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HP:BSG - Chapter 707: A Tide of Fury
🕑 Added 2025-11-26 11:30:03 +0000 UTCThe Death Eaters all watched Voldemort in silence, then glanced at Harry, wondering what mysterious power this child possessed.
After all, judging from the previous competition, he wasn’t much stronger than the other contestants… of course, the kind of courage it took to openly provoke the Dark Lord was indeed extremely rare.
But in the eyes of the Death Eaters, this was no remarkable power—on the contrary, it was the most foolish thing about the boy.
Voldemort seemed to notice their confusion; he patiently explained:
“Just as I said before, I cannot touch him—nor could the servant who once hosted me…”
“Four years ago, Harry Potter was so weak I could have killed him with a single finger. But when we captured him, unimaginable agony tore apart the connection between us. I was forced to withdraw, and that servant died soon afterward.”
He let out a sigh, as though lamenting the servant’s death.
The chapel fell silent. The Death Eaters shivered, and their robes trembled in a steady rhythm.
Harry wanted to seize the chance to attack several times, but all the eyes fixed on him—and Voldemort’s scarlet gaze—made him understand that he could not act rashly. The longer he could stall, the better.
So he kept his mouth shut and said nothing, only glanced occasionally at Wade’s condition.
In a corner no one was paying attention to, Clementine’s fingers suddenly twitched where she lay on the floor, and a faint groan rose from her throat.
Behind one of the chapel’s broken windows, a pair of glowing green eyes appeared.
They stared at Clementine for a moment, then abruptly shifted toward Wade.
Just when everyone thought Voldemort would continue describing his third failure, he suddenly raised his hand—
Harry felt an irresistible force seize him. His feet left the ground, and his whole body was violently yanked forward.
He struggled desperately, but it was as if all the strength had been drained from him. He didn’t even have the power to lift his wand; he could only watch helplessly as that spider-like hand closed around his neck!
Voldemort extended a withered finger, and the cold tip gently brushed the lightning-shaped scar on Harry’s forehead.
Harry trembled violently. Pain exploded from the scar, burning through every nerve in his body.
Voldemort gave a soft laugh and withdrew his hand.
To Harry, his voice sounded as if it came from a distant abyss:
“Look, I can touch you now, Harry Potter!”
He said triumphantly, “The weakness that once defeated me no longer exists. This… is why I had to resurrect myself with your blood.”
“—Your mother’s protection upon you now flows within my veins. You have helped me become stronger and more complete than ever!”
Voldemort flung his arm, and Harry fell heavily to the ground with a thud. He clutched his forehead, still too weak to rise, and his limbs trembled uncontrollably.
Voldemort paced before him:
“Look at yourself, Harry Potter… powerless, weak, foolish… Without your mother’s protection, what do you have left before me?”
He suddenly lifted his foot and kicked Harry, sending him rolling several times across the floor. The boy couldn’t hold back a painful groan, which only made Voldemort more pleased, and the Death Eaters burst into mocking laughter.
Voldemort turned to the others and said, “I think you can all see now how foolish it is to believe this boy is stronger than I am. The fact that he escaped me with his life was pure luck.”
“Now I am certain… my third failure had nothing to do with you at all, Harry Potter.”
Voldemort’s expression grew much darker, and he hissed in a low, rasping voice:
“That night of the Quidditch World Cup, my foolish servant was deceived by someone disguised as Harry Potter. He mistook that person for my intended target and brought him to the place where I was temporarily hiding.”
Barty Crouch Jr. bowed his head deeply, wishing he could die on the spot—only that could wash away the humiliation of having been used by the enemy twice.
Voldemort’s voice was like sandpaper scraping metal, hoarse and filled with raw hatred and fury.
“While I was at my weakest, that person—wearing Harry Potter’s face—killed me once again… by a sneak attack!”
With a sudden sweep of his hand, Harry—who had barely managed to stand—was thrown aside. Voldemort strode toward Wade, and under the boy’s suddenly wide eyes, tore the badge from his chest.
Voldemort looked at the little robin on the badge, his pallid face magnified on the screen, the corner of his mouth lifting into a cold smile:
“Dumbledore, the world sings praises of your greatness. But do those who worship you know what a despicable, shameless man you truly are?”
“Hiding behind your students, letting an underage boy bear my hatred, and then launching a sneak attack!”
“When you defeated the Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald back then, did you use the same method?”
—In truth, Voldemort wasn’t certain who had ambushed him that night. But he had already fixed upon a suspect in his mind, with or without proof.
Even if it wasn’t Dumbledore, it must have been someone connected to him!
Far away at Hogwarts, Dumbledore: “…”
Everyone’s gaze stabbed into him like physical needles, and even the horror of the enlarged serpentine face on the screen seemed to pale in comparison.
But in the stands, someone else didn’t find it amusing at all. Instead, he suddenly gripped the armrest tightly, his pale knuckles bulging with veins, and an icy fury ignited in his pupils—so intense it seemed he would burn the whole place to ash in the next second.
The air froze.
An invisible pressure seized the hearts of the audience. Without realizing it, they held their breath, their blood pounding in their veins.
No one knew where this terror came from, but it crept silently up every spine, raising every hair on end.
Those who had been secretly watching Dumbledore quickly withdrew their gazes. Even Madame Maxime, also a headmistress of a wizarding school, and the various Ministers of Magic from different countries, all sat particularly calm and composed, wearing identical expressions of “I absolutely do not believe Voldemort’s nonsense.”
Cornelius Fudge, who had only just been revived minutes earlier, suddenly felt his breath catch. He felt as if he were about to faint again.
Clutching his chest, he waved Percy forward. Then, in a strained whisper, he said:
“He has returned… Merlin help us… How can a useless man like me continue sitting in the Minister’s office?”
Percy’s back snapped straight. For a moment, he even forgot the threat of the Dark Lord and stared fixedly at Fudge as his Adam’s apple moved with difficulty.
“Minister, you… you mean…”
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