"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 316: Target—Little Hangleton
Voldemort caressed his wand, a twisted smile curling at his lips. "My dear friend, we mustn't let this chance slip by. We need to find a way to get that boy."
With that, their plans shifted.
Wormtail slipped into a Muggle neighborhood and stole a car, and so began their desperate flight.
They tore north toward Serbia. The regions they passed were ravaged by war—places where wizarding authority had all but collapsed. It was chaos, and in chaos, they moved swiftly and unseen.
Next, they set their sights on Amsterdam.
Amsterdam, with its open-minded spirit, proved fertile ground. Wormtail quickly tracked down a smuggler who could arrange illegal passage to England.
In a shadowy back alley, he found a man named Jack—a squat, yellow-toothed Muggle with a predator's gaze and a reputation for brokering all manner of illicit deals.
A whispered Imperius Curse bent Jack to Wormtail's will. Under magical compulsion, Jack set about organizing their covert journey back to Britain.
To avoid detection by the Ministry of Magic, they blended in with a group of Muggle stowaways.
Jack led them to the docks, where a battered cargo ship waited. The hold was crammed with junk, reeking of mildew and brine. Jack whispered that the ship would sail at midnight, bound for London.
As darkness fell, they slipped aboard, vanishing into the shadows of the hold.
Wormtail cradled Voldemort in a secluded corner. Thanks to Jack's arrangements, no nosy Muggle dared disturb the odd, ragged old man and his "child."
Voldemort sat with eyes closed, as if meditating, but every so often, he'd open them to cast a cold, appraising glance around. Wormtail fidgeted, his beady eyes darting nervously—afraid of discovery, afraid of failure.
The ship plowed through the night, the wind howling, waves pounding the hull in a ceaseless roar.
But luck, for once, was on their side.
At dawn, the first rays of sunlight crept through the cracks. They landed at last on the outskirts of Cromer, a small town on England's eastern coast.
Along the way, Voldemort had pieced together the situation: most of the Ministry's Aurors were deployed in the south—Devon, where the Quidditch World Cup was being held, and the southwest, near Cardiff and Godric's Hollow.
Here, in the east, they were far from the Ministry's net. Their original target had been the Lovegood residence (the home of The Quibbler's eccentric editor), but with the Aurors stretched thin, Voldemort abruptly changed course. Now, they would head north—to Little Hangleton.
As they made their way, Voldemort scoffed at the so-called "heroes' memorial" with icy disdain:
"Those so-called heroes—their bravery? It's nothing but another word for ignorance and stupidity.
They didn't die because they fought bravely. They died because they couldn't foresee their own fate.
A true hero should anticipate and overcome every challenge. They couldn't even grasp their own destiny.
Their fame is just the world's pity and a delusion for the weak. In my eyes, they're nothing but failures—utterly insignificant.
Still, their deaths aren't entirely meaningless. Thanks to them, my friend, we've managed to slip back into Britain under the Ministry's nose. Once again, fate has arranged for these fools to help resurrect the great Dark Lord…
I will conquer death, and you, my friend, will conquer fate."
The day before the Hogwarts group arrived at Godric's Hollow, Wormtail crossed into British territory—and at that very moment, Douglas's magical radar began to sound the alarm.
He tracked Wormtail's landing and route.
In the office, Dumbledore reluctantly handed his Deluminator to a rather pleased Douglas.
Watching the slow, pulsing trail on the magical radar, Dumbledore picked up a sherbet lemon and sighed, a hint of regret in his voice.
"Douglas, perhaps this is just Tom's little diversion."
Douglas toyed with the Deluminator, plunging the office into darkness and then relighting it with a click.
"Impossible. With Tom's current abilities, he'd never risk going after Mr. Lovegood. He knows that anyone who can uncover his deepest secrets—and then broadcast them so subtly—must be formidable. He won't take that chance."
Dumbledore looked at Douglas with satisfaction. After a moment's thought, he said,
"I won't be attending the memorial tomorrow. I'd like you to speak in my place. I suspect Cornelius would prefer dealing with you anyway."
When Douglas glanced over in confusion, Dumbledore's expression grew wistful.
"They were all old friends, once, Doug. I hope you can understand the frailty of an old man's heart…"
Douglas gave Dumbledore a searching look.
"So… you're not planning to sneak off to Little Hangleton tomorrow, are you?"
Dumbledore waved a hand dismissively.
"No need to worry. I know there's no point in destroying him before we've found all the Horcruxes. I'm just going to take a look—perhaps say hello, if the chance arises. After all, he was once my student. Your senior, wasn't he?
Besides, aren't you the least bit curious? According to your novels, most criminals return to the scene of the crime to admire their handiwork. Don't tell me you—"
Douglas: Σ(っ °Д °;)っ
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