dark Lord's side on her son, ever.

(Later, he was going to finally drink the entire bottle of firewhiskey he had been eyeing since the Durmstrang contingent arrived at Hogwarts grounds. He fucking deserved it.)


Harry was starting to panic a little bit.

Okay, that was a lie. He was already panicking. A lot. He just didn't show it.

But his heartbeat was racing a thousand times per minute - Viktor may be actually dying this time, Dumbledore looked like he was about to march to him at any second, everyone around him was in various states of hysteria, and Tom was still fucking missing.

Merlin, if the prat was actually dead, Harry was going to bring him back to life just to kill him himself.

(Then maybe jump off the Astronomy Tower. After he made sure this dark lord they're dealing with was eating dust first.)


Tom was probably going to continue the apparent family tradition of patricide. Once he got out of this situation.

Voldemort was gracious enough to slow the bleeding from the patch of skin he had taken from Tom's arm, but not actually heal it. It was going to scar terribly, especially being involved in a magical ritual, and no amount of dittany was going to help it. And god did it itch like mad.

Also apparently, gloating and monologuing was a personality flaw that was just ingrained in him, because even with the power of ancestors or whatever cowshit Voldemort was saying, he was just as chatty as Tom had been when he was Voldemort.

The horror and shock was gone from Tom's system at this point - he was just incredibly bitter and angry now. Harry always said he didn't do emotions like a normal person, but did either of them really, after all they've been through?

So Tom watched as the newly refreshed Dark Lord called his marked inner circle - the ones of this dimension, who probably wouldn't know that this was a brand new model and not the one they signed up for during the last war. Then with that done, Voldemort retrieved the almost forgotten TriWizard Cup with a wave of his hand, levitating it over Tom's head. He eyed it, eyebrows raised in mild surprise.

"As promised," Voldemort hissed quietly, "consider it your reward for your cooperation."

Tom looked him in the eyes and flatly said only one thing: "Fuck off."

Voldemort laughed, and let go of the Cup. The last thing Tom heard before the portkey took him away were the sounds of apparition and Voldemort saying, "Say hello to Harry Potter and Dumbledore for me."


Tom landed on the cold hard ground in front of the maze with a groan, hands still bound behind his back with magic, and the Cup gently rolling away from him.

And all hell broke loose.

A/N: IM SORRY VIKTOR ITLL BE BETTER SOON Q_Q i feel bad now ive been... torturing him too much...

anyway i was. supposed to finish this two weeks ago. but as always things happened :eyes:

i'll start returning the other life snippets back next chapter, for those itching for a new one, don't worry! in the meantime, i hope you enjoyed this chapter :)