Chapter 218
Under the dim glow of flickering candles, amidst an atmosphere thick with dread and mystery, Peter Pettigrew and Barty Crouch Jr. advanced cautiously through the damp stone corridors that led to the chamber where Lord Voldemort resided.
The walls oozed with moisture, and the echo of their footsteps reverberated hauntingly through the desolate space. Both men carried with them a blend of fear and reverence toward their master who, despite his current frail state, remained a figure radiating supremacy and pure, unfiltered malice.
When they finally entered the chamber, the sight before them was unsettling to the core. In the center of the room sat Voldemort on a chair that resembled a modest throne. His body, however, was grotesquely frail—small and twisted like that of a deformed infant—thin and weak, though his pitch-black eyes still burned with unspeakable evil.
He lifted his head with difficulty when he noticed Barty Jr., and the faintest of smiles tugged at his face—one that mixed welcome with venom.
"Welcome back, Junior," Voldemort said, his voice weak yet deep, laced with pride. "How have you been?"
Junior bowed with unwavering devotion.
"All is well, my Lord," he replied earnestly. "I have missed serving you, and I have come to fulfill my promise."
Voldemort tilted his head slightly, studying him with cold curiosity.
"And what occasion has brought you back to me now?" he asked icily.
Reaching slowly into his pocket, Junior produced a small glass vial containing dark crimson drops. He held it high, his voice triumphant.
"This is Albert's blood, my Lord. With it, every requirement for restoring your full power is finally met."
The moment Voldemort saw the vial, his frailty seemed to dissipate, if only for a heartbeat. A wicked smile stretched across his face as he began to laugh—high, cold, and triumphant. The chilling sound filled the entire chamber like a proclamation of impending doom.
"Well done, Junior," he declared proudly. "You have proven your loyalty once again. You deserve my praise."
Pride surged through Barty Jr., though he quickly steadied himself.
"What would you have me do next, my Lord? Shall we begin the ritual now?"
Voldemort's laughter cut abruptly. His eyes sharpened, and his tone became deadly quiet.
"This blood alone is not enough," he said. "I cannot regain my full strength unless its owner is near the ritual grounds."
Junior stiffened, glancing nervously at Pettigrew.
"Does… does that mean Albert must be here? He is far too strong, my Lord. I don't believe Peter and I could restrain him long enough for the ritual to complete."
Voldemort let out a low, dangerous hiss.
"No. He does not need to be here himself. All that matters is that he is close to the graveyard. During the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament, the maze he enters will lie close enough. When he reaches it, send me the signal, Junior. The ritual will begin immediately."
A sinister smile curled across Junior's lips.
"As you command, my Lord. It will not be long before the world witnesses your greatness once more."
---
Days passed with agonizing slowness after Barty Crouch Jr.—still disguised as Professor Moody—returned from his visit to Voldemort's graveyard.
Those days felt like a silent truce, filled with tension and anticipation, particularly for Junior and Pettigrew. Junior spent every moment studying the situation at Hogwarts, analyzing Albert Black's movements as the boy prepared for the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament.
Though the students viewed the task as an exciting event, for Junior it was merely the next step toward restoring his master.
Junior watched Albert closely, never missing a moment. Outwardly, he acted the role of a responsible teacher offering advice. In truth, every word and every gesture he made was part of a sinister plan.
Meanwhile, Peter Pettigrew lurked in the shadows, preparing the graveyard and setting the ritual components in place. Fear constantly gnawed at him not only fear of failure, but of Voldemort's wrath should anything go wrong.
At last, the awaited day arrived.
The Second Task was about to begin.
Excitement and tension surged through Hogwarts as students and professors gathered around the Black Lake. The sky was blanketed with heavy clouds, as though the weather itself anticipated what was to unfold. The champions were preparing to face a new, mysterious challenge.
A colorful crowd lined the lakeshore, flags fluttering in the cold morning breeze. Today, the champions of the Triwizard Tournament would dive into the lake's depths, each pursuing something invaluable taken from them.
Fleur Delacour stepped forward first, graceful and confident. Her attire—elegant and meticulously designed—shimmered with silver trim along her sky-blue trousers, while delicate white lace adorned her sleeves. Her long silver hair flowed elegantly behind her, tied partially with a pale blue ribbon.
Next came Viktor Krum of Durmstrang, his presence powerful and silent. He wore a sturdy crimson tunic lined with gold, short enough for free movement, accompanied by black water-resistant trousers and heavy boots. His sharp gaze revealed unwavering determination.
Finally, Albert Black stepped forward Hogwarts' representative, radiating a mix of nobility and calm strength. He wore a deep red cloak trimmed with yellow, with the Hogwarts crest embroidered in gold over his heart. The inner lining glimmered royal blue with every movement. Beneath it, he wore a crisp white shirt and dark trousers with enchanted leather boots fit for the water. His black hair was neatly styled, and his gray eyes burned with silent resolve.
The three champions stood upon the platform, awaiting the signal.
Yet something troubled Albert.
On his way from the castle to the lake, he had not seen Hermione who would never miss such a moment and was always at his side with her steady encouragement. He scanned the crowd, but her face was nowhere to be found.
Then he remembered the golden egg's haunting message.
A realization struck him like icy water:
Hermione might be under the lake taken as the person he must rescue.
The announcer was already explaining the rules to the crowd as Albert turned to look at Fleur and Viktor. Fleur placed something greenish and unpleasant into her mouth Gillyweed. She gagged slightly before swallowing it. Viktor, however, showed no sign of using any potion or herb.
Albert knew the plant well. It granted gills…and time.
But Albert did not need it.
He had trained for months to hold his breath magically for over twenty minutes.
The countdown began.
"Three… two… one!"
Albert leaped into the lake with explosive speed, leaving behind a roar of cheers.
The icy water pierced through him like needles, but he pushed forward, eyes wide open in the suffocating darkness, searching for any sign of Hermione.
The cold wrapped around him, the lake's depths swallowing him whole but he kept swimming fiercely, certain that twenty minutes would be more than enough.
And somewhere in that endless black water, fate waited for him.
To be continued…