The evening air was suddenly disrupted by the rustling of countless heavy cloaks. Every minute that crawled by, every agonizing second that stretched into eternity, brought with it the sharp crack of Apparition as more wizards appeared, their shadowy forms solidifying behind tombstones and fir trees.

Each new arrival was shrouded in darkness, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods that casted shadows, their identities concealed behind masks that glinted coldly in the dim light filtering through the cemetery's mist.

They moved with careful steps, yet their movements showed an underlying hesitation, a trembling uncertainty, as if their own eyes were deceiving them and the impossible scene in front of them could not possibly be real.

When he saw Harry Potter bound to the tombstone, Lucius, mingling among his 'colleagues,' staggered slightly. He couldn't believe that under the dual protection of Dumbledore and Watson, the Dark Lord had managed to get his hands on Potter.

Lucius's disbelief deepened exponentially when his wandering gaze settled upon the figure standing beside the Dark Lord—a young man who was looking at them with such fury that it looked like they had killed his parents. This scene made even the usually eloquent Lucius completely speechless.

The Death Eaters knelt down one by one, crawling in a queue to Voldemort's feet, kissing the hem of his black robes.

Lucius followed suit reluctantly assuming the same degrading position. As his knees touched the ground and his head bowed in forced prayer, his heart became a cauldron of bitter emotions—resentment, fear, and a crushing sense of inevitability.

The truth he had spent years trying to suppress finally teared its way to the surface of his consciousness: he had never truly wanted to witness the Dark Lord's return to power, had secretly hoped that the nightmare of his youth would remain buried in the past.

But reality had a cruel way of shattering even the sincerest wishes, and that reality now stood terribly in front of him.

The mental catalog of those who would surely perish in the coming storm played through Lucius's mind like a funeral dirge.

There was an unknown little girl whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, the youngest of the Weasley Family—that family of blood traitors who had somehow always managed to slip through the Dark Lord's fingers, the clever Mudblood who had recently survived a vicious attack only through Watson's intervention, Barty Crouch Senior—a high-ranking Ministry official with a high reputation and Igor Karkaroff, that spineless traitor.

Karkaroff might still draw breath for now, but Lucius had enough understanding of the Dark Lord's methods to know that this pardon was merely temporary, a cruel postponement of an inevitable and brutal end. The Dark Lord was saving him for something special, something that would serve as an example to others who might dare to consider betrayal.

Death had already taken root in this cursed place, and Lucius could sense it growing stronger with each passing moment, feeding on the fear and desperation that hung in the air like a toxic fog.

"Master," Lucius whispered. Like all the others in this circle of the damned, he pressed his lips to the Dark Lord's robes with a worship that felt like acid in his throat, but even as his body performed this act of submission, his dignity wept silent tears of shame and loss.

"Welcome, Death Eaters," Voldemort sang, his voice carrying the cold, tempo of authority. "Thirteen long years... thirteen endless years have passed since our last gathering. Yet here you stand, answering my call as if it were merely yesterday that we last met. This tells me, does it not, that we remain united beneath the sign of the Dark Mark, bound together by bonds that neither time nor distance can sever?"

The Dark Lord slowly raised his hideous face toward the star-scattered sky. His thin, slit-like nostrils flared as he drew in a deep, breath, sampling the emotional atmosphere that surrounded his gathered followers like a connoisseur tasting a fine wine.

"I smell guilt," He said with obvious satisfaction, his voice dripping with malicious amusement. "There is a thick, choking stench of guilt hanging in the air tonight."

What followed was a speech—though 'interrogation' might have been a more accurate term—directed at his gathered supporters, these cowards who dared not show their true faces to the world.

Voldemort's voice rolled through the night air as he spoke various names: Avery, MacNair, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott... The list included almost every father of those Slytherin students whom Harry had come to despise during his years at Hogwarts.

But such concerns seemed trivial now, meaningless in the face of what was to come. Harry, bound and helpless as he was, found that he no longer had the energy or inclination to care about old school rivalries and petty grudges.

He wanted to die—this much was clear to him now—but if death was to be his fate, then he was determined that it would be a death worthy of remembrance.

He would not die cowering or begging for mercy. In his final moments, when the killing curse came for him at last, he would not surrender his dignity or his defiance. He would fall while charging forward, meeting his end with the same courage like in his parents' final moments.

This way, at least, he would not bring dishonor upon the memory of James and Lily Potter, would not shame the sacrifices made by Sirius, Remus, Professor Watson, or Albus Dumbledore. When he went into whatever land awaited beyond death, he would be able to look Hermione and Ron in the eyes without flinching.

Their deaths, and indeed all the deaths that had occurred or would occur, could be traced back to him. He was the catalyst, the cause of so much suffering and loss.

If the Dark Lord had chosen that moment to execute every follower present in a fit of rage, it would have surprised no one who truly understood Voldemort's nature. However, perhaps the intoxicating rush of his newly restored power had put the Dark Lord in an unusually magnanimous mood.

Lucius, with his instincts for reading dangerous situations, could sense that the Dark Lord had no immediate intention of indulging in a massacre. This small mercy gave him just enough courage to consider a dangerous gamble—he desperately wanted to extract some piece of valuable information, some crucial detail that he could potentially use as a bargaining chip in future negotiations with Watson.

The Dark Lord's return to full power was a development that could not be concealed indefinitely, but Lucius truly wanted to know how the Dark Lord had managed to get these people here.

Today was the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. He had taken Harry Potter and the competing champions from Hogwarts, right under the noses of Dumbledore and Watson. No matter how powerful the Dark Lord was, this was still an incredible feat.

Therefore, when Voldemort, with that tone of slight mockery, drew everyone's attention to the bound boy, Lucius made his decision. With trembling hands, he stepped forward into the circle of attention, knowing that he was gambling with his very life.

"Master, we are eager to know... we beseech you to tell us... how you accomplished this... this miracle of returning to us," He managed to say.

"Ah, that is indeed a long story, Lucius," the Dark Lord replied, and to Malfoy's immense relief, there was no anger in that cold voice. Instead, Voldemort seemed genuinely pleased by the question, even proud, like a successful entrepreneur who had overcome impossible odds and now relished the opportunity to recount his arduous journey from the brink of destruction to the pinnacle of power.

"You have all heard, of course, that this boy was responsible for my downfall," Voldemort continued, his red eyes fixed upon Harry's pale, defiant face. "On that night thirteen years ago, he destroyed me, stripped away my power. But what none of you truly understand is that it all stemmed from this boy's mother—from what I shall graciously call her noble—"

Here Voldemort paused to emit a sound that might have been laughter, though it had no resemblance to any expression of joy or amusement that a normal person might recognize.

"That noble woman chose to die in order to save her son's life. Her willing sacrifice activated a form of magic—ancient magic that granted this boy a type of protection I had not anticipated. I found myself unable to touch this boy, unable to harm him directly.

I was familiar with such protective enchantments, but I foolishly chose to ignore the possibility of their activation, and so I suffered the consequences. Those dark years that followed... ah, but no matter. I have overcome that obstacle at last."

As he spoke these words, Lucius watched as the Dark Lord extended one pale finger and pressed it firmly against Harry Potter's forehead. The boy's face immediately contorted into agony, his green eyes were bulging from their sockets.

Voldemort's soft laughter filled the night air before he finally withdrew his finger, leaving Harry gasping and shuddering from the aftereffects of whatever torment he had just endured.

Lucius listened intently to Voldemort's account.

When he heard the Dark Lord explain how the killing curse he had aimed at infant Harry had rebounded, striking its caster instead of its intended target, and how he had managed to survive that seemingly fatal blow only because of the extraordinary measures he had taken to conquer death, Malfoy felt his heart skip several beats as wave of pure panic flooded through his nervous system.

The diary... might very well have been one of those "extraordinary measures." He knew the Dark Lord's most core secret, the foundation of his immortality, but he had destroyed it. If the Dark Lord ever discovered that one of his anchors to life had been compromised through his actions, forgiveness would not be an option.

The entire Malfoy bloodline would probably be wiped from existence.

With these desperate thoughts swirling through his mind like a whirlpool of terror, he forced himself to focus as Voldemort began to address the portion of his tale that Lucius most desperately wanted to know.

"Now observe how fate itself favors Lord Voldemort," Voldemort said with emotion. "Just when I had begun to consider the possibility of abandoning all hope, an unexpected ally found me in my place of exile. Oh, she was not one of our usual companions, previously unknown to our cause, but now every one of you has surely heard her name."

Harry stopped struggling. He knew who Voldemort was talking about. He had seen her with Voldemort in his dreams, killing an elderly Muggle.

"Cliodna."

After Voldemort spoke this name, the Death Eaters arranged in a circle stirred, and more than one person realized who the ugly, terrifying monster that had appeared at the end of the Quidditch World Cup final last year was.

"This lady of particularly fierce temperament had no previous connection with me or our noble cause," Voldemort continued.

"But fate had placed her in a situation remarkably similar to our own. She and her people had suffered centuries of unjust oppression and persecution—at the hands of ignorant Muggles, who fancy themselves the guardians of justice and morality. For countless generations, they endured humiliation and degradation, but eventually their patience reached its limit, and they chose to resist their oppressors.

This Lady Cliodna, following revelations and guidance passed down through her ancestral line, came to seek me out in the dark forest where I had been forced to dwell. She brought with her a treasure that had been lost to history for millennia, and under the witness and power of that ancient artifact, we forged a pact that would benefit us both immeasurably.

She would provide the assistance I required to regain my physical body and full power, and in return, I would help her and her people take their long-awaited revenge upon those who had caused them such harm over the centuries. Ah, with her help, everything went smoothly afterward.

Lady Cliodna provided me with potions and elixirs completely different from traditional wizarding medicines, exotic concoctions that helped me escape from my weak, ghostly state and begin the process of rebuilding my body. She also brought me Bertha Jorkins—a witch in the Ministry of Magic.

Poor Bertha had encountered some rather serious trouble, and Miss Cliodna was kind enough to help her escape from her predicament. Through Bertha's memories, I learned the wonderful news that Hogwarts School would be hosting the Triwizard Tournament, and more importantly, she knew a Death Eater whose loyalty had never wavered, not even during the darkest years of my absence.

I knew that if I could somehow make contact with this faithful servant, he would willingly provide whatever assistance I required. Yes, I speak of course of Barty."

Barty Crouch Jr. visibly puffed out his chest with pride, basking in the glow of his master's praise as if it were warm sunlight after years of bitter cold.

"Of course, you have all heard the official story that Barty was captured by the Ministry and died while imprisoned in Azkaban," Voldemort continued with obvious amusement. "But as is so often the case with official stories, the actual situation was far more complex and interesting. He survived his supposed death, with the rather reluctant 'assistance' of his illustrious father."

Another soft laugh emerged from the Dark Lord's throat, though Barty Jr. looked upon his father's body with undisguised disgust and hatred.

Voldemort proceeded to speak at great length. He described his plans in detail, recounting that confrontation that had taken place on the night of the previous year's Quidditch World Cup final. That unexpected battle had forced him to completely revise his original strategy, he explained.

Initially, he had intended to somehow manipulate events so that Harry Potter would become a Triwizard champion, then use a Portkey to replace the tournament's prize, the Triwizard Cup thereby bringing Harry Potter away from Hogwarts and into his waiting grasp.

But that confrontation had changed everything by alerting Dumbledore to the possibility of his return, making the old wizard vigilant and causing him to watch Harry Potter with unprecedented care and attention. Under such circumstances, if he had continued with his original plan to push for Harry's participation as a champion, Dumbledore would have immediately understood the true nature of the threat and taken appropriate countermeasures.

It was then that the brilliant Cliodna had proposed an alternative approach—she had suggested nominating Hermione Granger instead. During that chaotic night at the World Cup, she had observed the young witch's desperate, fearless efforts to protect Harry Potter in the VIP box, and recognized that there was potential to exploit in that loyalty and friendship.

Harry's face was ashen. Finally, the whole truth was revealed.

Indeed, it was all because of him. Hermione had become a champion because of him, and all these deaths were likewise because of him.

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