Harry Potter with Technology System

Harry stepped up to the Cup, eyeing it carefully. Voldemort wasn’t at full strength yet. He’d be relying on Wormtail to assist him. Bellatrix was already under his control, and Crouch was still in the school, but Rookwood had escaped. That meant Rookwood would be with Voldemort. Wormtail was easy. Rookwood was a problem.

He pulled a figure from Potter Haven—a man identical to himself in every way. The Death Eater, previously Polyjuiced to match Harry’s appearance, blinked at him, nerves evident.

“Master,” the man started, his voice unsteady.

Harry smirked. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

The Death Eater said nothing, though his jaw tightened. He knew better than to believe reassurances from someone like Harry.

Harry stepped closer, his voice casual. “You know the deal. Act like me. Play along. When the ritual’s done, I’ll pull you out. If you break character, well… your problem, not mine. You can either keep quiet and stay useful, or you can talk and get yourself killed.”

The Death Eater swallowed hard but nodded.

Harry didn’t wait for a response. He pulled out his Invisibility Cloak, wrapped it around himself, and cast a layering of spells over his body—Disillusionment, Muffliato, every Concealment Charm he’d spent years perfecting. When he was certain nothing would reveal him, he placed a hand on the Cup, his fingers brushing against the Death Eater’s head.

The world twisted.

The ground vanished beneath them, and for a split second, everything was weightless. Then, just as quickly, reality snapped back into place.

They landed on cold, damp earth.

Harry adjusted to the shift instantly, pulling back as the Death Eater stumbled slightly, his Polyjuiced face contorting in disorientation.

The place was exactly as he expected—Little Hangleton. The graveyard loomed, the Riddle manor visible in the distance. The air was thick with the smell of old magic, grave soil, and something faintly metallic.

A hunched figure stood near a stone cauldron, its contents bubbling ominously. Wormtail.

Nearby, Rookwood kept watch, his wand in hand, sharp eyes scanning their surroundings.

Harry slipped to the side, staying out of sight as his double stood still.

Rookwood moved swiftly. A sharp flick of his wand sent the duplicate Harry’s wand flying from his grip with a precise Expelliarmus.

The fake didn’t react beyond a slight shift of his shoulders as the wand clattered to the ground a few feet away. It looked identical to Harry’s—a perfect copy down to the wear marks—but it was nothing more than a transfigured and charmed replica.

Rookwood floated it into his hand, his fingers tightening around the handle. His brow furrowed as he turned it in his hand, running his thumb over the surface. Something was off.

He said nothing, merely pocketed the wand before taking a slow step closer, his sharp eyes scanning the Polyjuiced double, bound him with vines.

Fake's performance was decent—glaring at Wormtail like he wanted to rip him apart and throwing in a bit of fear when looking at Rookwood. He did well enough, but Harry still rolled his eyes.

"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath.

"Embarrassing, really," Nigel added. "Give the man a script next time."

Harry ignored him, shifting slightly as Wormtail finally moved, fumbling with the bundle in his arms. The cauldron’s surface bubbled violently, sending up sharp bursts of steam that curled in the air like ghostly tendrils. Sparks shot upward, flickering like tiny, angry firecrackers. The liquid inside churned, shifting from a dull, murky color to something bright, almost unnatural, as if reacting to the twisted magic at play.

The shriveled form in Wormtail’s arms twitched, its movements weak yet frantic. A thin, high voice sliced through the night. 'Hurry!'

Wormtail flinched but moved quickly, his hands trembling as he pulled open the bundle of robes. He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a twisted, shriveled form—Voldemort, reduced to something barely human. The sight was unpleasant, but Harry had seen worse. He watched as Wormtail adjusted his grip, trying and failing to hide his own disgust.

The Polyjuiced double let out a shout, his eyes wide with horror.

The creature inside was barely human—small, frail, and grotesque in a way that defied nature. Its limbs were thin and weak, its skin dark and raw, stretched too tightly over its skeletal form. The face, if it could even be called that, was nothing like a child’s—flat and warped, with slitted nostrils and gleaming red eyes that seemed too large for its head.

The thing reached up with frail arms, curling them around Wormtail’s neck. Wormtail’s face twisted in disgust, but he obeyed, carrying the creature to the cauldron’s edge.

For a brief moment, the flickering firelight illuminated Voldemort’s distorted features, casting sharp shadows across his skin. Then, with a final grimace, Wormtail lowered him into the bubbling potion.

A sharp hiss filled the air as Voldemort’s frail body hit the liquid. The high-pitched sound was almost drowned out by the violent bubbling, but the soft thud of flesh meeting the bottom of the cauldron was unmistakable.

The double clenched his fists. Let it drown. Let it stay down there.

Wormtail, however, was already moving, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His wand trembled in his hand as he lifted it, his voice barely steady.

“Bone of the father… unknowingly given… you will renew your son!”

The grave beneath them cracked open. A thin, eerie mist seeped from the disturbed soil, coiling through the air before solidifying into a fine stream of dust. It drifted toward the cauldron, disappearing into the bubbling surface.

The potion reacted instantly, flaring a sickly blue as it sent sparks in every direction. The air grew thick with the stench of burning magic.

Wormtail whimpered, already sweating despite the cold. He fumbled inside his robes, his fingers curling around the hilt of a silver dagger. His breathing turned ragged.

“Flesh—of the servant—w-willingly given… you will… revive… your master.”

His grip on the dagger tightened. His left hand trembled as he stretched out his right—the one missing a finger. He hesitated only for a fraction of a second before bringing the dagger down.

The blade sliced clean through.

A scream tore through the graveyard.

The double closed his eyes, but there was no blocking out the sound. Wormtail’s shriek was raw, filled with agony as his severed hand hit the liquid with a soft thud. He staggered, clutching the bleeding stump to his chest, his breath coming in sharp, broken sobs.

A wet splash followed—the hand dropping into the cauldron. The liquid, already an unnatural blue, deepened to a rich, burning red, glowing with the heat of something far more sinister than fire.

Wormtail’s whimpers filled the silence, his body shaking violently as he stumbled forward. His breath was uneven, pained, but he forced himself to move, forced himself to raise his wand again.

He turned to the Polyjuiced double, his face twisted in pain and fear. “B-blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will… resurrect your foe.”

The dagger was slick with his own blood as he approached, but he barely seemed to notice. His free hand darted forward, grabbing the double’s arm. The blade bit into flesh a second later, drawing a thin, crimson line across the skin.

The double hissed sharply, jerking his arm as Wormtail’s knife sliced into his skin. His eyes darted toward Harry’s last position, remembering the instructions. He took a shaky breath, voice hoarse but loud enough to be heard.

“I—I am willing! I willingly give my blood!”

Wormtail halted mid-motion, his grip tightening around the blade. Even Rookwood, who had been watching silently, turned with sudden, sharp attention. For a second, the only sound was the bubbling of the cauldron and Wormtail’s ragged breathing.

“I am willing!”