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2020-06-29
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Appetence

Summary:

Appetence: defined as an attraction, a natural affinity, or an instinctive desire. In other words, it's a cosmic sort of bond that clouds the mind until all thought is consumed by that singular point of infatuation.

When Voldemort divines what Harri Potter truly means to him in the graveyard, a festering obsession begins. His horcrux. A part of his wayward soul, crafted from his marrow, magic, and might— his very own damning appetence.

He knows what has been kept from him, what rightfully belongs at his side, and now?

Well.

Now, he wants her back.

Chapter 1: Irony is Harri Potter's Best Friend

Notes:

Hello, everyone!

I have been toying around with the idea of a femHarry story for quite some time now and I am beyond excited to finally start posting these chapters. This is the first fanfic I have written so if you have any comments, constructive or otherwise, I would love to hear them! Currently, this story is also without a beta— while I do make an attempt to reread several times to catch any errors, a few are bound to pop up.

There are also a few things I just want to bring to your attention:
- This is a femHarry story so if you aren't a fan of the genderswap trope, then please take note of this! I have also aged her age up to be 15 at the beginning of the plot rather than 14.
- We begin at the end of the Triwizard Tournament and there have been a few tweaks I have made to the canon to better suit the overall story.
- I have tagged this as 'Explicit' and with 'Eventual Sexual Content'. There will be no actual sex, however, until Harri is 'of age'. I have only used the 'Underage' tag to conform with the American standard that the actual age of majority is 18— in the Wizarding World, it is 17 but I wanted to avoid any issues that may arise from that discrepancy.
- What I am writing is not meant to be pure smut or porn without plot, despite what the rating and tags may say— there will be some scenes of that nature but they will be far later into the story! I just wanted to cover all bases possible.
- Also, as a fair warning, this fic will get rather dark and there are sensitive topics mentioned, such as abuse and trauma stemming from it.

And as always, Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling in every which way! I hope you guys enjoy this story and thank you for clicking on it!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



If Harri Potter had been forced to sum up her entire existence into a single word, she felt that “ironic” would be most appropriate. 

Ironic in the way a fire station is burnt to the ground. 

Or, perhaps, in the way a man's car is hit by an ambulance on his way to the hospital.

And the more she reflected on the word, the more ascertained she was that it was her perfect, lifelong companion. The ever-present theme to all of her experiences; a seemingly private joke she was not privy to understanding. Because even now, huddled behind a crumbling gravestone, her dirt-caked fingers trembling about her wand, she could find it reflected in her current situation: the irony  

After all, Hogwarts, widely deemed to be the safest place for young witches and wizards, chose to host a competition designed to torture and maim its competitors— the very same students the school was supposed to be protecting.

Lord Voldemort, a man who sought to evade death at every turn, chose for his rebirth to take place on the Reaper's very own front doorstep— a graveyard.

And Harri— the naive girl she was who simply yearned for just one uneventful school year— found herself unwittingly spitting on the solemn declaration she'd made to Hermione and Ron at the beginning of term: "Nothing will go wrong this year, I just feel it."

Though in hindsight, and considering her past track record, she wondered how she'd even been capable of such a hope to begin with. Or, for a different matter, why she verbally expressed such a desire in the first place? A fool, that's what she was: in reality, she had more likely jinxed her fifth year instead of blessing it. 'There's a reason why Muggles don't say their wishes aloud,' she thought sullenly, glancing down to her jagged fingernails and frowning at the fact each one was now broken and dirty from scrambling in the mud. 

Yes, there was no other way to look at it: she had jinxed herself. Because instead of being in her beloved common room and in front of a roaring fire, steadily nursing a mug of hot chocolate and wiggling her toes in garishly coloured wool socks, she was here. Hidden behind someone's decaying grave— their memory as faded as the name etched into the stone— crouching in the damp earth and shivering from the cold as the Dark Lord was brought into existence once more.

Oh, the irony was abundant.

"Wormtail. The girl,” Voldemort's hissed command came without warning; a drawn-out sort of whisper that caused her skin to crawl. It yanked her from the safety of her thoughts, her introspection, reminding her of just who, exactly, was waiting on the other side of the tombstones. 

Her breaths devolved into shallow bursts, quiet by all means but somehow still thunderous to her ears. They were as loud as she dared to let them be— as loud as necessary to keep herself from passing out— too afraid to draw attention to her hiding spot by inhaling, exhaling, too deeply. After all, while Wormtail had been busy marvelling at the frothing cauldron— enraptured with the resurrection of his Lord— she'd managed to slip his flimsy bonds. Was it perhaps a bit cowardly to run? Sure. But all the same, Harri felt no shame in taking advantage of his distraction— nor of relying on her particular skills to hide.

Yes, hers was a talent acutely honed over the years, developed out of necessity for survival: how to learn to make herself small. Insignificant. Unnoticeable. In a household where too-loud steps were readily punished and the phrase 'children should be seen, not heard' was taken to a literal degree, she had long since discovered the importance of not drawing attention. How to slip under the radar to avoid heavy hands; to seek out the best hiding spots on a moment's notice. Such a talent especially came in handy during bouts of her cousin's favourite pastime: Harri-Hunting. But oh, how vindictive was her glee when she'd spend hours watching the boy search high and low, colouring purple with his frustrations before eventually giving up.

Of course, Dudley was just a Muggle. Dudley didn't have magic. He couldn't weasel her out with location spells or conjured fire, couldn't search for her signature or potentially hear her thoughts. And the threat of him wasn't real. He never sought to kill or irreversibly maim— and how his antics paled in comparison to her current situation. Mere child's play.

A cry of thinly-veiled horror suddenly resounded between the dilapidated tombstones. Her absence, it would seem, was finally noted. 

Harri's fingers flexed about the wand as she cradled it to her chest— the press of warming holly against the dulling beat of her heart. A drawn breath was held, refusing to be let go despite the burn in her lungs. No, this time she dared not to exhale. 

“M-my Lord, she’s gone,” Wormtail stuttered.  

A beat of silence ensued.

The dampness of the spring night clung to her exposed arms, the fine mist of the fog a chilling shroud. Her ears strained to make out what was happening past the scattered symphony of the crickets, their relentless chirping floating from somewhere beyond the iron fence. It was too quiet, otherwise.

Too still.

That lethargic pulse of hers had given rise to a flighty cadence— adrenaline spiking as her heart thudded against the confines of her ribs, too much pressure attempting to pass through too thin veins. 'This is it.' Her mind readily supplied the sound of nearing footsteps; of a skeletal monster outfitted in tattered robes looming ever so closer. Maybe he had found her. Maybe he already knew and was just toying with her and—

Reedy screams fractured the quiet.

Green eyes blinked in the darkness, alarmed when the screams morphed into wet, gurgling noises— and then the grating wails of a man in pain. Harri instinctively shrank back against the rough stone, ignoring the way it bit into her bare shoulders and scraped her skin raw. Despite some shred of morbid curiousity, she couldn't quite bring herself to look over the gravestone's edge, the bravery such required eluding her. But then again, her mind was imaginative enough in that regard. Oh yes, it was conjuring images on its own that made her want to retch. Terrible, gruesome images.  

Trembling hands clamped over her ears as she tried to block out the sounds, simply praying for the quiet to come back; a mercy when it finally did. 

“It is no matter. She is still here somewhere, I can sense it. Your arm, Wormtail.”

There it was again— the chill ghosting through her, goosebumps prickling over her clammy skin at that voice. 

His voice.

For reasons that completely escaped her understanding, Harri found there to be an odd sense of familiarity in the way he spoke. She knew she could blindly pick it out from a crowd if asked to do so, despite having only heard it twice— but that's all it took. All it took for it to become forever imprinted into her memory.

Two times hearing it and she remembered

And it wasn't for the distinct sibilance it possessed, or the way the vowels were carried with an irrefutable authority. No, it was more so that there was a quality to it that resonated deep within her— an instinctual recognition. Such a thing defied all rhyme and reason, especially when considering that their previous interactions had been limited to a face on the back of Quirrell's head or an afterimage of Tom Riddle— both of which weren't even truly him. No, those were shells. Empty husks. Poor imitations that paled in comparison to the very real monster standing a few feet away in the dew ladened grass.

This was different

It terrified her. 

Squinting into the darkness, she sought another exit, the need to escape only heightening. However, much to her growing dismay, there appeared to only be one— and it was clear across the cemetery, a good yard or two of exposed lawn. Even with the training she had been put through to become a Seeker, the endless laps she ran around the perimeter of the Black Lake in preparation for their upcoming matches, Harri doubted she would be quick enough to make it unnoticed. Her gaze narrowed to reconfirm the distance to the wrought iron gate— a groan when she arrived at the same conclusion. 'Brilliant. Just brilliant.'

Slumping down against the grave's marker, the crown of her head bumped absentmindedly against it— a desperate attempt to spark some ideas through the repetitive motion. Options raced by at a dizzying speed, bitterness bright on her tongue when the best plan— the only plan— she managed to come up with was catching Voldemort by surprise.  

'Merlin, help me.' It was a reckless idea; one that far surpassed even her standards for what was excusable. But she would be damned if she was to be slaughtered here with only crickets and moss-covered names to bear witness to her final moments.

The muscles in her calves tensed— the coil of a spring tightening— ready to bolt. A Stupefy had already formed on the tip of her tongue, her jaw ticked in determination.

“Stupefy, then run. Stupefy. Run. Stupefy. Run,” she chanted under her breath, a holy mantra.

Wand clamped between her teeth, numbed fingers double-knotted the muddied laces of her worn sneakers for good measure. 'Stupefy. Run. Simple enough. You got this, Harri.'

Drawing in a shaky breath, she searched to find her centre, her calm— to summon forth the adrenaline that would lead her into a blind charge. However, just as she was ready to leap out in true Gryffindor fashion— to go down in a blaze of glory— several rather distinct 'pops' gave her pause.

An unusual sound, it had defiled the hush of the cemetery and interrupted the melodic chorus of the crickets. Brows knitting together, her locked knees went lax. 'What was that?'  For the first time all night, Harri chanced a glimpse over the edge of the tombstone.

What greeted her was disconcerting, to say the very least.

Several wizards, outfitted in austerely cut robes and silver masks, were now loitering among the graves. It took her a second to fully piece together what had happened. ‘He summoned his bloody Death Eaters.’ She cursed silently— a slew of such foul words that would have made even Ron blush— as the heels of her dirty palms pressed unkindly into her eyes. Unable to help it, a lump formed in her throat as the only plan— albeit it wasn't the greatest one— she'd been banking on fell apart before it could even come to fruition. The golden window of opportunity had passed and what was left was an embittered understanding that she was now, undeniably, trapped. 

“Shit,” was her frustrated hiss as she forcefully tossed her holly wand to the ground.

Maybe if it had been just the Dark Lord and herself, she could have had a fighting chance— but even her luck was bound to run out when faced with six, maybe seven, capable and grown wizards. Especially considering that she'd yet to complete her own schooling with grades barely passable at the best of times. And admittedly, it was moments like these when Harri couldn't help but wonder what Hermione would do if she was dropped unexpectedly into a similar situation. After all, she was almost certain her friend still wouldn't be here, cornered like a muddied rat. 

'That damn cup.' Her gaze slid towards the night sky, holding no small amount of contempt as it fixed mutinously upon the flickering northern star. 'I wouldn't even be here if I hadn’t bloody touched it in the first place.'

Wait.

A slow blink; another to follow. Her mouth— the bottom lip split from a rather nasty fall in the maze— parted as the revelation hit her in full force. How did she not see it sooner? How did she not possibly realise there was magic imbued into the cup? Distantly, there was a chiding voice in her mind— the clipped pronunciation eerily similar to Hermione's— telling her that the head on her shoulders was there for a reason.  

“Merlin, I'm an idiot,” she mumbled, pressing her chilled hands to her forehead. “It’s a portkey.”

And if it was a portkey?

Well, that meant it went both ways.

Boldly sparing a second to peer around the tombstone, her eyes cast wildly about the grown-over graves and unruly weeds in search of the trophy. Even with her, admittedly, rather limited vision, she should be able to see its brightness, its beckoning light. And there— on the other side of the winged statue and a few feet from the cathedral's arched gate. The warm flush of triumph filled her to the brim and, were it not for the fact there were a number of questionably dark wizards occupying the cemetery, she might have cried out in relief.

Finding herself somewhat apologetic towards the star, she mouthed a rushed out 'thank you' to the sky before snatching her discarded wand from the mud.

A deep breath in.

A controlled exhale out.

She tried to recall the motions for the summoning spell, her green eyes fixed determinedly on that distant, blue light. "Accio cup!"

Nothing happened.

The trophy remained in its casted off position, unbothered and unheeding her call. When a second attempt yielded the same result, she swore under her breath at the conclusion that it was probably too far away. 

She would have to get closer. 'Things can never be easy, can they?'

Her head snapped to the left, tilting slightly as she strained to listen in on Voldemort's continuing speech. He was still droning on about his inevitable triumph over death, about his prowess and might. 'What a narcissist,' she scoffed. In a way, he almost reminded her of those poorly written Bond villains— the ones so obsessed with the deliverance of their monologues that they failed to notice when their nemesis slipped right past them. The sort that Dudley was enamoured with, glued to the television set on Saturday nights while the channels looped black and white reruns.

Reaching up to tighten her fraying ponytail, her hair matted with dirt and sweat, her shoulders rolled in an attempt to loosen the tension held in them. ‘You got this.’ A shaky breath; an exhale through chapped lips. The hand not holding the wand had curled into a fist in a bid to stop its trembling. 

And then she bolted.

Ducking behind the closest gravestone, heart set into a punishing tempo, Harri paused for an anxious moment to see if anyone had noticed her. 

One. 

Two. 

Three seconds passed.

No sounds of alarm were raised. ‘Maybe this is going to work, after all.’ It was a hope she knew she shouldn’t have dared to entertain, at least not right now, but one she indulged in all the same. Breaths shallow and a pulsating drum in her ears, Harri counted down from ten. Her lips moved soundlessly as she did so, muscles taut in anticipation— ‘Now!’

Scurrying onto the next, attention fixed resolutely on the trophy, it had taken her entirely by surprise when the headstone to her left erupted without warning.  

There was the deafening crack of stone splitting, a stray piece clipping her calf— a cry of shock as she dove the last few inches to safety.  

“Ah, Harri. There you are,” Voldemort’s voice was soft, casual— unbefitting of the situation. “I was beginning to wonder where you had disappeared to.” 

Harri hadn't even fully registered his words, the sharp throbbing in her leg demanding all of her attention in his stead. 'Shit, shit, shit.' A shaky moan bubbled past her lips as she dared to glance down; a belated sense of regret. Oh, she really shouldn't have looked. Below her knee, a considerable gash had been torn through the fleshy muscle, the wound deeply set and— Merlin, that wasn't her bone, was it? Sourness rose in the back of her throat, the taste of bile sickly-sweet in her mouth.

It took considerable effort to look away— but she knew she had to if she was going to keep her wits and, more importantly, the contents of her stomach down. 

Mercifully, the focus on her leg was siphoned when her arm involuntarily spasmed and a burning pain shot along to her shoulder. In her haste to duck for cover, the cut from Wormtail's knife had been reopened; a profuse well of scarlet that wept at an alarming pace. The sting radiated out from her flayed skin, making it difficult to manage a proper hold on her wand. Rather, all she could do was cradle her injured arm to her chest as the coldness of panic seeped in. 

“Come now, Harri. Do you know how rude it is to ignore someone when they are speaking to you?”

That was the only warning she received before another tombstone shattered.

Flinching at the unexpected display of violence— at the thunderous sound of stone exploding and the resulting quake that rippled through the earth below— she bit her lip to keep from crying out. But even as the spell ended, that yellowed light lingered as flickering sunspots behind her lids— superimposed afterimages of destruction. And it was the slow understanding of what he was doing, of what he was trying to achieve by destroying the graves, that caused her blood to chill: Voldemort was flushing her out.

Teeth sank deeper, worrying her split lip until the taste of copper overpowered all else. She needed a plan, a way out, now. And yet, her mind was content on remaining disparagingly quiet.

On her periphery, the trophy pulsated— a beacon of hope, of freedom. It was so close. Just a little further and she could reach it. Just a little further.

Damn it, there was no helping it, was there? She had to run for it. It was either that, or— no.

No, she couldn't dare to entertain that possibility, not now. Not when she was this bloody close. 

With a resolute nod for her own benefit— trying to convince herself it was a solid enough plan— Harri tentatively rose on shaking legs. Blood began to flow in earnest from her calf as she did so— warm rivulets slipping down into her sneakers, her socks.  

“Well, don’t you know how rude it is to ruin someone’s grave? Honestly, have some respect for the dead," she sniped back, squaring her shoulders in what, she hoped, would appear to be a brave gesture.

Emerging from her hiding spot, time seemed to suspend itself for a moment— a minute of weighted appraisal, stretched and drawn-out. 

Harri shamelessly took the opportunity to study the pale monster before her, curiousity rooting her in place. His robes, loosely tailored and cut from a cloth so black that they blended into the night, were almost animated with a mind of their own, curling and kissing his feet in reverence. And there was an odd stillness to him, his silhouette rigid as the barest signs of life came only in the way of his magic. Magic— it rolled off of him, so dark, so twisted that it was practically palpable to her. His skin, she noted with some revulsion, was stretched too far over his skeletal frame, revealing every blue vein, every filament, and every sinew that composed his newly-constructed body. And rather than having a nose— the feature sacrificed in the process of his resurrection— two snake-like slits remained to serve as an indication of where it once had been.

‘Sweet Merlin, he’s tall.' A numb sort of horror gripped her as her eyes raked over the Dark Lord’s towering form. Even the wizards standing closest to him were dwarfed in comparison. 

But the most striking detail were those burning eyes— as red as the blood trickling down her leg. Slitted pupils punctuated them, contracting and dilating in the darkness as they stared unblinkingly into her own— a testament to his lost humanity; of the brimstone and hellfire that he was, most certainly, crafted from.

This Voldemort was nothing like the pathetic husk on the back of Quirrell's head, or the ghost of a handsome young boy from a diary. No, this Voldemort was entirely too real. Too solid. Too unnerving. He was in his own league, the other forms he'd once possessed a waned juxtaposition to the one standing a few feet away. And though Harri tried her best to suppress her shiver when that burning gaze trained itself upon her, she couldn't. The look held there was unreadable. Calculating, assessing. 'A monster from a nightmare', she thought grimly, uneasily shifting the weight off her injured leg.

And just as Harri studied him, Voldemort did the same.

Taking in the battered girl before him, he thought she was a peculiar sight to behold. Smaller than he expected, her frame was a touch too slight, too delicate even for a fifteen-year-old. From the few sparse spots where mud had yet to collect, or where bruises weren’t blooming in sickly purpled shades, he also noticed that she was quite fair— almost cream-coloured in complexion. Her auburn hair— a few shades darker than her mother’s, from what he could recall— was wild and frayed from the ponytail atop her crown. Yet, strangely enough, it suited the girl. She was utterly defiant, down to the fiery strands. It was a truthful sentiment when he considered that she might be viewed as conventionally attractive when the filth was wiped away— or when those tattered Muggle clothes were replaced with something more proper. After all, each one of her features were refined, pointed and elegant; undeniable evidence of the purposeful breeding her lineage had sown. 

However, it was her eyes that ultimately drew him to her in the end: an unearthly shade of green.

Her eyes were what startled him, as ethereal and vivid as his own; a rebellious glint in their depths that made them glow under the moonlight. They served as a mocking reminder of his failure— an echo of the killing curse that should have gotten rid of her when she was nothing but a child. Unwittingly, it was those eyes that conjured up images from the night he had been reduced to a wraith— had lost everything he had worked for and built up throughout the decades. 

It was those eyes that inspired his wrath— and a fear he refused to openly acknowledge.

The Dark Lord studied the trembling girl only for just a moment longer; a second of prolonged silence where his gaze dragged in a slow, purposeful rake— a vain attempt to commit her to his memory once more.

And then hell was unleashed.

Notes:

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