As soon as they landed, Barty let out a blood-curdling wail, broke free from Hoffa, and sprinted toward the towering, dilapidated structure silhouetted against the night sky. "Master... Master! Your most loyal servant has returned!!"
His hoarse, raspy voice echoed far into the night.
Nicolas Flamel frowned as he watched the frenzied Barty and took in their surroundings. "Is this where Voldemort resides now? It looks like it's been abandoned for years."
"What did you expect? A five-star hotel?" Hoffa shrugged. "Considering how long he's been down and out, staying here is already a luxury."
"It's hard to believe that the once-glorious Dark Lord has fallen to such a state," Nicolas sighed. "I doubt you can imagine how arrogant he used to be."
"How arrogant?" Hoffa raised an eyebrow.
"He believed that no one was truly unkillable. In that sense, he's very much like his ancestor."
"Slytherin?"
"Not just him—also the Peverell brothers. Except for the youngest one, the other two were notorious for their bloodlust."
"You seem to know a lot about them."
"I've never met them, of course, but I believe every alchemical creation bears the indelible mark of its maker. Cadmus Peverell, in particular, was legendary as a master who toyed with life and death."
Nicolas paused, then smiled. "But people like him often attract Death's special attention. Legend has it that after his death, his soul was hung on the Thorny Path of Helheim, never to be freed."
"The Thorny Path of Helheim?" Hoffa asked curiously. "What's that?"
"It's an ancient legend I've only heard about," Nicolas replied with a shrug. "No one truly knows what it means."
At that moment, a small figure emerged from the shadows, interrupting their conversation. With a hunched back and a nervous smile, the figure nodded obsequiously at Hoffa. "Mr. Bach, the Master invites you inside."
"It's you, Wormtail!"
An exhilarated Barty grabbed Peter Pettigrew's arm and patted his balding head, his voice trembling with eagerness. "Quick, take me in. Let me see the Master. It's been thirteen years since I last beheld his glory!"
Peter nervously pulled away from Barty's grip. "Follow me," he said before leading the trio toward the upper levels of the Riddle House.
As they walked, Barty bombarded him with questions. "Where's everyone else? Lucius? Bellatrix? Severus? Have they returned?"
"No…" Peter mumbled. "I was the first… uh, except for Mr. Bach. You're the second."
"What?!"
Barty immediately began to complain loudly. "Do they all have cruel and controlling fathers or something? Why haven't they come back? And why on earth would you let the Master live in such a filthy place?!"
Peter remained silent, offering no answers to his tirade.
Then a voice drifted from deep within the castle.
"Barty has returned?"
It was Voldemort's voice. Barty froze, his expression lighting up with pure joy. With newfound energy, he sprinted toward the source of the voice. "I knew it! I knew the Master loves me the most! He remembers me!"
Bang!
Panting, Barty stopped at the entrance to the blazing hearth-lit hall, tears streaming down his face. "Master… My dearest Master, your most loyal servant has returned!"
The cloying tone sent a shiver down Hoffa's spine, leaving him with goosebumps.
"Come closer, let me see you," Voldemort rasped from behind the chair.
"Yes, Master," Barty whispered, his voice choked with emotion. Like a devout pilgrim, he dropped to his knees and crawled forward.
The chair by the fireplace turned around.
Barty crawled to its front and slowly lifted his head.
Hoffa, who had been watching closely, witnessed a sight he would never forget. He had never imagined that a person's expression could be so multifaceted.
Barty's face, initially alight with fanaticism and joy, froze in astonishment. Gradually, his expression cooled and turned pale, then morphed into terror and confusion. Finally, he lowered his head, his body trembling. "M-Master?"
"It's me," Voldemort said with a thin smile.
With his head bowed, Barty stammered, "W-why… why are you like this?"
"I was cursed—by a wicked woman," Voldemort replied.
"I see… that's… terrible." Barty's words lacked conviction, and his tone betrayed a mix of numbness, resentment, and doubt.
Hoffa couldn't help but smirk.
Voldemort's smile also began to fade. Leaning against the wide chair, his short fingers resting on the armrest, his red eyes glinted menacingly.
"What's the matter? Am I such a disappointment to you?"
"N-no, not at all," Barty stammered instinctively. "W-what are you thinking?"
"Oh, nothing," Voldemort replied, narrowing his eyes. "It's been years since I last heard you call me 'Master.' I miss it dearly. Say it again—many times."
"M-Master," Barty stuttered, his cheek muscles twitching as he obeyed with visible reluctance.
"Look at my face," Voldemort said calmly.
Peter struggled to lift his head. Hoffa, standing to the side, could see the forced smile on his face—stiff and tightly controlled.
"Ma-Master…"
Voldemort hummed in acknowledgment, raising his frail fist to brush aside the straw-colored hair of the young man before him. His gaze was both feeble and mocking. The gesture made Peter's rigid smile twist further, as if it could barely hold together.
"No," Voldemort corrected. "Call me 'Honored Master,' as you did when you first entered."
"Hon… Honored Master…" Peter stammered.
"Now say 'Dear Master,'" Voldemort demanded, his tone playful yet commanding.
"D-De… Dear… Dear Master…"
Peter forced a smile, but his expression was so strained it seemed on the verge of breaking. Hoffa noticed Peter's fists clenched tightly on his knees, the veins on his hands bulging.
After holding Voldemort's gaze for a moment, Peter finally broke. He bit his lip, lowered his head, and dug his nails deep into his palms.
"That's enough. You may go."
Voldemort waved his small, pale arm dismissively, his expression cold and indifferent. "I have matters to discuss with our guests. Wormtail, escort him out."
"Yes, Master," came the reply.
From the shadows of the corner, Peter Pettigrew emerged. His demeanor was cold and detached as he grabbed Peter's arm. Peter, pale and dazed, staggered to his feet and stumbled out after Pettigrew. As they passed the door, Peter tripped and fell, landing heavily before scrambling back up.
"Mortals…" Voldemort murmured with a faint sneer.
Once the room was cleared, leaving only three occupants, Voldemort lifted his gaze. A fleeting melancholy appeared in his eyes but was quickly extinguished by the flames of ambition.
He looked between Hoffa and Nicolas Flamel. "Which one of you is in charge here?"
Before Flamel could step forward, Hoffa interjected, "We are partners; neither of us leads."
"Hmm, so diplomatic, Bach." Voldemort smirked, unconvinced. He turned to Flamel. "Old man, what do you want with the Peverell alchemy? Hoping to swap out that decrepit body of yours?"
"You see through everything, Dark Lord," Flamel replied, bowing his head low. "I'm weary of this frail, aging form. So many things are beyond my abilities now."
"Then why not use the Philosopher's Stone?" Voldemort sneered. "Four years ago, when I asked to borrow it, you not only refused but also went to great lengths to hide it."
"The Stone can only extend life," Flamel explained smoothly. "It cannot grant the vigor I need. At the time, I didn't know it was you who sought it. Besides, Dumbledore warned me in advance, and I couldn't defy him. Surely someone of your stature understands."
Hoffa observed the old man's seamless lies and thought to himself, The older they get, the thicker their skin becomes.
Voldemort, finding no satisfaction in Flamel's evasiveness, quickly lost interest. Waving his hand, he said, "Enough. You may leave. For Bach's sake, I'll let you observe my resurrection ritual. How much you can learn will depend on your own abilities, but don't expect me to teach you anything."
"Thank you, Dark Lord."
Flamel bowed again, even more submissively than Peter had earlier. In that moment, he seemed the perfect image of a loyal servant.
Bowing deeply, he retreated like a well-trained butler, closing the door behind him and leaving Hoffa alone with Voldemort.
Voldemort turned his gaze to Hoffa. "Now, how do you plan to bring Harry Potter to me?"
"I haven't thought it through entirely," Hoffa admitted honestly. "I'd probably infiltrate Hogwarts. Since he's under Dumbledore's protection, it won't be easy to deliver him on a schedule."
"On that point, I have a suggestion."
Hoffa had an inkling of what was coming.
Sure enough, Voldemort continued, "That school's Defense Against the Dark Arts position is cursed. No one has ever lasted a full year. I've heard rumors that this year they're bringing in Alastor Moody. Have you heard of him? A retired Auror, a couple of years below us."
"Is that so?" Hoffa raised an eyebrow.
"Disguise yourself as him and infiltrate the school. They're hosting some Triwizard Tournament nonsense this year. Get Harry Potter in the spotlight and then crush him thoroughly."
Hoffa shook his head. "I can't pull it off. If it were Transfiguration, I wouldn't mind, but I'm no expert in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Don't be modest, Mr. Bach. With your mastery of Transfiguration, those basic Dark Arts spells are nothing but child's play."
Voldemort's gaze darkened with malice. "And besides, didn't you tell me fifty years ago that once Meles retired, you planned to apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position yourself? What's changed? Have you grown timid with age?"
"I…" Hoffa fell silent. He couldn't deny the logic of Voldemort's suggestion. Still, he hated the feeling of being trapped by fate, as if no matter what he did, he was stuck in a cycle, endlessly returning to the same starting point. What was meant to happen would always happen.
"Do this for me, and once I've taken over Hogwarts, I'll make you Head of Ravenclaw House and a Transfiguration professor. If you'd prefer, you could even be Headmaster."
Voldemort offered empty promises with practiced ease, completely ignoring Hoffa's faintly exasperated expression. "Am I not a generous friend? Not only will I revive your little girlfriend, but I'll also help you reach the pinnacle of your career."
"Let's see you deliver first," Hoffa replied dryly. "What about Peter? What are your plans for him?"
"Have him follow you." Voldemort waved dismissively, laughing. "You'll need a loyal dog to do your dirty work. If it's you, I think he'd gladly bite anyone for you."
"Is that really necessary?" Hoffa frowned. "I can handle things just fine without him."
"It's necessary," Voldemort said firmly.
Voldemort lowered his head and spoke slowly but venomously, "Either you kill him, or you take him with you. As long as you bring Harry Potter to me before my resurrection, you may do as you wish."
Hoffa said no more.
After handling the matters at hand, Voldemort appeared a bit fatigued. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. "Go now, Bach. I don't think we need to meet again until you bring Harry Potter to me."
When Hoffa returned to the grand hall of the Riddle House, Nicolas Flamel was already there, waving his wand. The once-empty hall quickly transformed into a workspace, with objects moving about and arranging themselves. It was clear Flamel was ready to study the resurrection ritual.
"Where's Barty Jr.?" Hoffa asked Nicolas Flamel.
Flamel pointed to a corner. "Over there, can't you see?"
Following Flamel's gesture, Hoffa saw Barty Crouch Jr. sitting in a pile of broken wooden crates by the wall, hugging his knees with a lifeless expression, as if he had lost all hope.
Hoffa found it amusing and approached him. "Hey, do you want to come with me?"
Barty didn't react, as if he had gone deaf.
"Hey, are you coming or not?" Hoffa repeated, raising his voice.
"Huh...?"
Bit by bit, Barty's soul seemed to return to his body. He raised his eyes, looking lost and confused, as though he hadn't understood a word Hoffa said.
His pitiful appearance made Hoffa feel both amused and a little sympathetic. Unlike Wormtail, who sought out Voldemort because he had no other options after being exposed by Harry Potter and Sirius Black, Barty wasn't entirely without alternatives. His father was a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Magic, and even after being sent to Azkaban, his father managed to swap him out. What Barty lacked wasn't material survival but spiritual solace.
But now, that solace had utterly collapsed the moment he saw the weak, frail, and grotesque Voldemort.
Perhaps Barty's mind was still stuck in the glory days of Voldemort's prime, living in memories of his unmatched power and indulging in his own overblown fantasies.
It reminded Hoffa of those tragic stories of men deceived by overly edited photos of women online, only to meet the reality—a far cry from their expectations.
But Voldemort was no ordinary woman hiding behind beauty filters, nor did he care about appearances. He was a dark lord with an insatiable thirst for control.
Perhaps Barty, drowning in disappointment, hadn't yet noticed, but Hoffa had already seen the clear intent to kill in Voldemort's eyes. Just from that alone, Barty's fate was sealed.
When Voldemort fully regained his power, this pitiful man would face nothing but death or endless torment.
However, none of this had much to do with Hoffa. The fleeting sympathy he felt quickly dissipated into nothingness. There were countless people lost in their dreams; Hoffa didn't feel obligated to wake them up.
Whether this was Voldemort's way of disgusting him or a strategy to make him do the dirty work, Hoffa had no choice but to take Barty along. Voldemort's terms for the resurrection ritual required it.
"Let's go," Hoffa said coldly.
"Go where?"
Barty looked bewildered. "Mr. Bach, can I... can I go back?"
"Go back?" Hoffa sneered. "No. You're coming with me."
"What are we going to do?"
"Resurrect your master."
Hoffa said flatly and started walking away.
Resurrect my master.
Resurrect my master.
Resurrect my master?
It was as if Barty had grabbed onto a lifeline. He suddenly sprang up, his face lighting up with a frenzied excitement. Rushing after Hoffa with hurried steps, he panted eagerly, "What? That wasn't my master just now?"
Hoffa: "Do you think it was?"
"Of course not! My master is wise and powerful, commanding the submission of thousands with just a gesture. How could... how could it be that hideous creature?"
Turning back toward the Riddle House, Barty's face twisted with disgust and loathing. Gritting his teeth, he spat, "It can't be that thing—a monster neither human nor ghost."
As if brainwashing himself, Barty rubbed his hands together, his expression turning hopeful. "Yes, yes, my master must still be somewhere else, waiting for me to save him. It has to be like this... Mr. Bach, is that right?"
"Yes," Hoffa replied indifferently.
"That's wonderful! So that's it!"
Hoffa's affirmation made Barty even more exhilarated. He immediately snapped out of his previous despair. "Quick! Tell me! What do I need to do to bring my true master back?"
Hoffa sighed inwardly but maintained a serious demeanor. "If you could truly bring your master back, what would you do?"
"I'd do anything!"
Barty thumped his chest with conviction. "I'm capable of anything!"
Happy Valentine's Day to all~
(End of Chapter)
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