The Goblet Of Fire - Hermione Granger x OC

The Graveyard

Oliver suddenly plummeted to the ground with a resounding thud, disoriented by their unfamiliar surroundings as he surveyed the area in confusion.

Concerned, Henry quickly regained his footing and asked, "Are you okay?" as he extended a hand to help Oliver up.

"Yeah, I'll manage. And you?" Oliver responded, clasping Henry's hand and rising to his feet.

"Just great," Henry replied, a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice, bringing forth a small smile from Oliver.

As they stood there, the tension from their recent ordeal dissipated, and Oliver expressed his gratitude, saying, "Thanks for saving me back there. For a minute, I didn't think you would."

Henry's initial response carried a touch of honesty mixed with self-reflection. "I almost didn't," he admitted.

Their words hung in the air, charged with a mixture of relief, vulnerability, and newfound understanding. Then, unexpectedly, a shared laughter erupted from both Henry and Oliver, the sound echoing through the mysterious surroundings. In that moment, the weight of their recent trials seemed less daunting, and they found solace in the simple joy of their companionship.

"Where are we?" Henry asked, his voice filled with curiosity and a tinge of apprehension, as he took in his unfamiliar surroundings.

"I don't know. Is this part of the task?" Oliver questioned.

Henry's eyes widened in disbelief as he crouched down to inspect the Triwizard World Cup. "It's a portkey."

Oliver's attention was diverted from the cup as his gaze shifted towards a cluster of gravestones nearby. His eyes fell upon one particular marker, and his heart sank into his stomach. The words engraved on the stone read "Tom Riddle."

A chill raced down Oliver's spine as recognition dawned upon him. Awareness of the imminent danger they faced consumed him. "We have to get back to the cup now!" he urgently exclaimed.

Confused, Henry turned towards Oliver, his brows furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?" he asked, searching for clarity in Oliver's panicked expression.

"It's a trap!" Oliver screamed.

In that moment, a pot in front of them burst into flames, water boiling fiercely inside it. As the flames danced wildly, both boys exchanged a quick glance filled with apprehension.

A faint creek resonated through the air, drawing their attention. The sound became louder and more ominous, revealing a door slowly swinging open. Out stepped Peter Pettigrew, wearing a sinister smile that sent shivers down Oliver's spine. In his arms, he cradled an object, its nature concealed from Oliver's view.

Reacting swiftly to the menacing presence, Henry raised his wand, its tip pointed directly at Pettigrew. "Who are you? What do you want?" Henry demanded, his voice resolute yet laced with the anxiety that gripped them both.

Before Pettigrew could respond, a mysterious voice echoed ominously, sending a shiver down their spines. "Kill the spare." The words hung heavily in the air, accentuating the danger that enveloped them.

Pettigrew's expression darkened, a wicked gleam entering his eyes as he raised his wand in one swift motion, shouting, "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

A blinding green light erupted from the wand, striking Henry with a devastating force. Unprepared for the attack, Henry was propelled backwards, his body engulfed in the sickly hue of the cursed spell. The sheer impact sent him hurtling through the air.

Henry's lifeless body hit the ground with a sickening thud, sending shockwaves of horror through Oliver's entire being.

"No, Henry!" Oliver screamed, his voice filled with anguish and disbelief. The sound seemed to be absorbed by the stillness of the graveyard, echoing a sense of cruel finality.

Tears welled up in Oliver's eyes as he knelt beside his fallen brother. All the life had vanished from Henry's face, leaving behind an empty shell. The weight of the loss settled heavily upon Oliver's shoulders, his sorrow mingling with an overwhelming sense of injustice.

Before Oliver could process the tragedy that had unfolded before his eyes, a formidable force lashed out, slamming him against a nearby gravestone. The impact stole his breath, and a surge of pain pulsed through his body. To his horror, he realized that the gravestone was closing in, trapping him in its unyielding grip.

The engraved words on the gravestone caught Oliver's eye, and his heart sank with dread. "Oliver Montclair" it read, as if mocking the twisted fate that had brought him face to face with his own mortality.

"Do it now!" said a cold, sinister voice that seemed to permeate the air.

As the command echoed through the graveyard, Pettigrew's grip around the object in his hand tightened, ready to fulfill his dark purpose. With an eerie calmness, he dropped the mysterious item into the pot of boiling water, causing a violent spurt of steam to rise into the chilling night.

The odor of something foul and rotten mingled with the steam, making Oliver's stomach churn. His eyes widened in horror as Pettigrew revealed the bone he held, twisting the dark magic into an abhorrent ritual. "Bone from the father unwillingly given," Pettigrew declared, his voice carrying an unholy reverence, before tossing the bone into the pot with a sickening splash.

Time seemed to slow down as Pettigrew's ghastly intentions intensified. He retrieved a menacingly large knife and held it aloft, his eyes gleaming with a madness that made Oliver's blood run cold. "Flesh from the servant willingly sacrificed," Pettigrew intoned, his tone devoid of any remorse or hesitation. He then gritted his teeth and, with a swift and brutal motion, severed his own hand, the knife biting through flesh and bone. The severed hand joined the bone in the cauldron, the boiling water now tinged with a sickly shade of red.

Oliver's mind spun with pain and shock, his body trembling as Pettigrew advanced towards him. With each step, Pettigrew lifted the knife, its gleaming blade promising only agony. "And blood from the enemy forcibly taken," Pettigrew sneered, his face contorted by a twisted pleasure.

In an instant, the knife was plunged into Oliver's side, searing pain ripping through his body. A howl of anguish erupted from Oliver's throat as Pettigrew twisted the knife cruelly, intensifying his suffering. Helplessly, Oliver fought against the excruciating pain, his vision blurred by tears and despair.

As Pettigrew withdrew the knife, a grotesque reminder of their encounter, it glistened ominously, tainted by Oliver's blood. Pettigrew's voice rose, filled with vindication and excitement. "The Dark Lord shall rise again!" he proclaimed triumphantly, pouring Oliver's blood into the pot, its crimson hue mingling with the foul mixture.

Oliver's strength waned, and darkness threatened to overtake his senses. A sense of hopelessness settled within him.

The pot suddenly burst into flames, before transforming into the shape of a man. He was whiter than a skull, with livid scarlet red eyes, and a nose as flat as a snake's. The sight sent shivers down Oliver's spine, as he recognized the malevolent figure that stood before him.

As the flames danced around Voldemort's form, he let out a bone-chilling laugh, relishing in his newfound power and resurrection. Oliver's heart pounded in his chest.

Lord Voldemort has risen again.