That blasted Carpathius, or whatever his name was.
He'd gone and snatched up a bunch of Voldemort's former followers!
Those wretched weeds!
If Voldemort had known, he would've wiped them all out ages ago.
"Come here," Voldemort ordered coldly, barely containing his fury.
He grabbed the wand at his side.
As Peter Pettigrew shuffled closer, trembling, Voldemort pressed the wand's tip against Peter's left forearm, slowly channeling magic into it.
The moment the magic flowed, the Dark Mark—a skull with a snake—flared with a dark red glow. The gray-black serpent in the mark seemed to come alive, slithering and twisting across Peter's skin, its forked tongue flickering.
Just then, Frank overheard a sharp whoosh from the room, like something slicing through the air.
It was followed by a soft thud.
A new voice spoke, neither timid like Peter's nor icy like Voldemort's, but low and respectful.
"Master, you summoned me?"
"It's me calling you, Barty," Voldemort replied.
His pale hand gripped the wool blanket beside him, wrapping his frail, temporary body even tighter.
A chill ran through him, making him shiver.
"You've been at the Malfoys' for so long. What's Lucius's stance now?"
Barty Crouch Jr. stood by the fireplace, hands at his sides, his eyes flickering briefly before he answered honestly. "He… he's still on the fence, Master. I passed on your demands, but he says he needs to see you in person, to confirm your power's restored, before he'll fully commit."
It was the last night of the Hogwarts students' summer break. Tomorrow, the new school year would begin, and Voldemort was itching to use the school's resources to push his resurrection plan forward.
Hearing Lucius's response, he let out a cold snort. "I knew it. That sly old fox never moves unless he sees the prize."
He paused, his voice turning sharp and piercing. "Go to Malfoy Manor now. Bring him here. Immediately."
"Yes, my Lord!" Barty bowed deeply and strode out of the room, his steps so quick they almost stirred a breeze.
For Malfoy Manor, it was destined to be a sleepless night.
"Go on… go," Voldemort muttered, watching Barty's figure vanish through the door. He slumped back in his chair, exhausted.
Talking so much tonight had drained his already weak body. He stared at the dwindling flames in the fireplace, hoping to catch a moment's rest by their warmth.
But his ears twitched suddenly, his relaxed body tensing in an instant. His voice turned high and dangerous. "Peter, didn't you hear that? Nagini's signaling."
A cruel smile curled his lips. "Oh, she's brought interesting news. There's an old Muggle outside our door, listening to every word we say."
Outside, Frank's neck hairs stood on end, a chill racing from his feet to his scalp.
He turned to flee, but a faint hiss of scales scraping the floor froze him in place, the sound sharp and unnerving.
He stiffly turned his head, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest.
A massive golden snake, thick as a bowl, coiled on the staircase railing, its scales glinting coldly. Its blood-red slit eyes locked onto him like twin rubies, its forked tongue hissing threateningly.
Frank's mind went blank, his only thought to escape to his small room, clutch a hot water bottle, and crawl into his warm bed.
But his legs felt like lead, his knees trembling uncontrollably. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, his breathing labored. He could only watch as the snake slithered closer.
Creak—
The door swung fully open, and a short, bald man stepped out.
He wore a tight black shirt, his muscled arms straining the fabric. In his arms, he cradled something wrapped in dark purple cloth.
It was an infant, but its appearance sent a chill down Frank's spine.
The baby's skin was an eerie red, like it had been scorched by fire, covered in fine, dark scales clinging to its flesh. Not a single hair grew on its slick, egg-like head. Where a baby's soft features should've been, it had the sharp, adult-like face of a man—high brow, sunken eyes, lips thin as a blade, and blood-red slit pupils identical to the snake's. Its nose was just two thin slits that flared slightly with each breath.
The infant clutched a yew wand longer than its arm, its tiny hands gripping it tightly, the wand's tip aimed squarely at Frank.
A raspy voice, like it was scraped from rusted metal, echoed through the empty corridor, cold as death.
"Avada Kedavra!"
---
At Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, steam swirled as the Hogwarts Express let out a long, low whistle, its wheels slowly starting to turn.
Dylan tucked away his wand.
The umbrella that had sprouted from its tip moments ago was still damp with rain. With a light flick, the umbrella vanished, leaving the wand sleek and bare.
He picked up his suitcase, its surface damp from the platform's mist. Muttering a drying charm, he watched the moisture vanish before sliding the case under his seat.
Harry sat across from him, clutching his wand, hesitating before speaking. "Dylan, I had the weirdest dream last night."
His eyes were distant, like he was still caught in the dream's vivid grip. "I was a giant python, slithering along the ground. I saw Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew… they were talking about killing me and ambushing someone named Alastor Moody, but it seemed like the plan failed."
Harry's words sped up as he recalled more, his hands gesturing as if the scenes were unfolding right there. "It felt so real. I could feel the snake's scales brushing the floor, hear Voldemort's icy voice…"
"Just a dream, Harry. Don't overthink it," Dylan cut in, though he mentally filed away the details.
It seemed Moody hadn't been replaced this year, but Voldemort would surely find another way to lure Harry into the Triwizard Tournament trap.
Go on, go on, Dylan thought. Let the boy of justice face the wicked Dark Lord.
He turned to Ron, sitting nearby. "By the way, how was the Quidditch World Cup?"
Hermione, seated next to Dylan with a History of Magic textbook in her lap, looked up, curious about Harry and Ron's response.
"It was incredible!" Ron lit up, leaning forward, his hands waving excitedly. "I was rooting for Ireland—they've got amazing teamwork—but Krum… he's a genius!"
His eyes sparkled as he mimicked Quidditch moves. "The way he flies, he's more agile than any Seeker out there. Like an artist in the air!"
"If I could meet him up close, I'd swear off dating for a decade!" Ron's voice rose, and he slapped the table. "If he came to Hogwarts, I'd trade ten years of my life for it!"
Dylan gave Ron a strange look, amused by his fervor.
From Scabbers turning out to be Peter Pettigrew last year to Ron now casually wishing for Krum to show up at Hogwarts—Ron's words had an eerie knack for coming true, like he was jinxed.
Ron caught Dylan's stare and scratched his head, puzzled. "What? Did I say something wrong?"
"Nothing," Dylan said, sipping his pumpkin juice before turning to the group. "By the way, Professor McGonagall mentioned we've got a baseline exam at the start of term. How's everyone prepping?"
Hermione immediately frowned, snapping her book shut. "I've only gone through the textbooks twice. I hope that's enough. Dylan, do you think McGonagall will make the exam extra tough?"
Her fingers fidgeted with the book's edges, betraying her nerves.
Harry flinched at the word "exam," his eyes darting away.
He'd spent the whole summer fretting about his dreams, barely cracking a book, and now he was at a loss for words.
"Oh no! I totally forgot about that!" Ron yelped, his face paling like he'd just seen an Acromantula. "If I bomb this, my mom'll whack me with her wand!"
"Relax, Ron, it's just a baseline test," Harry said, trying to comfort him, but it didn't help.
Ron slumped onto the table, his voice dripping with despair. "Relax? I haven't memorized my Charms spells, my Transfiguration can only turn a teacup into a rat, I can't even brew a basic antidote in Potions, I've mixed up half the plant names in Herbology, Astronomy star charts are gibberish to me, and don't even get me started on Divination—I've been winging it all year!"
He looked up at the trio, utterly hopeless. "Do you think McGonagall would kick me out of Hogwarts for flunking this bad?"
"Let's not talk about this," Harry mumbled, picking at his sleeve.
He was reflecting on his summer—playing Quidditch with the Weasleys, tagging along with Hagrid to the Forbidden Forest's edge. It was all fun in the moment, but now the holiday was over, and he'd barely touched his books.
Deep down, he thought, If I had another chance, I'd… probably have even more fun. Studying couldn't compare to zooming around on a broom.
Harry pulled a wrapped pumpkin pasty from his bag and handed it to Ron, cutting off his complaints.
"Look, there's Pigwidgeon," Harry said, pointing out the window.
A small brown-and-white owl flapped its wings, clutching a rolled-up newspaper, landing neatly on the compartment's windowsill.
It was Ron's new pet, picked up after losing Scabbers. Lively and, most importantly, just a normal owl—not an Animagus.
Ron could finally sleep with it in his arms without worry.
Pigwidgeon pecked Ron's finger lightly and dropped the newspaper on the table.
"Can I see that?" Hermione asked, setting aside her textbook, her eyes on the paper.
Ron, mid-bite into his pasty, nodded vigorously, mumbling a muffled "Mhm."
Hermione carefully unfolded the newspaper, and the headline grabbed her attention.
Dylan Hawkwood Elected Seventh Wizengamot Youth Wizard Representative, Youngest Ever and First Muggle-Born
Below the headline was a photo of Dylan in a tailored dress robe, standing in the Ministry of Magic's grand hall, holding a silver "W" badge with a confident smile.
"Dylan? When did you become the Wizengamot Youth Wizard Representative?!" Hermione's voice was laced with shock.
She set the paper down, staring at Dylan in disbelief.
"What? What representative?" Harry blinked, confused.
Unlike Harry and Ron, Hermione knew the weight of the title.
"It's not just about the power it brings," she explained, almost automatically. "Historically, it's a huge deal. There've only been six youth representatives before, all top-tier underage wizards."
She paused, her tone growing serious. "Four of them later became Minister for Magic or Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. The other two made history in magical academia. Basically, getting this role is like reserving a spot on a Chocolate Frog Card—you're destined to be a legend!"
"It just happened a few days ago," Dylan said with a shrug. "Dumbledore was my nominator, and the Wizengamot members were pretty agreeable. I still don't get why Professor Dumbledore set this up for me."
Harry and Ron just stared blankly, not grasping the title's prestige. To them, it sounded "cool" but vague, so they just nodded along.
Suddenly, the compartment door slammed open with a loud bang, rattling against the wall.
Dylan frowned and stood to see who was being so rude. Before he could, a head of pale blond hair poked in.
Draco Malfoy.
Flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, both in pristine wizard robes, Draco wore a smug, troublemaking smirk.
Dylan's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Hadn't Draco learned his lesson?
After being put in his place a few times, he usually avoided Dylan. Why was he bold enough to barge in today?
Dylan locked eyes with him.
Draco met his gaze, his heart lurching, a cold sweat breaking out on his back.