Sagres patrolled the forest repeatedly, from sunset to the moon high in the sky, and then to the pale light of dawn.
At last, in a clearing deep within the Albanian forest, he caught the scent of decay lingering in the morning mist.
Sagres appeared without a sound.
He had found it.
But he was one step too late.
The scene was utterly silent, leaving only the cold desolation after the ritual's completion.
Voldemort, Peter Pettigrew, and Nagini had already vanished without a trace.
A circle of stones had been carefully arranged, each one etched with obscure runes in unicorn blood, glowing faintly under the dim morning light.
At the center of the circle lay a deep pit, filled with a viscous gray-black residue, clearly a pool formed from a mixture of unicorn blood and other unknown substances.
At the outer edge of the circle, a unicorn lay in a pool of dried blood.
Its neck had been cruelly slit, its blood completely drained. Its clear eyes stared blankly at the sky, its innate purity thoroughly extracted.
Not far away, another body entered Sagres's view.
It was a middle-aged woman lying on her back, her face twisted, her eyes bloodshot, as if she had suffered under the Cruciatus Curse before death.
Unlike the unicorn, her blood had not been collected, only soaking into the ground beneath her.
Sagres's gaze settled on her face, and a cold memory surfaced.
Bertha Jorkins.
An employee in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, a somewhat muddle-headed woman who loved gossip.
He had encountered her a few times during his time at the Ministry of Magic.
She had often lingered around the Auror Office, chatting with young wizards, and had approached him more than once, though he had never responded.
That was all he remembered of her. Even now, he did not know why she had come here, becoming another sacrifice for this Dark ritual.
Yet everything at the scene suggested that Voldemort and his companions had left in haste. Otherwise, they would not have left behind such obvious traces.
Sagres walked silently to Bertha Jorkins's body and crouched down.
He did not touch her. Instead, he held the tip of his wand just above her slightly parted lips and spoke in low, ancient syllables.
"Whispers of the Dead."
The air around him grew instantly colder, as though something unseen had been drawn in.
The last fragment of Bertha Jorkins's soul, lingering within her body, was seized by the spell and compelled to answer only the simplest questions.
"Has Voldemort… regained his body?"
Sagres's voice was steady, without a trace of emotion, as he asked the most critical question.
A faint hiss, like wind passing through a narrow gap, escaped from the corpse's throat. At the same time, a clear answer formed directly in his mind.
Yes.
Sagres's expression did not change in the slightest as he continued, "The one who killed you… was Peter Pettigrew?"
After a brief pause, the answer came back: No.
His gaze shifted to the wound.
"Was it Nagini? The giant snake?"
No.
"Did Voldemort do it himself?"
This time, the response was clear.
Yes.
"Was the ritual completely successful?"
Yes.
"Has he fully recovered his body?"
No.
"Do they know I am searching for them?"
Yes.
Each answer fell like a cold weight, confirming the worst possibilities one by one.
Sagres narrowed his eyes, quickly considering where he might have been exposed.
Then a thought crossed his mind.
"Are the rats in the forest informing them?"
Yes.
As expected.
The power of the Whispers of the Dead spell rapidly faded. The faint fragment of Bertha Jorkins's soul could no longer be sustained and dissipated completely.
Sagres slowly rose to his feet.
It seemed the title of the Dark Lord was not undeserved. Even Sagres had never encountered such an obscure ritual, and it was highly likely that Voldemort had devised it himself.
The dim light of dawn filtered weakly through the dense canopy, casting broken shadows around him.
He had gained confirmation, but lost his target.
Voldemort had returned, inhabiting a body not yet fully restored, and had fled in haste with his servant before Sagres arrived.
And an insignificant Ministry employee had become yet another unnoticed casualty of that resurrection.
Sagres cast one final glance at the ritual site, steeped in the aura of corruption and death, a cold smile forming on his lips.
They had fled quickly, but they had left behind a generous "gift."
This blood pool was the source of Voldemort's rebirth, the foundation upon which his body had been reconstructed. It would also become his fatal weakness.
Because nothing served better as a medium for curse magic.
Was Voldemort's curse mastery formidable?
Sagres wondered how strong his resistance to curses truly was.
He intended to find out whether this Dark Lord, who prided himself on his command of the Dark Arts, could withstand what was coming.
Without hesitation, he raised his wand, drawing the viscous liquid from the blood pool into the air and shaping it into a series of magical runes.
When he finished, he pointed his wand at the pool once more.
The thick liquid began to boil violently, as if alive, producing low, gurgling sounds as a foul stench mixed with dark energy spread outward.
Sagres spoke in ancient syllables, each word carrying malicious intent.
His voice was low, yet it seemed to resonate with the darkness of the forest. The surrounding air twisted under the pressure of the gathering curse.
"Flesh Decay."
The runes suspended in the air shifted, transforming into several streams of grey, withered energy that coiled like serpents before plunging into the boiling pool.
Sagres did not stop. His cold voice sounded again, invoking a second, even more vicious curse.
"Soul Blight Fire."
A cluster of flames erupted within the pool, writhing violently. A faint, indistinct scream seemed to echo from within, and for a moment, the fire itself took on the shape of a distorted human face.
Sagres understood at once that the first two curses had struck true and were already taking effect within their target.
Without hesitation, he cast a third, more insidious spell.
"Seed of Wailing."
The remaining runes merged in the air, forming an invisible "seed" that sank slowly to the bottom of the blood pool.
…
In a distant, dimly lit, makeshift cave,
Peter Pettigrew trembled as he wiped the body of a grotesque infant with dark red skin using a rag.
The infant had a pair of scarlet, serpentine eyes and emitted faint yet violent gurgling sounds.
Suddenly—
"Waaah—!"
A shriek, utterly unlike that of an infant, burst from its small mouth.
Across the infant's fragile skin, large patches of grey-black rot appeared at once, as if corroded by an unseen acid. Pus and blood seeped out, carrying the same foul stench as the blood pool.
Then the flesh began to decay visibly, rotting and sloughing away with the slightest movement, threatening to separate from the fragile bones beneath.
"Master… Master!" Peter Pettigrew was terrified, completely at a loss.
Within that agonized infant body, Voldemort's soul howled in fury. He could feel a powerful curse tearing apart the body he had painstakingly rebuilt.
Before he could even attempt to gather his magic to resist, the second wave of curses struck from afar.
Inside the cave, Voldemort's screams grew even more piercing.
From within the festering body, pale, ghostly blue flames erupted with a sudden flare.
These flames did not burn flesh, but scorched his soul directly. The pain far surpassed the Cruciatus Curse, as if it sought to tear apart and incinerate his newly stabilized spirit.
"Wormtail! You useless fool! Do something!"
The infant shrieked, its voice twisted with agony.
Peter cried out, frantically waving his wand in an attempt to cast protective spells, but his feeble magic was utterly ineffective against such ancient, distant curses.
Flesh decay, soul-burning flames, a parasitic seed…
Three vicious curses, linked through the resonance of the ritual blood pool, had been cast across distance onto this fragile, newly formed body.
The Dark Lord, who had only just regained a body and was already planning his return, now writhed and screamed in the cave like something thrown into boiling water.
Peter Pettigrew, trembling with terror, was on the verge of collapse, able only to press uselessly at the rotting flesh and the burning blue flames.
"Nagini, swallow me. Take me into your belly… Quickly!"
Voldemort, still in his infant form, shouted through the waves of pain.
The great snake coiled deep within the cave twisted its body and slithered forward, then swallowed the broken body in a single gulp.
The raging curses seemed to find a new outlet. Grey-black patches immediately spread across Nagini's smooth scales. Large sections peeled away, some areas exposing bone.
At the same time, flames ignited within those festering wounds. The massive snake thrashed violently in the cave, writhing in agony.
"Stop moving!"
A muffled voice came from within her body. Voldemort's tone had regained its cold control, but the malice in it was unmistakable.
"Sagres Greengrass!"
He forced the name out through clenched teeth. "One day… one day…"
Nagini continued to writhe, while Wormtail, trembling with fear, curled up in the deepest corner of the cave.
"Stop moving, you fool!" Voldemort snapped again.
…
Sagres slowly withdrew his wand from the blood pool, which had thickened into something like tar.
The curses were complete. They would persist until the target either dispelled them or died.
He looked indifferently at the clearing, now returned to silence, and flicked his wand. The ground shifted, swallowing all traces of what had happened.
The curses had taken hold. They had not killed him outright, but they would be enough to drag the newly reborn Dark Lord into prolonged suffering, making every step forward a struggle.
"If you hate me, come find me soon," Sagres murmured.
His figure gradually blended into the morning light, moving silently through the slowly awakening forest.
…
Meanwhile, deep within the dark, damp cave, Nagini's violent thrashing did not cease despite Voldemort's commands.
The burning in her soul and the rot spreading through her flesh were unbearable even for a magical creature.
"Wormtail!"
Voldemort's muffled voice came from within the snake's body.
His tone had steadied, his composure returning.
"Listen carefully, you useless fool. Prepare dittany essence at once, and a silver dagger. Use your blood, mixed with dittany, to draw the runes I dictate on the ground. A basic protective array, enough to block the worst of the curse's erosion. Quickly."
Peter Pettigrew scrambled to search through their meagre belongings, his hands trembling so badly he could barely hold the bottle.
"Ma… Master… a silver dagger… we don't seem to have one…"
"Use your wand, you idiot. Conjure a blade. If you wish to live past today, do not make me repeat myself."
Voldemort directed him coldly, forcing Wormtail to construct a crude protective formation with the limited materials available.
He was trying to buy Nagini, or rather himself, a brief moment of relief.
Although each spell consumed a great deal of his strength, his immense hatred became his greatest support.
"Sagres Greengrass…"
The name was spoken again in the cave, no longer a furious roar, but a cold vow. "What you have done to me… I will repay in full…"
…
At the far end of the forest, Sagres came to a stop.
He seemed to sense Voldemort's attempt to resist the curse's erosion, and a faint glint of cold approval passed through his grey eyes.
"Indeed… not so easy to kill."
He murmured to himself. "Good. Otherwise, the Seed of Wailing would be wasted."
A light breeze passed through the trees, carrying the scent of earth and new growth. Ahead, the forest was broken by a vast canyon. Sagres stood at the cliff's edge, looking down at the woodland below.
"I am waiting for you, Tom Riddle."
He spoke softly into the empty air. "Do not die so easily before you break free from this endless torment."
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2000 words
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