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"My Lord... you've returned! You're so young!" Amycus Carrow gasped in disbelief.
Voldemort stood in silence, waiting.
One Death Eater fell to his knees, crawling forward to kiss the hem of his black robes.
One by one, the others followed—kneeling, bowing low, their lips brushing against the fabric of his robes before stepping aside to stand.
They moved without hesitation, forming a silent, trembling circle around him.
Fear gleamed in their eyes. None of them understood how Voldemort had suddenly regained such power.
The circle was incomplete, gaps in their ranks betraying the absence of others—those who had not returned.
But Voldemort no longer seemed to expect them.
He surveyed the hooded figures, and though the night air was still, a faint rustling spread through the circle, as if they had all shuddered in unison.
"Welcome, Death Eaters," Voldemort said softly.
"Thirteen years."
His voice was a whisper, yet it sliced through the silence like a blade.
"Thirteen years since our last meeting. And yet, here you stand, answering my call as if no time has passed. Tell me—are we still united under the Dark Mark?"
No one dared to speak. They could not gauge his temper, and they feared that a single wrong word would mean their death.
Voldemort's red eyes gleamed.
"My most loyal followers—those who stood by me—are dead."
His voice turned venomous.
"They died protecting their master. And yet, here you all stand. Tell me—why is it that the traitors still live?"
Several Death Eaters flinched, their heads snapping up in horror. But it was too late.
"Crucio"
Screams tore through the night as several Death Eaters writhed on the ground, agony contorting their bodies.
Within moments, they fell still, motionless.
The remaining followers stood rigid, their limbs trembling, but none dared to flee.
Voldemort inhaled deeply, tilting his head as if savoring the air.
"Guilt," he murmured.
"I can smell it. The stench of betrayal."
The circle shuddered again. Some looked as though they wished to step back, but none dared move.
Voldemort continued, his voice growing softer, more sinister.
"I see you—all of you—whole, unharmed. Your magic as strong as ever. And yet, where were you when your master needed you?"
His gaze swept over them, his expression unreadable.
"Did you think I was gone?" he whispered.
"Did you believe the whispers—accept the lies—that the great Lord Voldemort had perished? That I was finished?"
A pause. Then, his voice turned ice-cold.
"Did you slink back into the shadows, hiding among my enemies? Claiming innocence? Swearing ignorance?"
No one answered.
"I ask myself—why did they not believe I would return?"
Voldemort continued.
"Did they think there was some force, some power greater than mine? Did they find another master? Perhaps they swore allegiance to that old fool—that Mudblood-loving, Muggle-protecting hypocrite—Albus Dumbledore?"
At the mention of Dumbledore, the circle stirred uneasily.
Some muttered denials, shaking their heads, desperate to distance themselves from the accusation. Voldemort ignored them.
"It disappoints me," he mused, his voice a soft hiss.
"I admit... I am disappointed."
A sudden movement. One of the Death Eaters collapsed to his knees, prostrating himself at Voldemort's feet, shaking violently.
"My Lord!" he sobbed.
"Mercy! Please, forgive us!"
Voldemort's lip curled in disgust.
"Pathetic worm."
He kicked the man hard in the face, sending him sprawling backward.
Then, his voice lashed out like a whip.
"I offer you a chance at redemption!"
The Death Eaters tensed, barely daring to breathe.
"Go to Hogwarts. Bring me the Deathly Hallows. This is your only chance!"
His words rang through the clearing like a death sentence.
At that moment, a searing pain exploded in Harry's scar.
The agony was unbearable.
He gasped, jerking awake—heart hammering, forehead burning, Voldemort's voice still echoing in his mind.
At that moment, Ethan was explaining to Dumbledore everything he had witnessed in the cemetery.
He concluded with certainty:
"Voldemort won't be able to make a move for years, at least."
The anti-magic metallic white phosphorus bomb was no joke.
But before Dumbledore could respond, Harry suddenly bolted upright in bed.
"They're here!" he shouted, his face pale with panic.
"The Death Eaters—Voldemort! They're here!"
He turned to Dumbledore, his breath coming in short gasps.
"Calm yourself, my boy—you're talking about—"
Before Dumbledore could finish, the castle shook violently.
A moment later, the outside world erupted into chaos—shouts, roars, laughter, explosions, screams.
Dumbledore and Ethan exchanged a single glance before rushing out.
Hordes of Death Eaters had appeared out of nowhere, a mass of black robes and glinting wands.
Spells streaked across the sky, some striking the very walls of Hogwarts, sending debris flying.
Others exploded in bursts of fire and smoke, setting trees ablaze.
A towering pine went up in flames instantly, crackling like a torch.
Students fled in terror, some crying as they ran toward the safety of the castle, while professors stood their ground, forming a defensive line to hold back the attackers.
Above them, owls were released in droves, winging their way to the Ministry of Magic to summon reinforcements.
And then—
"Professor Dumbledore, it has been far too long."
The voice came from behind them. Smooth. Pleasant. Terrifying.
Dumbledore whirled around—and froze.
There, standing with an air of confidence, was Voldemort. But not the snake-like figure of the past.
This Voldemort was young. Handsome.
"Tom," Dumbledore murmured, his blue eyes widening in disbelief.
"How?"
He had always known Voldemort had means to avoid death.
But reversing time itself—this was beyond even his darkest suspicions.
Voldemort smiled. "We've all received the gift of a higher power," he said smoothly. Then his eyes flickered to Dumbledore's injured hand.
"And I see you've received a gift of your own."
Dumbledore instinctively covered his blackened, cursed hand with his sleeve, as if to shield it from view.
"Coming here tonight was foolish, Tom," he said quietly.
"The Aurors are already on their way."
Voldemort sighed impatiently.
"I have no interest in wasting time. Give me the Hallows, and I will leave with my Death Eaters. Your precious students will remain unharmed."
His black eyes gleamed as they shifted to Ethan.
"And as for you..." Voldemort's voice dropped into something almost amused.
"We have unfinished business. But not tonight."
"You will take nothing from here," Dumbledore said firmly.
Voldemort's face twisted in mock disappointment.
"Pity. I had hoped you'd be reasonable."
But before he could finish, Ethan moved.
His hand flashed through the air, tracing a complex rune.
A sickly green light shot from his fingertips—
"Avada Kedavra!"
The spell struck Voldemort square in the chest. He staggered back two steps, his expression briefly stunned—
And then, he laughed.
"Oh," he said, straightening with a grin.
"Did I forget to mention? I'm immortal."
His eyes burned with triumph.
"And since you refuse to give me what I want..."
Voldemort raised his wand.
"I'll simply take it myself."