Headmaster's Office, Eighth Floor – Hogwarts
The walls were lined with portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses, each one a silent testament to the rich magical history of Hogwarts.
Every painting seemed to hold within it a fragment of some long-forgotten tale — some whispered their old glories from time to time, others pretended to sleep, occasionally snoring theatrically. But regardless of their antics, they remained unaffected by the chaos of the outside world.
Just like now, they all watched in a rare, solemn silence, observing the two figures in the room with interest.
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Inside the room, a single silver strand floated gently into the Pensieve like a ribbon of moonlight.
With Barty Crouch Sr.'s consent, Dumbledore bent forward and began to view the man's extracted memories.
Time passed in heavy silence.
When Dumbledore finally stood upright again, the calm expression on his face was gone, replaced by deep gravity and concern.
"He… he went that far… so recklessly…"
Barty's face was pale, his eyes wide with terror, as though he could still feel the cold dread from what he'd witnessed.
"He's really come back, hasn't he?" he whispered.
The memory had shattered his understanding of reality. A man believed dead had returned — through dark ritual magic — and Barty himself had been one of the unwilling contributors.
Forced to give his blood, while his son had offered flesh willingly… and the bones of a Muggle father completed the ritual.
"Albus! This must be made public immediately! We have to start preparing—"
But before he could finish, Dumbledore raised a hand to stop him.
"Let me think," the headmaster murmured. "Please, sit down. Be still."
Dumbledore's eyes turned inward, as though listening to something far beyond the room.
The memory had confirmed it: Voldemort had used a ritual involving blood, flesh, and bone to craft a new body — almost like sculpting a vessel to house his soul, one torn from the Horcrux he had anchored it to.
Dumbledore reached into a drawer and retrieved a worn black book — Secrets of the Darkest Arts.
As a legendary wizard and headmaster of Hogwarts, he had long understood Horcruxes: how they were created, how they could be used… and, disturbingly, how they could be used to resurrect the dead.
Blood, flesh, and bone — elements to rebuild a body. Then, the soul trapped within a Horcrux could return to flesh once more.
Dumbledore understood this process well… yet even so, something about the memory unsettled him.
Voldemort had always been cunning. After suffering twice at Harry's hands, surely he would have chosen a method of resurrection that accounted for Harry's unique protection — the ancient love magic from Lily Potter's sacrifice.
Only Harry's blood could bypass that protection. Voldemort would know this. He wasn't one to leave such an obvious vulnerability behind.
And yet… Dumbledore couldn't shake the feeling that something had gone unnoticed.
For years he had tried to protect Harry, laying traps, guarding him… waiting for Voldemort to strike.
But now, it felt like all those efforts had achieved nothing.
"Why would he do this?" Dumbledore whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Barty's memory had raised more questions than it answered.
At the same time, far to the north of England—
One hundred and forty kilometers off the coast, a desolate island of jagged rock rose from the sea. Within a weather-beaten lighthouse, another voice echoed with confusion.
"Master… I don't understand. Why did you let him live? There's no bond between me and him anymore."
Barty Crouch Jr. looked down in shame. He could have killed his father and severed the last loose end — but instead, he'd merely altered the man's memory.
Some part of him believed Voldemort had spared his father for his sake. That thought made him drop his head in reverent silence.
In front of him, seated like a dark god in the flickering gloom, was a figure twisted and pale — his body ravaged by years of dark magic, his presence a blight upon the air itself.
Scarlet eyes, slit like a serpent's, burned with cruelty and calculation. His thin lips curled in a ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes.
"Barty… my child," Voldemort spoke in a smooth, aristocratic London accent.
He glanced at the tea on the table, then at the ruined stump of Barty's left hand.
Barty immediately dropped to his knees at the Dark Lord's feet.
"I once believed the world was broken beyond repair," Voldemort mused. "But then I learned… even in broken things, one can find true wholeness."
He reached out a hand and tousled Barty's tangled hair like one might pet a loyal hound.
"Master?" Barty looked up, confused.
"Shh…" Voldemort pressed a long finger to his lips. "Something quite amusing is unfolding. I imagine our dear professor is still in the dark…"
He chuckled — a low, rasping sound like an owl hooting in the dead of night. Though chilling, there was a note of nostalgia in it.
Voldemort, like Dumbledore, knew dark magic well.
But unlike the headmaster, he had wandered far and wide, studying forgotten arts and forbidden objects in ancient ruins — from the pyramids of Egypt to the ziggurats of Mesopotamia.
He had seen time-turners, enchanted sketch quills, magical relics of Hogwarts' founders… even glimpsed the legendary Philosopher's Stone.
But none of them had made him feel… complete.
Until one summer, three years ago.
In a hallway of Hogwarts, while inhabiting Professor Quirrell's body, he'd noticed something strange — a timid Slytherin first-year had pulled out a small die from his pocket.
At first glance, it was just a trinket — a child's toy. But the moment the boy held it, Voldemort felt something profound.
A sense of wholeness.
A perfect alchemical object — something complete. That was truly rare.
He hadn't paid it enough attention back then. He had placed all his hopes on the Philosopher's Stone, and in the end, lost everything again.
Now, thanks to the Daily Prophet's reports, he knew that once-timid boy had grown into something… extraordinary.
A flash of blue flames shaped like a phoenix… a brilliant Patronus in the form of a twenty-foot flying whale... an orange-red phoenix… and most recently, the figure beneath the snow at the Triwizard Tournament.
Voldemort's thoughts drifted back to the present.
He glanced sideways at Barty Jr. He trusted his servant, but some things… were better kept hidden.
The fewer who knew his plan, the more likely Dumbledore would make a mistake.
"Harry Potter…" he said softly.
The name echoed through the old lighthouse like a curse.
At the mention of the name, Barty's eyes flared with hatred. He knew exactly what the master intended. Harry Potter would be the first target.
Voldemort saw the expression on his follower's face and smiled — a slow, sinister curve of his lips.
"My dear child," he said with a whisper, "return now. Continue fostering the trust of that student. Make sure he stands firmly with us. When the time is right… he may prove useful in ways even I cannot yet foresee."