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HP:BSG - Chapter 703: Resurrection
🕑 Added 2025-11-22 11:30:05 +0000 UTC“Wade Grey.”
The infant slowly turned his deformed head as his snake-like red eyes locked onto Wade. His cold voice carried a strangely gentle undertone:
“Your Magic doll… displayed remarkable combat ability during the tournament. Swear allegiance to me, and I shall permit you to stand at my left hand in the future…”
Barty Jr. shot Wade a jealous glance. His own status was clearly higher—yet how many years had he struggled to reach it? And what had this boy done to deserve such an offer?
Wade tilted his head upward, appearing utterly stunned by Voldemort’s twisted form. In bewilderment, he asked, “W-what…?”
Voldemort let out a sharp, thin chuckle and raised his small arm slightly. “You do not understand yet… but that is of no consequence. Watch closely—this is the power of your future master!”
“On the path to immortality, I have gone farther than any wizard alive! Serve me, and I shall grant you the same glory!”
With a flick of his finger, Wade’s small body was lifted by invisible force and set lightly onto one of the long benches meant for churchgoers.
At once, the armrests twisted and morphed into curved iron hoops, locking around Wade’s wrists and ankles, binding him so tightly that he could not move.
In that split second, countless thoughts flashed through Wade’s mind.
—A magic doll? What doll?
Is that an ability I develop when I grow up?
But why would I let myself end up in this situation?
I am not a native of the wizarding world—of course I’d know Barty tampered with the Triwizard Cup…
Wait—why is Barty even here? Isn’t he supposed to be impersonating Moody at Hogwarts, waiting for the next order from his master, and then eventually get caught by Dumbledore?
If I had deliberately touched the Cup, replacing Cedric and getting transported here with Harry… if everything is part of my own plan…
Then what exactly is my future self trying to accomplish?
—To take the opportunity to join Voldemort?
Impossible!
If I wanted to become a Death Eater, there were far better chances back in the first year… And why would I go all-in with this noseless loser anyway?
Besides, Wade could hardly imagine himself accepting the Death Eaters’ “rituals.” He’d heard they had to get on their knees and lick Voldemort’s toes to show loyalty…
If not to join him… then think in reverse—
How would the future me engineer this event?
A few unfamiliar terms others had mentioned flashed in Wade’s mind—
Live broadcast, communication beans, magic doll…
And then there were the things that didn’t exist in his memories at all—
A green leopard, that strange golden kettle, the king cobra replacing Nagini, the altered resurrection site, the mirror before Voldemort that could not reflect a human face…
If all of these are the butterfly effects brought about by me—the transmigrator— then what on earth had I done to turn the world of Harry Potter into this?
Fragments of images seemed to flash before his eyes—yet they were shrouded in mist, indistinct and blurred.
But when Wade glanced at that mirror, a faint understanding flickered in his heart.
…
Voldemort no longer paid attention to the boy placed aside.
Regardless of what astounding inventions this child might create in the future—even if one person could equal an entire army—right now, he was merely a five- or six-year-old. Hardly worth the Dark Lord’s attention.
He didn’t bother trying to read Wade’s mind either.
In this state, Voldemort’s magic was far from plentiful. And what could he possibly extract from the mind of a toddler? Besides memories of parents and playmates, his head was likely full of nothing but food, drink, and toys.
The Dark Lord stared at Harry, his emotions were far more turbulent than those of the eager Barty Jr. beside him.
But his intended audience had not yet arrived, and he himself was not in an ideal condition. He had waited far, far too long to prepare for the perfect resurrection.
Thus, Voldemort wasted no words. He simply waved his small arm and said:
“Begin.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Barty Jr. responded instantly. He swung his wand, and a stone cauldron sitting in a corner flew over, filled with liquid. As soon as it landed, flames burst up beneath it. The contents boiled rapidly, spitting sparks and clouds of steaming vapor.
Voldemort gave a shrill laugh. “Now—quickly!”
Barty Jr. reverently lifted the infant Voldemort and placed him into the cauldron.
Harry let out a cry of horror.
The infant sank silently to the bottom, as if melting into the potion.
Barty raised his wand and chanted:
“Bone of the father, unknowingly given… you will renew your son.”
A wisp of gray-white bone dust drifted from a jar in the corner and fell into the cauldron.
The liquid turned bright blue, hissing and spitting sparks.
“Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed… you will revive your master!”
Barty Jr. extended his left arm—and without hesitation, he severed it. Blood sprayed as the severed hand dropped into the cauldron.
He grunted from the pain, yet the smile on his face twisted even further.
The potion turned fiery red, bursting with blinding light.
“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken… you will bring your foe to life!”
Harry struggled wildly, but the scarred man still hauled him forward, suspending him over the cauldron.
He thought he was about to be cooked alive, and despair overwhelmed him. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to make a sound.
Then—he felt a sharp pain in his arm.
Barty Jr. had sliced his wrist with a dagger, and a line of bright red blood streamed into the cauldron below.
The scar-faced man moved the bound boy aside, holding him in his hand, and his eyes blazed as he stared at the cauldron.
The liquid turned dazzling white, and in an instant, the blinding radiance filled the entire chapel.
Wade instinctively let out a small cry and squeezed his eyes shut.
For some reason, his subconscious insisted that such white light must be scorching, purifying—so hot and holy that it would burn any dark creature to ash.
But reality was nothing like that.
Though sparks burst from the cauldron like fireworks, the light itself was cold. Even the thick white fog rising from the surface was not warm or steamy—it carried a biting chill, like a dense autumn or winter morning fog.
Within that hazy mist, a tall, thin, shadowy figure slowly rose. He spread his arms, bowed his head slightly as though observing himself, then flicked his fingers.
A black robe flew across the room, wrapping around him. He stepped out of the cauldron, and the fog dispersed quickly as the man’s appearance became clear—
He was skeletal and deathly thin, his pale skin stretched tight over bone. His nose was flat like a serpent’s, and his red eyes swept slowly across the room.
When he opened his mouth, his voice was colder and sharper than before:
“I am resurrected."
…
Although many had begun to suspect, witnessing it with their own eyes plunged the stands into a deathly silence. Every mouth hung open. Every face went paper-white. Dozens of people stared at the man on the screen as though screaming silently—staring at the impossible.
Then the Quidditch pitch erupted into deafening chaos—shrieks, panicked cries, frantic scrambling. Terrified spectators bolted for the exits; some collapsed when their legs gave out.
Minister Fudge fainted on the spot. Younger children burst into tears, and students stood frozen as though struck by lightning.
While the entire stadium dissolved into terror, Grindelwald remained seated, utterly relaxed with his long fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. Amid the screaming and sobbing, he tipped his head back slightly, took a slow, deep breath—
“What a nostalgic sound…”
He murmured, lifting his gaze to the screen at the man who was exulting in his own resurrection. The corner of Grindelwald’s mouth curved by the slightest degree, his eyes filled with open disdain.
“Look,” Grindelwald said lightly to the person beside him, smiling. “That is the so-called Dark Lord.”
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