章 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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