Harry Potter and the spell of resurrection (fanmade)

The Hogwarts library hadn’t changed much in twenty-five years. The same towering shelves groaned under the weight of centuries of magical texts, the same soft candlelight flickered against dust-speckled glass, and the same silence—thick, sacred, and watchful—hung in the air like an enchantment.

But tonight, the silence was broken.

A faint scratching sound echoed in the far corner of the Restricted Section, where no student had permission to go—not even the Headmistress’s own niece, who had once tried (and failed) to charm the gate open with an enchanted hairpin.

The man in the shadows didn’t need a hairpin. His wand slid through the enchanted air like a key through water, parting the magical barriers with practiced ease. His robes were sleek and black, his steps deliberate. Pale hands ran along the spines of books until they stopped at one so ancient it no longer bore a title—just a silver seal shaped like a snake devouring its tail.

He whispered, “Aeternum Revelare.”

The seal pulsed red, then dissolved.

The book creaked open.

Draco Malfoy had not meant to come back to this place. Not really. Not in this way. And yet, here he was—alone in the bowels of Hogwarts, unlocking a secret that had been buried for decades. He wasn’t here for power. Not exactly. He told himself it was for knowledge. For answers.

And for his son.

The book’s pages were brittle, ink faded to rust-colored stains. Latin incantations curled across the parchment like veins. One in particular stood out—written not in ink, but in something darker, shinier, almost… alive.

Souleses Rivales. Let the soul unmoor and rise again, called by name, bound by intent, given form through willing flesh.

Draco’s breath caught. He had heard whispers of this spell. Not during his time at Hogwarts, nor even during the War, but afterwards—in the veiled conversations of old Death Eaters, in the black corners of daigon Alley, and most recently… in her voice.

Scarlet Arouras.

She had found him. Found the weakness still lingering in him like rot. She had promised nothing—only hinted. “The world forgets too easily, Draco. But we don’t have to. We can make it remember.”

Now, as he traced the spell with one trembling finger, he heard the echoes of another voice—the last voice he wanted to hear.

“Lord Tom Riddle will walk again,” she had said. “And this time, not even Harry Potter will be able to stop him.”

The mist in the stone basin swirled violently now, rippling with lightless magic, cold and ancient. The spellbook beside Draco shuddered as if alive, its ink glowing faint red with every pulse. The air had grown heavy—too heavy. Each breath tasted like dust and ash.

Scarlet Auroras stood at the edge of the ritual circle, her silhouette half-shadow, half-flame in the flickering torchlight. She wore a deep crimson cloak fastened with a brooch shaped like an hourglass turned on its side—symbol of time’s defiance.

Draco didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes locked on the basin, forcing his voice into stillness.

“I’ve done what you asked,” he said. “Now tell me—what happens next?”

Scarlet tilted her head, almost playfully. “What happens next, Draco, is history bends.”

Her wand rose, and with it, so did the mist—coiling upward in a towering spiral, humming with something beyond mortal understanding.

Draco’s hands trembled at his sides. This is wrong. This is wrong. The same instinct that once told him to run during the Battle of Hogwarts now screamed through his bones.

But he didn’t move.

He couldn’t—not with Scorpius’s safety hanging in the balance.

Scarlet began to chant in a whisper, voice curling through the darkness like silk over glass.

“Souleses Revilare... Soul unshackled, soul unmade, Through will and blood, through name relayed… Flesh reformed, intent obey— Return to night, where once you lay... Souleses… Revilare!”

The basin exploded with lightless force. The chamber shook. The torches were snuffed out in a single breath of darkness. For a moment, all Draco could hear was his own heartbeat—hammering against his ribs like fists on a coffin lid.

Then came the sound of breathing.

Wet. Slow. Unearthly.

Draco staggered back as a shape rose from the basin. Cloaked in mist. Barely formed. A face—half-featured, pale as wax—tilted upward. Eyes opened. Red, slitted. Hungry.

Scarlet exhaled in satisfaction.

“It worked,” she whispered. “He’s back.”

Lord Voldemort had returned.

But not as he once was. This was no mortal resurrection—it was something fouler. A soul forcibly tethered to the world, not by Horcrux, but by ancient sorcery. Incomplete. Twisted. Yet aware.

Voldemort’s gaze flicked to Draco.

“...You,” he hissed, voice cracked like burning paper.

Draco’s knees buckled.

Scarlet stepped forward, smiling. “Welcome back, my Lord.”

But the creature did not smile. Its gaze was fixed on Draco—not with recognition, but with hunger.

Draco had thought he was summoning a shadow. A whisper. A relic.

Instead, he had helped bring back the one thing the world was never meant to see again.

And deep inside, Draco knew: he had made a terrible mistake.