I became Voldemort

Seeing "Harry", Barty Crouch Jr. seemed even more convinced of Snape's loyalty.

"Well done, Snape," he said before turning his gaze toward Harry, who was surrounded by the group. A grin stretched across his face.

"You really think you can still escape, Harry?" he sneered. "Be smart about it—walk over here, kneel before the Dark Lord, and maybe, just maybe, he'll spare one of your friends. Otherwise, they all die tonight."

At those words, Cyrus took a step forward.

Ron immediately grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?! Don't go!"

He thought Cyrus was actually surrendering.

Cyrus shoved him aside, mimicking Harry's stubborn defiance, raising his voice in a challenge.

"Oh yeah?"

"If your master is so powerful, why doesn't he come here himself?"

"Or is he afraid? Afraid this is a trap? Afraid of Cyrus and Dumbledore, so he's hiding in the shadows like a coward?"

"He's nothing but a filthy sewer rat—just because he's crawled out into the light for two days, he thinks he belongs in the sky?"

Barty Jr.'s expression darkened immediately.

How dare he allow his master to be insulted like this!

"Kill them!—"

But the first to strike wasn't the Death Eaters.

It was Moody!

In fact, before Barty Jr. had even finished giving the order, Moody had already launched his attack.

As a battle-hardened Auror, he knew better than anyone that war was not a duel—seizing the initiative was everything.

What, was he supposed to wait for both sides to finish their speeches before making a move?

Maybe have a cup of afternoon tea first?

Ridiculous.

"Avada Kedavra!"

He didn't hesitate.

The very first spell he cast was the Killing Curse—as if he were more ruthless than the Death Eaters themselves!

Among Voldemort's newer recruits, many were from France.

Unlike the original Death Eaters, they weren't yet desensitized to pure cruelty.

Seeing Moody strike so decisively shook them.

The curse shot straight toward Barty Jr.

After all, they had been enemies for years.

In that split second, Barty Jr. reacted instantly.

The Dursleys' carpet suddenly sprang to life, as if reverting to its original form—though it had gone a bit too far.

A goat leaped into the air, placing itself between Barty Jr. and Moody.

Before it could even let out a single bleat, the Killing Curse struck it dead—reducing it back to a tattered rug.

And in that instant—The entire house became a battlefield!

Over a dozen wizards cast spells simultaneously, lighting up the room like hundreds of fireworks exploding at once.

Spells collided and detonated, the air filled with roaring magic and shattered debris.

Cyrus saw Ron instinctively duck his head, then force himself to lift it again, refusing to cower.

He saw Arthur Weasley shielding his son with his right arm while casting spells with his left.

He saw Sirius let out a furious roar and launch himself straight at Snape.

Snape, of course, was more than happy to engage.

"Come on, Black. Let's see what tricks you have—now that that arrogant bastard James Potter isn't around to save you."

With a cold sneer, he dissolved into a wisp of shadowy smoke.

Their spells clashed mid-air, bursting apart in a shower of sparks—nearly equal in strength.

Meanwhile, Arthur Weasley was fending off multiple Death Eaters at once.

While casting spells with one hand, he wielded a gun in the other.

A magic-infused firearm.

Cyrus had crafted several of these weapons, the first going to Harry, then later making sure Ron, Ginny, and Hermione each received one.

And now, in this desperate breakout mission, they hadn't forgotten to bring along the very same magical weapons that had once shone brilliantly in the tournament.

Arthur took down several Death Eaters with a single shot.

"I had no idea this thing was so useful!" he exclaimed, his face alight with excitement.

Ron wasn't doing too badly either.

Despite his obvious nerves, he had managed to drive back multiple Death Eaters.

Cyrus stayed by his side, providing cover and assistance—helping Ron find his rhythm as the fight went on.

"Stupefy!"

Ron whipped his wand forward, landing a direct hit on a Death Eater.

Unfortunately, the spell wasn't strong enough—it only left the Death Eater dizzy and disoriented, and within moments, he was already shaking it off, preparing to retaliate.

But before he could even raise his wand... Cyrus struck first.

To maintain his cover as Harry, Cyrus had to hold back significantly, making sure his abilities appeared to be on par with Harry's usual level.

"Nice one, Harry! We make a great team!" Ron cheered.

But his excitement didn't last.

Because, very quickly, it became apparent—

There were just too many Death Eaters.

Aside from Moody, none of them were using Dark curses.

Most of their spells lacked the lethality needed to truly incapacitate the Death Eaters.

And the Death Eaters weren't idiots—they didn't just stand there getting hit.

Even when spells landed, they were often not enough to take them out completely.

And their numbers kept growing.

The Death Eaters worked together to surround and separate the Order members, cutting them into smaller groups, making it increasingly difficult for them to assist one another.

Cyrus pretended to be struggling, but in truth, he was simply waiting—Waiting for Voldemort to arrive!

Ron, however, was actually struggling.

A spell nearly knocked his wand out of his hand, leaving his wrist burning with pain, as if he had been whipped.

If Cyrus hadn't intervened at the last second, Ron would've been dead.

"What do we do?!" Ron shouted.

"Ron, George—take Harry and go!"

Arthur's voice boomed across the battlefield, though he had been forced far away from them.

He only had time to shout George's name—it was shorter, faster to say. But everyone knew he meant all three of his sons.

"We're breaking out!" Fred yelled, dropping all pretense of playful games.

He grabbed Cyrus by the arm, while George, using his free hand, began hurling an arsenal of Weasley inventions into the chaos.

A barrage of magical explosives and bizarre gadgets rained down on the Death Eaters, catching them completely off guard.

Then—

BOOM!

Another blast shattered what remained of the Dursleys' poor, battered door.

"RUN!"

The four of them bolted for the street.

"We'll take Sirius's bike!" George shouted.

Ever since Hagrid had left Hogwarts, he had returned the enchanted motorcycle to Sirius.

They sprinted toward the road, spotting the bike parked just ahead—

But they would never reach it.

BOOM!

A fireball erupted as a spell struck the motorcycle, obliterating it.

Not just the bike, but the entire street.

The blast ripped through Privet Drive, reducing the once neatly paved asphalt to nothing but jagged, broken rubble.

The shockwave sent all four of them staggering backward, nearly knocking them off their feet.

Cyrus stumbled two steps back—

And collided with something cold and unyielding.

A wall of ice-cold presence.

No—!

A chest.

Voldemort's chest.

The Dark Lord had arrived.

"You're in my hands now, Harry Potter!"

No, you bastard.

You're the one caught in my trap, Voldemort.

Cyrus thought to himself.

_________

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