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He pressed his hand against Voldemort's spectral head and forced him back into the cauldron.
The tramp tapped the edge of the pot with his fingers, and the potion inside filled itself as if obeying an unseen command.
"Bones of the father, given unwittingly, shall renew your son!" the tramp intoned.
The tombstone trembled. A jagged thigh bone shot into the air and plunged into the cauldron with a hiss.
"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, shall restore his master!"
From the debris-strewn ground, the shredded remains of a Death Eater's corpse rose, drawn by an unseen force, and dropped into the bubbling potion.
"Blood of the gods, bestowed in mercy, shall grant his servants immortality!"
A few drops of crimson liquid welled up on the tramp's fingertips and dripped into the cauldron. The mixture roiled violently.
"I, Gaunter O'Dimm, command you to rise!" he bellowed.
"I, Gaunter O'Dimm, bestow upon you the greatest of power!"
"No home nor wilderness shall claim you. No day nor night shall end you. No sky nor earth shall bind you. No wizard nor Muggle shall strike you down. No weapon shall harm you. No spell shall slay you. Neither man nor beast shall take your life!"
The cauldron erupted in a brilliant explosion of diamond-like sparks, turning everything around them to the deep, inky black of velvet.
An oppressive force flooded the graveyard, thickening the air as though it had turned to tar.
Then, suddenly, the sparks vanished.
A dense white vapor billowed from the cauldron, swallowing the figures around it in an eerie mist.
A man emerged.
No longer the snake-faced monster he had become, Voldemort now bore the visage of his youth—handsome, with thick, dark hair and a refined, well-proportioned frame.
"Kneel before me, Tom," Gaunt Odim declared, his voice brimming with triumph.
"Kneel before your god."
For a brief moment, Voldemort's expression twisted in resistance.
Then, slowly, he lowered his gaze, bent one knee, and pressed his forehead against the back of Gaunt Odim's hand.
"Your most loyal servant, Tom Marvolo Riddle, pledges eternal allegiance," Voldemort vowed, his tone reverent.
Yet, to those who truly knew him, the faint, involuntary twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed his simmering discontent.
O'Dimm studied him with satisfaction.
"Retrieve the Three Deathly Hallows. They are all within Hogwarts," he commanded.
With a final glance at Bellatrix's mangled remains, he snapped his fingers and vanished.
Voldemort watched in silence as Bellatrix's dismembered body reassembled itself before his eyes.
Limbs knitted back together, torn flesh smoothed, and her face reverted to its youthful form. He inhaled sharply.
"Clothe me," he ordered, his voice cutting through the night.
Bellatrix, showing no curiosity about her own resurrection, scrambled to retrieve the black robe from the ground.
She stood and draped it over Voldemort's shoulders with a reverent bow.
Voldemort then turned his attention inward, running his hands over his body inch by inch, inspecting every detail.
Only when he was certain of his restored form did he let out a cold, sharp laugh.
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Ethan stepped into the castle only to be met with the acrid stench of smoke. His expression darkened.
Without hesitation, he sprinted toward the source.
When he arrived, he found several Death Eaters sprawled lifelessly across the ground.
Standing among them, tense and battle-worn, was Professor McGonagall.
"Ethan, you're here!"
Professor McGonagall rushed toward him the moment he arrived, her face tense with urgency.
"Ethan! The Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts just now! The professors fought them off—no one was seriously hurt! But Black—Black brought Harry and Neville back, all three of them covered in blood! Merlin's beard! What on earth happened out there?"
Her voice was frantic, questions spilling from her in rapid succession.
"No time for details!"
Ethan called back, barely slowing his pace as he ran past her toward the infirmary.
The hospital wing reeked of blood and antiseptic.
Madam Pomfrey was bent over Sirius, her hands working swiftly to treat his wounds.
He lay sprawled on the examination table, deathly still.
His robes were soaked in crimson, his back a mess of torn flesh and blood.
It was clear the dark wizards hadn't held back.
Harry and Neville rested on nearby beds, their eyes shut tight, their bodies eerily motionless.
Dumbledore stood beside Harry, his face lined with deep concern.
"How is he, Madam Pomfrey?" Ethan asked, his voice tight.
"That reckless fool!" Pomfrey snapped.
"He came this close—this close—to dying!"
She pressed her fingers together for emphasis.
"Lucky for him, I managed to keep him alive, but he won't be moving anytime soon. His recovery will be long and painful."
"And Harry? Neville?" Ethan pressed.
Pomfrey exhaled sharply, but her expression softened.
"They're just unconscious. They should wake up soon."
A flicker of relief crossed Ethan's face.
Inside Harry's Mind—A Nightmare He Couldn't Escape
Fire burned through his scar, a searing pain that chained him to his nightmare. No matter how much he struggled, he couldn't wake up.
And in his dreams, he saw something far worse.
"Master! You have returned—fully, completely!"
Bellatrix Lestrange's voice trembled with reverence as she knelt before Voldemort.
The Dark Lord inhaled deeply, savoring the moment—the first time in years he had drawn breath without weakness.
He had never felt so powerful.
Yet, his expression darkened.
Gaunter O'Dimm..
That strange, unsettling man lingered in Voldemort's thoughts, sending a rare chill down his spine.
His power—so absolute, so unnatural—was unlike anything Voldemort had ever encountered.
Could he truly be... a god?
No.
Voldemort shook his head, banishing the thought. His pride would not allow such foolishness. He was no one's servant—no man, no wizard, and certainly no god.
'I will find a way,' he vowed.
'As soon as I discover the means, I will be free.'
A sinister gleam flickered in his crimson eyes.
"Master..."
Bellatrix approached again, sleeves already rolled up.
"Summon them," Voldemort ordered softly.
"All of them."
Without hesitation, Bellatrix pressed her wand to the Dark Mark on her arm.
The mark writhed against her pale skin, and a pulse of dark magic rippled outward.
Voldemort lifted his gaze to the night sky, his expression unreadable.
"Let us see," he murmured, "who among them is brave enough to return... and who is too much a coward to face me."
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then—
The air filled with the sharp cracks of Apparition.
From behind the tombstones, out of the shadows of ancient trees, robed figures emerged one by one.
Hooded. Masked. Cautious.
Each step they took was slow, hesitant—as if they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing.