Chapter 703: Resurrection
"Wade Gray."
Infant Voldemort slowly rotated his malformed head, Serpent-like red eyes locking onto Wade with an eerie, unnatural gentleness in his cold-hearted voice:
"Your Magic Puppet... displayed astonishing battle prowess in the Tournament. Serve me, and I shall allow you to stand at my left hand in the future..."
Little Barty Crouch glared at Wade with jealous eyes. Though his own position seemed more important, he had spent years clawing his way to this rank. What had this child done to earn such favor?
Wade tilted his head upward, as if stunned by Voldemort’s presence—dazed and bewildered, he stammered, "W-What...?"
Voldemort let out a sharp, mocking laugh and raised one pale hand.
"You do not understand yet... but you are nothing to me. Watch closely—this is the power of your future master!"
"On the path beyond death, I have gone further than any before me. Serve me, and I shall grant you the same glory."
With a flick of his finger, Wade’s small body was lifted by an invisible force and gently placed onto a long bench prepared for the Church Letter disciples.
Then, the armrests of the chair twisted and transformed into several curved iron rings, binding Wade’s arms and legs, rendering him completely immobile.
In the split second that followed, a storm of thoughts raced through Wade’s mind.
—Magic Puppet? What Magic Puppet?
Was that my ability after growing up?
How did I end up in this situation?
I’m not a native of the Wizarding World. I don’t know anything about Little Barty Crouch tampering with the Triwizard Tournament trophy...
But then—how did Little Barty Crouch even get here? He was supposed to have transformed into Moody, waiting at Hogwarts for his master’s next command—only to be captured by Dumbledore.
If I had deliberately touched the trophy, replacing Cedric, and been teleported here with Harry...
If all of this was part of my own plan...
Then... what exactly was I trying to achieve?
—Trying to betray and join Voldemort?
Impossible.
To become a Death Eater, there were far better opportunities in my first year. And what kind of master is this—noseless, crippled, a failure?
Moreover, Wade couldn’t bring himself to accept Voldemort’s treatment of subordinates. He’d heard that Death Eaters were required to crawl on their hands and knees, licking the master’s toe to show loyalty.
So if not submission...
Then perhaps the answer lay in the opposite direction.
What would I, after growing up, have done to orchestrate this moment?
Fragments of unfamiliar terms flickered through Wade’s mind—Television Live Broadcast, Communication Pea, Magic Puppet...
And things that had never existed in his memory—Green Leopard, Strange Golden Kettle, Cobra Replacing Nagini, Altered Resurrection Location, Mirror That Cannot Reflect Voldemort...
If these were all the ripple effects of his arrival as a time traveler...
Then what had he actually done to transform the Harry Potter world into this?
Images—fleeting, fragmented—flashed before his eyes, obscured by fog.
But as Wade glanced at the mirror, a sudden, vague understanding stirred in his heart.
...
Voldemort no longer paid attention to the child placed to the side.
No matter how brilliant Wade might become in the future—no matter if one day he could match an entire army—right now, he was just a five- or six-year-old boy. Not worth the Dark Lord’s precious energy.
He had no interest in probing Wade’s mind.
At this stage, Voldemort’s magic was barely sustained. And what could a child possibly know? Besides playmates, food, and toys, there was nothing of value in that tiny head.
Voldemort’s gaze remained fixed on Harry.
His inner turmoil ran deeper than even Little Barty Crouch’s.
But the audience for his grand resurrection had not yet arrived. He himself was not at full strength. For too long, he had waited—perfecting the ritual, preparing the moment.
So Voldemort said nothing more. He simply raised his hand.
"Begin."
"Yes, Master."
Little Barty Crouch responded instantly. With a wave of his wand, a stone cauldron from the horned niche floated into place, filled with a strange liquid. As soon as it settled, flames leapt from beneath it. The liquid boiled violently, spitting sparks and releasing thick, churning steam.
Voldemort laughed—a high, piercing sound.
"Right now! Hurry!"
With reverence, Little Barty Crouch lifted the infant Voldemort and placed him into the cauldron.
The infant sank without a sound, dissolving into the bubbling liquid.
Little Barty Crouch waved his wand and declared:
"Father’s bone—offered unintentionally—shall bring your son back to life."
A stream of gray-white bone dust rose from the jar in the niche and fell into the cauldron.
The liquid turned a vivid blue, hissing and crackling with sparks.
"Servant’s flesh—voluntarily sacrificed—shall restore your master!"
With no hesitation, Little Barty Crouch severed his own left hand. Blood sprayed into the cauldron as the severed limb plunged into the liquid.
He winced in pain, yet his smile twisted wider.
The liquid turned a fierce, blazing red, radiating intense light.
"Enemy’s blood—forcibly taken—shall resurrect your foe!"
Harry struggled desperately, but the scarred man held him firm. He was hoisted above the cauldron, his heart pounding with dread. He thought he was about to be boiled alive.
He closed his eyes, too terrified to scream.
Then came a sharp pain in his arm.
Little Barty Crouch slashed open his wrist with a dagger. Blood poured into the cauldron.
The scarred man moved him aside, still holding him tightly, eyes fixed on the cauldron.
The liquid turned dazzling white—so bright it filled the entire church with blinding light.
Wade instinctively cried out, shielding his eyes.
For some reason, his subconscious believed this light must be scorching, radiant—capable of reducing dark creatures to ash.
But it was not.
Though sparks shot from the cauldron like fireworks, the light was cold. The thick white steam was not warm, but icy—like the dense, bone-chilling mist of a winter morning.
Through the haze, a tall, slender black figure rose slowly.
He spread his arms, as if examining himself, then gave a slight motion of his fingers.
A black robe flew through the air and settled over him. He stepped out of the cauldron, and the mist vanished instantly.
The man’s face was revealed—gaunt as a skull, pale skin taut over bone, a serpent-like flat nose, red eyes sweeping across the room.
When he opened his mouth, his voice was colder, sharper than before:
"I am back."
...
Even though they had suspected, the sight of it—real, undeniable—left the entire audience frozen in silence.
Mouths hung open. Faces turned ashen. Everyone stared at the screen, as if screaming silently, their souls shattered by the moment.
Then, chaos erupted across the stadium.
Screams tore through the air. Panic-stricken spectators fled in every direction. Someone inside stumbled and collapsed, legs giving out. Minister Fudge collapsed unconscious. Young children wailed in terror. Students stood paralyzed, struck as if by lightning.
In the midst of the pandemonium, Gellert Grindelwald remained seated, calm and composed. His long fingers tapped gently against the armrest.
Amidst the screams and sobs, he tilted his head slightly, drawing in a deep breath.
"How... nostalgic," he whispered, eyes fixed on the screen—on the man who stood triumphant in his rebirth.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile curled at the corner of his lips.
He turned to the person beside him and spoke softly:
"Behold. This is the Dark Lord."
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
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