The Dark Lord Returns
Night falls. The countless stars, like a galaxy, stretch across the sky.
Harry stood in a dark, overgrown cemetery, looking around in panic, still trying to figure out what had happened to him.
The scene shifts back a few hours.
Harry had just seen the red sparks announcing the withdrawal of two female Champion from the competition. He gritted his teeth and pressed on deeper into the maze—now, his chances of winning had risen to fifty percent, and he was determined to seize every second; who knew, he might actually win.
He first encountered a Dementor, which he repelled with Patronus Charm, only to discover it was actually a Boggart. He then used "Riddikulus" to defeat the Boggart. After passing through a golden mist that could turn the world upside down, and answering a Sphinx's riddle, he finally saw the finish line in the distance.
At that moment, he noticed a thin book with a co-authored cover lying forlornly on the ground in the corner.
He suspected it might be related to clues in the maze, and driven by the innate, excessive curiosity of a Gryffindor, he went over, picked up the book, and opened it to read.
It was empty. He flipped through several pages, but didn't see a single word or drop of ink. He frowned and became suspicious.
The last time I saw a book like this, completely blank, was Tom Riddle's Diary. That experience left him with rather unpleasant memories.
He was about to put the book back when he noticed a bookmark tucked into the last page. It was a beautiful pinkish-blue feather, and he couldn't identify what kind of bird it was; he just instinctively thought it was very pretty. He couldn't help but want to keep the feather for himself. After all, everything in the maze was unclaimed, so it wouldn't be considered stealing.
The moment he touched the feather, he heard a "pop," and the next second he found himself in this strange place.
Following his gaze, he could see the dark outline of a small church behind a tall yew tree on the right. To the left was a hill. Harry could make out a delicate old house on the hillside.
He surveyed the cemetery; it was eerily quiet and gloomy. He had a strange feeling, as if someone was watching him from some shadowy place. He drew his wand and cautiously scanned his surroundings.
In the darkness, a figure approached him step by step among the graves. Although he couldn't see the person's face clearly, from the gait and the posture of his arms, it seemed that the person was carrying something. He was short and wore a hooded cloak that covered his face. After taking a few more steps, as the distance between them continued to shrink, Harry realized that what the person was carrying looked like a baby.
The man stopped in front of a towering marble tombstone, only six feet from Harry. For a fleeting moment, Harry met the gaze of the small figure.
Suddenly, Harry's scar throbbed with intense pain. He had never felt such pain in his life. His wand slipped from his hand and fell to the ground, clutching his face. His legs buckled and he collapsed, unable to see anything. His head felt like it was about to explode.
He heard a loud, cold voice say from far above him, "Is that him?"
"Yes, I'm certain it's him, my master," the short man in the cloak said respectfully.
"Very well, it seems the plan is progressing smoothly—" the cold voice continued, "Don't waste time, begin preparing the ceremony, I can't wait..."
"Incarcerous!" While Harry was still suffering from a headache and unable to resist, the short man used magic to conjure ropes to tie Harry up, then dragged Harry toward a marble tombstone, finally binding him to it.
Harry in this world had never met Peter Pettigrew, so he didn't connect the image of the short man in front of him with Peter Pettigrew.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Harry shouted coldly.
Peter Pettigrew didn't answer him, nor did he even glance at Harry. He held up his wand and laboriously pushed a huge cauldron under the grave.
The crucible appeared to be filled with water, large enough to seat an adult.
"Incendio!" Peter Pettigrew's wand tapped rapidly on the bottom of the cauldron, and crackling flames leaped up from beneath it. The liquid inside seemed to heat up very quickly; its surface not only began to boil but also sparked, as if it were on fire.
"It's ready, my master," Peter Pettigrew said cautiously. Now the entire surface of the water was sparkling, as if studded with diamonds.
"Hmph, not bad. How are the people over there...?" The things in the bundle on the ground were shifting restlessly, and a cold voice came from there.
"They... they didn't say anything... I think... I think they must have other plans..." Peter Pettigrew said carefully.
"Hmph! Would they be so kind as to offer us assistance for no reason?" The cold voice continued, "If it weren't for that feather from the Diricawl they designed, we wouldn't have been able to succeed so easily. Barty Crouch Jr. himself said he wasn't entirely confident he could ensure the plan would go smoothly and allow the boy to touch the Goblet of Goblet of Fire."
The Diricawl is a plump, fluffy, flightless bird. In the Muggle world, they are very famous, known as the Dodo, and are found only on the Mauritius Island in the Indian Ocean, but Muggles believe that the Dodo has been hunted to extinction.
In fact, like the Phoenix and the Zouwu, the Diricawl possesses the ability to travel through space. This is one of the Diricawl's methods of escaping danger.
Like the Phoenix and the Zouwu, the Diricawl's ability to suddenly disappear and reappear in another place is unaffected by the Anti- Apparition Restriction.
Clearly, Harry was brought to this cemetery by an activated Diricawl feather.
"But remember, Wormtail— " the voice said coldly, "I am your master."
"Yes, I... I know that, Master, please believe me..." Peter Pettigrew stammered, "I am absolutely loyal to you."
"Oh, really?" the voice said. "Then you'd better prove it to me later."
"Wormtail?" Harry suddenly realized who the people in front of him were. He had dreamed about the two of them several times at night, and Professor Trelawney had also given him a Prophecy during the exam week last semester that he couldn't shake off.
"You're Wormtail! The traitor who killed my parents! You bastard!" Harry cursed, then looked at the bundle. "He... he's Voldemort?"
*Slap! Peter Pettigrew slapped Harry hard across the face. "Boy, how dare you call your master's name like that?" Then he magically conjured a cloth and stuffed it into Harry's mouth, coldly saying, "You'd better stay quiet over there!"
After doing all this, Peter Pettigrew opened the bundle, revealing Voldemort in his grotesque form, and then placed him in the cauldron. With a hiss, it sank. Harry heard the soft thud of its limp body hitting the bottom of the cauldron.
Then came the classic Flesh-and-Blood Sacrifice Ritual.
As Peter Pettigrew placed Voldemort's Muggle father's bones, his own wrist, and Harry's blood into the cauldron, the liquid inside immediately turned a dazzling white.
Peter Pettigrew completed his task, knelt beside the cauldron, slumped to the ground, and lay there gasping and sobbing, clutching his bleeding, severed arm.
The crucible was about to boil, and diamond-like Mars flew in all directions, so bright and dazzling that everything around it turned the color of black velvet.
Harry kept praying that Voldemort would drown in the cauldron, even though he knew how absurd and ridiculous the prayer sounded.
Suddenly, the Mars on the crucible went out. A plume of white steam rose from the crucible, obscuring everything in front of Harry.
Then, through the white mist before him, he saw, chillingly, a man's black figure slowly rising from the crucible, tall and thin, like a skeleton.
"Put this robe on me," the cold, shrill voice said from behind the steam. The Wormtail sobbed and groaned, still protecting his mutilated arm, and hurriedly grabbed the black robe wrapped in a bundle from the ground, stood up, and slipped it over his master's head with one hand.
The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, his eyes fixed on Harry... Harry saw the face that had haunted his nightmares for the past three years, paler than a skull, with large, bloodshot eyes, a flat nose like a snake's, and nostrils that were just two thin slits...
Voldemort has been resurrected.