Chapter 272: Chapter 272: "A Dark Rebirth"
As the last echoes of the Horcrux's death faded into the night, Harry wasted no time. With practiced ease, he vanished into invisibility and retreated a safe distance before transforming back into his thunderbird form. His powerful wings carried him high into the dark sky, positioning himself for a perfect view of what was to come.
He returned to his aerial vigil just in time to see Wormtail pour Charles's blood into the bubbling cauldron. Harry allowed himself a moment of satisfaction - Nagini's destruction had been quick and perfectly timed, her death throes' magical discharge now indistinguishable from the chaotic energies of Voldemort's resurrection ritual. No one, least of all Voldemort himself, would suspect anything was amiss.
Below, Wormtail collapsed beside the cauldron, his face twisted in pain as he clutched the bloody stump of his arm. He had given everything for his master, but Harry felt no sympathy. Wormtail had made his choice long ago. He could have fled, could have changed his life, but instead, he had decided to betray his friends and serve a monster. And now, here he was—broken, pathetic, groveling for scraps of recognition. If it made Harry's revenge easier, so much the better.
The cauldron, now filled with the ingredients of the dark ritual, was bubbling furiously, sparks of bright light erupting from its depths and filling the graveyard with an almost blinding glare. The scene shifted between flashes of brilliance and deep shadows And then, suddenly, the sparks died, and a thick white steam billowed from the cauldron, blanketing the scene in fog.
Through the mist, a figure began to rise—a tall, thin figure, pale as death, his silhouette both familiar and chilling. "Robe me," commanded the high, cold voice that had haunted so many nightmares.
Harry's sharp thunderbird eyes took in every detail—the flat, snake-like face, the glowing red eyes, the smooth, noseless skin. This was Voldemort, the so-called Dark Lord reborn. Harry recognized every feature from his memories and the books of his previous life. But there was something—something that felt... off.
Harry probed the dark figure's magical aura, and a smirk curled at the edge of his beak. The aura felt weaker than he had imagined, far less menacing than what he had been expecting. Was it the toll of the resurrection process? Or was it the absence of the Horcruxes that had sapped his power? Either way, Harry wasn't impressed.
'Is this really the most feared Dark Lord?' Harry thought, a mix of disdain and newfound confidence washing over him. If this was the extent of Voldemort's power, then Harry was more than ready to face him—and end him. Tonight could very well be the night when this terror was put to rest for good.
But Harry knew better than to rush in. He had patience, and he knew Voldemort's inner circle—the Death Eaters—would be arriving soon. The opportunity to eliminate them all at once was too great a prize to give up. He would wait.
---
Voldemort continued to examine his newly formed body, flexing his long, skeletal fingers, a twisted smile forming on his lipless face. He turned his attention to Charles, still bound to the gravestone, trembling and wide-eyed. A high, cruel laugh echoed through the graveyard, chilling Charles to the bone. Wormtail crawled over, his face pale and twisted in agony, his silver hand trembling as he groveled at Voldemort's feet.
"My Lord..." Wormtail gasped, his voice cracked and desperate. "My Lord... you promised..."
But Voldemort only sneered, grabbing Wormtail's remaining arm and pressing his long finger to the Dark Mark branded there.
"How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?" Voldemort mused, his red eyes gleaming as he looked towards the stars. "And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?"
As he waited for his followers to appear, Voldemort turned to Charles. His eyes roamed over the gravestone Charles was bound to, a glimmer of mockery in his gaze. "Do you know whose bones you are resting upon, Charles? My father's."
Voldemort's voice took on a chilling calm as he continued, "Tom Riddle. A Muggle who abandoned his family. I despised him for it, yet here we are. His death brought me to power, and his legacy means nothing more than ash." The dark wizard seemed to speak freely, unconcerned about his heritage in Wormtail's presence.
Harry watched in disbelief as Voldemort spoke so freely about his heritage—a Muggle father—in front of his followers. 'Seriously?' Harry thought. 'You're talking about your Muggle father when the purists are about to arrive? Either Wormtail's been thoroughly cowed, or you're slipping, Tom.'
Then, with a series of soft, swishing sounds, figures began appearing in the shadows of the graveyard. Between gravestones, behind twisted yew trees, and in every patch of darkness, wizards Apparated one by one, their hoods and masks concealing their identities. Slowly, cautiously, they moved forward, disbelief etched in their postures as they caught sight of their resurrected master.
The Death Eaters approached Voldemort in silence, awe mixed with dread, until one of them dropped to his knees and crawled forward, kissing the hem of Voldemort's robes.
"Master…Master…" he murmured, his voice trembling.
One by one, the others did the same, each paying their homage before backing away to form a silent, obedient circle around their lord. Voldemort let the silence linger for a moment, then spoke in a low, deadly tone.
"Welcome, Death Eaters. Thirteen years…thirteen years since last we met. Yet here you stand, united under the Dark Mark. Or are you?"
The silence that followed was absolute, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the wind. Voldemort began to pace, his eyes narrowing as he looked upon each of them. "How many of you searched for me? How many were loyal, even when I was not there to reward that loyalty?"
Harry clenched his talons, his patience beginning to fray. He wanted to end this now, but he knew he had to wait. The timing was everything.
But Voldemort's words continued a tirade about the failures of his followers, each accusation dripping with scorn. Finally, one of the Death Eaters dropped to his knees, begging for forgiveness. Voldemort's response was a cold, calculating Cruciatus Curse, leaving the man writhing on the ground.
Harry's eyes narrowed as Voldemort turned to Wormtail, granting him a new silver hand with an air of cruelty veiled as generosity. Wormtail's groveling thanks only further disgusted Harry.
'Enjoy your new hand while you can, Wormtail,' Harry thought. 'You won't have it for long.'
Then Voldemort stopped before Lucius Malfoy, his voice turning coldly amused. "Lucius, my slippery friend…how the mighty have fallen. Tell me, was it worth trying to make a name for yourself without me?"
Malfoy dropped to his knees, his refined exterior cracking under Voldemort's gaze. "My Lord, I have remained loyal—there was no sign, nothing that—"
"Loyal?" Voldemort interrupted, a cold laugh escaping his lips. "You lost almost everything in my absence. And yet you didn't seek me out. Your influence, your fortune…everything slipping through your fingers, and still you did nothing." He raised his wand, and Malfoy barely had time to flinch before the Cruciatus Curse hit him, his body writhing under the spell.
Harry watched with a growing sense of annoyance. This farce needed to end. He was losing patience with Voldemort's posturing and theatrics. The thought of sending Charles to safety first held him back from acting. He had to be sure his brother would be safe before he engaged.
Finally, Voldemort took a step back, letting his followers recover. "You all have disappointed me," he hissed, his voice dripping with disdain. "And yet, I find myself forced to rely on you once again. We are few, but we shall rise. We shall bring the world to its knees once more."
Finally, the Dark Lord's gaze turned toward Charles, and he smiled, a malicious gleam in his eyes.
"My most faithful servant at Hogwarts has brought us a guest of honor tonight," Voldemort announced, his voice carrying through the graveyard. "Charles Potter has so kindly joined us for my rebirthing ceremony. One might say he's here to witness the dawn of a new era."
Harry watched from above, his beak curling into what passed for a grin in his thunderbird form. With these few people, he wanted to start a new era. If this was how Voldemort intended to start his "new era," then tonight would be the perfect night to end it.
Chapter 273: Chapter 273: "The Duel Begins: A Dance of Death"
The graveyard was eerily silent save for the soft whispers of robes as Death Eaters shifted positions around their newly resurrected master. Above them, unseen, Harry watched as Lucius Malfoy finally gathered the courage to speak.
"Master," Lucius spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "We beg you to tell us... how you have achieved this miracle... this return to us."
"Ah, what a story it is, Lucius," Voldemort said with a chilling smile. He walked slowly over to stand beside Charles, his red eyes fixed on the terrified boy. "And it begins—and ends—with my young friend here." He gestured towards Charles with a lazy flick of his hand.
"You all know how they made this boy famous for surviving my Killing Curse. His grandmother, Euphemia Potter, used ancient, forgotten magic... a sacrificial ritual that provided him with a shield. I miscalculated, my friends. The curse rebounded, and I was ripped from my body."
Voldemort's red eyes swept across the circle of Death Eaters, gauging their reactions. "Pain beyond pain... nothing could have prepared me for it. I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost... but still, I was alive. What I was, even I do not know... I, who have gone further than anyone along the path that leads to immortality."
From his vantage point above, Harry smirked, suppressing a surge of satisfaction. 'Not as far as you think, Tommy,' he thought, knowing full well that Voldemort's journey to immortality had just come to an abrupt halt with Nagini's death.
Voldemort continued his tale, describing his years of powerless existence, forcing himself to survive second by second. "I could possess the bodies of others, but I dared not go where humans were plentiful. I inhabited animals—snakes, naturally, being my preference. But their bodies were ill-suited for magic, and my possession shortened their lives considerably."
Harry watched as Voldemort's eyes kept darting around the graveyard, clearly searching for Nagini. Each time he failed to spot her, a faint frown crossed his snake-like face, betraying his frustration.
"Then, four years ago, a chance presented itself," Voldemort continued, his voice growing more animated. "A foolish young teacher from Dumbledore's school wandered into my forest. Through him, I attempted to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. But again, I was thwarted... indirectly by Charles Potter. Some unknown interferer used sneaky means to prevent my success."
The Dark Lord's eyes searched the darkness briefly, a frustrated look crossing his face. Harry had to stifle a laugh. 'Looking for ghosts, Tom? The "sneaky interferer" is closer than you think.'
Voldemort carried on, his cold voice echoing in the graveyard. "I returned to my exile, weaker than ever. I had almost abandoned hope when Wormtail found me. He brought me Bertha Jorkins—a gift beyond my wildest dreams. With... persuasion, she revealed that the Triwizard Tournament would be held at Hogwarts, and she told me of a faithful Death Eater who would help me."
A cruel smile twisted his lipless mouth. "After I extracted all useful information, her mind and body were too damaged to serve any further purpose. I disposed of her."
Harry felt his stomach churn at the callousness in Voldemort's voice, but he remained silent, gathering power. The storm above grew more turbulent, swirling in response to his magic.
"With Wormtail's help and a potion concocted from unicorn blood and my dear Nagini's venom..." Voldemort paused again, his red eyes scanning the darkness as if expecting his snake to appear. The frown deepened. He seemed to attribute her absence to the after-effects of his resurrection, and continued, "I was returned to a rudimentary form. Then it was simply a matter of ensuring young Charles would win the tournament and be brought here tonight."
Voldemort's expression turned darker. "My faithful servant should be here to witness my return," he hissed, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. "But it seems he has fallen to Hadrian Potter." His red eyes blazed with fury. "The elder brother... I've heard interesting things about him. Defeating three of my strongest Death Eaters single-handedly... Once we are established, he will be my first target. He will learn the price of defying Lord Voldemort."
The Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Hadrian Potter. Voldemort noticed their unease and smiled coldly.
"But for now," he said, turning to Charles, his wand raising with a swift, deliberate motion, "we have his younger brother to entertain us. Let us show him proper Death Eater hospitality. Crucio!"
Charles's screams echoed through the graveyard, piercing the silence as Harry watched helplessly from above. His heart clenched, but he remained still. He hoped his brother could endure it—he needed Charles to hold on a little longer. Harry was building a powerful spell, gathering his energy as the storm above swirled darker and fiercer. To the Death Eaters, the storm was a sign, an omen of their lord's return, a mark of the power now reborn. But only Harry knew the truth: the gathering storm was his doing, a weapon he would soon unleash.
Voldemort ended the curse, and Charles slumped against the gravestone, his breathing labored but steady. The Dark Lord's lipless mouth twisted into a cruel smile.
"You see now how foolish it was to believe this boy could ever be stronger than me," Voldemort said, his voice dripping with malice. "But I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind. Charles Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And now I am going to prove my power by killing him here and now, in front of you all, with no Dumbledore to help him, and no grandmother to die for him."
Voldemort's red eyes gleamed as he studied Charles. "The Boy Who Lived," he whispered softly, almost as if savoring the title. Charles, despite his pain, managed to stand, his legs trembling but holding. The young Potter looked Voldemort straight in the eye, his own gaze defiant.
"How many nights have I dreamed of this moment?" Voldemort continued, his voice smooth yet filled with a dark hunger. "Tell me, boy, do you know how to duel?"
To everyone's surprise, Charles laughed. It was a sharp, mocking sound that cut through the graveyard's tense silence. "Do I know how to duel?" he echoed, shifting into a perfect dueling stance despite his exhaustion. "I've been training for this moment my entire life. The real question is—are you ready for me?"
From his aerial perch, Harry couldn't help but admire his brother's bravery. 'Foolish bravado,' he thought, a hint of pride warming his heart, 'but impressive nonetheless. Show him what Potters are made of.'
Voldemort's eyes gleamed with amusement, and he gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Such confidence," he said softly. "Let us put it to the test then. Crucio!"
But Charles was no longer where he'd been. He had moved, flowing into a roll that was swift and graceful, dodging the curse entirely. He countered immediately, a series of spells fired in rapid succession.
"Reducto! Confringo! Bombarda Maxima!"
The spells flew toward Voldemort, and though he deflected them almost lazily, his eyes narrowed slightly. He had expected an easy victim, but Charles was putting up a fight.
"Better than I anticipated," Voldemort admitted, his tone still mocking. "But still... child's play. Allow me to demonstrate real power."
What followed was a deadly dance. Charles moved constantly, never staying still enough to present an easy target. His spells, while not dark, showed creativity and power that impressed even Harry. But Voldemort was toying with him, using only the Cruciatus Curse, watching with amusement as Charles dodged and shielded.
The young Potter was determined, refusing to give in, but Harry could see the toll it was taking on him.
"Dumbledore has trained you well," Voldemort called out, his voice carrying across the graveyard. "But he's taught you to fight like a duelist. This is not a duel, boy. This is war!"
The next Cruciatus hit Charles mid-dodge. He fell, his body convulsing in agony, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to scream.
"First lesson," Voldemort sneered, lifting the curse, "pain."
Above them, Harry's storm was ready. The clouds swirled, lightning flickering silently within them. The Death Eaters below saw it as a sign of their master's power, unaware of what it truly was—Harry's spell, gathering strength for the moment he would strike.
Charles struggled to his feet, blood trickling from where he'd bitten his lip. "That all you've got?" he gasped out. "The greatest dark wizard of all time, and all you can do is cause pain? Pathetic."
The Death Eaters hissed at his audacity. Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously. "You wish to see more? Very well. Let me show you why I am feared!"
Now the duel changed. Voldemort's spells came faster, darker. Bone-breakers, organ-rupturing curses, flesh-rotting hexes - a deadly rainbow of light that Charles barely managed to avoid. Yet still he fought back, his determination unwavering.
"You are better than your peers maybe but still too far away to best me," Voldemort taunted. "Your elder brother might have given me a tougher fight but he is not here. I heard he saved your life from my faithful servants when they went after you last year. And there was someone else who saved you from me that night during the first year. And there was the time where your grandmother saved your life. You will be always like this little Charles always being saved by one person or other. But there is no one to save you now."
"I don't need anyone to save me," Charles snarled back, his voice trembling but fierce. "I am destined to defeat you—and I will do it."
Then it happened—a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. In a combination of desperate skill and sheer luck, one of Charles's cutting curses slipped through Voldemort's defense. The spell struck, leaving a thin line of blood on the Dark Lord's pale cheek.
A silence fell over the graveyard, the only sound the distant rumble of thunder from Harry's gathering storm. The red eyes of Voldemort widened, a flicker of something—surprise, disbelief—crossing his face. The Death Eaters around them stiffened, unable to believe what they had just witnessed.
From above, Harry allowed himself a grim smile. 'That's it, Charles. You've shown him—you've made him bleed.'
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