Chapter 704: Shrinking and Swelling
Clack!
On the stands, Lucius Malfoy’s brand-new Silver-Serpent Walking Staff clattered to the ground. The usually aloof and disdainful expression on his face had drained of all color. His eyes, wide with shock, fixed on the figure in the screen before him.
Narcissa’s long fingers clenched violently around the armrest of her seat, her perfectly manicured nails carving deep scratches into the fine wood.
Draco, seated beside them, reacted the most visibly—like a startled animal. His gray eyes widened in panic, beads of cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.
When he saw the young Harry Potter bound beside the resurrected Voldemort, his throat visibly bobbed. His face turned as pale as paper.
In the midst of the crowd’s screams and gasps, the Malfoys’ reaction wasn’t particularly out of place. In fact, compared to the chaos around them, they seemed almost unnervingly calm.
Lucius bent slowly, retrieving his Walking Staff. As he straightened, he quickly scanned the surrounding faces before lowering his voice to a hushed whisper: “Remember what we discussed, Draco.”
“But Dad…” Draco gasped, the old pain from his father’s disappearance flooding back.
Narcissa pulled her son closer, her icy fingers gently covering his eyes. “No matter what happens,” she murmured, her voice soft as silk, “we’ll always be together as a family.”
Her gaze locked with Lucius’s—silent, understanding, unspoken.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Draco whispered, pulling her hand away. His voice trembled. “I… I want to watch.”
Lucius took her hand, his voice barely audible. “No matter what, I’ll protect you both.”
Narcissa pressed her lips together, offering a slight nod. Her eyes betrayed a worry too deep to name.
Beside her, Lucius turned forward. Whether by chance or design, Dumbledore’s gaze swept across the Malfoy family at that very moment.
For a fleeting second, their eyes met—then both looked away.
…
Voldemort had no idea that his meticulously planned resurrection ritual was being witnessed live by the entire world.
In his mind, even if the audience panicked over the sudden disappearance of the two competitors, the public’s focus would inevitably shift to the safety protocols of the Tournament. The Ministry of Magic and Dumbledore would be left to shoulder the brunt of the backlash.
And even if Dumbledore tried to act, Fudge would do everything in his power to suppress the incident—quietly, swiftly, efficiently.
He’d explain the disappearance as a malfunctioning Portkey, or a minor magical misstep that caused a flawed spatial transfer, resulting in an unknown location. The Ministry, he’d claim, would launch a full-scale rescue operation. The scandal would fade, the memory would blur.
Meanwhile, the great Dark Lord would remain hidden, gathering strength, summoning more undead corpses. And when he finally reemerged, the world would tremble beneath his shadow.
Hahahaha…
Voldemort laughed smugly, his serpent-like face twisted in triumph. His long, red pupils narrowed into thin slits with exhilaration.
“Master! Master!” Little Barty Crouch dropped to his knees, trembling with fervor. Blood still oozed from his mangled wrist, yet he seemed not to feel it. With his other hand, he clung desperately to the edge of Voldemort’s robes.
“You’ve finally returned! We’ve waited for this moment for so long!”
Voldemort extended a pale, slender finger, gently stroking the boy’s head. Then he raised his wand, sweeping it through the air.
A streak of silver-white light—pure, radiant, like moonlight—traced a graceful arc. It twisted, writhed, and reshaped itself into the form of a human hand. It descended, settling perfectly onto Little Barty Crouch’s missing wrist.
The boy stared in rapture at his new limb. His fingers flexed and closed with perfect ease—like it had always been part of him.
“Perfect! Master, this is… absolutely perfect!” Little Barty cried, lifting the wand and pressing it to his lips in devotion. “Thank you… thank you… I’ll give you everything—my life, my soul!”
“Let your loyalty remain steadfast,” Voldemort said, pleased. “Always.”
“Of course, my Master… always,” Little Barty choked out, tears and snot streaming down his face, voice raw with emotion.
“Extend your arm,” Voldemort commanded.
Without hesitation, Little Barty thrust out his left arm, rolling up his sleeve to the elbow. Revealed on his forearm was a fresh, vivid red mark—the Dark Mark.
Voldemort pressed his long, bony finger onto the scar.
Instantly, Little Barty grimaced, pain flashing across his face. The mark beneath his skin darkened—turning pitch black.
At the same moment, Harry screamed in agony. The scar on his forehead burned like fire.
Only then did Voldemort seem to remember Harry was still there. He turned slowly, eyes flickering with cruel amusement as he regarded the boy held in the grip of the scarred man.
“Restore him,” Voldemort ordered. “After all… he’s the guest of honor tonight.”
Wade’s eyes snapped wide open, his gaze locked on what came next.
The Tattooed Woman stepped forward, her movements deliberate and cautious. She pulled a golden water kettle from her robes, maintaining a careful distance. Then, stretching her arm, she tilted the kettle so the spout hovered directly above Harry’s head.
Golden mist poured down like liquid sand, enveloping Harry from head to toe.
Harry stared, wide-eyed, utterly transfixed—so stunned he forgot to close his eyes.
Within moments, the boy writhed in pain, his body twitching violently. Wade braced for the inevitable—expecting Harry to swell back to his original size.
But instead… he shrank.
His limbs shortened. His body grew smaller. The ropes binding him slipped loose, falling away. His black hair retracted into his scalp. His cheeks plumped, rounding into that of a baby.
“Waaah—!”
He opened his mouth and let out a loud, piercing cry.
Wade’s jaw dropped.
Harry had turned into an infant.
Just as Wade began to doubt whether this pudgy little baby could possibly undergo any further transformation—back into a fertilized egg—BANG!—the boy exploded back to his original size in an instant.
The Tattooed Woman swiftly inverted the kettle. The golden mist was sucked back inside with a hissing sound, vanishing completely in a flash.
Fifteen-year-old Harry collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath. His clothes—once loosely draped like a sleeping robe—now hung crookedly on his frame. His glasses were gone.
He shook his head fiercely, struggling to clear his mind, still dazed and unaware of what had just happened.
“Welcome back, Harry Potter,” Voldemort purred, voice dripping with chilling delight. “Unlike that clueless child you once were, now you’re finally worthy of conversation.”
He waved a hand.
The scarred man immediately stepped forward, tossing Harry’s glasses, wand, and scattered clothes onto the ground before him.
Harry’s arms trembled from the aftereffects of the transformation. He fumbled with his clothes, pulling them on hastily. Then he slipped on his glasses.
The world snapped back into focus.
And the moment he gripped his holly wand, a warm surge flooded through his palm, spreading through his entire body.
Memories returned—complete, sharp, and vivid.
(End of Chapter)
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