What if Peter Pettigrew Failed To Kill Cedric Diggory?
What if Cedric Diggory survived the Triwizard Tournament? Let's explore the depths of it in the video.
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Voice Acting & Narration: Steven Waters @bobablackfly602
Writing: Myself, @khuz377 , @viktoriafilbert
The world spins into blue chaos, and when the spinning stops, Harry and Cedric slam into cold, damp earth. This is not Hogwarts.
Fog curls between crooked headstones. A figure emerges from the shadows — small, hunched, carrying something wrapped in dark cloth. Something that squirms.
Harry's scar explodes with pain. Peter Pettigrew.
VOLDEMORT (weak, raspy): Kill the spare, Wormtail.
WORMTAIL: Avada Ke—
Harry doesn't think. He throws himself sideways, slamming into Cedric's chest, and both boys crash behind a massive headstone as green light screams through the air above them.
The Killing Curse misses Cedric by the width of a hand.
Cedric lies on his back, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock. Fragments of marble dust his hair and cling to his robes.
CEDRIC (17, teen, shaking): What was that?!
HARRY (14, teen): Killing Curse. Stay down, don't let him see you.
VOLDEMORT (furious): Fool! Incompetent fool! Grab the Potter boy! Now! We have no time for your bungling!
Pettigrew panics. Harry can hear it in his footsteps, quick and stumbling, as he abandons any thought of finishing off Cedric and rushes toward where Harry lies. His master's rage has driven everything else from his mind.
WORMTAIL: Incarcero!
Ropes shoot from Pettigrew's wand and wrap around Harry's body before he can raise his own wand to defend himself. The ropes drag him backward, slamming him against a tall headstone, binding him so tightly he can barely breathe. The name carved into the stone presses against his back through his robes: TOM RIDDLE.
Cedric scrambles to his feet, wand raised, ready to fight. But Pettigrew spins toward him with surprising speed, his wand aimed directly at Cedric's chest, his watery eyes wild with fear and malice.
WORMTAIL: Don't move! Stay right there! One step closer and the next curse won't miss, I promise you that!
Cedric freezes. His wand hand trembles with the effort of holding still when every instinct screams at him to attack, but he can see Pettigrew's finger tightening on his wand, can see the desperate readiness in the man's posture. At this range, even a coward like Pettigrew couldn't miss.
VOLDEMORT: Leave the spare, Peter. He is nothing. Less than nothing. Begin the ritual. We have waited thirteen years for this moment, and I will not wait another minute because you cannot handle two schoolboys.
Pettigrew backs away from Cedric, moving toward a massive stone cauldron that squats at the foot of the Riddle grave. He keeps his wand trained on Cedric as he moves, his eyes darting between the Hufflepuff boy and his bound master. The cauldron bubbles with something thick and dark, viscous as oil, and it gives off no steam despite the flames that dance beneath it.
Cedric stands frozen among the graves, helpless, watching. He could run. He could try to reach the Cup. But that would mean leaving Harry behind, and Cedric Diggory has never abandoned anyone in his life.
Pettigrew lowers the bundle into the cauldron, and the thing inside it, the horrible infant-shaped thing that was once the most feared Dark wizard in history, vanishes beneath the oily surface. Then Pettigrew turns to the grave beneath Harry's feet and raises his wand.
The ritual begins. Bone from the grave beneath Harry's feet. Pettigrew's own hand, severed with a scream that echoes off the headstones. Harry's blood, cut from his arm while he struggles against the ropes.
Three ingredients. Three prices paid.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the liquid turns white-hot, blazing with light so bright that Harry has to close his eyes against it. The cauldron erupts in flames that reach toward the starless sky, and Harry can feel the heat of it even from twenty feet away. Steam billows outward in great clouds, obscuring everything.
When the steam clears, a figure stands beside the cauldron.
The figure that rises from the cauldron needs no introduction. Lord Voldemort has returned.
Cedric watches from his place among the graves, his wand still raised, his body frozen by the sheer impossibility of what he has just witnessed. The Dark Lord, the monster from his parents' stories, the nightmare that ended thirteen years ago when a baby somehow survived the Killing Curse, stands alive and whole not twenty feet away.
Voldemort's crimson eyes sweep across the graveyard, taking in the headstones and the cauldron and his servants and his enemies. When his gaze passes over Cedric, the Hufflepuff boy feels the weight of it like a physical blow, like being plunged into ice water.
VOLDEMORT: Ah. The spare still breathes.
Cedric's grip tightens on his wand. He knows he should attack, should try something, anything. But his legs refuse to obey him, and his voice has died
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