Two months ago—Yorkshire, England.
A flicker of consciousness, a wisp of pure agony, drifted through the English countryside. It was a thing of profound weakness, less than a ghost, weaker than the humblest wandering spirit. It was the last remnant of Lord Voldemort's soul.
The power he had spent eleven years painstakingly gathering had been annihilated in an instant, dissolved in the crimson prison of Dracula's making. Now, he was nothing, a formless tremor of hate kept tethered to the world only by the Horcruxes he had forged in his arrogance. He was a transparent bubble of malice, his features blurred, without hands or feet, drifting on the cold wind and threatening to dissipate at any moment.
His mind was a fog of pain and fury, but a single, desperate thought repeated itself endlessly.
"I have not lost... I have not lost... I have other means... I will return..."
He fought against the wind, his will propelling his pathetic form towards the village of Little Hangleton. He had originally intended to flee back to the familiar forests of Albania, back to the company of his viper, Nagini. But his brief recovery, fueled by his diary Horcrux, had shown him another path—a faster, more efficient way to reclaim his power. He would not endure another decade of torment.
He chose Little Hangleton, the ancestral home of the Gaunts.
After an agonizing journey, he drifted to the edge of a wooded valley. There, half-hidden in a tangle of overgrown trees, was a dilapidated shack. The walls were slick with green moss, and the roof had decayed so badly that the rafters were exposed to the elements like a skeletal ribcage.
Voldemort's spectral form showed a flicker of ecstatic anticipation. He squeezed through a crack in a grimy windowpane and floated inside.
The shack was a monument to decay, filled with rusty pots, moldy furniture, and generations of filth. When he had first come here at sixteen, the squalor of his ancestral home had filled him with nothing but disgust for the pathetic myth of pure-blood supremacy. But now, returning as a broken, bodiless thing, he felt no such revulsion. There was no time for memory or judgment. There was only one thought, one desperate need: the Horcrux hidden beneath the floor.
He followed the warped, rotting floorboards to the darkest corner of the shack. There, nestled in the damp earth, lay a gold ring. It was crudely made, the band thick and clumsy, but set within it was a large, black stone, cracked down the middle. Engraved upon the stone was a symbol: a triangle, enclosing a circle, bisected by a single vertical line.
Marvolo Gaunt had called it the Peverell coat of arms. If Dumbledore had seen it, he would have known its true name: the sign of the Deathly Hallows.
But Voldemort knew nothing of this legend. To him, the ring was simply a powerful necromantic artifact and, more importantly, a vessel for his soul—a key to his resurrection.
A wave of relief washed over his blurred, phantom face. He plunged his entire being into the black stone. Unlike the diary, this Horcrux held no consciousness of its own, only a raw fragment of his soul. And upon it, he had placed a powerful curse, ensuring no one but him could ever wear it. Even in his weakened state, he could forcibly reclaim the soul piece within.
A blinding light erupted from beneath the floor. The fragile wood disintegrated into dust. From the debris, an ugly, illusory figure rose.
"My power... is not enough," Voldemort croaked, his new voice a terrifying rasp. "I need a true body."
In an instant, he was gone from the shack, reappearing in a dark, overgrown graveyard. To his right stood a towering yew tree, and behind it, the black silhouette of a small church. On a hillside to his left was Riddle Manor, a grand, elegant house that stood in sharp contrast to the squalor he had just left. The people there were long dead, killed by his own hand decades ago.
He walked through the rows of tombstones until he found it: a well-maintained marble headstone, engraved with a name.
Tom Riddle.
He looked at the name, the name he shared with the father he despised, and felt nothing. He had abandoned that identity long ago. He raised the hand now bearing the Gaunt ring and pointed the black stone at the grave.
The earth split open. A skeleton, bleached white with age, floated up from the grave and drifted towards him. As it moved, the Resurrection Stone's power enveloped it, a soft white light stripping away the dirt and grime, leaving only pure, perfect bone.
The skeleton of Tom Riddle Sr. suddenly accelerated, crashing into Voldemort's illusory form. The light intensified, wrapping around Voldemort, reshaping him. When it faded, a new figure stood before the desecrated grave.
His skin was as white as bone, his body withered and emaciated. His eyes burned a venomous scarlet. His face was a waxy, skull-like mask, his nose flattened into serpentine slits, and his fingers were unnaturally long and slender, like the legs of a spider.
Voldemort clenched his new fists, reveling in the long-forgotten sensation of having a body. "Wonderful," he hissed, inhaling the stale graveyard air. "The bone of the father, unknowingly given, will resurrect his son... a useful old fool, even in death."
He sneered, feeling no remorse. "Now... what remains? The flesh of the servant... and the blood of the enemy."
His body was still a temporary vessel, the flesh and blood conjured by magic, held together by the framework of his father's bones. He needed more.
"The flesh of a servant is easily obtained," he mused. "As for the blood of an enemy... that will depend on whether my diary can acquire Potter's blood from under the noses of Dracula and Dumbledore."
At the thought of Dracula, a venomous hatred flashed in his scarlet eyes. "Dracula enjoys his games, does he not?" he sneered to himself. "Then I shall arrange a little... entertainment for him. I do hope he enjoys it."
Voldemort clenched the fist wearing the ring. All around him, the graves of the churchyard split open, and skeletal figures, long dead, began to claw their way out of the earth. With distorted, jerky movements, they gathered around their new master.
A wicked smile spread across Voldemort's lipless mouth. A cloud of black smoke enveloped him and his new army of Inferi, and in an instant, they were gone.
He reappeared at the mouth of a dark, foul-smelling cave. Inside, a group of ragged, desperate people huddled together, their eyes filled with a mixture of hatred and despair. At the sight of the monstrous figure leading an army of the dead, they bared their teeth, ready to defend their territory.
"What do you want?" a man, dressed slightly better than the others, snarled. "Outsiders are not welcome here."
Bang!
Without a word from Voldemort, the man was sent flying, his body slamming against the rock wall with a sickening crack.
The others were not afraid. They were used to violence. They surged forward, a feral mob, trying to tear at him with their teeth and nails. Voldemort waved his wand with an icy expression, and the mob was flung back, clearing a path.
As he ventured deeper, a tall, menacing figure strode out from the darkness. He had gray, matted hair and a beard, and his sharp teeth and long, yellowed fingernails gave him the look of a beast. "Who dares cause trouble here?" he roared. "Does no one know whose territory this is?"
Then, he saw Voldemort's face. The bluster vanished, replaced by sheer, unadulterated terror.
"You... you are..." his voice trembled, and he dropped to one knee. "My Lord Voldemort... you are not dead!"
"Long time no see, Fenrir Greyback," Voldemort said coldly. "Is this how you welcome my return?"
"My apologies, my Lord," Greyback stammered, his eyes flashing with a savage light. He leaped upon the man who had first challenged Voldemort and, with a guttural snarl, sank his teeth into the man's neck, tearing him apart. He looked up, his face smeared with blood. "Will this appease you, my Lord?"
"Very good," Voldemort smiled. "Since you are so eager to please, I have an opportunity for you. Have you not always wished to command the werewolves of Romania? Take these Inferi. They will be your army. If you require more, I have an endless supply hidden away. Your task is to unite the Romanian packs under your banner. You have two months."
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, a very different scene was unfolding. The agonizing exam week was finally over. The oppressive June heat did little to dampen the joyful, carefree atmosphere that had descended upon the castle.
By the Black Lake, the giant squid was sunbathing in the warm shallows, its tentacles being playfully tickled by Fred and George Weasley and their friend, Lee Jordan.
"Professor! We haven't seen you out and about in ages!" George called out, glancing back at a large Scots pine by the water's edge. "Are the papers graded yet?"
Leaning against the trunk, enveloped in the cool shade of its lush branches, sat Dracula. He ignored George's question, his gaze fixed on the crystal ball in his hand. The dark moon within, which had been blazing brightly for a week, was now slowly, steadily rotating, its light returning to a dim, quiet glow.
It was a signal from Romania. A bright moon meant a situation had arisen, but one his clan could handle without him. Only a blood-red moon was a true summons. He had waited all week, but the summons had never come. They were either testing the device, or... they simply missed him. After a hundred years, it was to be expected.
He sighed. He had no desire to return to Romania, to the endless responsibilities of Bran Castle. It was why he had sent the crystal ball in the first place, instead of going himself. It was all so... tedious.
"Professor, can you hear us?" Fred's voice broke through his thoughts.
The twins had abandoned the squid and were now standing before him. "What is it now?" Dracula asked, a headache already forming.
"Since you're out enjoying the sun, you must have finished the marking, right?" George asked, his eyes wide with feigned innocence.
"Yeah, Professor," Fred added. "Have you decided who gets the amulets?"
"It is of no concern to either of you, so why do you ask?" Dracula raised an eyebrow.
Just then, Lee Jordan ran over, panting. "Professor, I'm reporting them! Fred and George have started another betting pool," he complained. "They're taking bets on Cedric and Hermione winning the amulets. They're planning to make a fortune!"
"Lee, you traitor!" the twins chorused. "We agreed to split the profits!"
"You call that a split?" Lee protested. "You gave me all the Bronze Knuts!"
Dracula looked at the bickering trio and shook his head, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "If you two are so terribly bored," he said, opening a black umbrella and stepping out from the shade, "then you can come and help me grade the papers. You will be disappointed to learn that I never had any intention of marking them myself."
(End of Chapter)
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