Chapter 705: Badge
Participating in the Third Tournament... crossing the Forbidden Forest... meeting Wade... touching the Trophy... shrinking, pulled by Wade to escape... Little Barty Crouch appears... Voldemort’s resurrection... the Dark Lord tempting Wade to pledge allegiance to him...
Harry whipped his head around, staring at the child-sized Wade, bound to a bench. His short legs barely reached the ground, his tiny frame cramped inside the oversized chair, looking fragile and pitiful. Yet, there was no fear on the boy’s face—only wide-eyed wonder and an insatiable hunger for knowledge.
Recalling his own transformation moments ago, Harry felt a blush rise, and for a split second, he almost laughed. Of course it’s Wade. Even at such a young age, his thirst for knowledge seemed to eclipse any fear of death.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Slowly, he rose to his feet, gripping his wand tighter. He wasn’t alone now—there was the young Wade to protect. To get him back safely, he had to stay composed, to fight until the very end.
“What do you want?” Harry spoke, his voice steadier than he expected. Emerald eyes locked onto the crimson serpent pupils before him. “If you wanted to kill me, you could’ve done it already. There was no need to let me return to my original form.”
Voldemort’s lips curled into a thin, elegant smile. “Very good. Very perceptive.”
He began to pace slowly around Harry, his movements graceful, almost regal. “Tonight is just the beginning… And you, Harry Potter—the so-called Star of Salvation—will be the perfect witness to my return.”
As Voldemort moved, Harry subtly turned his body, glancing at Wade. No good. Little Barty Crouch and two others had already edged close to the boy. There was no chance to take him away now.
Voldemort seemed utterly indifferent to Harry’s thoughts. He continued his slow walk, speaking with a tone of nostalgic reverence.
“Everyone believes you’re my undoing. But we both know the truth, don’t we? You’re just a boy who happened to survive—lucky, yes. But the real reason you lived? It was your mother’s power. Her sacrifice.”
He paused, his voice deepening. “Family… always shows up when we least expect it. And in ways we can’t imagine.”
He let out a soft, almost melancholic sigh. “Like your mother, who died to protect you. Or my father… ah, I killed that mediocre man myself. And after he was gone, he served me well.”
He smiled faintly. “Funny, isn’t it? I’m touched. Look, Harry—my true family has returned.”
A faint crackle echoed from afar, followed by the soft rustling of cloaks. The Death Eaters had apparated near, guided by the Dark Mark, but they remained just outside, unable to locate the monastery.
“Priori Incantatem Charm…” Voldemort’s expression flickered with annoyance. He turned to the scarred man and ordered, “Bring those fools in.”
With a flick of his wand, a parchment bearing an address shot through the air like a bird with wings, landing in the scarred man’s hands.
The man bowed deeply, then stepped out.
Moments later, the ruined main gate creaked open. A dozen hooded figures shuffled in, their movements hesitant, their silhouettes trembling. All wore hoods, faces obscured, their postures slumped, as if they had spent the night in drunken stupor rather than terrorizing the world.
Voldemort’s pupils narrowed to slits. The number of arrivals was far fewer than expected.
The scattered figures were hunched, weary—certainly not the feared Death Eaters, but more like a bunch of unemployed drifters suffering from a brutal hangover.
An awkward silence hung in the air.
Then Voldemort suddenly let out a cold, chilling laugh. Even Harry felt the venom in it—the kind that promised bloodshed. The Dark Lord’s rage was building, ready to explode in a terrifying wave.
Just then, one of the Death Eaters stepped forward. His voice was deliberately altered—raspy, strained.
“Master… there’s… an unexpected situation… a live broadcast… it hasn’t stopped…”
He kept his head down, trembling.
Voldemort froze. Harry even saw the veins beneath his pale skin pulse violently.
No one dared speak. Not even a breath escaped the room.
Little Barty Crouch spun around, eyes wide, staring at the streaming mirror he had secretly shut off. Beads of sweat burst across his forehead. His throat convulsed, but no sound came out.
His knees crashed to the floor. His entire body shook.
“You said… what?” Voldemort didn’t turn. His voice was unnervingly soft.
The Death Eater dropped to his knees, quivering. “The situation… it’s been broadcasting… nonstop… everyone outside… they’ve seen… your resurrection…”
Voldemort’s wand snapped up. A flash of crimson light erupted from its tip, hurling the kneeling Barty Crouch across the room. He crashed into the wall and slid down, coughing violently.
“Cough… Master… I’m sorry…” Barty gasped, curled into a trembling heap.
Voldemort advanced slowly. His face was unnervingly calm—but beneath the skin, the veins throbbed like living things.
“What did you do, Barty?” Voldemort asked, his voice a whisper, like a serpent coiling around the necks of every Death Eater present.
Barty’s forehead scraped against the dusty carpet. “My… my mistake… I shut down the streaming mirror… I didn’t mean to—”
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. He did not trust anyone. But even Voldemort had to admit—Little Barty Crouch was one of his most loyal followers. Perhaps the most loyal.
The others who could claim loyalty were locked away in Azkaban. The ones still free were unreliable—fickle, opportunistic. If Voldemort were weakened, they’d turn on him without hesitation.
But Barty… in the past year, he’d had countless chances to kill the infant Voldemort, or simply abandon the resurrection. He could have let the Dark Lord remain a ghost, lost and broken. But he hadn’t. He’d stayed faithful, relentless, no matter the state of his master.
So Voldemort didn’t unleash his fury immediately. He asked again, voice dangerously soft: “Why? I trusted you.”
“I—I didn’t mean to betray you,” Barty sobbed, crawling forward, trembling from head to toe. “I just… I didn’t want you to remember Ryan Smith. I couldn’t bring him back…”
Before he could finish, Barty suddenly realized his mistake.
No matter how much he idealized his master, he knew—deep down—that Voldemort was cold, merciless, cruel. What would he care about Ryan Smith, a shallow boy whose usefulness had long passed? Once Ryan was no longer of use, Voldemort wouldn’t have cared whether he lived or died.
And yet, just moments ago, Barty had believed Voldemort would rage over the loss of Ryan—perhaps even punish him, his most trusted lieutenant, for failing.
Driven by panic, he’d acted on his own—cut off the broadcast, hidden the truth, even smugly congratulated himself on his quick thinking.
How could I be so wrong?
Barty pounded his forehead against the floor, screaming, “Master! I understand now! It must’ve been Dumbledore! The Imperius Curse—it has to be the Imperius Curse!”
“Enough!” Voldemort’s wand lashed out. A green flash sliced past Barty’s ear, blasting a massive hole in the wall.
Voldemort inhaled deeply. His voice, when it came, was eerily calm.
“Very well. Since they’ve already seen…”
He raised his wand again. The streaming mirror reopened. On the screen, Voldemort’s own face appeared—whole, powerful, alive.
And in the eyes of the audience, the scene grew even more surreal: two Voldemort figures standing face to face, both grinning with chilling, identical menace.
“Let the world see,” Voldemort said softly, “the fate of those who oppose me.”
Harry’s heart sank.
Because at that moment, Voldemort’s gaze fell upon the innocent, bewildered boy—Wade.
And Harry realized, with cold certainty, that the camera—its lens positioned precisely—had to be mounted on the young Wade himself.
In that instant, the badge on the boy’s chest—the robin emblem—flashed brilliantly in the dim light.
(End of Chapter)
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