"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 303: Wormtail, My Old Friend
Wormtail's nerves were stretched tighter than piano wire, teetering on the edge of snapping altogether.
Inside, he writhed in desperate misery, like a beast trapped in a cage. If fate ever offered him another choice, he swore he'd seize any chance to escape this endless purgatory—he'd never again bow to this madman who wielded dark power so carelessly.
To serve a master who treated lives like dirt, who flung Unforgivable Curses on a whim… It was chilling. Having such a master was like pawning your soul to the devil himself.
For a fleeting moment, the legendary courage and reckless spirit of Gryffindor flickered through his mind—boldness, adventure, defiance. But the glimmer faded quickly; some dreams, he knew, were nothing but fantasies now.
With immense effort, he pushed his battered body upright, as if it took a century just to rise from the floor.
Like a wounded mouse, he shrank into the shadows beside the bed, doing everything in his power to remain silent and invisible.
Every breath seemed to stir up a cloud of dust, every heartbeat thudded like a drum in the stillness.
When he finally dared a sideways glance at Voldemort, he saw the Dark Lord's skeletal, pallid fingers fumbling through the magazine. Those eyes—usually so cold and haughty—now glimmered, for just a moment, with something like panic, even fear. The sight left Wormtail stunned and bewildered.
He quickly ducked his head, burying his face in darkness, trying to blend into the hush that filled the room. He knew that, at moments like this, even the slightest movement or stray glance could bring disaster.
So he waited. Waited for the storm to pass—or for his own doom to arrive.
In that heavy, suffocating silence, time itself seemed shackled, crawling forward so slowly he could almost hear each tick of the clock.
Huddled in the gloom, Wormtail anxiously calculated, his gaze flicking to the wall clock, trying to judge whether it was nearly time to feed the Dark Lord again.
The room was so quiet that even his heartbeat sounded thunderous.
At last, Voldemort shattered the silence, his voice slicing through the air—sharp, cold, and unmistakable:
"Wormtail…"
The familiar sound made Wormtail flinch like a startled animal. He snapped to attention, his voice trembling with fear:
"Master… Are you hungry? I'll get your meal at once—"
But before he could finish, a chill stabbed straight through his spine.
He looked up to find Voldemort's eyes—dark, bottomless, and cold as a winter gale—fixed on him. The gaze alone sent shivers racing down his skin.
Instinctively, Wormtail wrapped his thin arms around his chest, as if he could shield himself from the coming storm.
Voldemort toyed with his wand, his voice soft—almost gentle—but each word was a poisoned dagger, sinking deep into Wormtail's heart:
"Wormtail, do you see the great Voldemort as nothing more than a helpless wretch, waiting to be fed, wasting away until there's nothing left?"
The words struck like a lightning bolt, shattering what little peace remained.
Wormtail began to tremble violently, every inch of his skin crawling with terror. He tried to defend himself, but his throat closed tight, and the words came out in broken, desperate fragments:
"M-Master…"
Bathed in the flickering firelight, Voldemort's silhouette loomed—dark, menacing, and impossibly oppressive.
Yet he did not raise his wand. Instead, he fixed his icy stare on the shivering figure before him.
When he spoke again, his tone was calmer, but absolute authority rang in every word:
"Wormtail, my old friend, I can't waste any more time in this forsaken place. We're too far from our true goal—Britain. Only by returning there at once can we gather fresh, accurate intelligence. Do you understand?"
The question made Wormtail's throat seize up. He forced out a reply, each word scraping painfully from his lips:
"Master… but the Aurors are still hunting me. If I bring you anywhere near Britain, I'm afraid… I'm afraid we'll be in even greater danger."
But Voldemort only looked at him with that abyssal calm, his voice steady and implacable:
"There's no need to worry, Wormtail. The great Voldemort—your old friend—will not be your burden. I can feel my power stirring again, quietly returning. And we can't linger here any longer.
Those bloodhounds, our enemies, will sniff out our trail soon enough…
Go. Prepare enough food for me. Tonight, we leave—returning to the battlefield that once belonged to us."
While Wormtail lived each moment under the Dark Lord's shadow, tiptoeing on the edge of disaster, far away in London, the capital of Britain, a different kind of journey was unfolding.
The young witches and wizards of Hogwarts were once again boarding the familiar magical bus, hearts brimming with curiosity and anticipation, eager to continue their adventure with new knowledge in tow.
Night had fallen, and a unique atmosphere filled the carriage—a strange blend of pain and joy.
The pain came from the mountain of unexpected holiday homework handed out on the very first day of break—a brutal academic ambush.
The joy, though, was the absence of Professor Holmes's strict (and ever-so-slightly mysterious) teaching style. For once, they could relax and savor a rare moment of freedom, adding a note of levity and ease to their travels.
Bathed in the warm glow of swinging lanterns, they nibbled on magical pastries, swapping stories of the day's discoveries and debating them with gusto.
George and Fred, ever the mischief-makers, were engrossed in jotting down every odd and wonderful thing they'd seen in the Muggle world, convinced that even the tiniest detail might inspire their next great invention.
Meanwhile, Sirius Black sat beside Harry Potter, his eyes twinkling as he guided his godson through the mountain of homework with the knowing air of someone who'd seen it all before.
After all, back in the day, he'd been forced—thanks to Douglas's relentless prodding—to learn far more about the Muggle world than he'd ever wanted. Now, that knowledge was something he could finally be proud of, sharing it with Harry.
Every time Sirius dropped a bit of Muggle trivia, the other students leaned in, peppering him with questions and eager for more.
In that moment, the carriage was alive with laughter and debate, the air crackling with the exchange of ideas—a spark of magic all its own, shared among the next generation of witches and wizards.
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