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0782 The Ritual
🕑 Added 2025-07-20 11:52:53 +0000 UTCBang!
The sound resounded through Harry's bones like the final tone of a funeral dirge, marking the end of everything he had ever held dear.
As if his spine had been violently yanked away from his body by some invisible, malicious force, Harry collapsed to his knees. The world fell silence in that terrible moment—so silent that Harry could hear the frantic rushing of his own blood through his veins.
Ron and Hermione, his two best friends, lay motionless on a pile of rubble and shattered stone. They made no sounds of pain, no attempts to struggle to their feet and continue the fight they had been so bravely fighting just moments ago. They simply lay there in the oppressive silence, staring at the sky above with lifeless eyes.
The memories came flooding back to Harry, each one bringing a fresh wound in his already shattered heart. The three of them had first met on the scarlet Hogwarts Express about four years ago, on what should have been one of the happiest days of his life.
Though their initial encounter hadn't been the most pleasant—Ron had been showing off his broken wand, trying to turn his rat yellow, while Hermione had been dreadfully know-it-all in helping find Neville's lost toad—Harry could remember every single detail of that day with precision.
As if guided by the invisible hand of destiny itself, they had become inseparable friends at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Together, the three of them had crossed the many dangerous obstacles that had been protecting the legendary Philosopher's Stone, working as a team to solve McGonagall's chess puzzle, overcome Snape's riddle, and ultimately save Nicolas Flamel's precious alchemical treasure from falling into the hands of the possessed Quirrell and the spirit of Voldemort that had been controlling him.
Together, they had spent countless hours hidden away in Moaning Myrtle's flooded, haunted bathroom, brewing the Polyjuice Potion under Hermione's supervision, then stormed into the Chamber of Secrets to rescue Ron's little sister Ginny.
Together, they had followed Hagrid deep into the dangerous Forbidden Forest, facing werewolves and Dementors in a desperate race against time to save Sirius from a fate worse than death.
At Hogwarts, their home away from home, they had attended every class together, sharing the excitement of learning new spells and the frustration of particularly difficult assignments. They had eaten countless meals together in the Great Hall, talking and laughing over plates of roast beef and treacle tart while the enchanted ceiling reflected their moods with its ever-changing display of weather and stars.
Most memorably, they had gone on midnight adventures together, sneaking through the castle's corridors under Harry's Invisibility Cloak.
Outside of school, they had created even more cherished memories. They had attended the Quidditch World Cup together and visited the orphanage where Professor Watson had grown up.
Hermione was quite simply the brightest young witch Harry had ever known, and probably ever would know. Her intellect and knowledge of magic had saved their lives more times than Harry could count, and she had always been there for him at the most crucial moments.
And Ron had shown Harry what it truly felt like to have a close friend who was like a brother, someone who would stand by his side no matter how dangerous the situation became.
Harry had always believed, that their friendship would last forever—not just through their remaining years at Hogwarts, but long after they had graduated and gone on to have their own families and careers and lives.
He had envisioned them growing old together, their children playing together just as the Marauders had done, just like his parents James and Lily had done with Sirius, Remus, and even the treacherous Peter Pettigrew before his betrayal had destroyed everything.
But now Ron and Hermione lay motionless on the cold ground, their bodies broken and their spirits departed, their futures stolen away by two flashes of sickly green light that had lasted less than a second but had destroyed everything Harry had ever cared about.
Harry knelt there in the dirt and debris, feeling completely hollow from the very depths of his soul to the outermost edges of his physical body, as if he were a mere shell of a person, as if everything that had made him Harry Potter had been scooped out and discarded, leaving behind nothing but an empty vessel.
He felt as though he were sinking endlessly into a bottomless abyss of despair, falling through such deep darkness that he wondered if he would ever see light again.
"No." The word escaped his lips carried away by the night wind.
Those green eyes had never been so dim. That heart which had always been filled with Gryffindor courage, which had never failed to rise to meet whatever challenge fate threw at him, had never so desperately feared and rejected the harsh reality that confronted him.
"No." Harry shook his head slowly, mechanically, speaking the denial softly into the silence, though he couldn't even hear his own voice over the roaring emptiness that filled his head.
How could this have happened? How could Ron and Hermione—how could they possibly be dead?
It was utterly absurd, as absurd and impossible as someone telling him that Professor Dumbledor, and Professor Watson were actually the most terrible Dark Lords in history.
Harry began to tremble, his entire body shaking as if he were suffering from a severe fever.
Strangely, he didn't feel afraid—his heart, which had been completely shattered by grief, could no longer feel any emotion at all, as if all his capacity for feeling had been used up in that one terrible moment of loss.
He was simply cold, and tired—so incredibly, overwhelmingly tired that he felt as though he could sleep for a thousand years and still not have enough rest.
The exhaustion was so overwhelming that when that Death Eater called Barty Crouch—the madman who had somehow managed to escape Azkaban, roughly grabbed his collar with his remaining hand and began to drag him across the uneven ground, Harry didn't even possess the strength or the will to struggle against his abductor.
Perhaps due to his earlier humiliating defeat at the hands of three teenagers, or perhaps simply because cruelty was in his nature, Barty Crouch Jr. dragged Harry with particular brutality and vindictive pleasure, paying absolutely no mind to whether his prisoner might be seriously injured by the rough treatment.
He yanked Harry along as if he were nothing more than a sack of grain, jerking him over fallen tombstones and patches of broken stone without the slightest consideration for his wellbeing.
Along the way, the sharp edges of stones and fragments of shattered marble scattered across the ground didn't quite manage to tear through the sturdy material of Harry's athletic clothes, but they still left his legs bloody and scraped.
Finally reaching their intended destination after what felt like hours of being dragged across the rough terrain, Barty threw Harry with vicious force against a tall tombstone. The brutal impact sent Harry's back crashing hard against the marble stone.
In the flickering wandlight, Harry glimpsed a name carved into the stone:
Tom Riddle
Desperate to prove to his master that he wasn't useless despite his earlier failures, and driven by a fanatical need to redeem himself in the Dark Lord's eyes, Barty worked with swift efficiency. He conjured thick ropes with a series of sharp flicks of his wand and immediately beginning to wind themselves around Harry's body.
Fearing that Harry might somehow manage to break free through sheer desperation or some burst of accidental magic, Barty meticulously checked his work several times after completing the initial binding, testing each loop and knot to ensure that they were secure beyond any possibility of escape.
Finally, as a final precaution, Barty tore a long strip of fabric from his own robes. He then roughly shoved the cloth into Harry's mouth, forcing it deep enough to muffle any sound while being careful not to completely obstruct his breathing—after all, his master would want the boy alive for the ceremony that was to come.
Having completed task to his satisfaction, Barty stepped back to admire his handiwork for a moment before turning and walking away.
Throughout this process, Harry had remained completely motionless, neither struggling against his bonds nor attempting to resist in any way. Instead, he continued to stare with blank eyes at the exact spot where Hermione and Ron had fallen.
He could hear various sounds now that his initial shock was beginning to wear off—the quiet, heartbroken sobbing of Winky coming from several dozen feet away. The house-elf was repeating something, but Harry couldn't make out the words. Barty Crouch Sr. seemed truly dead; since issuing his warning, he had lain motionless.
A hissing sound came from the grass as a large snake with bright markings slithered before Harry. It reared up, its scarlet eyes and sharp fangs appearing even more terrifying than the basilisk he had once encountered.
"Nagini, he's not suitable for your dinner, my dear, not even when he's dead and his flesh has begun to rot—"
The lazy voice of the grotesque creature came through the oppressive darkness and reached Harry's ears with casual malice.
"I'll return his corpse to Dumbledore when this is all finished. I'm quite sure the old fool will love this particular gift... He's always been so fond of this boy, hasn't he? Wait a bit longer, my beautiful Nagini, and you'll have your feast. All the fresh meat you could desire. Just wait a little longer, and your patience will be rewarded."
Nagini flicked her tongue and licked Harry's cheek before obeying orders, coiling up and lying dormant once more.
Barty returned to the graveyard clearing, and this time his pale, haggard face wore a sick smile of anticipation that made Harry's stomach turn with disgust.
The Death Eater was carrying with him an enormous stone cauldron that appeared to be filled with some kind of liquid—Harry could hear the contents sloshing around inside with each of Barty's steps. This cauldron was far larger than any Harry had ever seen or used in his Potions classes, easily big enough for a fully grown person to sit in.
After taking a few moments to catch his breath from the exertion of carrying such a heavy object, Barty carefully placed the cauldron in the center of the clearing and used his wand to conjure a magical fire beneath it.
The liquid inside the cauldron seemed to respond to heat with unnatural eagerness, not only beginning to boil with surprising rapidity but actually shooting off bright sparks like tiny fireworks that arced through the air before fading into darkness.
The steam that rose from the bubbling concoction grew thicker and thicker with each passing moment, creating an increasingly dense fog that made even Barty's figure appear blurred and hazy, as if he were gradually fading away into the supernatural mist.
"Quickly! The moment has come!"
Harry heard that familiar shrill, cold voice again. Almost immediately, his scar began to hurt once more, the pain cutting through the numbness of his grief and despair making him gasp desperately for air.
When Barty left the cauldron and returned yet again, Harry could see that the entire surface of the bubbling liquid now sparkled with flames, as if it had been studded with thousands of tiny diamonds.
"It is ready, Master!!"
Barty's voice trembled with excitement and religious passion as he spoke, while in the distance, poor Winky let out a loud, despairing wail that echoed across the graveyard like the cry of a banshee announcing impending doom.
"Now," said the cold voice.
Barty approached the violently bubbling cauldron, carrying in his arms the grotesque creature. Through the thick, hazy mist that now filled the entire clearing, Harry could see that pale face covered in constantly festering boils that burst and healed and burst again in an endless cycle of corruption. The sight made Harry's entire body shudder with disgust.
His mouth was gagged far too tightly to allow him to let out the scream of anguish and rage that was building in his chest, but truthfully, he wouldn't have cried out anyway. The hatred in his heart was now raging like a storm of fury, a storm of emotion that surpassed everything else he had ever felt and made him completely unwilling to show any sign of weakness or fear to these monsters who had murdered his friends.
Barty Crouch Jr. devoutly lifted the creature and gently placed it into the cauldron. The moment it touched the potion's surface, the leaping flames allowed Harry to see clearly that flat face with its constantly bursting and healing sores.
Harry whimpered and roared, his scar was burning as if being roasted by fire, but even that pain couldn't make him submit or break his spirit. He began to struggle, wanting to tear apart this grotesque thing!
But despite his desperate efforts, he couldn't manage to break free.
Anger was useless—it changed nothing.
The creature sank to the bottom of the cauldron with a soft sound, like a stone being dropped into a still pond.
Barty took a deep breath and cleared his throat, his sickly, pale face seeming to glow as if he were basking in the twisted honor of participating in this dark ritual—
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
The ground directly beneath Harry's feet began to crack and split open, and a small wisp of gray dust rose at Barty's magical summons, floating through the air before falling gently into the cauldron.
The moment the dust touched the surface of the potion, the diamond-like sparkles shattered and dissolved, replaced by violent hissing and crackling as multicolored sparks shot in all directions.
"Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master!"
Barty sang the words as if he were reciting the most beautiful poetry ever written, his voice was high and passionate with fanatical devotion.
Without the slightest hesitation or sign of fear, he aimed his wand at his own left hand. After a brief flash of sickly green light that illuminated his face, his severed palm fell into the bubbling cauldron with a wet splash that made Harry's stomach lurch with disgust.
'Die! You filthy, evil wretch! Die in agony!' Harry's mind screamed the words in his mind he couldn't say.
Harry forced himself to watch this bloody, horrific scene with determination, his gaze struggling to penetrate the now fiery red light that emanated from the transformed potion like the glow from the heart of a volcano.
He had malicious thoughts, hoping to see Barty Crouch Jr. collapse and bleed to death from his self-inflicted wound.
But Barty's fanatic faith and devotion to his master was stronger than the considerable physical pain he was enduring. Even as blood streamed down his arm and dripped steadily onto the ground, even as his face went white with agony, he remained standing and conscious.
Under Winky's increasingly despairing cries that echoed across the graveyard like a lament for the dead, and under Harry's hate-filled gaze that promised retribution if he ever got the chance, that sickly smiling, pale face drew closer and closer to Harry.
Harry desperately wanted to spit out his gag and tear Barty's throat apart with his teeth like a wild animal. But he couldn't move, couldn't act, couldn't do anything but watch helplessly as Barty Crouch Jr. produced a small silver knife from his robes and drew blood from Harry's tightly bound arm.
"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe!"
Weakness from blood loss made Barty stagger and nearly fall, his remaining hand was shaking violently as he fought to maintain consciousness, but his fanatical determination proved stronger. With tremendous effort, he managed to complete his assigned mission, throwing the vial containing Harry's blood into the cauldron.
The potion immediately responded to this final ingredient by blazing with brilliant, absolutely blinding light.
In the velvet darkness, the roars and snarls of some terrible beast echoed faintly. The air trembled with an indescribable force that pressed against Harry's mind, suffocating him, nearly causing him to faint!
Through the thick white mist that now filled the entire graveyard like fog from some hellish land, something began to slowly rise from the depths of the cauldron—something that had once been human but was now so much more, and so much less.
It was a figure that was thin and unnaturally tall, like a skeleton that had been stretched beyond normal proportions.
Barty, despite his severe blood loss and the agony he was undoubtedly experiencing, somehow managed to struggle to his feet. From somewhere within his robes, he produced a set of black garments that seemed to have been prepared specifically for this moment.
With hoarse rasping breaths, he carefully dressed his newly restored master.
The thin man stepped out of the cauldron. Scarlet snake-like eyes fixed on Harry, and Harry saw the face that had appeared in his nightmares for the past three years—paler than a skull, with a nose flat like a snake's, nostrils mere slits.
RUMBLE!
Dark thunder suddenly rolled across the gloomy sky with tremendous force, shaking the earth beneath their feet and echoing far and wide across the landscape like the voice of some ancient god announcing judgment day.
The sound seemed to go on forever, reverberating from horizon to horizon as if the very heavens themselves were announcing to all who could hear—
Voldemort had returned to the world of the living.
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