"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 321: The Father's Bones... Run!
The night was as thick as ink, pressing down on the lonely graveyard of Little Hangleton.
Voldemort, the Dark Lord who once plunged the wizarding world into endless terror, now huddled in Wormtail's arms. Only his eyes, glowing faintly red, betrayed the malice and resolve simmering within.
With a flick of his wand, the earth responded like a dutiful servant, slowly parting with a deep, reluctant groan—as if the ground itself resented being disturbed.
Yet even this small act left Voldemort visibly weakened.
Wormtail hesitated. "Master, perhaps I should do it?"
Voldemort shook his head, his voice cold and sharp. "No. This is something I must do myself."
Under the trembling light of his wand, a rotting coffin gradually emerged from the earth.
Voldemort's breath quickened. He had waited too long for this moment.
With a creak, the coffin lid lifted, moved by invisible magic, revealing the skeletal remains within—his father's bones.
"Pick them up, Wormtail. I said, pick them up."
Wormtail quickly set Voldemort down behind the tombstone, then clambered into the coffin, wrapping the bones in his own cloak. Despite Voldemort's open scorn, these were still the Dark Lord's father's remains—he dared not show the slightest disrespect.
As Wormtail diligently gathered the bones, Voldemort caught a glimpse of something behind the tombstone—words, faintly etched.
A chill ran through him. He spun, wand raised and ready, aiming at the stone.
Under the wand's feeble glow, the words slowly became clear.
Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy... The last enemy to be destroyed is death.
Even Voldemort's icy heart faltered. That was the resurrection potion's formula—the very ritual he had painstakingly crafted for his return—now brazenly carved onto the tombstone.
But it was the final line that truly unsettled him. He recognized its source.
Fear curled around his heart like thorny vines. For the first time, he realized every move he'd made had likely been anticipated—manipulated—by someone else.
If the traps at Riddle Manor and the Gaunt shack had been based on his own past machinations, then the words on the tombstone were a blatant declaration: his secrets were known, his plans laid bare.
And the mastermind? He hardly needed to guess—Albus Dumbledore.
That Headmaster of Hogwarts, always looming like an insurmountable wall on his path to conquest.
How had Dumbledore read him so completely? How had he predicted even this desperate bid for resurrection, leaving the formula here as if to mock him?
Around them, the graveyard was deathly silent, save for the wind howling between the stones—like a chorus of restless spirits whispering in the dark.
"Wormtail, we're leaving!"
Voldemort extinguished his wandlight and hissed toward the grave.
Unbeknownst to him, in a distant shadow of the graveyard, Albus Dumbledore stood quietly, his gaze calm and steady behind his half-moon spectacles as he watched Voldemort slink away.
The old wizard's silver beard fluttered in the wind, his eyes reflecting both exhaustion and unwavering resolve.
He had witnessed every move Voldemort made at the grave, and sighed softly to himself.
At the same time, his interest in Douglas only deepened. Could a novelist truly wield such power?
To toy with a Dark Lord, to anticipate his every step—prophecy alone could never achieve this.
But with Douglas as an ally, he no longer feared what chaos Voldemort might unleash. After this night, the wizarding world would know peace for a while. For now, Dumbledore could focus on Hogwarts, on the aftermath of all the trouble Douglas had stirred up—matters that still needed to be kept from the Ministry.
Noon sunlight bathed Godric's Hollow, the echoes of the Heroes' Memorial still lingering in the air.
Douglas, dressed in black robes and standing tall, had just finished his stirring speech. His gaze swept the crowd, politely declining the Ministry's eager invitations before Disapparating back to Hogwarts.
The students who attended the memorial, led by Sirius, were now packed onto the Knight Bus, laughter and chatter filling the air as they journeyed back to school.
The headmaster's office was warm and serene.
Sunlight filtered through stained glass, spilling over ancient books, curious magical instruments, and the portraits of former headmasters. Some portraits dozed, others whispered, occasionally casting curious glances at the living.
Dumbledore descended the staircase from his bedroom, half-moon glasses askew on his nose, silver hair tousled from sleep. He wore a loose, deep-blue dressing gown, the hem slightly rumpled, his whole bearing tinged with the lazy fatigue of a man who had barely slept.
Upon seeing Douglas, he feigned a grumpy complaint. "Douglas, my boy, can't you let these old bones rest a bit longer? I was up until dawn following you—I'd only just closed my eyes!"
He fussed with his hair, trying to smooth the stubborn silver locks, but they refused to cooperate.
Douglas grinned, handing over a steaming cup of tea, his face apologetic.
"Sorry, Professor. Please, have some tea to wake up. Dobby will bring lunch in a moment—let's eat and talk."
A moment later, with a soft pop, Dobby appeared, arms laden with a feast: sizzling roast chicken legs, fragrant vegetable soup, golden, crispy pumpkin pasties, and fresh-baked bread, all arrayed across the table.
The two sat down to lunch. Dumbledore picked up a chicken leg, took a hearty bite, and, eyes twinkling with pleasure, mumbled around a mouthful,
"Honey-glazed chicken? Douglas, I thought you didn't care about your own masterpieces. You even managed to weave Tom's soul into a curse."
He chuckled, peering over his spectacles with a penetrating gaze.
"And he really did go dig up old Tom's bones. Are novelists truly this formidable?"
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