Chapter 12
The Triwizard Cup revealed itself for what it was: a trap. No sooner had Harry’s fingers closed around the trophy than the world dissolved into a distorted vortex. The very ground of Hogwarts vanished beneath his feet, and the freezing air of teleportation enveloped him like an invisible cage.
When he reappeared, his boots touched damp, uneven earth. The sky above was an endless, starless black. All around, shattered tombs and forgotten gravestones rose like the jagged teeth of a slumbering monster—the cemetery of Little Hangleton.
He already knew what awaited him.
Peter Minus was there, trembling and pale beneath the faint light of a magical torch. He clutched a small, shapeless, dark bundle in his hands that moaned softly with a voice that was no longer human. What remained of Voldemort.
The dark‑haired guy glared at him coldly. «Give it to me.»
Peter hesitated, his gaze darting between him and the creature he cradled.
«He—he told me that…I was supposed to…»
He wasn’t allowed to finish. With a gesture of his hand, the aura around the man bent, constricting around his throat. A muffled gurgle of panic filled the silence as his fingers released the bundle with a strangled sound. Voldemort collapsed with a hiss of pain, while Harry advanced.
It was no longer of any use.
A swift, clean cut. Peter Minus’s blood stained the black earth.
Harry ignored him.
He bent down to collect the deformed creature, cradling it with an unsettling care.
Before him, the circle was already prepared—traced in blood and bone dust, pulsing with an ancient, ravenous energy. At its center stood a dark stone altar, far too old to have been sculpted by human hands. Above it, a silver dagger reflected the light of the black candles, its engraved runes glowing with a malignant gleam.
In the center, he laid the fragmented body of Voldemort.
Then, he moved with precision. Around the circle, like the points of a constellation, he positioned the Horcruxes: Riddle’s diary, the Slytherin medallion, the Hufflepuff cup, the Ravenclaw diadem, the Gaunt ring… and his own presence.
Because he himself was the final piece.
He removed his robe, standing bare-chested beneath the starry sky. His white skin seemed to almost glow in the darkness, covered only by intricate markings he had been forced to hide all this time.
The wind grew colder. The ground trembled, as if the world itself recognized the enormity of the moment.
He rose, inhaling deeply. It was time to bring the Abyss back to earth.
He sat cross-legged, feeling the energy swirling around him—a distant whisper, the breath of the Abyss, the call of something that did not belong to this world.
«Paxer tenwwbzarum, abysxaun proyuxzunde, exaudmrui voshcem meadym…»
His voice was steady, without hesitation. He spoke in a language he had never learned, yet one he knew deep in his bones.
He materialized the dagger. The blood had to flow. The blood of the son for the return of the father.
The blade sank into his skin—a clean cut on the palm of his hand. The blood fell slowly, drop after drop, soaking into the stone.
The earth trembled.
A low sound, almost an underground roar, spread through the air. The circle flared with scarlet light, and the runes came to life, pulsing in unison with the beat of his heart.
He did not move. He waited.
The shadow at the center of the circle grew denser until it seemed solid. A shape emerged in the black mist—a body still incomplete, still lacking substance. But the eyes… the eyes were already there.
Blood red. Deep as the cosmic void.
An ancient, familiar voice rose in the wind.
«My son.»
Harry smiled.
The spilled blood gathered around the figure, absorbed like vital sap. Shadows lengthened, creeping over the contorted form like adoring hands. And in the span of a heartbeat, the body stretched, lay out, and reassembled.
Where once there had been only a shadow, now stood a man.
Sensual. Powerful. Elegant.
Tom Riddle. No—he was no longer him. There had never truly been a “Tom Riddle” in the first place—that was only a fake memory, a stage character. Now, he was something more. Something definitive.
He was tall, with an erect yet relaxed posture, possessing the grace of a predator well aware of his power. His skin was of the clearest shade of white, flawless—like porcelain without imperfections. In the dim torchlight, he seemed to almost glow, as if sculpted by divine hands.
His eyes opened slowly: two slits of pure, incandescent red, devoid of humanity yet… seductive, magnetic, impossible to ignore. They were no longer those flat, serpentine eyes of his former existence. Now, they burned with ruthless intelligence, with an unstoppable passion.
His hair, as black as the deepest night, fell in soft, short curls, framing his face with an unsettling perfection. There was no trace left of the deformity that had once made his old body an aberration. Now, he appeared the embodiment of an ancient king, an emperor from a forgotten age.
His hands, long and slender, clenched slowly, savoring the sensation of power returning to his veins. His thin lips curved into a lethal smile—a smile that promised as much pleasure as it did destruction.
«I’d say you’re not even a bit surprised to have the one and only Abyss Spirit, as well as your father, standing before you.»
Tom— or whatever his real name was—stretched as if he had just awakened from a long sleep, his slender, powerful arms extending with innate grace. His gaze was amused, his mouth curving into a slightly self-satisfied smile.
«Not even a hug?» he added with feigned melancholy.
Harry looked up at the sky, crossing his arms over his chest.
«I should insult you for not leaving me anything, period.» his father’s laughter was deep and velvety.
«Oh, my child, don’t tell me you’re upset because I didn’t leave you any hidden treasure?»
The younger one clenched his jaw.
«Do you have any idea what I had to do?» his tone was sharp, yet beneath the irritation lay something else—something deeper.
«Do you have any idea how many nights I spent piecing together the fragments of this madness?»
The spirit of the Abyss snorted, dismissing it with a wave of his hand as if shooing away an insignificant annoyance.
«Oh, come on—I couldn’t have known I’d go mad, and that the avatar of Vareth…» he spoke the name with pure disdain.
«…would decide to split my essence and pit me against my own son.» his voice dripped with sarcasm as he surveyed the world he had been returned to.
The labyrinth had been a trivial diversion compared to what he had just accomplished. The Triwizard Cup gleamed in his hands as he emerged from the tall hedges, under the astonished eyes of the crowd. The victor.
An ovation burst into the air—shouts, applause, the roar that filled every corner of the arena. He let the noise envelop him for just a few seconds—the time needed to allow himself a controlled, almost distracted smile—before he let himself be swept toward the stage of honor. Dumbledore watched him with his usual inscrutable expression, a glimmer in his eyes that hid too many things. Harry returned a cold look, as if he had already seen beyond that carefully constructed facade of wisdom.
He accepted his victory with an almost inhuman elegance—a barely perceptible bow, a few words of courtesy—and then stepped aside. The celebrations filled the air with euphoria, but he refused to be carried away. He had stayed long enough to avoid suspicion, to satisfy expectations, and then, with measured steps, he left the main area of the party, heading toward a more isolated corner of the castle.
Before he could fully turn around, a familiar figure entered his field of vision.
«Are you leaving already?»
Draco watched him with arms crossed, his expression neutral, his mouth curved slightly in a smile that never reached his eyes.
«I’ve never liked parties. I’m sure you know that.»
The dark‑haired guy took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
«And you? Are you here to keep an eye on me?»
The blonde did not answer immediately. He simply studied him, as if searching for something he couldn’t find. Finally, he shook his head, his lips parting in an expression of frustration.
«I just wanted to talk to you.»
Harry tilted his head to the side, studying Draco for a long, interminable moment. Then, with a smile that was neither cruel nor kind—simply enigmatic—he took a step back.
«Then we should have done it sooner.»
And before the other could add anything, the shadow at the dark‑haired guy’s feet lengthened, coiling like a living serpent and enveloping him, drawing him into an abyss of silent darkness. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving Draco alone beneath the flickering torchlight.
«Damn fool.» the blonde hissed through gritted teeth, his fist clenched as he stared at the spot where he had vanished.