The sunlight shone brightly over the Little Hangleton graveyard. The sweltering heat made the pale-faced Igor Karkaroff visibly uncomfortable. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he hurried toward a particular tombstone.
—Tom Riddle.
But this wasn't Voldemort himself. It was his Muggle father.
To be honest, until this very day, Karkaroff had never dared imagine that the so-called Lord Voldemort — the one who had led pure-blood wizards to slaughter Muggles — was, in fact, a half-blood.
It was absurd, even laughable. The followers of "pure-blood supremacy" had been bowing to a half-blood wizard all along.Yet that dangerous thought was quickly crushed in Karkaroff's mind.
Pure-blood supremacy?Nonsense.In the wizarding world, only power mattered.
"Quickly! Bring the cauldron! I need an infant as the vessel!" hissed Voldemort's voice from the serpent engraved with runes. He was eager — he would soon reclaim his body, to once again savor the wonders of this world.
Those traitors who believed him dead... oh, they would soon see their own terror reflected in his eyes.For Voldemort never forgave betrayal.
"Yes, my Lord!"Karkaroff swiftly set up the cauldron — an enormous one, large enough to cook a whole beast rather than brew potion.Under his trembling hands, the mixture inside quickly turned diamond-like, its surface solid as a mirror.
"The infant?" Voldemort demanded impatiently. "Where is the infant? I refuse to return to life in the body of a snake!"
"He's on the way, my Lord!" Karkaroff stammered.Moments later, a crack split the air — the sound of Apparition.
A middle-aged man in Durmstrang robes appeared, expression vacant, holding a baby in his arms."Bring him here!" Voldemort's eyes gleamed.This was a wizarding child. Voldemort's arrogance wouldn't allow him to use the life of a Muggle baby for resurrection.
"Ah, I've waited too long!"
A plume of black smoke burst from the rune-snake, plunging into the baby's nostrils. Instantly, the infant's body twisted grotesquely — his features melted, pale skin sprouting black scales.
"Quickly, put me in!" Voldemort screeched.Karkaroff hesitated, dread rising in his throat — but there was no turning back now.
Hands shaking, he lowered the baby into the cauldron, raised his wand, and shut his eyes."Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
The ground beneath him cracked open. Ash-gray dust rose from the grave and drifted into the cauldron. The diamondlike surface shattered with a hiss and burst of sparks; the potion turned a vivid blue.
But then — it twisted.The center of the potion warped, glowing green like fire. Voldemort, submerged in the boiling brew, sensed something was wrong — but the searing liquid smothered him completely. The infant's fragile body could not escape.
The once-calm potion now bubbled violently, roaring like molten lava.
Unaware, Karkaroff pressed on. Pointing his wand at his left arm, he muttered through tears,"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master…"
"AAAHHH!"
A piercing scream tore through the graveyard sky. Yet in Little Hangleton, no one noticed.Karkaroff dropped his severed arm into the cauldron with a splash. The potion turned a fiery red, blazing so brightly it seemed to burn — then dulled to a lifeless ash gray, like the remains of charred wood.
"Blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will resurrect your foe…"
His body trembled, drenched in sweat. His lips were ghostly pale from blood loss.He staggered toward the cauldron with Harry's blood in hand, poured it in, and collapsed beside it, gasping as crimson dripped from his stump.
The potion flared dazzling white, then shifted into deep violet-black, boiling over. Diamond-like sparks flew outward, turning the surroundings into a dark velvet void.
Then — silence.
A plume of white vapor rose from the cauldron. Through the mist, Karkaroff saw, with sheer horror, a tall, skeletal figure emerging.He was tall, thin, pale as death. His eyes blazed red, his nose flat with slitted nostrils —Voldemort.
But… there was something else.On his forehead — a scar.He looked disturbingly like a dark version of Harry Potter.
Karkaroff blinked, wondering absurdly if Voldemort had somehow gotten a matching scar from that night he'd tried to kill Harry.
Voldemort stepped out of the cauldron, staring down at him.Karkaroff smiled weakly — perhaps helping the Dark Lord regain his body might earn him mercy.
"My Lord—"
He was answered by fury.
Voldemort didn't even bother to conjure a robe. He slammed his bare foot down on Karkaroff's head, the force splitting his scalp open."You—" Voldemort's shrill voice screeched like a knife on glass.
"Tell me, Karkaroff — what did you put in my potion? Were you trying to kill me?!"
Voldemort had no wand in hand, yet Karkaroff didn't dare move. Trembling, sobbing, he stammered,"M-My Lord—I—I wouldn't dare—"
"You say you didn't?" Voldemort's tone rose dangerously. He stretched out his hand, and Karkaroff's wand ripped itself free, flying into his palm.
After more than a decade, feeling a wand in his hand again filled Voldemort with wild exhilaration.Power pulsed through his veins, and he longed to destroy something — and right there lay the perfect target.
"You betrayed me, Karkaroff.""I—I didn't, my Lord…"But Voldemort wasn't listening.
"You've disappointed me. I thought you were loyal — and yet, you tried to destroy me!"
"I didn't—please—""Cruel-hearted! But you should be grateful, for I am merciful."The tip of Karkaroff's wand gleamed green in Voldemort's hand. How poetic — to be killed by one's own wand.
"I swear I didn't—please forgive me—""If you've done nothing wrong, why beg for forgiveness?"
Karkaroff froze, dumbfounded.Then came the curse:
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light filled his vision, freezing his heart — but before the Killing Curse could hit, a flash of red shot across the air, intercepting it. The spells collided midair with a thunderous crack, scattering sparks.
"Who dares?!"Voldemort whipped his head toward the direction of the interference, bald and glinting under the sun.
He was furious someone had dared to "split his curse" — and fearful it might be Dumbledore himself.If it was Dumbledore, his newly regained life might be cut short already.
But from the shadows of the graveyard emerged a young man.Voldemort recognized him instantly — he'd fought this one before, through Quirrell's body. The boy who'd blocked his curse during the fight for the Philosopher's Stone.
"Charles Gold?"
Voldemort exhaled in relief.At least it wasn't Dumbledore. Charles Gold was gifted — but not someone he, restored to full strength, feared.
"So, it was you who tampered with my potion?" Voldemort lifted his foot from Karkaroff's head and sneered down his nose at Charles. "I almost blamed my loyal servant wrongly."
"You think your little tricks could stop my resurrection?" he said lightly, striding closer. "Charles Gold… I recall our discussion at Hogwarts about the nature of Dark magic. You have potential—"
"Now, if you kneel, kiss my feet, and swear allegiance to me, I may show you mercy."
His tone was benevolent. His eyes — merciless.
Mercy?To Voldemort, mercy meant only a painless death.
Tampering with his resurrection potion — he would never forgive that.But Charles didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head, watching Karkaroff scurry away like a beaten dog — trembling, tail tucked, but too afraid to run far.
"You dare ignore me?" Voldemort seethed. His fury boiled over; the very notion that someone could ignore him was madness. Even Dumbledore hadn't dared ignore Lord Voldemort!
And yet—this boy—
"I'm sorry," Charles finally said, his voice calm, almost apologetic. "I wasn't ignoring you, Voldemort. I was just giving you time."
"Time?""Obviously," Charles said mildly, eyes flicking over Voldemort's bare, ashen body as if examining something unpleasant. "This is a civilized world now, Mr. Voldemort. You might want to put on some clothes. It's… indecent. You look less like a Dark Lord and more like a wild animal off the street."
Voldemort froze. His rage spiked so high his chest heaved. Before he could retort, Charles added with mock sincerity:
"And that line you said earlier—'Even Dumbledore doesn't ignore me!'—honestly, it sounds just like 'Even my dad never hit me!' Don't you think?"
He smiled pleasantly — no malice, no fear. Which only made Voldemort angrier.
Still, at least Voldemort conjured a black robe for himself, covering that scorched, coal-colored skin.To the unknowing eye, one might think he'd just returned from working in a mine.
"Excellent," Voldemort hissed. "You remind me of the old days."
"The old days? When you seduced rich widows?" Charles quipped, looking him up and down before sighing. "I can see why you'd have to rely on memories now. Honestly, Dumbledore once said you used to be handsome. Hard to believe, looking at you now. Tom — where's your nose?"
"And at least you've solved the receding hairline problem for British men — by going completely bald."
Voldemort: …
"You may think yourself witty," Voldemort said coldly, "but others once mocked me the same way — and they all died."
Holding Karkaroff's wand between two fingers like a conductor's baton, he made a graceful motion through the air.
And then, without warning —The battle began.
Voldemort flicked his wrist, wand snapping upward. A green flash streaked like an arrow.
"Avada Kedavra!"
(End of Chapter)