"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 317: Wormtail the Slinker
The Muggle train rattled along, its windows framing a living tapestry of rolling green hills and golden fields. The landscape was idyllic—a picture-perfect English countryside. But inside the carriage, the air was thick with tension, as if someone had cast a Freezing Charm over the entire compartment.
Wormtail clung to Voldemort, who had just finished his liquid meal. Both of them were acutely aware of the suspicious stares from the Muggles around them—stares that seemed to cut right through their disguises, as if the truth of their identities might be laid bare at any moment.
Voldemort's eyes were glacial, his lips twisting into a wry, weary smile.
"My friend, could you at least try to behave normally? The way you keep sneaking glances around—honestly, it's no wonder these filthy Muggles are staring. You look like you're about to snatch someone's child."
His voice was low and commanding, yet even he couldn't hide a trace of fatigue.
To his grudging approval, Wormtail had shown a surprising degree of cunning lately—using Muggle transportation for cover, blending in to travel unnoticed. He'd even gone so far as to dress himself in drab, ill-fitting clothes, fashioning a believable persona: a down-on-his-luck uncle who'd spent his fortune trying to cure his "deformed" child.
Three or four times, train conductors had come by to check their tickets. Each time, Wormtail had spun his tale and gotten them through.
But nothing could disguise those shifty little eyes, darting about the carriage. They made him look like a creep—an unwelcome stranger who might bolt at any moment with someone else's child.
The journey dragged on, the air thick with whispered suspicion and curious glances. Every minute felt like an hour.
Well-fed at last, Voldemort found his mind wandering. He studied Wormtail's behavior, a flicker of unease curling in his chest. Ever since they'd chosen to travel by Muggle train, Wormtail had seemed… different. More mature. Strangely competent. For someone who'd spent over a decade as a rat, he was alarmingly adept at blending in, crafting a plausible backstory, even procuring Muggle train tickets with practiced ease.
If he hadn't watched Wormtail the entire time, Voldemort might have suspected he was actually a Polyjuiced Muggle.
This sudden competence unsettled him. Was this some elaborate trap set by Dumbledore?
The thought made Voldemort's grip tighten around his wand. He couldn't afford any surprises. Least of all from Wormtail—a man who had already betrayed his friends once.
Still, with no other allies at hand, Voldemort wasn't about to discard Wormtail just yet.
Hidden inside the bundle, his wand was already aimed at Wormtail's heart. The moment he sensed any betrayal, he'd end it.
Meanwhile, Wormtail was plagued by his own confusion. When Voldemort first mentioned Little Hangleton, a strange sense of familiarity had washed over him—as if he'd heard of the place before, maybe even visited it more than once. The moment the name was spoken, several possible routes sprang to mind. Weighing safety and Voldemort's frail condition, he'd chosen the most cautious path: Muggle transport.
He'd hesitated more than once, but never dared voice his doubts to Voldemort. He knew his master's temperament all too well. If he so much as hinted at this unease, Voldemort would have no qualms about ripping the memory from his mind. In fact, Wormtail was beginning to suspect his memories had already been tampered with.
Besides, he'd only learned of Little Hangleton from the Dark Lord himself. If anyone else had known in advance, Voldemort would have been caught long ago.
Unable to make sense of it, Wormtail simply clung to the only path left—follow the Dark Lord, no matter where it led.
He ignored the stares, even when a kindly Muggle woman fetched the conductor. The man, having already checked their tickets, reassured the other passengers and even handed Wormtail a cup of hot water.
Just then, the train's loudspeaker crackled to life:
"Attention, passengers: we are now approaching the final stop."
The tension in the carriage ratcheted up another notch.
Voldemort and Wormtail exchanged a glance—each reading the wariness and anxiety in the other's eyes.
They both knew: the real test was about to begin.
Under a barrage of curious and uneasy stares, Wormtail hurried off the train.
It was already past eight; darkness had fallen.
There was still some distance to Little Hangleton, and Wormtail dared not risk another ride. Clutching Voldemort, he slipped away from the bustle of the small city, heading for their destination on foot.
He avoided the main roads. Under Voldemort's direction, they plunged into the tangled, moonlit underbrush.
At his master's insistence, Wormtail moved slowly, cautiously.
After a while, a faint rustling reached their ears. Voldemort uttered a strange, guttural call.
In the moonlight, Wormtail saw his master's features visibly relax.
He glanced around, but saw no sign of the snake.
So, accompanied by the shifting, intermittent hiss of scales through grass, Wormtail trudged on for four long hours—pausing only once to feed Voldemort a bottle of cold milk.
He still didn't understand why Voldemort forbade him from using magic.
At last, as they entered a Muggle village, Voldemort spoke—his voice weak with excitement, yet still icily composed:
"My friend, do you see that house? That's where we'll spend the night."
Wormtail looked up. By the silvery moonlight, he saw a large, solitary house perched on a hillside.
A chill crept through him. He was certain he'd seen that house somewhere before.
As they stared, a faint, eerie light flickered from a gap in the attic window of the derelict mansion.
Someone, concealed beneath a Disillusionment Charm, watched with deep, penetrating eyes—eyes that seemed to sense Wormtail's gaze through the mist. The figure murmured softly:
"Tom, you've finally come."
Wormtail: (ノへ￣,) Do I even exist?
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