Harry Potter: The Golden Viper

"Don't talk nonsense, Ron!" Hermione scolded in a sharp whisper. But even as the words left her lips, her face drained of all color, becoming as white as the marble tombstones surrounding them.

The sound that had captured Ron's attention made her breathing stop, her chest freezing mid-inhale as if her very lungs had forgotten their purpose.

The haunting cry came from that misty path lined with tombstones. Indeed, some tormented creature was crying there, and its voice was coming across the graveyard like the lament of the damned. Those sporadic, suppressed sobs were particularly sharp and piercing in this eerie, ghostly graveyard. Yet beneath the spine-chilling tone of the sound lay endless despair.

All three of the young Hogwarts students began to tremble slightly in their legs. Meanwhile, Karkaroff, who had been squinting at that path, also began breathing rapidly. His chest rose and fell in quick gasps as if he were struggling to draw sufficient air into his lungs, and beads of cold sweat began to form on his forehead despite the cold temperature.

"Let's go take a look," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"Are you completely insane, Harry?" Ron looked utterly incredulous, his face was contorted with disbelief and terror. His eyes were wide with panic, darting frantically between Harry's resolute expression and the mysterious path ahead. "You know there might be unimaginable danger waiting for us there! This could be a trap—a deadly trap!"

"If this truly belongs within the scope of the tournament's trials," Harry held his breath, forcing himself to speak with more confidence than he felt, "then we might miss a crucial clue that could determine our survival. We can't afford to let fear paralyze us now."

"But what if it's not part of the tournament?" Karkaroff questioned for the first time after a long silence.

"If it's not, Professor Karkaroff," Hermione said with a tense face, "if we came here by accident... or if we've been deliberately calculated against by some malicious force, then the mastermind's arranged trap certainly won't be avoided just by taking a different path. We're already caught in whatever web has been spun around us."

It was an irrefutable deduction. Even though he found this self-righteous little muggle witch disagreeable and presumptuous, Karkaroff had to admit reluctantly that her reasoning was absolutely correct.

Was their current predicament actually within the tournament trial's scope? A mere accident caused by magical interference? Or was it someone's deliberate, calculated scheme designed to trap them in this godforsaken place?

The questions swirled through Karkaroff's mind like a tornado of possibilities.

Even having experienced countless life-and-death situations throughout his life, having faced the wrath of the Dark Lord himself and survived the brutal politics of the Death Eater hierarchy, Karkaroff couldn't judge the true nature of their situation for the moment.

However, as he watched the three young Hogwarts wizards preparing to advance with apparent purpose, a darker thought began to take root in his twisted mind.

Karkaroff coldly observed the three young wizards as they braced themselves for whatever lay ahead, one of whom was the famous Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the child who had somehow survived the Dark Lord's killing curse.

If they died here in this cursed place, as long as their deaths could be attributed to either of the latter two scenarios—accident or enemy action—no one could find fault with him for surviving while they perished. He could claim he had tried to protect them.

As he pondered these dark possibilities, Karkaroff's gaze gradually turned vicious.

Regardless of the dangers that lay ahead, they still chose that misty path lined with tombstones.

The cold, damp mist struck their faces like the breath of corpses. The black ravens that occasionally flew overhead with their harsh, piercing cries made everyone feel suffocated. The birds seemed to mock them with their freedom, their ability to escape this cursed place whenever they chose.

Especially disturbing were those rising and falling sounds of desperate sobs as they drew closer to the source, Hermione more and more felt certain that the sorrow and despair in that voice didn't seem performed or artificial.

They passed by tombstone after tombstone, walking in the shadows cast by these monuments to the dead. These mostly damaged tombstones seemed to watch them walk toward their doom with the cold indifference of Death himself.

"Oh, how incredibly stupid of me," Harry muttered quietly as they could barely make out a creature's silhouette through the thick, supernatural mist.

His heart skipped a beat, then began racing as adrenaline flooded his system. Without hesitation, he took the lead in producing bright fluorescent light from his wand.

This action made the others understand immediately why Harry called himself foolish—they should have been using their wands for light from the very beginning.

Everyone, including Karkaroff, solemnly made their wands emit brilliant illumination, the tips glowing with warm, golden light that pushed back the shadows. For a moment, the overlapping radiance from their combined magic was like a bright moon rising from the heart of the graveyard, banishing the darkness and revealing the true horror of their surroundings.

The desperate sobbing was suddenly cut short, as if a switch had been thrown. The creature that had been producing those heart-wrenching sounds realized that while it had been trapped in inconsolable grief, others had entered this ground of the dead—and they were not strangers, but acquaintances.

Clatter, clatter, clatter...

The moment they saw what the creature actually was, Ron's teeth began chattering uncontrollably. Harry and Hermione, in front of him as the vanguard of their small group, fared no better.

Like cats suddenly confronted by a serious threat, their hair stood on end, and a bone-chilling cold rushed from their spine to the back of their heads, nearly causing them to drop their wands.

"Winky—Winky..." Hermione's voice was like that of a desert traveler who had been wandering for days without water—torn, hoarse, accompanied by uncontrollable trembling and tears that began streaming down her cheeks

Winky, the house-elf they had encountered at the Quidditch World Cup, was prostrate beside a man lying motionless on the ground. The figure was covered in damp dead leaves and scattered around him were broken twigs and rotting debris. It was difficult to confirm whether the man was dead or alive, but one thing was certain—he had suffered horrific torture.

Both his hands and feet had their joints bent backward at impossible angles, the bones clearly broken and reset multiple times to maximize the agony. His limbs lay powerlessly twisted like those of a discarded puppet, positioned for anyone to manipulate at will.

"Crouch," Karkaroff said, the first to identify who the broken man was. Being the tallest of their group, he had the best view of the victim's face.

Once Crouch's name left his mouth, no one could maintain any illusion that their current situation came from tournament trials or mere accident—there was only one terrifying possibility: they had been deliberately ambushed.

"I've had enough of this madness!" Karkaroff's chest heaved violently as panic finally overwhelmed his composure. The coldness and calculation that normally was on his face were replaced by panic and terror.

Staggering backward on unsteady legs, he shouted with voice cracking with fear, "I'm leaving this cursed place immediately!"

No one made any attempt to stop Karkaroff from leaving. They were all too terrified and shocked to care about his cowardice.

He raised his wand with trembling hands, assuming the familiar posture for Disapparition, concentrating on his destination with desperate intensity. But his continued presence in Harry's trio's sight, despite his obvious attempts to escape, undoubtedly meant that his repeated attempts to Disapparate had completely failed.

Someone had sealed the space around them.

Harry and Hermione, who had attended that particular PE class, both realized this... and at the same time, regret tore at their hearts.

Although the PE class was probably the one magical subject Harry had listened to most attentively, he still blamed himself bitterly for not taking Professor Watson's words seriously enough.

Floo Network and Portkey transportation—he lacked the advanced magical ability for the latter, and while creating a makeshift fireplace wouldn't be impossibly difficult, he neither knew how to connect privately to the Floo Network nor had brought any Floo powder with him.

"Harry... Potter," Winky spoke softly. Some of the overwhelming sorrow and terror in its voice had dissipated, replaced by shock and disbelief that seemed to shake the small creature. Clearly, the house-elf lacked sufficient understanding of the current horrifying situation to understand how Harry Potter had appeared in this nightmarish place.

"Har—ry... Potter?" But Winky's voice caused Crouch, lying broken beside it, to recover some clarity from his stupor and it made Harry and the others realize that Mr. Crouch had not yet died, despite his terrible injuries.

"Harry... Potter?" Crouch repeated once more, his voice stronger now but filled with desperate urgency.

Harry couldn't imagine what tremendously strong will and determination Crouch possessed at this moment to speak at all given his condition.

When Crouch struggled to lift his head, fighting against what must have been excruciating pain, they discovered that this Ministry official's hair was completely soaked with blood but he still struggled to raise his head.

His eyes were confused and unfocused, pupils dilated from trauma and blood loss. The bright light from their wands made it impossible for him to immediately determine who these people were. He struggled to open his eyes wider, his bloodshot eyeballs bulging grotesquely desperately trying to see clearly through the haze of pain and disorientation.

"It's me, sir," Harry said, lowering his wand so that the harsh light would not blind the injured man further. The magical light enveloping his pale face dimmed somewhat, creating a softer glow that was less painful to look at.

He was panting heavily, each breath feeling like swallowing large mouthfuls of ice water in the depths of winter.

"It's you—" Winky's gentle support allowed Barty Crouch to focus his damaged vision and see Harry's face more clearly. After several moments of concentration, he finally confirmed that Harry Potter had indeed come before him in this cursed place, then—

"Run!" Unimaginably, Crouch in such a devastated state could still produce such a loud, commanding voice.

When that roar filled with desperate warning echoed throughout the graveyard, the black ravens perched on tombstones and dead tree branches took flight with a great rustling of wings that sounded like applause for the coming tragedy.

The previously dead-silent graveyard seemed to come alive at this moment, as if the very spirits of the dead were stirring in their eternal rest.

"Run quickly!" Crouch used every ounce of his remaining strength to emit what would be the greatest cry of anguish and warning of his life: "He's coming!!"

Everyone dominated by fear began staggering backward. However, from somewhere farther away in the mist, a cold voice penetrated the fog:

"Oh, Barty, hasn't all this time's training taught you any proper manners? You hardly have the right to drive away the honored guests I've taken such considerable trouble to invite to this little gathering."

A figure emerged from the mist—a pale-faced middle-aged man with dead, red eyes and a maniacal smile. In his arms, he was holding an ugly, dwarf-like creature.

The moment their eyes met across the graveyard, Harry collapsed to the ground as if he had been struck by lightning. His scar began throbbing with unprecedented pain. The pain caused his body to convulse and curl up, his muscles spasming beyond his control.

He covered his face with both hands, pressing his palms against his forehead as if trying to hold his skull together, his head felt like it was about to explode into a thousand pieces.

Igor Karkaroff showed similar symptoms of recognition and terror—unable to Disapparate and escape from this magical prison, he too collapsed to the ground with a strangled cry.

He clutched his left arm, specifically the location where the Dark Mark had been burned into his flesh years ago, the tattoo now felt like it was nearly melting through his skin. His yellow pupils contracted to pinpoints from extreme terror, and his entire body trembled, completely overwhelmed by the fear.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice was thick with tears and panic as she and Ron both rushed to Harry's side, trying to pull him up from the ground.

"I always thought Cliodna was unwilling to accept the task," the ugly dwarf-like creature revealed a cruel smile. "But unexpectedly, she has prepared so many delightful guests for me. She should have meant well, but unfortunately, not everyone present can be permitted to witness this great and glorious moment.

Oh, Barty, perhaps you could clean up this little mess for me... Of course, I trust you won't harm any of my old friends. You understand my meaning perfectly, don't you, my faithful servant?"

"It would be my greatest honor to serve you, my master!" 

Before Hermione and Ron could figure out what this exchange meant—

"Avada Kedavra!"

The words rang out, followed by a whooshing sound like the wings of death. Then a sharp, piercing scream tore through the dim sky, a sound of pure terror and despair that seemed to come from the very depths of hell.

A burst of intense, sickly green light stabbed their eyes temporarily blinding them with its radiance.

The green light of the Killing Curse illuminated Hermione and Ron's faces, freezing their faces in expressions of absolute horror and disbelief.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as they watched in helpless terror as the deadly green light struck the smallest and most vulnerable member of their group—the young girl who had been trembling and following behind them all along, too frightened to speak or act.

They watched in slow motion as life rapidly drained from that young, delicate face. Gabrielle's beautiful golden hair, which had shimmered like spun sunlight, also lost its luster, becoming dull and lifeless. Her body lost all support and crashed heavily to the ground with a sound that would haunt their dreams forever, leaving only her lifeless blue eyes still gazing up at the low, heavy sky.

Gabrielle Delacour was dead.

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