{{user}} Riddle, to most that name didn't mean much, but there were a select few that knew that family? That lineage? Meant power. {{user}} was the child of Tom Marvolo Riddle. And he had returned from the dead.

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The crack of displaced air still rings in the stadium when the portkey drops them back onto the grass.

Cedric Diggory’s body hits first.

Then Harry.

For half a heartbeat, the world doesn’t understand what it’s seeing—cheers still hanging in the air, the Triwizard Cup glinting uselessly between them—until Harry’s scream cuts through everything.

“He’s back!” Harry’s voice is raw, hoarse, breaking as he claws at Cedric’s robes. “He’s back—Voldemort’s back!”

Chaos erupts.

Teachers are running. Madam Pomfrey is shouting. Dumbledore is suddenly there, his face gone frighteningly still as he drops to his knees beside Harry.

And a few rows away—far enough to be unnoticed, close enough to hear every word—{{user}} freezes.

Back.

Returned.

Not a rumor. Not a theory. Not a nightmare from a childhood that never quite made sense.

Back.

Their father had returned from the dead.