Harry Potter and the Triwizard Gambit - Chapter - 22

The graveyard was silent save for the crackling hiss of mist curling around crooked stones. Then came the first sound—crack!—a sharp echo like stone splitting. Another followed. Then another.

Apparitions.

Barty Crouch Sr., bound to his tombstone, felt his blood run colder with each sound. Shadows stretched and shifted, and in the pale moonlight figures began to emerge. One by one they stepped forward, cloaked in black, faces hidden behind gleaming white masks. The air seemed to thicken with the weight of their arrival.

Voldemort stood tall, his long fingers draped over the wand he had stolen, his crimson eyes glinting with anticipation. He did not speak at first. He only watched, and his silence was more terrible than a shout.

At last, when nearly a dozen had gathered, bowing low before him in the grass, Voldemort’s voice slid into the air like a blade.

“My faithful,” he hissed, the word drawn out as if savoring its taste. “How long it has been since I walked among you. Yet here you are, summoned back to me… as dogs to their master’s whistle.”

Several of the masked figures shifted uncomfortably, bowing lower. One fell to his knees entirely.

Voldemort raised his wand. With a flick, he ripped the mask from the nearest man’s face.

Barty Crouch Sr. gasped. He knew that face.

Lucius Malfoy.

The aristocrat’s pale features were tight, but his lips quickly curled into a smile as he bent low. “My Lord,” he whispered.

“Lucius…” Voldemort’s voice was cold, amused. “I wondered if wealth and influence had made you forget me. Yet here you stand. Tell me—did you not swear in Azkaban you were innocent? Did you not bleat to the Ministry that you were bewitched, controlled by the Imperius Curse?”

Malfoy flinched but kept his head bowed. “Yes, my Lord. I deceived them, so that I might one day serve you again. My wealth and influence, as you say, have only been tools kept ready for your return.”

Voldemort’s tongue flicked against his lip. “We shall see.”

Another flick of his wand. Another mask ripped away.

Barty Crouch Sr.’s stomach twisted. He knew this face too—Nott, once of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, a man who had wept at his trial, pleading innocence.

One by one, the masks came off: Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, Macnair—the very same wizards who had pleaded Imperius before the Wizengamot. Barty Sr. remembered his own voice reading their releases, signing his name to their freedom. He had thought it a practical measure, with the Dark Lord gone. Without a shepherd, what could sheep do?

But now the shepherd had returned.

The freed sheep bowed their heads again at his feet.

“You see, Father,” Barty Jr. whispered from his place in the grass, his voice trembling with awe. “You gave them freedom. You thought them harmless. But they remembered. They remembered me. They remembered Him.”

Voldemort’s gaze swept the assembled, his voice rising in a soft hiss.

“And yet…” His words curled like smoke. “Not all of my servants are here. Some are cowards. Some have betrayed me. Some believe me destroyed forever. They will learn the price of their faithlessness.”

The Dark Lord lowered his wand to Barty Jr.’s arm again, pressing against the Dark Mark until it blazed like fire. The servants before him writhed as if the heat licked their own skin.

“Let us see,” Voldemort said, his voice cutting through the night. “Who comes. Who hides. Who dares to betray me.”

The graveyard rang again with cracks of apparition, more masks stepping from the mist, more cowled heads bending to the grass. The circle grew, black shapes orbiting a pale serpent at its heart.

Barty Sr.’s throat went dry as he realized the truth: he was watching the rebirth not just of a man, but of a movement. The shepherd had returned—and the sheep had always been wolves.



The air in the graveyard was thick with mist and the stench of dark magic. The Death Eaters, masks hanging at their sides, knelt before Voldemort in uneasy silence. Their master stood in the center of the circle, tall and skeletal, the folds of his new conjured cloak swirling as though the night itself bent to his will.

His gaze slid across the bowed heads until it fixed upon Barty Crouch Sr., bound and bleeding against the tombstone. The elder Crouch’s face was pale, his lips pressed tight with both fear and defiance.

Voldemort’s voice rose, low but carrying like the hiss of a serpent.

“At first,” he said, “I thought to use Harry Potter to restore my body. A boy who was little more than a nuisance, who stumbled into my path at the wrong time. Your son”—his crimson eyes gleamed at Barty Jr., kneeling at his feet—“convinced me otherwise. Potter, he told me, was not the true enemy. No… he was only the scar of an old wound.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed, locking on Crouch Sr. “But you—Barty Crouch—you were always my enemy. It was you who armed the Aurors with permission to kill my followers. You who pushed law after law to weaken my cause. You who would have erased my work from history, if you had the chance. Tonight, you will watch as the world you tried to stop rises again in my hands. You will see the second coming of Lord Voldemort.”

Barty Sr. forced the words through clenched teeth, his voice rough. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

A hiss of cold amusement slipped through Voldemort’s lips, but before he could reply, the quiet was split by another crack! of apparition.


All heads turned. A cloaked figure stepped out of the mist, mask gleaming pale in the moonlight. He moved with a deliberate air, trying not to falter under the weight of so many stares.

“Come forward,” Voldemort commanded. His voice rolled through the graveyard, soft yet undeniable.

The newcomer obeyed, bowing stiffly before the Dark Lord. With a flick of his wand, Voldemort ripped the mask away.

The face beneath was narrow and sharp, his dark hair slicked back. Recognition dawned on Barty Crouch Sr., and his eyes widened. “Jason Parkinson,” he muttered, the name bitter in his mouth.

Yes—Jason Parkinson, younger brother to Lord Parkinson. He had been in Azkaban once, one of those who escaped condemnation by pleading the Imperius Curse.

“Jason,” Voldemort said silkily, his red eyes gleaming. “How did you escape the Ministry’s chains? How do you stand before me now, when you should still rot in prison?”

Jason swallowed, lifting his chin. “Just as the others did, my Lord. I claimed the Imperius Curse. I told the Wizengamot I was but a puppet, forced to act. And I swore to them that I renounced blood purity, that I no longer believed in our cause.”

Murmurs spread through the circle of Death Eaters. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“You denied me,” he hissed. “Denied the cause that gave you power. And yet here you stand, calling me Lord. Why should I not tear you limb from limb for your treachery?”

Jason forced a weak smile, though sweat beaded at his temple. “Because, my Lord, it was only words. I said what I needed to escape the Ministry. You taught us cunning—how to survive. Would you have me rot in Azkaban for pride? I did what I must.”

Voldemort tilted his head, snake-like. “So… to escape the Ministry you discarded my ideology?”

Jason’s smirk grew, his confidence returning. “Of course, my Lord. What do you take me for?” He laughed—a hollow, arrogant sound. “A Gryffindor?”

The graveyard froze.

Voldemort’s face did not change, but the temperature seemed to plummet. His pale fingers tightened on his wand.

“You dare.” The words were spoken quietly, but every syllable dripped with venom. “You dare mock loyalty. You dare mock me.”

Jason’s bravado faltered. He opened his mouth, but the killing curse was faster.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light flooded the night. Jason Parkinson toppled into the grass, lifeless, his smirk frozen on his face.

The circle of Death Eaters flinched as one.

Voldemort’s gaze swept over them, cold and triumphant. “Let this be your lesson. I will not suffer cowards. I will not suffer traitors. If you cannot hold faith, then you are of no use to me alive.”

The mist swallowed Jason’s body, as if the earth itself had been eager to erase him.

And for the rest, there was no mistaking it: the Dark Lord’s mercy had died long ago.



The castle woke to panic.

By the time Harry and the rest of Gryffindor crowded into the Great Hall, the tables were already buzzing. Whispered voices cut the air like daggers, faces pale and wide-eyed as owls streamed through the high windows, dropping copies of the Daily Prophet.

The headline screamed across the page in bold, black letters:

“DARK MARK CAST IN MUGGLE GRAVEYARD — BODY OF MINISTRY OFFICIAL FOUND.”

Harry felt his stomach twist as Hermione snatched up a copy. Her lips moved quickly as she read aloud to those who hadn’t gotten a paper.

“‘Last night, in a small Muggle graveyard outside Little Hangleton, the Dark Mark was cast for the second time this year. Local Muggles discovered signs of magical disturbance before Obliviators intervened. Found at the scene was the mutilated corpse of senior Ministry official Barty Crouch, Sr. …’”

Gasps spread down the Gryffindor table. Ron muttered something about “blimey” while Neville paled visibly. Hermione’s voice grew sharper, almost angry.

“‘The Ministry has no suspects but urges calm. Officials insist this is not evidence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s return.’” She lowered the paper with a furious glare. “Not evidence? A second Dark Mark in less than a year, and now this?”

Across the hall, other houses were just as shaken. Students huddled close, some whispering frantically, others shoving the paper away as if afraid it might burn them.

Harry didn’t need to look at the staff table to know Dumbledore would act.


By mid-morning, the Headmaster summoned the entire school back into the Great Hall. Professors shepherded students to their seats, their faces grave. Even the foreign students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons fell silent, sensing something weighty.

Dumbledore rose from his chair. His robes seemed to carry the weight of the years as he looked over the gathered students.

“Last night,” he began, his voice calm yet resonant, “a terrible discovery was made. Barty Crouch, a senior Ministry official, is dead. Over his body was cast the Dark Mark.”

A ripple of gasps shook the hall.

Dumbledore’s eyes swept over the crowd, piercing even from behind his half-moon spectacles. “Many of you are too young to remember the last war. But you know what that symbol means. It is not cast lightly. Some will tell you this is not proof. Some will tell you it is coincidence, or trickery.” He paused, his voice lowering into a sharper edge. “I tell you this: Lord Voldemort is back.”

The name sent shivers across the room. Some flinched, others whispered nervously, but Dumbledore pressed on.

Dumbledore raised a hand for silence. “I cannot make you unafraid. Nor can I stop the world outside these walls from doubting. But I can tell you this: you are safe here, at Hogwarts. We will not turn from the truth, however uncomfortable. And we will stand against it.”


When Dumbledore sat again, the hall remained in a stunned hush. No one cheered. No one clapped.

Hermione leaned close to Harry, her voice trembling but fierce. “You see? He’s right. Voldemort is back. And the Ministry will bury its head in the sand until it’s too late.”

Neville’s hands clenched into fists. “He killed Crouch. Just… mutilated him. Like he wasn’t even a person.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to the Prophet folded on the table. The printed Dark Mark seemed to bleed into his vision. His scar itched faintly, and deep inside, he knew Dumbledore wasn’t wrong. Voldemort wasn’t just back—he was gathering strength.

And this was only the beginning.