Harry Potter: Archmage of Another World

The cloaked man conjured ropes with magic, binding Harry tightly to the gravestone from his neck to his ankles. Harry could hear the shallow, rapid breathing coming from within the hood. He struggled against the restraints, but the man struck him—a hand missing a finger. Harry instantly knew who it was. Wormtail.

"It's you!" Harry exclaimed.

For the first time, Harry felt his heart consumed by an agonizing regret. Just moments ago, if he had only heeded Augustus's warning, none of this would have happened. His overwhelming desire to defeat Augustus in the Triwizard Tournament and prove himself to Cho blinded him to the truth.

Tonight, first Fleur had been inexplicably eliminated, and then Krum's irrational behavior by the trophy had caught his eye. Still, Harry had ignored these signs. Sometimes, temptation is like the alluring Manjusaka flower on the edge of a cliff; one knows the abyss is just a step away, yet cannot resist its call.

Now, he could only hope fate would offer a chance for escape.

"Our dear guest, who has traveled far from Hogwarts, must be given a grand celebration," came a sharp voice from the bundle. Harry's heart grew colder. That voice—it was unmistakable. It matched the one from his recurring nightmares.

The cauldron's liquid boiled quickly, its surface bubbling and sparking as if ablaze. The steam thickened, obscuring Wormtail's trembling figure. The bundle quivered violently, accompanied by the same sharp, cold voice:

"Quickly!"

The cauldron glowed with diamond-like sparks, illuminating the darkness as if the surroundings had turned to black velvet.

"It's ready, my Lord," Wormtail announced.

"Now…" the cold voice commanded.

Wormtail's voice wavered as he spoke, shaking like a man on the brink of madness. He raised his wand and, closing his eyes, recited:

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son."

"Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master."

Sensing the sinister turn of events, Harry looked desperately at the three other figures standing in the shadows. They, however, met his pleas with indifference, watching the ritual unfold with interest.

"Blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will resurrect your foe."

Harry couldn't stop it—he was bound too tightly. He thrashed desperately, trying to break free as the cauldron boiled over. Sparks flew, their brilliance making everything around them fade into darkness.

Through the rising mist, Harry shivered in horror as a tall, skeletal figure emerged from the cauldron.

"Robe me," commanded the cold, sharp voice behind the steam. Wormtail, sobbing and cradling his maimed arm, hurriedly retrieved the black robes from the ground and draped them over his master.

The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, fixing his gaze on Harry. Harry saw a face he had encountered countless times in his nightmares—ghastly pale, with large, glowing red eyes and a flat, snakelike nose with slitted nostrils.

Voldemort had returned.

"Congratulations on your rebirth, my Lord," said a soft voice. Freya, a faint smile on her lips, stood observing the scene. Despite the deviations in the plan, their machinations had ensured the return of this faction's most formidable boss.

"Excellent. Your efforts will not be forgotten," Voldemort said, his crimson eyes gleaming with menace. "Those who choose to aid me during this time will reap rewards beyond imagination."

Turning to Wormtail, he commanded, "Hold out your arm."

"Master, please… have mercy…"

"It is time," Voldemort murmured, pressing his pale finger to Wormtail's arm.

"How many will dare to return?" he whispered, his red eyes glinting as he gazed at the stars. "And how many will foolishly stay away?"

Freya and her team observed quietly, hidden within the shadows.

"The central conflict tonight will surely involve rescuing Potter. With our knowledge of the story, we know he won't summon the Cup with Accio," Balder whispered.

Freya nodded. "So, the real clash will be whether reinforcements arrive for him. While rescuers may bolster his cause, none of them—not even Dumbledore—can sway this night's outcome."

Balder's expression grew serious. "Have you gathered any intel on Augustus?"

"Not much," Freya admitted. "He's the heir to Britain's most prestigious wizarding family and a Hogwarts champion. Beyond that, the details are sparse."

The golden-haired leader sighed. "Experience has taught us never to underestimate the characters designated by the System—especially those presented as a third faction. Augustus may rival Dumbledore and Voldemort in significance. Better the enemy we know than the unknown."

Freya nodded grimly, her face shadowed with guilt. "The lack of intelligence is my oversight. I'll make amends."

Suddenly, the sound of cloaks rustling filled the air. Figures began Apparating into the graveyard, emerging from behind trees and tombstones. Hooded and masked, they moved cautiously, as if unsure of what they were seeing.

Voldemort stood still, waiting. One Death Eater knelt, crawling to his master and kissing the hem of his robes.

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