Gududu! Gududu!
As Barty Crouch Jr. poured a vial of scarlet blood into the cauldron, the fiery red liquid churned violently. The color shifted, deepening to a dark green. A powerful, life-imbued energy surged upward, each bursting bubble amplifying the ceremony's potency.
Peter Pettigrew stood a few steps away, transfixed by the cauldron's contents. The dark green liquid radiated an irresistible allure, sparking an instinctual craving for life deep within him. Yet, when he caught the cold, piercing gaze of his master, he immediately looked away, trembling.
Worthless coward, Voldemort thought with disdain as his crimson eyes shifted to Barty Crouch Jr. Unlike Pettigrew, who cowered in fear, Barty remained stoic and focused. Voldemort silently sneered. Loyalty is so clearly defined in comparison.
Despite the ceremony's progress, Voldemort couldn't suppress a flicker of regret. In his original plan, Harry Potter's blood would have been the ideal ingredient to ensure the ritual's success. Dumbledore's blood would have been an excellent substitute as well. But circumstances had left him no choice. He had to settle for the blood of Alastor Moody, the fierce and relentless Auror who had hunted his followers like a mad dog.
Hatred churned within Voldemort's fractured soul. To think that Moody, an ant in the grand scheme of things, was the best he could use as an "enemy" for this ritual was infuriating. The thought ignited an inferno of anger and madness within him, only to be quelled by his razor-sharp will.
Moody will pay for this insult, Voldemort vowed silently. His bones will be ground to dust, and his soul will endure torment for eternity.
Suppressing his fury, Voldemort turned his attention to the cauldron. Without hesitation, he directed his malformed body—frail and infant-like—into the churning liquid.
Whoosh!
Dark green flames erupted around the cauldron. Despite their intensity, neither Barty Crouch Jr. nor Pettigrew felt any heat. Instead, a strange, chilling energy began to coalesce in the room, drawn from the surrounding space and focused into the ritual.
Barty remained still, his expression unreadable. Beneath the sleeve of his robe, a faint golden dragon-shaped magic mark glowed softly on his arm, flickering as it recorded every detail of the ceremony. This was an assignment from his true master, Gilderoy Lockhart, who had emphasized the importance of monitoring Voldemort's resurrection.
Whoosh!
The flames roared higher, reaching the height of a man. The oppressive aura of the ritual intensified, filling the room with a strange, palpable energy.
And then, without warning—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The cauldron shattered into pieces, sending shards flying in all directions. The dark green flames vanished as abruptly as they had appeared, leaving behind a single figure standing amidst the debris.
His skin was pale and unnaturally smooth, his crimson eyes gleamed with malice, and his most striking feature—an absence of a nose—lent him an almost serpentine appearance. The aura of evil and darkness that radiated from him was suffocating.
"Master, your clothes and wand," Barty Crouch Jr. said, bowing deeply as he extended a set of black robes and a yew wand.
A gentle breeze swept through the room, and the black robes wrapped themselves around Voldemort. His long, thin fingers gripped the wand, and as he felt its familiar power coursing through him, he nodded slightly.
Despite his resurrection, there was no joy in Voldemort's expression. He was keenly aware that his power had only partially returned—perhaps 60-70% of his former strength. The flaws in the ritual and the fragmented state of his soul were to blame.
Most troubling was the presence of the other him.
Another fragment of his soul, severed and independently revived, now posed a dire threat. Voldemort's eyes burned with greed and resolve. This situation was both a crisis and an opportunity. If he could destroy and absorb the other fragment, his power would not only be restored but surpass its previous peak.
Devour or be devoured. There could be no coexistence.
Pureblood Presbyterian Council Chamber
"Gentlemen, the Dark Lord has sent word requesting a meeting," said Justo Frank uneasily. "His tone was... forceful and even slightly threatening."
The gathered wizards of the pureblood families fell into a tense silence. The recent confrontation with Gilderoy Lockhart had left them battered and depleted. Resources were stretched thin, and they were now in a phase of recovery.
The Elder Council's strategy was simple: watch, wait, and rebuild their strength. Lockhart's unpredictable actions and the reemergence of Grindelwald ensured that the wizarding world remained chaotic, providing them with opportunities to maneuver in the shadows.
But Voldemort's return had disrupted their careful plans.
"What should we do?" Vlad Thorn, the council president, asked, his voice calm but heavy with implication.
"Perhaps we should ally with the Dark Lord," one wizard suggested cautiously. "We could use him to exact revenge on Lockhart."
"First, we should see what the Dark Lord offers in return," another proposed.
"No, it's too dangerous to get involved," a third wizard argued. "The Dark Lord brings nothing but trouble."
"Safety comes first. If we stay out of it, we can't lose," another chimed in, their voice laced with apprehension.
Vlad listened quietly, his sharp mind weighing their options. The harsh reality was clear: they were no match for Voldemort, Lockhart, or Grindelwald. Strength was the ultimate decider in this game, and they currently lacked it.
"The Dark Lord seems... different this time," Justo Flint said, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
Vlad's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"He appears less erratic, more rational. There's even a hint of elegance in his demeanor—like the brilliant young man who once served as Hogwarts' Head Boy," Flint explained.
The room fell silent as Vlad considered this.
"You're certain of this assessment?" Vlad finally asked.
"Yes, President," Justo replied with confidence. "But there's something else—something unsettling."
"What is it?"
"In our communication, the Dark Lord didn't once mention wizarding bloodlines or pureblood supremacy. Instead, he spoke of a new philosophy: 'The strong rise, and the weak fall.'"
The council members exchanged uneasy glances. This was a radical departure from Voldemort's previous rhetoric, and it left them uncertain of his intentions.
"In that case," Vlad said evenly, "I will meet with the Dark Lord myself."
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