章節 256: Chapter 255 "The Dark Lord Returns"
Harry stood in a dark, overgrown graveyard, his heart pounding with panic as he scanned his surroundings, still trying to piece together what was happening to him.
The scene shifts back a few hours earlier.
Harry had just witnessed the red sparks signaling the withdrawal of the two female warriors. Determination set in as he gritted his teeth and pressed deeper into the maze—now, his chances of winning the championship had surged to 50%. He knew he had to race against time; perhaps victory was within his grasp.
Encountering a Dementor initially, Harry swiftly countered with the Patronus Charm, only to realize it was actually a Boggart in disguise. With a quick spell of "Riddikulus," he banished the Boggart.
Passing through a golden mist that distorted reality, he faced a sphinx's riddle, answering it correctly and finally glimpsing the distant endpoint.
Amidst the maze's twists and turns, Harry spotted a lone, closed book lying in a secluded corner. Intrigued by the possibility of it holding clues, his Gryffindor curiosity got the best of him. Approaching cautiously, he picked up the book and opened it to read—
It was empty. Harry flipped through several pages, but not a word or a drop of ink met his eyes. Frowning, suspicion crept in.
"Who would've left this kind of book here?" Suddenly realization hit him when he recalled of Tom's diary.
The last time he encountered such an empty book was with Tom's diary, a memory he'd rather forget.
Just as he was about to return the book, he noticed a bookmark fashioned like a feather on the last page—a striking pink-blue feather of unknown origin. Despite not recognizing the bird it came from, its beauty captivated him.
Harry couldn't resist the urge to claim it as his own; after all, items in the maze were essentially ownerless, absolving him of any thievery.
As his fingers grazed the feather, a soft "pop" echoed, and in the blink of an eye, he found himself in this peculiar place. He was apparated into another place without him even knowing.
Surveying his surroundings, Harry glimpsed the silhouette of a small church peeking behind a towering yew tree to his right. On the left, a hill rose, adorned with an elegant old house.
His gaze shifted to the cemetery. The atmosphere was eerie, shrouded in silence. A sense of unease crept over him as if unseen eyes were watching from the darkness. With a wand in hand, he scanned the area cautiously.
In the darkness, a figure emerged, advancing steadily amidst the graves. Though his features remained obscured, his posture suggested he carried something. Short in stature and cloaked, he drew nearer, revealing an object akin to a bundle in his arms.
Coming to a halt by a towering marble tombstone mere feet away, the figure lowered his gaze to the small form he held.
Suddenly, agony ripped through Harry's scar, an intensity unparalleled in his memory. His wand slipped from his grasp as he doubled over, hands clasped to his face, collapsing to the ground. Blind to his surroundings, his head throbbed as if ready to burst.
"Aghhh! This pain! Why is it coming back all of a sudden!?" Harry screamed in agony.
Above him, a voice rang out, icy and commanding: "Is it him?"
"Yes, Master," the cloaked figure below responded deferentially.
"Excellent. It appears the plan progresses smoothly," the chilling voice continued. "Waste no time; commence preparations for the ritual. I am impatient to begin..."
"Detention, swiftly!" The diminutive figure capitalized on Harry's incapacitation, swiftly weaving a spell to ensnare him with rope. With Harry bound, he was dragged towards the marble tombstone, where he was securely fastened.
In this unfamiliar realm, Harry had never laid eyes on Peter Pettigrew, thus failing to connect the figure before him with the notorious traitor.
"Who are you? What do you intend to do?" Harry's voice rang out with icy resolve.
Ignoring Harry's demands, Pettigrew raised his wand, laboriously maneuvering a massive cauldron beneath the tomb.
The vessel brimmed with liquid, enough to submerge an adult.
"Kindle the flames," Peter Pettigrew murmured, tapping the cauldron's base with his wand. A crackling blaze erupted beneath, swiftly heating the liquid within. The surface roiled and erupted in sparks, resembling a conflagration.
"Set it aflame, my Master," Peter Pettigrew intoned softly, the liquid now aglow with diamond-like sparks.
"Ah, commendable work. And how about the others?" The contents of the bag on the ground stirred uneasily, accompanied by a chilling voice.
"They... they remained silent... I believe... I believe they harbor alternative intentions..." Peter Pettigrew spoke cautiously.
"Hmph! How naive of them. Offering assistance without cause?" The cold voice persisted. "Were it not for the escape bird feather they concocted, our task would not have been so effortless. Crouch Jr. himself harbors doubts, unsure if the plan will unfold smoothly and if the boy will reach the Goblet of Fire."
The escape bird, resembling a plump, fluffy avian incapable of flight, was renowned in the Muggle world as the dodo, purportedly extinct on Mauritius Island.
Unbeknownst to many, these escape birds possessed the extraordinary ability to traverse space, akin to Phoenixes, allowing them to evade imminent threats.
Unlike ordinary Apparition restrictions, the escape bird's uncanny knack for vanishing and reappearing remained unaffected by anti-Apparition measures.
Evidently, Harry found himself transported from the maze to the cemetery through the activation of a ball escape bird feather.
"But remember, Wormtail," the voice intoned coldly, "I am your master."
"Yes, yes, I understand, master, please trust me..." Peter Pettigrew stuttered, "I am loyal to you."
"Is that so?" the voice retorted. "Then you'll have to demonstrate your loyalty to me soon enough."
"Wormtail?" Harry suddenly pieced together the identity of the figure before him. Recollections of his recurrent dreams involving these two individuals flooded his mind, alongside Professor Trelawney's ominous prophecy during last semester's exams. It was a forewarning he couldn't shake off.
"You're Wormtail! The traitor who murdered my parents! You wretch!" Harry exclaimed, his gaze then shifting to the bag. "And he... he's Voldemort?"
Snap! Peter Pettigrew delivered a harsh slap across Harry's face. "Boy, you dare utter the master's name so recklessly?" With that, he conjured a cloth and gagged Harry, commanding, "Stay silent! How dare you be insolent when you are granted the chance to witness our lord's sacred moment; not even all of the members had the chance of witnessing his resurrection from the dead."
With Harry restrained, Pettigrew proceeded to unveil the dismal form of Voldemort from the bag before lowering him into the cauldron.
With a sinister hiss, it descended into the cauldron, and Harry could hear the muffled thud as its lifeless form made contact with the bottom.
What followed was the grim ritual of flesh and blood sacrifice.
As Pettigrew added the bones of Voldemort's Muggle father, his own severed wrist, and Harry's blood into the cauldron, the liquid within immediately blazed with blinding intensity.
With his task complete, Pettigrew collapsed beside the cauldron, clutching his bleeding, shattered arm, gasping and sobbing in anguish.
The crucible began to bubble furiously, emitting dazzling diamond-like sparks that bathed everything in their radiant glow, rendering the surroundings pitch black.
Harry fervently prayed, hoping against hope that the cauldron would consume Voldemort, though he knew the futility of such a plea.
Then, in a sudden turn of events, the sparks extinguished. A veil of white steam billowed from the cauldron, obscuring Harry's vision.
As the mist dispersed, Harry was met with a horrifying sight: the eerie outline of a man emerging lethargically from the cauldron. Towering and emaciated, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a spectral figure.
"Fetch my robe," commanded the chilling, raspy voice from within the steam.
Pettigrew whimpered and moaned, cradling his maimed arm protectively, before hastily retrieving the black garment lying nearby. With trembling hands, he draped it over his master's form.
Stepping forth from the cauldron, the gaunt figure fixed his gaze upon Harry... and Harry beheld the visage that had haunted his nightmares for the past three years. It was a countenance paler than death itself, adorned with two blazing scarlet eyes and a nose akin to a serpent's, its nostrils mere slits.
The Dark Lord had returned from the dead.
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
榜單 
-- 推薦票