Two Death Eaters stepped forward, dragging a cauldron between them. Deep enough to drown something.

One of the robed men, a Selwyn, walked to it. As he waved his arm to the graveyard nearby, something pale unearthed. “Bone of the father,” He murmured. “Unknowingly given. You will renew your son.” He tipped it into the cauldron. It hit with a hiss, hungry for more.

“Flesh of the servant, willingly given. You will revive your master.”

Before anyone could speak, four Death Eaters stepped forward at once.

“I’ll do it, my Lord.”

“No, let me.”

“My Lord, please.”

They jostled. A few actually shoved one another. Barty shoved back.

Lucian didn’t move. Still carrying Voldemort. Lucius hung back too, arms stiff at his sides, eyes flicking between the cauldron and Voldemort.

Voldemort didn’t bother looking up. He just said, quiet and final, “Barty.”

The others fell silent.

Barty looked relieved. Didn’t even flinch as Moody’s face started to run, in its place, Barty Crouch Jr, full and grinning, stepped forward like he’d been dying for the reveal.

Some of the Death Eaters stepped back slightly. Seeing Barty’s face brought memories for some. Cassian saw Selwyn mutter something to Nott, and Nott’s face went grey.

Some who didn’t know Moody was actually Barty gasped in shock. Moody’s betrayal made more sense than Barty passing as him. To think a Death Eater could fool Dumbledore was somehow more ridiculous than Moody betraying.

Barty raised his wand, pointed to his forearm, and the flesh split. He dropped it in the cauldron.

Cassian clenched his jaw. He had already pieced the ritual was meant to bring Voldemort back.

From Barty’s rants and the words traded between cloaked figures around the circle, the requirements were becoming clear.

Bone of the father… flesh of the servant…

And the thing they talked about earlier. Blood of the enemy…

Cassian’s eyes shifted to the Longbottoms, slumped, vacant, barely alive, and then to Mingyu, still bound nearby, restrained but alive. There weren’t many enemies here. Just three. His hand wrapped harder around the wand.

Dark thoughts filled his mind, the more he shoved them away. End them all. Slaughter the enemies of Voldemort before they finished the spell. One flash of magic and the ritual would be over before it began. A slaughter for the greater good.

It would work. Maybe.

But it went against his deepest beliefs.

His life was too sacred.

And Bathsheda would surely miss him.

His clawed hand, pressed to the earth, clenched so hard the soil cracked beneath it.

‘Not yet,’ he told himself.

He couldn’t rush it.

The cauldron hissed and flared, fumes curling in red.

Voldemort watched, his red eyes shining.

“Blood of the enemy,” Lucian said, stepping forward, “forcibly taken. You will resurrect your foe.”

He grinned at Cassian, raising his wand, but it wasn’t aimed at him.

Lucian stepped up behind the Longbottoms.

“Lucian.”

Cassian’s voice cracked.

Lucian didn’t stop.

A cut bloomed on Frank’s arm. Clean line straight through the vein. Blood welled, sharp red against pale skin. Alice didn’t flinch when Lucian turned to her. He drew a matching line across her forearm. Blood floated, drawn into the air by a lazy wave of his wand, and drifted after him.

Cassian swallowed his curses.

Lucian walked back to the cauldron. The blood hit the surface with a hiss. Steam belched up, thick and red.

He stepped forward and, without a flicker of hesitation, dropped the infant-shaped thing into the cauldron. The potion boiled.

The fumes twisted green, then grey, then white. The surface pulsed then imploded.

Cassian threw an arm up on instinct. Even the Death Eaters stepped back. Wind spiralled in reverse, dragging the mist toward the centre like the air itself was being swallowed.

The earth trembled faintly. Whispering rose from below, slithering, cracking roots, something crawling through old soil. And then…

Voldemort stepped out, whole again. Well, whole-ish. Taller than Cassian expected, bones too sharp, skin pale as wax. Eyes wrong. Red, slit-pupilled, cutting through the mist.

Naked as sin, too.

Voldemort raised his arms slightly, flexed his fingers like he was testing the range of motion on a new body. A snake slithered up around his shoulders and settled there like it’d never left. Someone draped a robe over his shoulders.

Cassian could feel the magic rolling off the man in waves. His stomach dipped.

It wasn’t power like Dumbledore’s. Not that wide, deep-rooted sort that crept in slow and filled a room without trying.

This was sick. Dark and heavy.

His own power rippled in response, painfully out of sync. If Voldemort turned those red eyes on him now… Cassian wasn’t sure his magic would obey him, or tear him apart first.

Death Eaters dropped, robes rustling against the cold stone as they fell to their knees.

“Lucian,” Voldemort said, still raspy, but deeper now. “Your work has been… efficient.”

Lucian bowed. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Barty walked toward Voldemort and dropped to his knees, head bowed. In his hand he held a long, pale wand.

Cassian stared at it in shock. Last year, Pettigrew had said he took the wand after Voldemort’s fall. So how did Barty have it now? Had he killed Pettigrew, or had Peter really been kidnapped?

Voldemort took his wand, flexing his fingers around it. Then he waved it, and something silver grew over the idiot’s arm, warped metal, silvery limb. Barty gasped, crouched lower, practically drooling.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Then Voldemort turned to Cassian. “We finally meet, Professor.”

“Not by choice,” Cassian muttered.

Voldemort’s smile twitched into something thin. “Don’t get glib, boy. I promised Lucian he could kill you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make you regret everything in the meantime.”

Cassian’s fingers were still curled around his wand. His other hand brushed the ground, steadying himself. ‘A little more.’ he gritted his teeth.

He bared his teeth. “Do your followers know,” he began, voice casual, almost mocking, “that the great Lord Voldemort has a Muggle fa-“

“Crucio.”

Voldemort flicked his wand lazily.

The pain hit like a blade sunk into Cassian’s spine and twisted upward through every nerve. His knees buckled. Fire crawled under his skin, gnawing through muscle, into bone. It was the kind of agony that made time stretch and logic unravel.

The curse lifted.

Cassian slumped forward, panting, hair clinging to his brow. His shoulders twitched.

Then, he laughed.

Broken. But unmistakably a laugh.

“Half-Blood Tommy,” he rasped, grinning through bloodied teeth.

Voldemort’s expression snapped.

“Crucio!”

The second wave hit harder. His back arched, jaw locked tight against a scream he refused to give. When the spell lifted again, silence followed. Even the Death Eaters stood stunned, some looked at Voldemort in disbelief.

Cassian coughed. Spat into the grass.

Voldemort stepped closer.

Lucian watched like a wolf about to pounce. Barty twitched, waiting for permission to strike. He had held himself back all year, every time Cassian interfered in his business, every time Cassian stepped into his way, staring as if he had power now.

Barty wanted to tear away the mask and remind him who he really was. Cassy. The dog at his mercy.

“You really seem,” Voldemort said, voice like frost, “like you want to die.”

Cassian forced a smile. “Do I?” He drew in a slow breath. “All I can say is… Noctis!”

The darkness dropped like a curtain.

Spells cracked a second later. Screams, curses, footsteps, Cassian crouched low, ducked past a blast that singed the top of a headstone. Another spell punched through the air beside his ribs. He rolled, breath shallow.

Then a pulse passed through him.

Cassian flinched. He recognised that spell. Dumbledore used it back in duelling club to find him in the darkness.

“My Lord! He can’t see either!”

That was Barty, whining across the black.

Cassian ignored it. He pointed to the spot he remembered the Cup landing.

There was a click.

Then a pull.

And then his stomach turned inside out.

Wind, spin, ground gone.

He hit grass.

Hard.

Cassian staggered, breath catching in his throat. His eyes darted around, body still curled like someone was going to hurl a hex at him.

But there was no graveyard. No Voldemort. No Lucian.

Just the maze. Cool, still. He could smell the hedges.

He looked around in panic. Frank. Alice. Mingyu. All three, there, sprawled on the grass, breathing.

He let out a breath through his teeth, half laugh, half relief.

When he finally looked up, he caught a forest of eyes.

Bathsheda. Dumbledore. Master Ji. Ekwensi. Maxime. Shacklebolt. Bagman. McGonagall. Sprout. Flitwick. Snape. Amelia Bones. Fudge. Umbridge. Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen.

All of them staring at him like he’d just come back from the dead.

There were voices around him. Dozens. Some panicked, others angry.

“…they just appeared, inside the maze, out of nowhere.”

“That’s the Cup’s magic. Someone tampered with it.”

“Frank! Alice! How did they get here?”

“We have to get the Longbottoms out, now.”

He could make out Dumbledore’s voice. Then Ji, sharper, furious in a way that even cut through the ringing in his ears.

“We need to strike. Mingyu, tell me where they are!”

Ash growled beside him.

Someone was crying.

Bathsheda’s voice, closest, “His pulse is weak. Magic’s unstable. We need to move him.”

Cassian tried to say her name. Tried again. Nothing but air.

He looked down at his hands.

He felt it slipping, his magic, bleeding out through his ribs like someone had kicked open a door and left the wind to get in. Still, he’d done it.

Frank and Alice. Safe. Barely. Mingyu, tied up but breathing. Potter too. The Cup hadn’t dragged him halfway across the continent to die.

Cassian dropped flat on his back. The grass felt wet. Might’ve been blood. Might’ve been his. His chest was hammering like it was trying to punch its way out.

Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t see, either.

The sky above blurred into one long smear of grey.

He heard voices, but they were distant, warped like they were echoing underwater.

He tried to lift a hand. Got about halfway before it flopped uselessly back to the ground. His fingertips tingled. That was new. Or old. He couldn’t tell.

Someone shouted his name again. Too far away to bother with.

A wand tapped against his chest. Gentle, like they were afraid to poke too hard in case he exploded.

Probably fair.

The next second, pain slammed through him like he’d swallowed lightning. His back arched clean off the ground.

He gasped.

Then… Darkness.

(See Author Note here)

(Check Here)

The dominant species consumes high volumes of data through ocular input. No recorded ritual of response. Too dangerous and cold. Avoid.

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