While the Ministry of Magic was busy dealing with the aftermath of the attack, Peter Pettigrew was kneeling respectfully on the ground in a castle in the United Kingdom.
Before him was an old monkey-like figure, as though it were about to climb into a coffin. Its body was hideous and curled up like a deformed infant.
He was Voldemort, a Voldemort who had not yet fully returned to life and whose body was frail.
"My most honored master, your loyal servant has brought you a surprise."
Peter Pettigrew's voice echoed through the castle. Beside him stood a massive cauldron wreathed in flames, filled with an unknown green liquid that boiled and occasionally spat sparks.
Clearly, the liquid within was far from ordinary.
The cauldron was large enough to easily hold a person.
"Yes, Wormtail, my most loyal servant."
"We lost quite a few people for your plan."
The cold, hoarse voice echoed through the chamber, frightening Peter Pettigrew so badly that he trembled on the ground, not daring to raise his head.
"My most honored master, I did it for you. Only once you are truly revived will those people stop pretending to obey your commands."
Peter Pettigrew sounded deeply aggrieved, and his voice grew much quieter toward the end.
To ensure that plan went smoothly, he had nearly died amid endless magic.
That scene had truly been far too perilous.
"Hmph!"
"Have you obtained Harry Potter's blood?"
Voldemort clearly understood the current state of the Death Eaters.
They were scattered like loose sand, acting independently and plotting in secret, yet not a single one of them truly sought to revive him.
He would have to plan everything himself.
What happened during the Hogwarts Triwizard Tournament was one of his plans.
And the one carrying it out was Peter