Chapter 317: Voldemort Reappears!
To avoid potential trouble, the XY Potions factory was being relocated to foreign countries in batches. Most of the factory workers chose to move with the relocation.
Dylan and Borgin had already prepared staff dormitories near the new foreign location. The rooms accommodated four people, featuring loft beds with desks underneath, each equipped with its own bathroom, and installed with Muggle water heaters and ventilation systems. The conditions were better than many Muggle university dormitories.
Many workers were moved to tears by these arrangements. Heavens, for them, mere unskilled Dark Wizards, to have a place to settle down was simply bliss!Thank you, XY Potions!
Although they didn't know the identity of the boss behind XY Potions, they did know Borgin. A benevolent merchant! The person behind him must also be a saint!
Dylan glanced down at the magical watch on his wrist. The hands pointed exactly to 1:00 AM. At this hour, most Ministry of Magic staff had gone home, leaving only a few on duty. It was the perfect time for action!
Peter Pettigrew had recently been kidnapped. Unsurprisingly, it was clear that Voldemort had begun to act. This indicated that the Dark Lord had likely temporarily resurrected himself.
Dylan suddenly had a good idea. The Ministry of Magic had been in chaos for days, failing to catch the kidnappers and now scrambling to search for Pettigrew. This was their most vulnerable moment. Furthermore, since he was already at the Ministry of Magic, how could he not take a look at other interesting places?
He took a light breath, focused his mind, and his entire body flashed with a pale blue Apparition glow. The next second, he appeared at the entrance of the corridor on the Ninth Level of the Ministry of Magic. This was the jurisdiction of the Department of Mysteries.
A cold, musty smell permeated the entire corridor. The walls were made of heavy gray stone, and the lighting was dimmer than on other floors. As the Ministry's most highly classified organization, no one knew exactly what the Unspeakables did. They only knew that all their assignments were top-secret, and not even the Minister of Magic could casually inquire about them.
At the end of the corridor, the two Aurors on duty were leaning against the wall, dozing. Dylan quieted his footsteps, tiptoeing behind them, his wand rapidly tapping: "Stupefy!" The two Aurors instantly went limp and fell silently to the floor. He didn't stop, casting an Obliviate spell next. Ensuring that the two men would not remember their encounter after waking up, he then proceeded further into the Department of Mysteries.
This was his first time here, and Dylan was completely unfamiliar with the route. Before long, he walked into a circular room. Everything here was pure black. The walls were matte black ebony panels, and the ceiling and floor were polished black marble. Twelve unmarked ebony doors without handles were evenly spaced around the walls. Every so often, a brass candlestick was embedded in the wall. The candles burned with an eerie blue flame, the fire dancing silently. The faint light reflected on the marble floor like swirling patches of dark blue water patterns.
Dylan tried pushing open the doors one by one, successively passing through the Planet Chamber, where miniature planetary models orbited on their tracks, and the Brain Room, where gray, wriggling brains were preserved in glass jars. Finally, behind the innermost door, he found the Prophecy Hall.
This was a towering room, as high as a cathedral, and the air held a chilling coldness. Dark oak shelves lined all four walls, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. They were densely packed with dusty, small glass spheres. A yellowing parchment label was affixed to the wooden shelf beneath each sphere, the handwriting mostly faded.
Some glass spheres held a mysterious, flowing colored light, as if containing a small piece of the night sky. Some were murky and black, lifeless like extinguished light bulbs. The majority of the spheres rested quietly on the shelves, showing no visible abnormalities. A candlestick, also burning with an eerie blue flame, was embedded every three shelves, its cold light casting long shadows of the glass spheres.
Each of these glass spheres corresponded to a prophecy, and outsiders could not perceive its contents. Only those connected to the prophecy could recognize their own.
Dylan walked straight to the oak shelf marked "97". The metal number plate was fastened to the side of the shelf with copper nails, its edges already oxidized and black. His gaze swept across the middle shelf, quickly locking onto a half-lit crystal ball. It was slightly larger than the surrounding glass spheres, covered in a thin layer of dust. The label was marked with faded ink: "July 31, 1981." Below it, the name "Harry Potter" was vaguely visible.
Dylan pulled out the transparent glass bottle from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and carefully retrieved the Obscurial Heart inside. The heart was still faintly beating, the black blood vessels clearly visible.
He raised his wand, murmuring: "Reducio!" As the spell landed, the heart slowly contracted, eventually becoming about the size of the crystal ball. The blood vessels also thinned, adhering to the surface of the heart.
Next, Dylan waved his wand, and a black halo enveloped the shrunk heart. Inside the halo, the heart did not burn but gradually softened and liquefied, then turned into a pool of viscous black liquid, which slowly flowed out. It seeped into the crystal ball, tracing its surface.
The light inside the crystal ball instantly dimmed slightly, then returned to its original half-lit state. However, a closer look would reveal an almost imperceptible black pattern now inside.
Dylan used his wand to engrave a Sacred Light Symbol on the bottom of the crystal ball. This was a dedicated magical mark he had conceived on the spot. Its specific function was to allow him to sense its location whenever he was near.
After completing this, he returned the crystal ball to its original position, gently adjusting its angle to ensure it was aligned with the surrounding glass spheres, leaving no trace of having been moved.
He knew clearly that he was setting a bait. To lure Voldemort, who was out of his sight, the Dark Lord had to believe the prey was within his grasp. And this seemingly important Prophecy Orb, in reality, concealed a fatal trap! As soon as Voldemort or his Death Eaters dared to touch the crystal ball, the violent magic contained within the Obscurial's heart would instantly erupt!
Having done all this, Dylan confirmed that no trace was left behind and turned to leave the Prophecy Hall. He looked around. He avoided some areas where the magic seemed particularly heavy. The Ministry of Magic had many interesting spots. He decided he would come back for a proper tour when he was better prepared next time.
Subsequently, Dylan focused his mind in the shadows of the corridor, performed Apparition, and instantly vanished from the Ministry of Magic.
Meanwhile, in the dimly lit Riddle House outside the village of Little Hangleton, only a few broken windows allowed weak moonlight to penetrate. The entire building resembled a slumbering giant in the night, exuding a deadly silence and gloom.
In the darkness, an old man with silver hair walked up the creaking wooden stairs, carrying a kerosene lamp, one slow step at a time. The old man was Frank Bryce, the Riddles' old gardener. Although the master's family had been dead for decades, he had never left. He even came every day to clean the empty house, maintaining a semblance of tidiness in the dust-covered rooms.
The crystal chandelier overhead was long past repair, its iron chain rusty. It swayed with Frank's footsteps, making a rubbing sound: "Squeak—creak—" The sound was shrill, like cat claws scratching glass, echoing back and forth in the empty hall and stairwell before slowly fading away.
Frank frowned, instinctively speeding up his pace. The sound always unnerved him. Climbing the stairs, he couldn't help but recall the sight of the three Riddles decades ago. When he pushed open the door, all three were lying stiffly on the living room floor, their eyes wide and round, pupils filled with terror, as if they had seen something terrifying before death.
The bodies were cold and stiff when discovered, clearly long dead. Yet, mysteriously, they had no wounds, and the clothes they wore before dinner were perfectly neat. After examination, the forensic doctors found no signs of poisoning. The police investigated for half a month with no clues and eventually closed the case, citing sudden illness as the cause of death.
Somehow, the atmosphere of the ancestral house tonight reminded him of that day. The same bone-chilling cold, the same suffocating silence, as if the very air had solidified.
The chandelier above was still shaking, the iron chains making an increasingly piercing sound, as if they would break and crash down any second. Frank gripped the wooden cane in his hand, the metal ferrule at the tip polished bright. It was his only weapon.
Reaching the stair landing, Frank turned right and immediately noticed something amiss. The room door at the end of the corridor, which had been tightly shut, was now slightly ajar. A faint light escaped through the crack, casting an orange-yellow shadow on the dark floor, a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness.
He held his breath, pressed against the wall, and slowly approached, step by step, ensuring the floorboards beneath his feet made no sound. He stopped three or four steps from the door, peering inside through the crack. Though he could only see a narrow strip of the room, it was enough for him to see clearly. The light was emanating from the fireplace fire.
This surprised Frank. When he cleaned yesterday, the fireplace was empty, with no kindling. He strained his ears and quickly caught a man's voice coming from the room, filled with timidity and fear, seeming to plead with someone. The voice was very low and muffled, but it made cold sweat instantly break out on Frank's back.
"There is still some left in the bottle, Master. If you are still hungry, you can drink more at any time," a cowardly voice came from the room, clearly trying to please.
"Later," another voice spoke. It was also a man's voice, yet it was eerily high-pitched, like a winter wind scraping across ice, chilling to the bone.
As soon as this cold voice faded, the sparse hairs on the back of Frank's neck stood on end. A chill shot from his spine to the top of his head.
"Move me to the fire, Wormtail," the cold voice commanded.
Frank immediately pressed his right ear tightly against the door panel, trying to hear more clearly. First, there was a clank from the room, as if a glass bottle was set down on a hard stone surface. This was followed by the grating scrape of heavy chair legs dragging across the wooden floor: "Screech—creak—"
The sound was exceptionally clear in the silent house. Through the gap in the door, Frank glimpsed a short man with his back to the door, laboriously pushing an oak armchair. The man wore a long black cloak, with a distinct bald patch on the back of his head. As he bent down to push, the hem of his cloak swept the dust on the floor. Soon, he pushed the chair to the fireplace, and his figure disappeared from the sightline of the door crack.
"Where is Nagini?" the cold, hoarse voice asked again, laced with impatience.
"I... I don't know, Master," the cowardly voice grew more nervous, stammering slightly. "I think... she's probably patrolling the house..."
"Master, we followed your command and went to Alastor Moody's residence, but the place was empty. We found nothing." The man's voice trembled more violently. "Only a Foe-Glass was constantly dripping. Barty and I waited there for two whole hours, but we came up empty-handed!"
The speaker was indeed Peter Pettigrew. He hung his head, his hands tightly gripping the hem of his cloak. Failing to carry out Voldemort's order filled him with terror. He would never forget what the Dark Lord did to him after rescuing him this time. The agony of the Cruciatus Curse could tear his nerves apart! He would rather die instantly than endure such torment again!
"Fool!" Voldemort's voice abruptly rose, filled with fury. "Such a crucial opportunity, and you botched it!" He was trembling with anger, his already weak temporary body heaving violently due to the emotional upheaval. "My carefully planned scheme, ruined by you, you good-for-nothing!"
"The boy's blood!" Voldemort shrieked, his voice full of greed and malice. "I must have his blood, that accursed protective magic! I must break it!"
"Wormtail, you disappoint me greatly..."
After venting his rage, Voldemort's voice noticeably weakened, carrying an unconcealed exhaustion. His current temporary body was too fragile to withstand such intense emotional fluctuations. Despite his boiling anger, he ultimately did not strike Pettigrew. The servants willing to follow him were few and far between now. Wormtail was one of the few he could summon at will. Rescuing him only to kill him now would only leave him more isolated and helpless.
......................
.........................
I want to take a moment to express my gratitude to those who support me on this journey. Your contribution make a real difference!
As a patron, you unlock:
Exclusive Access: Get advanced +100 chapters ahead of everyone else.
👉 Join now: P-a-treon/Chaos_God
(Just remove the- hyphen to access normally)
Thank You so much For your Support and for Reading!