The captain's cabin of the Durmstrang ship was dim, the air thick with the smell of saltwater and aged wood, the rhythmic creaking of the ship providing a steady backdrop to the conversation within. Viktor Krum sat across from Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang, who was meticulously examining a parchment in front of him. Krum, broad-shouldered and silent, sat rigidly in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest.
Karkaroff, with his pale skin and sharp features, looked up from the parchment, his piercing eyes locking onto Viktor's with an intensity that matched his usual demeanor. His voice, cold and precise, broke the silence. "Viktor, we need to choose the team wisely. This is more than just a game—it's a matter of prestige. Our legacy is at stake."
Krum shifted in his seat, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, feeling the weight of Karkaroff's words. Despite his usual stoic nature, even Viktor couldn't escape the pressure that seemed to hang in the air whenever Karkaroff spoke of the Tournament. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as his voice, thick with a heavy Bulgarian accent, rumbled in the silence. "For Chasers, I suggest Kirilov, Mikhailov, and Ivanova. Their performance in practice has been solid, and their chemistry... it is good."
Karkaroff's lips curled into a thin smile as he scribbled notes on the parchment, nodding approvingly. "Hmm, good. And the Beaters?"
"Zdravkov and Petrov," Viktor answered, his voice unyielding. "They have the power and precision needed to dominate."
Karkaroff glanced up, eyeing Viktor with something approaching admiration. "Excellent choices. Now, the Keeper?"
Viktor hesitated for a moment, a flicker of thought passing over his face. He didn't like to second-guess himself, but this decision felt... different. He finally exhaled through his nose. "Yelena Stepanova. She's reliable, has sharp instincts, and her reflexes are quick."
Karkaroff made another note, his expression unreadable. "Agreed. Now, Viktor, about the Triwizard Tournament's First Task..."
The shift in tone was immediate, and Viktor could feel a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. He knew something was coming—something that wouldn't sit right with him. The Headmaster's voice dropped, conspiratorial. "I've... obtained information about the First Task. The champions will face dragons."
Krum's eyes widened, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "Dragons?" He leaned forward, his voice thick with dismay. "You know the task? But that... that's against the rules, Headmaster. We're not supposed to know."
Karkaroff waved a dismissive hand, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. "Rules? Viktor, my boy, rules are mere guidelines, not chains. This is a competition, and we must take every advantage available. Do you think Hogwarts and the Asgardians will be playing fair? Dumbledore's influence and their... resources will be formidable. We cannot afford to be complacent."
Krum's lips tightened into a hard line, his discomfort palpable. He leaned back in his chair, his jaw clenched. "But it's not right. This isn't about cheating or taking shortcuts. We should win because we're the best, not because we've bent the rules."
Karkaroff's eyes flickered with irritation, but his tone remained calm, almost patronizing. "Viktor, you are young, and your idealism is commendable, but the world doesn't work that way. You are a part of something much larger than yourself. A win here isn't just for you; it's for Durmstrang, for your peers, and for our legacy. This is about power, about reputation."
Viktor's voice was steady but firm as he replied, "I understand the stakes, but we should win with honor. If we win... it should be because we earned it, not because of some... inside knowledge."
Karkaroff's face darkened, his gaze sharpening. "You are still too naive, Viktor. Sometimes principles must be put aside for the greater good. In the real world, strength is what matters. A victory, any victory, will secure our position and prove our worth to the magical community."
Viktor's mind raced as he absorbed Karkaroff's words. The pressure to uphold Durmstrang's honor weighed heavily on his shoulders, but the idea of winning through underhanded means didn't sit right with him. "But... this is about my integrity," he said, his voice low, almost a murmur.
Karkaroff leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together as he studied Viktor. "Integrity is important, yes. But don't mistake it for a shield to hide behind. This is not a game, Viktor. It's the world. And in the world, you don't always get what you deserve—you get what you can take."
Krum clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing slightly as the internal conflict twisted within him. He respected Karkaroff, but this—this felt wrong. He looked away, trying to steady his breathing. "I will face the task as best I can. But I won't rely on this information. If we win, it will be because we deserve it. Not because of your... 'preparation.'"
Karkaroff's lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and condescension. "As you wish, Viktor. But remember this: the world is a place where sometimes, winning isn't about being the best. It's about surviving long enough to call yourself the winner."
Viktor stood up slowly, his muscles tense with a mix of anger and frustration. He didn't respond; instead, he turned and walked toward the door, the weight of his decision settling over him. As he stepped outside, the sound of the ship creaking underfoot was a reminder of the storm brewing inside him. He didn't know what the future held, but he knew one thing: whatever happened, he would face it on his own terms. With honor, and with integrity.
The burden of the Tournament was now not just on his shoulders—but on his conscience.
—
In the opulent interior of the Beauxbatons carriage, the mood was one of quiet elegance and restrained tension. The walls were adorned with soft blue silk drapes that caught the ambient light of the sun setting through the small windows, and the seats were upholstered in the finest velvet. It was a space fit for royalty, yet the looming Quidditch matches and the upcoming Triwizard Tournament added an undercurrent of anxiety to the otherwise serene atmosphere.
Fleur Delacour, with her silvery blonde hair cascading down in waves and her striking, ethereal beauty, sat across from Aurélie Dubois, her teammate and confidante. The two were deep in conversation about the final line-up for the Beauxbatons Quidditch team. Aurélie, small but confident, her eyes sparkling with mischief, held a piece of parchment, the names of their team members neatly written in her delicate handwriting.
"Our team is strong, Fleur," Aurélie said, her voice light and playful but laced with the confidence of a true competitor. She smiled as she looked at the roster. "You, as Chaser, will be unstoppable, and with Thérèse Blanchard and Elodie Martin, we have a front line that's almost impossible to break."
Fleur's full lips curled into a smile as she leaned forward slightly. "Merci, Aurélie," she responded, her heavy French accent softening the words, but her tone filled with sincerity. "I am looking forward to the matches. We have trained hard, and our team has come together so well."
Just as the conversation settled into a comfortable rhythm, Madame Olympe Maxime entered the room, her towering frame commanding attention. She was the embodiment of power and grace, her voice low but strong as she spoke. "Oui, mes chéries. You are the pride of Beauxbatons, and excellence is expected from all of you." Her words were authoritative yet nurturing, her deep French accent like the rumble of thunder in the distance.
Aurélie grinned, a glint of pride flashing in her eyes. "Henri Beaumont and Clémentine Lefevre are our Beaters—strong, precise, and quick. They'll defend us well. And Antoine Dubois, our Keeper, is as steady as they come." She turned to Fleur, her expression playful. "We also have strong reserves in Celine Fournier and Marcelle Durand, who will step in if necessary."
Madame Maxime nodded her approval, her large hands clasped before her. "Bon travail, girls. But remember, you carry not just the reputation of Beauxbatons, but of our entire country. I expect nothing but the best from each of you."
Aurélie stood to leave, flashing Fleur a quick wink as she walked toward the door. "I'll go tell the team. Let's stay sharp and focus on our strategy, oui?"
Fleur nodded, watching as Aurélie exited. As the door closed softly behind her, Fleur leaned back, her mind racing with anticipation. Yet it was Madame Maxime's next words that would truly settle the weight on her shoulders.
Maxime's voice dropped to a lower, more confidential tone. "Fleur, there is something we must discuss... about the Triwizard Tournament."
Fleur's eyes narrowed, curiosity piqued, and she leaned in slightly. "Oui, Madame Maxime?" she asked, her accent thickening with the seriousness of the moment.
Maxime's gaze hardened as she spoke. "I have received information regarding the First Task. The champions will be facing dragons."
Fleur's breath caught in her throat. "Dragons?" she echoed in disbelief. "But, Madame, we are not supposed to know about the tasks in advance. It is forbidden!"
Madame Maxime's expression grew colder, her sharp eyes studying Fleur. "Fleur, rules are guidelines, and sometimes we must bend them, especially in a competition of this magnitude. The eyes of the world are upon you. There are those who doubt your strength, your worthiness as a champion."
Fleur's cheeks flushed with a rush of anger. She had always faced prejudice because of her Veela heritage, but to hear it from Madame Maxime, someone she had respected, stung deeply. "I do not want to win through secrets or unfair advantages," Fleur said, her voice thick with emotion as she leaned forward. "I want to prove myself on my own terms, with my own strength."
Madame Maxime's sharp gaze softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. "I understand, Fleur. But this is not just about you. It is about Beauxbatons, and it is about proving to the world that we are more than what they think of us." She paused, her large hands folded on the table in front of her. "The whispers in the corridors, the doubts about a Half-Veela being chosen... you must prove them wrong, Fleur. You must silence their criticism with a victory that shows your true power."
Fleur's eyes flickered, her gaze hardening with resolve. She knew that Madame Maxime had her own battles with prejudice, being a Half-Giant, but to push Fleur so forcefully—especially when it came to bending the rules—left her conflicted. Still, she squared her shoulders, determined not to let the weight of others' opinions break her.
"I understand," Fleur said quietly, her French accent thickening with determination. "I will not just fight the dragons, Madame Maxime. I will fight to show the world who I truly am, and I will do so with honor."
Maxime placed a hand on Fleur's shoulder, her touch gentle yet commanding. "I have every confidence in you, Fleur. Remember, this is not just about silencing the critics—it is about demonstrating to the world the true spirit of Beauxbatons, and your place within it."
As Fleur left the carriage, her heart pounded with the pressure of what lay ahead. The knowledge of the First Task weighed heavily on her, but the greater weight—the burden of proving herself—was something she had carried for a long time. Fleur Delacour would face the dragons, but more importantly, she would face the world with the strength, skill, and pride that came from within her, not just her heritage. She would show them all who she truly was.
—
The Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts was a room that carried the weight of history, filled with the echoes of both triumphs and failures. The flickering light of the fire cast dancing shadows across the polished wood of the desk, and the walls, lined with ancient portraits, seemed to observe the gathering with silent scrutiny. Oliver Wood, his face serious and furrowed in concentration, sat on one side of the desk, his hands resting on the table as he leaned forward. Cedric Diggory, calm and composed, sat beside him, a slight tension in his posture. Across from them, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall sat, their eyes watching the two young men closely, both waiting for the discussion to begin.
Oliver spoke first, his voice low and steady, his Scottish accent sharpening the edges of his words. "Professors, we've got our work cut out for us. Viktor Krum, no one can deny it, he's the best Seeker in the world. What he did during the World Cup, catching that Snitch when Bulgaria was about to lose... it was unreal. He can turn a match around with a flick of his broom. He doesn't just chase the Snitch, he dominates it. My job is to keep Cedric in a position to catch it, but Krum... he can find ways around anyone."
Cedric nodded in agreement, his face solemn but determined. He spoke with a quiet confidence that reflected the weight of his responsibility. "Krum is a threat, no doubt about it. But the thing is, if we play smart, we don't need to beat him at his own game. We can't compete with his speed, but we can outplay him. We'll need a lead of at least 150 points, so even if Krum catches the Snitch, we still have a shot. But that means our Chasers need to be on fire."
Oliver's lips thinned as he looked across the table at Dumbledore and McGonagall. "And then there's Durmstrang's teammates—if they can match Krum's prowess, we've also got to watch for them. But even more dangerous is the Asgardians' team. They're practically gods compared to the rest of us."
Professor McGonagall, seated tall and poised, nodded sharply, her sharp eyes never leaving Oliver as she responded. "Quite right. Their strength, their magical abilities... we are not simply facing skilled players. We are facing beings of legend. Their physical advantages alone make them formidable opponents. Their brooms, designed by Loki himself, are rumored to be beyond any broom we've seen. This is not going to be an easy battle, Oliver."
Oliver exhaled, feeling the pressure. "I know. We're going to have to be smarter than ever. We can't match them in strength, but we can outmaneuver them, outthink them. They have their weaknesses, and we need to find them."
Cedric leaned forward, adding his insight. "Exactly. We need to think on our feet, stay unpredictable. If we can keep them guessing, we might just stand a chance."
Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his eye and a reassuring calmness, leaned back in his chair, stroking his long beard. "Remember, Oliver, Cedric, the essence of Quidditch is not simply raw strength or skill, but in how the team comes together. Quidditch is a dance, a beautiful display of coordination and unity. When played well, it's a thing of art."
Oliver gave a tight-lipped smile, clearly feeling the weight of the task but appreciative of Dumbledore's words. "We have the best team for that, Professor. We've got Angelina, Alicia, and Katie as our Chasers—they know each other better than anyone. Fred and George Weasley—well, they're Fred and George. And I trust them to keep the other teams on their toes. Our substitutes are also well-trained—Ginny, Cormac, Cho, and Roger—they'll step in when needed. We've got depth, but it's the strategy that'll win this."
McGonagall's eyes shone with a sharp intensity. "Indeed, it's not just about individual brilliance, but the strength of the whole team. You've always known how to make the most of your squad, Oliver. But remember, no matter the opposition, you must uphold the spirit of the game. Play with honor, with integrity. Even in the face of the gods themselves, let Hogwarts shine through."
Dumbledore's voice was full of warmth and quiet encouragement as he added, "Exactly, Minerva. And Oliver, Cedric, I have every faith in you both. No matter what the outcome, you will make us all proud. The world will see Hogwarts not just as a school of great champions, but as a beacon of teamwork, sportsmanship, and excellence. You will embody all of that. And you will rise to the challenge."
Cedric smiled, his confidence bolstered by Dumbledore's faith in him. "Thank you, Professor. We'll give it everything we've got."
Oliver stood up, his jaw set with determination. "We won't let you down, Professor. We'll do whatever it takes to win this."
Professor McGonagall's expression softened slightly, and her lips curled up into a small smile. "Just remember, gentlemen, it's not about victory at any cost. Play well, play smart, and represent Hogwarts in the way it deserves."
Oliver and Cedric shared a glance, both feeling the weight of their responsibility, but also the unspoken bond they shared as captains of the team. "We'll make sure to do that, Professor," Cedric said with quiet resolve.
As the two boys left the office, their hearts were filled with a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead would not be easy—facing the world's finest Seekers and the powerful Asgardian team—but they were prepared. They would bring everything they had, not just for victory, but to show the world the true spirit of Hogwarts.
—
Severus Snape's footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, the shadows stretching long in the dim light of the torches that lined the walls. His mind was a tangled mess of thoughts, each one as dark as the next. He had spent years buried in the weight of his guilt, his sins, but there was one thing that always brought it all crashing back—Lily Evans. Or, rather, Eirlys. The name was an unfamiliar sting on his tongue, as if it were both hers and someone else's.
He rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. Eirlys. Her figure was outlined by the flickering torchlight, her fiery red hair a striking reminder of who she had once been, and yet, she was so much more. She looked at him, and their eyes locked. There was no mistaking the shared history between them, a history that still lingered in the air like the smoke from a long-forgotten fire.
"Eirlys," Snape's voice was low, almost a hiss, but it didn't have the venom it once would have. Instead, there was a thick layer of restraint, mixed with something far less defined—resentment, yes, but also something that bordered on regret. "Or should I say Lily?" His words were like a wound that had never quite healed, the name heavy with bitterness and nostalgia.
Eirlys regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable but steady. There was no immediate judgment in her eyes, only a quiet acknowledgment of the pain that lingered between them. "I am Eirlys now," she said softly, her voice a calm and soothing contrast to the harshness of his own. "But I remember being Lily," she added, her gaze softening just a fraction. "Both parts of me, Severus. Both are mine."
A sharp intake of breath was his only response, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. The mention of Lily—his Lily—was like opening an old wound he thought he'd buried. "You think you can simply step into her shoes, forget everything that came before?" His voice was thick, but beneath it lay an unmistakable undercurrent of pain. "I never wanted him to hurt you. I tried, you know. I tried to protect you." He looked at her, his gaze intense and pleading for understanding, as though the weight of his failures might somehow find solace in her response.
Eirlys sighed, the exhale almost inaudible in the stillness of the corridor. Her eyes softened further as she took a step closer, her presence unwavering, but full of the kind of strength that had been forged by time and experience. "I don't need you to remind me, Severus," she said, her tone surprisingly gentle. "I can see it in your eyes—you carry that burden every single day, and I don't need to reopen it to know the depth of your guilt. But we must address it. For both of us."
The words hung in the air between them like an unspoken agreement. Snape's chest tightened, and his face, usually so impassive, betrayed the quiet suffering within. "I... I failed you," he murmured, his voice betraying a tremor that he quickly masked. "I tried to make things right, I did. But by the time I had gathered the courage, it was already too late."
Eirlys's gaze softened with a hint of something more—a flicker of empathy, perhaps even understanding. "I know, Severus. I know. And I also know that James's return as an Einherjar doesn't fix the past," she said, her words weighed down by the same history that had torn them apart. "But what I do know is that we cannot ignore the consequences of that night. What happened didn't just change our lives—it set into motion a chain of events that altered the very course of the wizarding world."
Snape's jaw clenched. "I have tried. I have tried to make amends," he said fiercely, as if the words could undo the damage. "I've spent every moment since then trying to honor your memory—her memory."
Her voice was firm yet kind as she approached him, her eyes meeting his without hesitation. "And it's noble, Severus. It truly is. But you cannot keep punishing yourself for the rest of your life. At some point, you have to forgive yourself," she said softly, her words like a balm on an old wound. "Only then can you move forward."
A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and devoid of humor. "Forgiveness," he sneered, though there was no malice in it—just the hollow echo of a man who had spent too long believing he was beyond redemption. "It's never that simple, is it?"
Eirlys's expression didn't waver. "No. It's not. But it's a start," she said, her voice quiet but resolute. "We can't undo what happened, Severus. But we can shape what happens next. Together, if you're willing to try."
The air between them was thick with tension, the unsaid words swirling around them like a storm that neither was sure how to weather. Snape looked away, as though avoiding her gaze might somehow make it all easier to bear. "And what of us?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The question was there, but not truly formed—an uncertainty he couldn't quite put to rest.
Eirlys met his eyes, her gaze steady and filled with a mix of hope and sorrow. "I don't know," she admitted, the truth of her words honest and unflinching. "But maybe, with time, we can understand each other. Maybe even forgive and be friends again." She paused, her tone shifting slightly, becoming more resolute. "Nothing worth doing is ever easy, Severus. You should know that by now."
He swallowed hard, the weight of their shared history pressing down on him like a vice. "It won't be easy," he murmured, almost to himself.
"No," she agreed. "But we can try to be friends again." There was a finality in her words, but it was not a door slamming shut—it was an invitation, a possibility.
With a final glance, Eirlys turned to walk away, leaving Snape to stand alone in the corridor, the darkness of the hall now somehow lighter than it had been moments before. He didn't know what would come next. He didn't know if he could ever truly forgive himself. But in that moment, something had shifted. For the first time, there was the faintest glimmer of hope.
And for Eirlys, the encounter with Snape was more than just a confrontation—it was a necessary step in reconciling with the past, in accepting her dual identity and moving forward. She did not know what the future held, but she knew that facing the past, and perhaps even forgiving it, was the only way to move on.
—
The corridor of Hogwarts felt colder as the four champions converged, their footsteps echoing off the ancient stone walls. Flickering torches cast long shadows, adding an eerie quality to the moment. Each of them was lost in their thoughts—anticipation, fear, and excitement swirling in their minds as they neared the Library, the site of their next challenge.
Haraldr stood tall, his Asgardian heritage visible in his powerful stride. There was a certain weight about him, an air of quiet determination, but beneath it, a hint of something more—perhaps a burden, perhaps a secret. Beside him, Fleur walked with an effortless elegance, her long blonde hair cascading in waves, her every movement a dance. But there was a crease in her brow, an edge to her usual grace that suggested something weighed heavily on her.
Viktor Krum, silent as always, walked with a steely calm. His face was unreadable, but his deep-set eyes betrayed the tension he was feeling. The Durmstrang Seeker's posture was as stiff as a statue, but anyone who knew him would recognize the underlying focus in the way he moved.
Cedric Diggory, ever the friendly and approachable one, walked a step behind, his smile flickering despite the apprehension in the air. He had always been the easy-going type, but even he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off today. The impending First Task loomed over him, and though he was good-natured, he was also sharp. He could tell something wasn't right with his fellow champions.
The moment they met, the air was thick with unspoken tension. The awkwardness settled over them as they exchanged glances. Cedric was the first to break the silence, his voice warm, though his curiosity clearly piqued.
"So... how's everyone feeling about the first task?" He flashed a quick smile, trying to gauge their reactions.
Haraldr, his brow furrowed in concentration, finally spoke up. "It's dragons," he said, his voice low but firm, like the calm before a storm.
Fleur, her French accent making her words dance with urgency, added, "Oui, dragons. We were told... but the situation is complicated." She glanced at Viktor, her eyes reflecting concern.
Viktor, his deep voice laced with a heavy Bulgarian accent, spoke next, his words slow but measured. "Dragons, indeed," he said. "Karkaroff told me, he said it was important that I know."
Cedric's eyes widened with surprise, his confusion evident. "Dragons? How do all of you know? I—"
Haraldr stepped closer, his face etched with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Cedric," he said, his voice softer now, as if trying to offer some explanation. "My friend Luna... she's a Seer. She mentioned 'scales and fire' during breakfast. I put two and two together."
Fleur nodded, her gaze lowering as she spoke. "Madame Maxime, she told me. I didn't wish to hide it from you, Cedric, but..." Her voice trailed off, as if unsure how to explain the difficult position they'd all been placed in.
Viktor, though rarely one for lengthy explanations, sighed softly. "Karkaroff... he thought it was necessary for me to know. He felt I should be prepared."
Cedric stood there, processing the information. His lips parted, the surprise shifting into something else—disappointment. "So, you all knew... and I didn't? That's... not exactly fair."
Haraldr's expression softened, and he placed a reassuring hand on Cedric's shoulder. "We didn't want to keep this from you, Cedric. It's just... complicated. But we're telling you now. We want to make it right."
Fleur stepped forward, her eyes filled with earnestness. "We hope this helps you prepare. None of us wanted to take advantage of the situation," she said, her words sincere.
Viktor, his voice less stern than usual, gave a slow nod. "Yes. We all face this challenge equally. Now we can work together."
Cedric, still a bit taken aback, smiled in appreciation, his usually relaxed demeanor showing a flicker of warmth. "Thanks," he said, his voice sincere but tinged with the lingering hurt of the past moments. "It's good to know I can count on you. We'll face this together, no matter what."
The tension in the air lifted slightly as the four champions shared a moment of mutual understanding. They may have been competitors, but there was a sense of camaraderie among them now, something forged in the heat of the shared burden they carried.
As they resumed their walk toward the library, the weight of the First Task remained heavy in their hearts, but now it was something they could face with a clearer mind, knowing that, despite the secrets and the misunderstandings, they were in it together.
—
Peter Pettigrew, or Wormtail as he was more infamously known, fled the familiar and threatening confines of Hogwarts with his heart hammering in his chest. His pulse echoed in his ears as he glanced over his shoulder, certain that James, Sirius, and Remus were somehow hot on his trail. He had never been able to escape the terror they instilled in him, not when they were children at school, and certainly not now, as he fled from them in shame and fear. The last place he wanted to be was anywhere near those old Marauders again. They knew him too well. They would find him. He had to get away.
Little Hangleton, a town as dreary as it was desolate, became his temporary refuge. The air was damp, the streets empty and quiet, much like his thoughts. He moved quickly, eyes darting to the shadows, looking for somewhere to hide. His feet carried him instinctively to the Gaunt Shack, a crumbling relic of the past, once the site of whispered meetings and covert dealings. Its dilapidated state felt like the perfect place to slip away unnoticed. It wasn't much—just a decaying husk of a house—but it was enough for now.
He crept along the perimeter of the shack, keeping low and trying to blend in with the surrounding wilderness. But as he rounded a corner, his sharp eyes caught sight of a familiar figure—Travers, a name from his darker days, a Death Eater whose shadow still loomed over him. Travers was moving with the sort of careful, calculating gait that told Pettigrew something was off. His movements were slow but deliberate, and he glanced around with an air of unease, as if sensing that danger could come from anywhere.
Pettigrew's stomach churned, panic bubbling up in him. He wasn't prepared for this. He wasn't ready to face anyone from his past. But despite his fear, he followed—his curiosity gnawing at him, and a desperate need to stay hidden urging him forward. Travers led him down a narrow path winding through the woods that bordered Little Hangleton. The path seemed to grow darker and more oppressive with every step. It felt as though the very trees were closing in on him, pressing him into something far worse than just a simple confrontation with an old acquaintance.
After what felt like an eternity, they came upon Riddle Manor. It loomed in front of him, tall and imposing, like some ancient monument to darkness. Pettigrew hesitated, fear rooting him to the ground as he watched Travers approach a hidden entrance. With a swift flick of his wand, Travers performed a series of intricate spells, and the ground seemed to shift. The massive stone doorway groaned open, revealing a cavernous blackness inside. Pettigrew's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Travers disappear into the darkness, and against his better judgment, he followed.
Inside, Riddle Manor was a mausoleum of forgotten horrors. The air was thick with dust and decay, the once-majestic halls now cracked and crumbling. The floorboards groaned under his feet, the shadows cast by broken windows stretching across the walls like the claws of some ancient beast. He heard only the scuttling of rats and the occasional creak of something ancient shifting, but even in this emptiness, he felt an oppressive weight bearing down on him.
Pettigrew tiptoed deeper into the manor, his every sense on high alert. The flicker of torchlight from distant rooms barely cut through the gloom. As he turned a corner, he stopped dead in his tracks. There, in the center of a grand but decaying room, was Lord Voldemort.
The Dark Lord was no longer the terrifying figure that had once struck fear into the hearts of wizards and Muggles alike. Instead, he was a grotesque, pitiful version of himself—nothing more than a grotesque, snake-like homunculus, propped up by dark and ancient magics. His body was barely more than a twisted, infantile form, its wrinkled skin stretched tightly across bone. But his eyes—those red, slitted eyes—still burned with the intensity of pure malice. The moment Voldemort's gaze met Pettigrew's, the air seemed to freeze, the space around them charged with dread.
"Wormtail," Voldemort hissed, his voice faint and weak, yet carrying the weight of centuries of evil. His words slithered through the air like a venomous serpent. "You've returned."
Pettigrew's knees buckled, and he fell to the floor with a whimper. "Master," he stammered, his voice trembling. "I—I didn't know you were—"
"Silence!" Voldemort's voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. There was no power behind it, only a terrifying fury. "You are lucky that I still have use for you, Wormtail."
Pettigrew, cringing beneath Voldemort's gaze, dared not speak. He kept his head bowed, sweat dripping down his face. But in his mind, a swirl of conflicting thoughts raced through his panicked brain—fear, guilt, a desperate wish to avoid being destroyed.
Travers, who had been standing silently off to the side, stepped forward with a sigh of relief mixed with anxiety. "My lord, everything is proceeding as planned. The preparations are in place. We are ready for the next phase," Travers said, his voice low but eager, like a servant eager to please. His expression was a strange mixture of nervousness and anticipation, but he too was clearly affected by Voldemort's presence.
Voldemort's eyes flicked over to Travers, his gaze like ice. "Good," he murmured, his voice rasping but still filled with malice. He then turned his gaze back to Pettigrew, his stare intense and unblinking. "Wormtail, your presence here is... fortuitous. Our plans for the Triwizard Tournament are finally falling into place. You will play an essential role in ensuring our success. Do not disappoint me again."
Pettigrew's throat tightened with fear, and he nodded vigorously, his mind racing. "Yes, Master. I am here to serve... whatever you need. I—" He stopped himself, realizing how weak his own voice sounded. Desperation clung to every word.
Voldemort's lips twisted into what could almost be considered a smile, though it was more of a grimace. "You had better, Wormtail," he said coldly. "For your sake."
Pettigrew could feel the weight of his fate pressing down on him as Voldemort continued to speak, outlining the next steps in his diabolical scheme. The Dark Lord's words were twisted and horrific, detailing plans that were so dark, so vile, that Pettigrew found himself both terrified and oddly relieved. He had fallen so far, and now, with no way to escape, he was once again trapped in the web of darkness that had claimed him all those years ago.
"Do not fail me again, Wormtail," Voldemort hissed once more, his slitted eyes narrowing as he stared down at the trembling rat.
---
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