A Second Channe Through Time

CHAPTER FOUR

Trigger warning for child abuse!

Page count: 12

Unknown Location - Sunday 8th November 1981

Hermione drew a quiet breath, steadying the tremor in her fingers.

"This is the year Voldemort returned to his full strength," she said.

The name alone sent shivers around the table.

The memory shimmered into place — roaring crowds, emerald-and-gold tents, fireworks, laughter, the energy of thousands celebrating magic instead of running from war.

The Quidditch World Cup.

Then chaos.

Death Eaters. Screams. Wandlight cutting through smoke and terror. Harry, Ron, Hermione sprinting through the night, the sky ripped open by the Dark Mark. Aurors swarming. Arthur dragging terrified teenagers behind him, shielding them with his own body.

Molly gasped, one hand covering her mouth as she saw the Mark burn into the sky.

A beat of silence — then Hogwarts, and Dumbledore announcing the Triwizard Tournament. The Goblet of Fire flared, parchment flew — and Harry Potter's name burned the air.

Even knowing the truth, James' breath hitched. Harry curled tighter in Hermione's lap in the present, small fingers twisting the fabric of her robes in sleep.

They watched Hermione in the memory, drilling Harry on Accio until his voice cracked. Then the First Task. The dragon. Harry sprinting, broom streaking through the sky, fire chasing him like a living hell.

Molly flinched. Sirius and James leaned forward, knuckles white.

Harry survived. Barely.

The lake followed — the Second Task — Harry finding Hermione and Ron bound beneath the water. Harry's panic. His decision to save not one hostage, but two.

Arthur Weasley swallowed hard, watching the scene — pride flooding his face at the merfolk and the champions, at Harry's heart.

Then the final maze, shadows swallowing light, screams echoing, and—

Cedric.

Cedric Diggory standing in the graveyard. Alive.

Hermione's throat bobbed.

The room held its breath.

"Kill the spare."

The Killing Curse flashed — Cedric fell. Gasps and cries broke out in the present, Molly sobbing violently and Arthur gripping her hand tight. Gideon and Fabian stared, stone-still, horrified.

Then the ritual — bone, flesh, blood — Voldemort rising from the cauldron.

He looked nothing like the man James remembered in Godric's Hollow. Less human. Like melted wax and rage carved into a body, red eyes like fresh-spilt blood, slitted nostrils, skeletal fingers flexing with obscene grace.

Several Order members recoiled as if struck.

Voldemort smiled.

His voice slid through the room like oil and poison.

"My loyal friends..."

Masks ripped off heads. Pain. Fear. Lucius Malfoy shaking beneath the weight of his failure. Voldemort's wand pressing into Pettigrew's Dark Mark, calling monsters to kneel.

Hermione looked away for a moment — not from fear, but memory.

When Voldemort stroked Cedric's face and murmured, "Such a handsome boy," something sharp cracked in Molly's expression — grief, fury, helpless maternal instinct.