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Walking up to Harry and stopping in front of him, Pettigrew pulled from a sheath at his waist a small, sharp silver dagger.
Bringing the dagger close to the struggling Gryffindor champion, Pettigrew, despite the pain he still felt, managed to look down at him arrogantly, savoring the boy's fearful and angry gaze.
"What are you doing?!" Harry demanded, a flash of panic passing through his eyes. "Don't come any closer! Get that knife away from me!" he cried, trying in vain to pull away from the Death Eater.
In response to Harry's resistance, Pettigrew merely sneered.
The rat then ignored the Boy-Who-Lived's struggle and, with a spell, forcibly stretched out his arm, making Harry groan in pain.
The cowardly dark wizard seemed to find satisfaction in this, and with a vile, disgusting look, he placed the silver dagger against Harry's arm, just below the elbow.
Smiling, Pettigrew deliberately dragged the sharp blade slowly across Harry's skin, creating a deep, ugly cut.
'If I had to feel pain, then you will too,' he thought sadistically.
As soon as the cut was made, blood immediately began to run down Harry's arm, and without wasting time, Pettigrew pulled a small vial from his pocket and held it near the wound.
Bright red blood then began to flow from the wound into the vial, quickly filling it with a significant amount of blood.
Now, with the final ingredient ready, Pettigrew reluctantly stopped torturing Harry, letting go of his arm roughly and rushing to the cauldron.
"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken… you will resurrect your foe!" he recited the final line of the incantation with an expectant look on his face, then tilted the vial, letting a few drops of blood fall into the cauldron.
The moment the red liquid from the vial made contact with the red liquid in the cauldron, a magical reaction occurred.
The contents of the cauldron, which had previously been a thick, viscous liquid, instantly transformed into a dense, gray mist, highly concentrated with magic.
In addition to this change, the iron cauldron began to tremble violently, as though it could no longer contain the magic within it.
Seeing this happen, Pettigrew wisely backed away from the cauldron, frightened and a little anxious, watching the object with great attention and fanaticism.
'This magic... it's so powerful!' I thought, frowning as I carefully observed the vile, twisted phenomenon of dark magic happening before me.
I could also sense that the magic around me was highly agitated, filling the entire graveyard and clashing against the evil dark magic of the ritual, as if it knew that what was happening went against the natural laws of the world and wanted to stop it.
But even though it was a powerful and primordial force, magic itself could not truly interfere with what was taking place, so all of its suppression was meaningless and in vain.
'So even magic itself knows that tampering carelessly and intentionally with soul, life, and death is unacceptable,' I realized, mentally noting that information.
"Argh!" I then heard a loud grunt of pain beside me.
Turning to the source of the sound, I saw Harry writhing in the angel of death's stone arms, shaking his head with a clear expression of pain and anguish.
'It's happening,' I thought seriously, seeing with my special eyes the stain of dark magic on the scar on his forehead getting stronger and more visible.
This magic was entirely compatible and similar to the dark magic concentrated at the focal point of the ritual—familiar to me in a very unpleasant way.
Quickly turning my gaze back to the cauldron, I saw it tremble even more violently. The previously gray mist began to darken, with strands of green magic slithering through it.
This mist then began to condense, taking on a vague shape. The iron cauldron, which had once seemed strong and sturdy, started to show cracks in it.
*Crack!*
*Crack!*
The ritual's vessel, under the pressure of the volatile, dark magic that converged within it, could no longer contain the being that was emerging from within it.
*Crack!*
*Crack!*
...
...
*CRACK!*
With this final echoing crack, the last remnants of the cauldron's resistance gave way.
With a violent and repulsive force, the cauldron exploded, aggressively scattering shards of iron, magic, and gray mist across the graveyard.
And at the center of where it all occurred, a pale, hunched form—with black and green veins running through it—floated a few centimeters above the ground, exuting a dark, sinister energy.
That form—resembling an embryo—began to change gradually, as if it were undergoing an evolution, becoming more and more human.
After a few seconds of tense, suffocating silence, in which I and the two other people in the graveyard only stared anxiously at the being, the transformation finally completed.
And now, we were all looking at a naked man — pale, tall, skeletal, with reptilian features — slowly descending to the ground, exuding arrogance and sovereignty.
'That's it… Voldemort has returned!' I thought, looking at the Dark Lord whose back was turned to me.
With my Magic Vision, I could see that his magic, which had once seemed ghostly and intangible, almost as if it were disconnected from the real world, was now growing stronger and denser.
That dark, vile magic then fully condensed, stabilizing and anchoring itself to the world just like all the other magics around me.
And when that happened, seven dark magical lines burst out directly from Voldemort, shooting in various directions.
One of those magical lines went far off, beyond the graveyard and the village of Little Hangleton, and another went to somewhere amidst the graveyard's bushes.
Four of them shot toward my chest, where my shrunken suitcase was. And the last magical line shot toward Harry—or more specifically, the scar on his forehead.
These magical lines were obviously Voldemort's soul magic, connecting him to the pieces of his soul in the Horcruxes, and seeing this, I knew he was now truly alive.
And that was exactly what I had wanted to happen. That was the reason why I didn't stop the ritual or try to kill him earlier when he was still a weak fetus.
I knew that after being defeated by baby Harry, Voldemort was in an undead state, removed from the real plane like a specter, and unfortunately, that prevented me from actually killing him.
But now that he had been resurrected, he could finally be truly killed—and the only thing necessary for that was the destruction of all his Horcruxes beforehand.
"Finally... After thirteen years, I have regained my body," Voldemort's cold, hissing voice rang out, filled with tones of satisfaction and pride.
Voldemort was looking at his pale, cold body, running his hand over his face, head, arms, and chest. From his emotions, I knew he was very pleased.
The dark wizard then stopped admiring his new body and summoned a black cloak with wandless magic to cover himself.
After doing so, he turned his gaze to Wormtail, who was cowering in fear behind a large gravestone.
"Wormtail, come here!" he ordered, still not looking at Harry or me.
"Y-yes, my Lord!" Pettigrew responded, shakily.
And not daring to delay, he quickly came out of his hiding place and went towards his master, stopping obediently in front of him.
"My wand!" Voldemort held out his hand.
"H-here it is," the cowardly rat said, pulling from his cloak pocket a very peculiar and sinister wand, slowly placing it in the Dark Lord's hand.
This wand was completely white and smooth, as if it were aged bone, and its curved handle looked like it had been ripped from the claw of some creature.
"It's been a long time, my friend," Voldemort said, gently caressing his wand with a nostalgic look.
That expression was completely strange to see on the Dark Lord's face, but just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by a cold, malevolent look.
"Now, how about we summon our 'loyal' servants?" a cruel gleam flashed in his red eyes.
End.
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