firecracker ???

The portkey landed hard.

Harry slammed into the ground, knees buckling beneath him. Cedric landed beside him with a sickening thud. For a moment, there was silence. Cold. Heavy. And then—

Screaming.

High, shrill, inhuman.

The graveyard was cloaked in fog and rot. Headstones loomed like crooked teeth. The air reeked of blood, burnt flesh, and something older—darker. 

Harry reached for his wand.

"Kill the spare."

The voice was soft. Cold.

A flash of green.

Cedric dropped without a sound.

Harry's heart stopped.

Before he could scream, strong hands seized him. Dragged him forward.

He thrashed, kicked, fought—

But it was Regulus Black who held him.

No expression on his face. Eyes blank. Movements precise. Ritualistic.

The cauldron loomed ahead—huge, black, rimmed in silver runes that glowed faintly with old magic.

A shape beside it—a body. Small. Still.

Peter Pettigrew.

His eyes were empty. Mouth slack. Soulless.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given..."

Regulus pulled a small knife from his robes. Walked to a nearby grave. Riddle.

He carved into the earth with swift, practiced hands. Drew the bone from beneath the soil, pale and brittle. Laid it into the bubbling cauldron.

"... you will renew your son."

The smoke turned green.

Regulus returned to Harry.

"Flesh of the servant, willingly given."

He bent down. Lifted Pettigrew's limp body. With one motion, he pressed the edge of the blade to Pettigrew's palm—already cold—and sliced it. Blood dripped into the cauldron.

"... you will revive your master."

The smoke screamed.

Regulus turned back to Harry. His expression still blank. But behind his eyes—something flickered.

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken..."

He knelt. Took Harry's arm.

Harry flinched. "Don't—"

But the blade came down.

"... you will resurrect your foe."

Pain lanced through his arm as blood trickled into the brew. The cauldron burst into light.

And then—

The water went still.

And from it, Voldemort rose.

Pale. Whole. Robeless, but complete.

He opened his eyes.

Red.

He looked at Regulus.

"You did well," the Dark Lord murmured.

Regulus bowed his head.

"My most loyal."

"My most constant."

"You returned."

Regulus said nothing.

Voldemort extended a white hand. Touched Regulus' shoulder.

Harry watched it all from where he knelt, panting. Bleeding.

Then Voldemort turned. His wand flew easily into his palm.

He raised it. But not to the sky. To Regulus' arm.

He pressed a finger to the mark.

The pain exploded.

Harry gasped as his head felt like it was going to split open.

Figures began Apparating into the graveyard, one after the other, cloaked and hooded. Their masks gleamed beneath the moonlight.

One of the last to arrive was Lucius Malfoy.

Voldemort stood tall before his circle.

"You have returned to me," he said. "Some of you I knew would come. Others... I questioned."

He turned slowly. "You fled. You hid. But not Regulus. Not the one who never failed me."

A murmur went through the circle.

Voldemort reached for Regulus's arm and raised it.

"My most faithful. You have earned your place beside me, Regulus."

Regulus said nothing.

He only smiled.

Because he knew.

Voldemort had already lost.

He just don't know it yet.

Harry watched from where he knelt, every word etching itself into memory.

He would get out.

But for now—

He waited.

-

Harry didn't know how long he knelt there.

The world had gone sideways. The air was ice. His thoughts were blood and flame and disbelief. Cedric's body lay only a few feet away, still and wrong and too quiet. The Dark Lord stood reborn. The Death Eaters circled like wolves. Regulus... Regulus had smiled.

Somewhere in the haze, Harry remembered fighting. He remembered his wand jerking in his hand, spells flying. He remembered Voldemort's voice—cold, sharp, victorious—laughing as their wands locked together in a blaze of gold.

He remembered Cedric's ghost. His parents'. A whisper: hold on.

He remembered running.

And then—

The cup.

The world tore sideways again.

And Harry landed, hard.

Back on Hogwarts grounds. Back where the stars looked like they always had. Where the grass was wet and cold and safe. Except it wasn't.

Because Cedric didn't land beside him.

He didn't move.

He never would again.

Harry clutched the Triwizard Cup in one hand and Cedric Diggory's body in the other.

Blood smeared his robes. His face was ashen. His eyes—vacant and wide—held no triumph. Only the memory of bone, fire, and rising darkness.

The cheering died before it ever began.

Screams echoed instead.

The world would never be the same.