"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 320: Father's Grave
Voldemort made his decision—he would not risk checking on the Horcrux.
If his enemies had set a trap there, he might lose the only life he had left.
In that moment, everything became clear. The publication of that novel, the revolting magical trap at the Riddle Manor—these were all meant to lure him into investigating his Horcruxes. Their true target had always been the Horcruxes.
But his opponents had overplayed their hand. By weaving his own soul's essence into that magical inscription, they had inadvertently warned him: something had gone wrong.
Now, he was certain—the problem lay with the ring. Its hiding place was far too obvious; Dumbledore, who had always watched him closely, must have discovered both his link to the Gaunt family and, through that, the Riddle line itself.
If Dumbledore had ever suspected, he surely would have scoured the Gaunt home for clues—eventually uncovering the Horcrux ring.
He had been too young back then. The ring should have been hidden somewhere no one would ever think to look, like his later Horcruxes.
Now, he was sure: his adversary was Dumbledore. Only that old nemesis could so masterfully lead someone, step by step, into a trap.
He'd already tasted Dumbledore's cunning two years ago, during the affair of the Philosopher's Stone.
This time, he would not be fooled.
"My dear old professor, Albus Dumbledore," Voldemort murmured, a hint of cold confidence on his lips. Knowing the enemy made everything easier to handle.
Lovegood—of course, he was probably just another piece of bait.
That story, half true, half lies: seven Horcruxes, when in reality, he had only made five so far. (Author's note: Voldemort has seven Horcruxes, but Harry Potter was created by accident—he doesn't know. Nagini only became a Horcrux after his resurrection.)
Voldemort drew a deep breath, forcing down his anger and frustration. Now, more than ever, he needed to stay calm and make the wisest choice.
Wormtail stumbled through the woods, retracing their steps. Without the wand's light, he nearly tripped several times, but Voldemort showed no intention of returning it.
At the top of the hill, Voldemort cast one last glance at the cold, silent Riddle Manor. Then he pointed toward the church in the village below.
"Wormtail, take me to that church."
Behind the church lay the village cemetery.
Night pressed down like a heavy shroud, suffocating the ancient graveyard. Nothing but wind moved, whistling between the gravestones with a sound like the wailing of ghosts.
Clutched in the trembling arms of a panicked Wormtail, who kept glancing around as if ready to bolt at any moment, Voldemort entered the land of the dead.
Every tombstone was a jagged tooth of time, gnawing at memories of the past.
Voldemort scanned the darkness, his mind swirling with thoughts of death and immortality.
Death—a fate most fear, but must ultimately embrace. Like a merciless scythe, it reaps fragile lives, severing stories and dreams, consigning them to endless darkness.
But I, the great Voldemort, have found the secret path to immortality within death's shadow. I have broken free from the mortal shackles that bind lesser men.
Yet who could ever comprehend the price I have paid?
My soul, torn and reforged again and again, has grown colder, harder—like the stones of this graveyard. I have witnessed countless deaths, but nothing moves me now...
"Wormtail," Voldemort's icy voice shattered the silence, chilling the air. "Find my father's grave."
Wormtail (⊙ꇴ⊙)
He glanced at the faint words on Voldemort's arm—Welcome, Mr. Tom Riddle, back to the Riddle family.
A jolt of realization flashed through his mind. Tom Riddle—his master's true name.
The house they'd just visited was called Riddle Manor, so close to the Gaunt estate...
Wormtail began to tremble. He had uncovered one of the Dark Lord's deepest secrets. Would he be silenced for it?
And he realized—he wasn't the only one. Dumbledore, who had set the magic in that house, must also know.
He looked up at the shadowy house on the moonlit slope, certain someone was watching them from afar.
Voldemort seemed to anticipate Wormtail's fear, his tone unusually gentle.
"Wormtail, you are my most trusted friend. That is why I share this secret with you. Don't worry about that house—it's nothing but a magical trap. Dumbledore himself isn't there.
Even if he senses something has changed, our old adversary would never expect us to remain here. He'll believe we've already fled.
Go on. Find that wretch's grave. His name was Tom Riddle—the same as mine. Once you find it, we'll leave."
Despite his words, unease gnawed at Voldemort. That magical mark, laced with his soul's essence, couldn't be so simple. He needed to retrieve the potion's ingredients quickly, find a safe place to hide, and deal with the curse on his body.
Wormtail, ever the coward, shuddered and hurried off, weaving between the gravestones. His wand flickered with weak light, illuminating the faded inscriptions.
Voldemort, cradled in his arms, scrutinized every marker, searching for the name he both hated and could never escape.
This graveyard held his Muggle father—a man who had given him life, only to cast him aside into the torrent of fate.
At last, Wormtail stopped before a moss-covered, battered headstone. His voice trembled: "Master, this is it."
Voldemort stared at the name engraved there, murmuring,
"Tom Riddle. Such an ordinary, unfamiliar name. Compared to the name 'Voldemort,' which now strikes fear throughout the wizarding world, it is utterly insignificant."
He reached out, running his fingers over the cold stone, as if he could touch the dust-laden past.
"Wormtail, you could never imagine—here lies my origin, but also the chains I fought so hard to break."
Inwardly, Voldemort sneered. Death had claimed him, but in doing so, had forged the creature he had become.
"You must wonder why I'd risk Dumbledore's attention just to find this man's grave?"
Wormtail shook his head frantically. "No, Master, I'm not curious. I'll do whatever you say."
Voldemort gazed at the tombstone, a cold smile twisting his lips.
"I will draw power from this land of death. The wizarding world will tremble beneath my shadow once more. Immortality will no longer be taboo—it will be the eternal foundation of my rule."
As his fingers left the stone, a ghostly emerald light seeped up from beneath the grave. It shimmered like a response from the depths of death itself—a signal, perhaps, of war declared anew upon the wizarding world.
Staring at that green glow, Voldemort knew for certain: the one buried here was the man he had personally destroyed.
Wormtail gaped in terror at the light, stumbling back as if expecting someone—or something—to burst from the darkness at any moment.
Voldemort only threw back his head and laughed—a sound as wild and sharp as a feral cat's scream.
His laughter echoed among the tombstones, startling a flock of crows into flight. They vanished into the endless night, carrying with them Voldemort's ambition, his madness, and the shadow of his return.
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