"And you too."
The moment Rowan Mercer finished binding Voldemort's escaping soul, something struck from behind. Nagini lunged at him in a blur of scales and fangs. Rowan didn't even turn. He reached back and caught the serpent midair, his fingers closing around her skull like a vice.
"Come out," he said flatly.
A cold pull rippled through the air. From deep inside Nagini's body, a fragment of Voldemort's soul was torn free, dragged out screaming and writhing before Rowan crushed it into a glowing knot of imprisoned essence.
"One more left," Rowan murmured. "The one inside Harry's scar. Then you'll all be neatly bundled together."
In this world, there were very few souls worth keeping. Voldemort's was rare, dense, powerful. Dumbledore might have been comparable. Everything else, even dragons, had spirits no better than dull embers.
Rowan sealed both the main soul and the fragment, then let a strange current of power flow from his palm and coil around Nagini's body. The snake stiffened, then slowly relaxed, her eyes losing their feral edge.
"Behave," Rowan said lightly. "You're my pet now."
Nagini lowered her head.
A hesitant voice came from the doorway. "M-My lord… is everything all right?"
Peter Pettigrew stood outside, hunched and trembling, peering in like a frightened servant afraid of a beating.
Rowan turned and answered in Voldemort's cold, silken tone. "Everything's fine. Go and summon them back. I've changed my plans."
Pettigrew didn't dare question him. He bowed clumsily and scurried off to fetch Lucius and the others.
Once he was gone, Rowan created a perfect double of Voldemort using Transfiguration, imprinting it with copied memories and mannerisms. Then he Apparated back to the Burrow.
Less than twenty minutes later, the large drawing room was filled with Death Eaters again. They looked uneasy, whispering among themselves.
The fake Voldemort sat in the high-backed chair at the head of the room. Nagini was coiled obediently beside him.
"I've reconsidered," Rowan said through the duplicate. "Tomorrow, when the Quidditch World Cup ends, I will reveal myself. The world will know I've returned."
Silence fell.
Minutes earlier, he had insisted that the World Cup was the worst possible time to act, with Ministry security at its highest and the plan focused on slowly infiltrating power. Now he was overturning everything.
If Nagini hadn't been there, docile at his side, some of them might have suspected an impostor.
The World Cup would draw wizards from every continent. Over a hundred thousand were expected to attend. Even Voldemort, at full strength, wouldn't survive being swarmed by that many spellcasters. And Dumbledore might be there.
It sounded like suicide.
"My lord," one of the more cautious Death Eaters said, raising a trembling hand. "Wouldn't it be safer to cast the Dark Mark instead? Let people know you've returned without exposing yourself."
A flash of green light answered him.
The man's body collapsed into ash before he finished his sentence.
"Anyone else?" Rowan asked softly. "Who agrees. Who disagrees."
The remaining Death Eaters nodded frantically, like terrified birds.
"My lord is wise," they chorused.
Voldemort had always been cruel. But this was different. He'd killed one of them for offering advice. In the past, that would have earned a Cruciatus Curse at most.
"Even more magnificent than before," Bellatrix Lestrange breathed, staring at him with feverish devotion.
Some of them were terrified opportunists, loyal only to their own survival. Others, like Bellatrix, were true believers who would gladly die for him. The difference was written plainly on their faces.
Rowan addressed them again. "Relax. I know what I'm doing. Lucius, you and the others will stay hidden. Maintain your Ministry positions. Don't raise suspicion."
Lucius Malfoy exhaled in relief. "Of course, my lord. We'll support you however we can."
Inwardly, he was already calculating. If Voldemort died publicly, Lucius would deny everything and remain a respected figure. If Voldemort survived something like that, then he was more terrifying than ever—and worth following.
"You won't support me directly," Rowan said. He rose and walked behind Lucius, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Your job is to spread the story afterward. Recruit. Build momentum. And don't worry. Your son can stay in school. There's no need to kill Harry Potter anymore. He's irrelevant to me now."
Lucius nodded stiffly, sweat on his temple.
Why the World Cup?
Because it was the largest concentration of wizards on Earth. Voldemort's name still carried weight, but mostly in Britain. Grindelwald had once shaken the entire world. Voldemort never had.
Tomorrow would change that.
If Rowan played it right, he could drag the entire wizarding world into his orbit in a single night.
A month to seize the Ministry.
A year to rule the global magical community.
Three years to rule the world.
By the time Hermione and the others graduated, the age of secrecy, division, and hesitation would already be over.