Chapter 262
"Master… is this the place?"
A short man wrapped in a cloak muttered to himself, clutching a bundle tightly in his hands. There was no one visible before him.
It almost seemed as though he were speaking to a ghost.
After all… this was a graveyard.
Broken tombstones lay scattered everywhere, long neglected. Some were cracked open, their edges jagged and sharp; others were worn smooth by time. From where he stood, one could see the dark outline of a small church behind a tall yew tree. To the left, a hill rose gently, crowned by an old house that stood in silence.
"That's right… Peter."
A thin, snake-like voice drifted out from the bundle.
So he hadn't been talking to himself after all.
"Master, you will soon have a new body!" Peter Pettigrew exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement. Every last shred of his hope now rested on the grotesque, misshapen bundle in his hands.
Inside it… was Lord Voldemort—reduced to a pitiful state, stripped of his body and barely clinging to existence.
To Peter, Voldemort was his only remaining lifeline. If this resurrection failed, there would be no escape left for him. Sooner or later, the Aurors would catch him and drag him back to Azkaban. His Animagus secret would be exposed, and there would be nowhere left to hide.
"Stop shaking your hands." Voldemort's cold voice cut through the air.
"Yes… yes, Master."
Peter forced himself to steady his trembling arms.
"You may begin preparing… my 'medicine' should be arriving soon."
At once, Peter hurried to a patch of ground that was relatively flat. With a flick of his wand, the earth reshaped itself into a massive stone cauldron—large enough to hold a grown man.
He fumbled out another bundle, unwrapping it carefully, then began adding ingredients one after another. Liquids, powders, strange substances—all went into the cauldron as he stirred frantically.
Soon, the cauldron brimmed with thick liquid, sloshing dangerously close to the edge.
"Faster." Voldemort's voice grew sharper.
But suddenly—
A faint unease crept into Voldemort's mind.
A sensation.
As though something… or someone… was watching.
Not just watching—something capable of making even him feel fear.
Peter's stirring quickened. His arm moved faster and faster, splashing the liquid violently.
That ominous feeling spread deeper within Voldemort, seeping into every corner of his being.
"Go!" Voldemort suddenly shrieked, his voice cutting through the night. "Get my father's bones first!"
A thin, blood-smeared arm burst out from the bundle, pointing.
"Yes, Master!"
Panting, Peter threw aside his stirring branch and hurried in the direction indicated. He dragged his squat body across the ground, reached a grave, and wrenched the tombstone aside.
With another flick of his wand, he extracted a handful of fine gray ash.
"Master… I have it."
"Hm…" Voldemort's tone softened slightly. "I can feel it… a scent that disgusts me."
Even so, he showed no hesitation in using it.
There was some strange connection between them—father and son. Even after death, a faint link still remained.
As for whatever impurities might be mixed in…
He did not care.
"Begin, Wormtail."
Peter hesitated.
"But… Master, that boy hasn't arrived yet. I still have to bring him here. He will resist—"
"Are you questioning me?" Voldemort's voice turned icy.
"No! Never, Master!" Peter bowed immediately, his fear unmistakable.
"This place is no longer safe," Voldemort said coldly. "We prepare now. Or do you doubt my strength? Even in this state… do you think I cannot deal with a child who relies on luck? Old Crouch proved far more useful than that so-called savior."
Rarely did Voldemort explain himself—but this time, he did, if only to prevent further incompetence.
"We prepare… and wait."
His tone steadied.
Soon, he would have a body again.
Soon, his power would return.
And then—
He would kill the boy.
A symbol.
A declaration.
A cleansing of humiliation.
The thought twisted into satisfaction across his snake-like face.
Peter knelt and opened the bundle fully.
What lay inside…
Was something no human should ever see.
A small, hairless body—curled like a newborn child, yet utterly unnatural. Its skin was dark red, raw and scaled, like wounded flesh. Its limbs were thin and weak.
And its face—
No living child had such a face.
Flat. Serpentine.
With glowing red eyes.
The creature raised its frail arms and clung to Peter's neck. He lifted it carefully and carried it to the cauldron.
The bubbling liquid reflected its distorted features, casting flickering shadows across its twisted face.
Without hesitation, Peter lowered it into the cauldron.
With a hiss—
It sank beneath the surface.
The liquid swallowed it whole.
Peter raised his wand, trembling violently. He shut his eyes and spoke into the night:
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given… you will renew your son!"
The ashes rose from his hand, floating into the air before scattering into the cauldron.
The liquid reacted instantly.
It cracked. It hissed. Sparks burst outward.
The color shifted—deep, luminous blue.
Poisonous. Unnatural.
From within the cauldron came a sharp, agonized scream.
"Next… quickly…" Voldemort's voice rasped. "I can feel him… he's coming."
Peter whimpered.
His entire body shook as he reached into his cloak and drew out a long, thin silver dagger.
His voice broke into sobs as he forced the words out:
"Flesh… of the servant… willingly given… you will… restore your master…"