Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 590, Episode 588: The Snake and the Lion (9k)

"We followed them closely—"

Sirius's face appeared in the magic mirror, and through the light from the dense forest, Sheen could see Mr. Black's serious expression.

"After spending half a day at a cemetery in Little Hangton, they made their way to Albania—Mr. Green, the Pensieve has been sent to you, and I suspect it will be more detailed than my description—"

Lupin clearly knew better than Sirius what to say.

"The Gravesite of Little Hangleton — Albania —"

Sheen frowned as he sorted through the information.

What is in Little Hangleton's cemetery?

There's no need to elaborate further; Old Riddle was buried there, and the bones Voldemort needed to resurrect him were also among them.

So, Voldemort is going to be resurrected?

The little wizard lowered his head a little.

Should he stop Voldemort?

If he had prevented Voldemort's resurrection, what would he have done?

If he hadn't died, if he had been resurrected, if he were hiding in the shadows—

Voldemort practiced absolute terrorism. What kind of madness would he experience when he realized his defeat?

Destroying Hufflepuff's golden cup wasn't difficult, but that unknown, inexplicable Horcrux repeatedly prevented Sheen from stopping Voldemort's resurrection prematurely.

He wasn't afraid of the resurrected Voldemort, but he also wasn't willing to gamble.

because----

He looked at Hogwarts Castle with a slightly serious expression.

Every wizard here is alive.

Loyal and kind Hufflepuff, wise and restrained Ravenclaw, occasionally foolish but always brave Gryffindors, and the Slytherins—

When Voldemort goes completely insane, whose parents or children will he harm?

He thought of his grandfather, Marcus.

The old wizard who always laughs heartily.

He said he always had to go to the battlefield.

He looks so old.

"Mr. Green, Mr. Green, I hope you are not distracted. We don't have much time. They are about to move again. I hope you can give the order as soon as you receive the Pensieve."

The communication ended just as Sheen came to his senses.

After a brief pause, he reopened the magic hand mirror:

[The college is missing one player]

[Sheen Green: The operation was brought forward]

Justin Finley: Understood. I'll be at the castle gates right away. Hermione, what about you?

Hermione Granger: My hands are shaking. Are we really going to break into Gringotts like this?! I've already skipped class. Don't be slower than me, Justin!

"call""

With a soft exhale, Sheen's figure disappeared into the end of the corridor, into the shadows of a group of noisy little wizards.

Albanian forests were shrouded in a leaden fog at the end of February.

The snow hadn't fallen yet, but the air was already as cold as broken glass.

The tall, bare beech trees creaked and groaned in the wind, the sound echoing through the dense forest like a warning.

A figure wrapped in a black cloak moved through the woods.

He walked slowly, his cloak hood pulled low, covering most of his face, revealing only a few strands of long, silvery-white hair.

Albus Dumbledore stopped in his tracks.

Before him stood a small stone hut, swallowed by moss and vines. It was so old and worn that only the chimney stubbornly pointed to the sky, like a tombstone. But he noticed that there was no dust on the doorknob.

Someone came by recently.

He pushed the door open very gently, as if afraid of disturbing something.

The room was dark and damp, with a musty smell mixed with some older, more decaying odor.

However, beyond the overturned tables and chairs and the broken glass, he saw something else.

A campfire.

Not long after it burned out, the ashes were still warm.

Dumbledore crouched down, his fingertips brushing the edge of the ashes.

A faint light flickered at his fingertips, like a firefly, before vanishing into the air.

"It is indeed black magic."

He muttered to himself, "But very weak. So weak—pitiful."

The thought startled him slightly.

mercy.

Against Voldemort.

He stood up and looked around the abandoned hut.

More than fifty years ago, a young Tom Riddle murdered the Riddle family in a house like this.

At that time, Tom was ambitious, but his hands were already covered in blood.

Now, that person has returned to where he started, back to Riddle House.

Like a venomous snake retreating into its lair to lick its wounds.

Dumbledore closed his eyes.

He knew what he was doing.

He wasn't the bravest person—though he certainly had plenty of courage—but this was a move he had to make.

That child is too young.

Despite his extraordinary talent and the prophecy that had pointed him in the right direction, the boy was not yet ready to face a dark wizard who would do anything in a moment of despair.

"Before that, someone needs to scout the way and clear the obstacles."

Dumbledore's voice echoed softly in the empty room, "Oh, what a fine job. Enough for a wizard to retire comfortably."

He took something out of his cloak. It was a longsword, its blade covered with scarlet velvet, like a sleeping flame.

The sword of Gryffindor.

Dumbledore knew it would become an irresistible lure for Voldemort—a weapon capable of destroying Horcruxes, a relic of Godric Gryffindor himself.

For a dark lord who has lost most of his soul fragments and desperately needs solace, this temptation is irresistible.

He gently placed the sword beside the ashes, then stood up.

"Come on, Tom, 7"

He said softly, "Let's see how many pieces of your soul you have left."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the forest, in a snow-covered town in northern Albania, the lights of a tavern glowed dimly.

This is a tavern called "Snake Lion," a gathering place for traveling merchants and local hunters.

There weren't many customers in the bar tonight, except for a drunken old man snoring on a table in the corner and a woman in a travel cloak next to the bar.

The woman was young, blonde, and her face showed signs of travel fatigue, but her eyes were sharp and alert.

Her name is Bertha Jorkins, and she works for the British Ministry of Magic.

She was supposed to be on vacation, but a "significant clue" led her to this godforsaken place.

The clue indicated that a missing person case had not been reported.

A dark sorcerer named Peter Pedigru has been seen near the Bulgarian border.

Bertha Jorkins is a serious person. Too serious, and that's going to kill her.

She didn't notice that something was moving in the shadows behind her.

There were two snakes. One was a real snake with thick, dark belly scales, and the damp air was thick with the scent of death.

Another snake was coiled inside a man's body, draped in a heavy black cloak, cradling an unformed...

A monster that looks like a curled-up baby.

Peter Pettigrew is trembling.

"Master—Master—"

He stammered, his voice as low as a cricket's chirp, "This—this woman, she—she's from the Ministry of Magic—she—"

"She's looking for you."

Voldemort's voice came from the red, curled-up mass of flesh, hoarse and like withered leaves rubbing against the ground, "And just now, she found you, Wormtail."

Little Pettigrew shuddered, almost dropping what he was holding.

"No, no! Master, I...I've been very careful! I swear! I didn't—I didn't!"

"Quiet."

The sound wasn't loud, but Little Star seemed to have his throat choked, and instantly lost his voice.

Voldemort—that monster—slightly turned in Wormtail's arms.

A slender, scarlet pupil shone from the swaddling clothes, staring at the woman in the tavern.

"This is not a trap set by the Ministry of Magic."

Voldemort said slowly, "There was no Auror protecting her, no tracking spell. She was just a person. A foolish, hardworking clerk."

Didn't we just examine her head?

Little Pettigrew felt a chill run down his spine.

He was all too familiar with that tone.

This is the tone of the master when he is plotting, the tone of the master before killing someone.

"Master—Master—we just altered her memories—shouldn't we have—"

"Should it be... a bug tail? To escape?"

A hint of laughter appeared in Voldemort's voice. It was something more terrifying than anger.

"Based on your description, I've already lost so much at the hands of that wizard—"

He spoke slowly, as if each word had been carefully savored, "Tell me, Wormtail. What should a dark wizard, on the verge of desperation, do?"

Little Pettigrew dared not answer.

"I asked him what to do."

Voldemort repeated, this time in an even lower voice, but with a chilling killing intent.

"I will bring her again."

Little Pettigrew finally managed to squeeze out a few words.

"Very well, you're not completely hopeless."

The crimson eyes turned toward the witch in the tavern.

"But master, allow me to say one last thing. Bertha Jorkins' disappearance will soon attract attention, and if we continue, if I—"

Little Pettigrew felt a sudden dizziness.

"If? If you follow my plan, Wormtail, the Ministry of Magic, will never know who else has died. Do it quietly, don't make a fuss. I really wish I could do it myself, but given my current situation—"

"Come here, Wormtail. One more death and our path will be clear. I haven't asked you to act alone. Then my loyal servants will join us,"

"I am just a loyal servant."

"Insect Tail," he said, his voice trembling with a hint of displeasure.

"Wormtail, I need someone with brains, someone who is absolutely loyal to me and never wavers, and you, unfortunately, do not meet either of these conditions."

"I was the one who found you."

Wormtail said, his voice laced with obvious obsequiousness, "I'm the one who found you. I just found Bertha Jorkins."

That's true.

The monster said in a teasing tone, "I never expected you to say something so clever, Wormtail. But to be honest, when you captured that woman, you didn't realize how useful she was, did you?"

"I—I knew she would be useful, Master—" "Liar."

The monster continued, its icy, teasing tone even more pronounced, "However, I don't deny that the information she provided was very valuable. Without that information, I wouldn't have been able to come up with my plan."

Well, Wormtail, you will be rewarded. I will allow you to complete a very important task for me, one that many of my followers are eager to accomplish—”

"Is that so, Master?"

The insect's tail sounded panicked again.

"Ah, Wormtail, do you intend to ruin this unexpected joy? Or do you think we've been waiting for too long?"

Oh, it hasn't been that long, you see, we haven't waited for that person yet—but I assure you, the wait is worthwhile, and you will have the good fortune to be as useful as Bertha Jorkins.”

"You—you—"

The insect tail's voice suddenly became hoarse, and his mouth seemed to have become very dry. "You—you want to—kill me too?"

"I would never kill my loyal servant—"

The monster's voice became even smoother, "If he is truly as loyal as he appears—"

"loyalty----"

Not far from Gringotts, Sheen frowned deeply.

Justin and Hermione silently surrounded him, waiting somewhat impatiently for the young wizard who was "interrupted by urgent business."

It was getting dark, and Gringotts would be closing soon.

They are also about to miss their scheduled time.

"Hermione, Justin—"

The two turned around at the same time and were then somewhat stunned.

They had never seen Sheen like this before.

He looked at them calmly, but the two of them could read his solemnity in those all-too-familiar eyes.

Such a tense, almost hostile attitude, and such a low voice—

"Action, I'm afraid—"

"Absolutely not!"

Hermione immediately shouted.

"That's right, Sheen. We've been planning this for so long—"

Justin said in a deep voice, "If you can't get away, we can do it ourselves—Sheen, don't underestimate us."

Sheen remained silent.

He was thinking.

Has Little Pettigrew been exposed?

When was it?

The fairy contract directly altered Pettigrew's memories, and such a contract would be difficult to leak even in Ravenclaw's memories.

Because they use magic that is completely different from that of wizards.

So how did Voldemort discover Little Pettigrew?

Or is this just a simple reprimand?

Voldemort was aware that Pettigrew was not absolutely loyal.

Sheen's eyes darkened further.

And then there's Bertha Jorkins; at this point in time, she should indeed be in Albania.

As for how she was captured by Voldemort, even Sheen couldn't find any clues in his memories.

More importantly, Voldemort planned to kill her.

Sheehan thought that such things would not happen again after Voldemort returned to Riddle House.

But Voldemort has returned.

Sheehan keenly noticed the snake next to Voldemort.

Could that be the Horcrux Voldemort wanted to create?

Is that why he needed to kill someone?

Can a soul split twice in a short period of time?

Sheen's conjecture is incorrect.

That means Voldemort hasn't created the Horcruxes yet.

Sheen felt his heart pounding wildly.

But the phrase "he is still cunning" still lingered in Sheen's ears.

Voldemort had another servant; his appearance was not just an accident.

Even in the original books, Voldemort created Nagini, a Horcrux, after returning to Riddle House.

What now?

The even more cunning Voldemort, would he still not have created a Horcrux by now?

"Sheen?"

A call brought Sheen back to reality.

Seeing Justin and Hermione's worried faces, Sheehan quietly focused his attention.

"Leave it to us."

Justin said with a smile.

It's as if breaking into Gringotts was just a simple history of magic assignment.

Hermione's body was trembling slightly; it was hard to tell how much tension or excitement was in her.

Sheen recalled the entire plan.

Entering Gringotts wasn't too difficult, and walking all the way to the entrance of the vault wasn't even a challenging task.

However—this only applies to Sheen.

Justin and Hermione were both just fourteen-year-old wizards.

Not to mention that after losing Sheen, they need a fairy to open the treasure vault.

Capturing a fairy is no easy task, even though they had considered alternative plans.

"You are doing something very dangerous."

Sheen sighed.

His consciousness has remained with Little Pettigrew ever since he first noticed that scene.

He saw that Little Pettigrew and his companions were about to take action—

"Oh, that's strange."

Justin smiled gently. "At this point, it seems we've been doing dangerous things all along."

"uh-huh."

Hermione nodded, a blush rising to her cheeks.

Gringotts was shrouded in gloom at dusk, the huge white building standing tall like the head of some kind of behemoth.

"Bai Yi".

Sheen called softly, and a pure white owl fluttered out of the Wizard's Book, reluctantly landing on Justin's shoulder.

"Tira".

Hermione gasped in surprise, only then realizing that a slow-moving Bowtruckle was perched on her arm.

"Then—"

Sheen seemed somewhat hesitant.

"Hurry, Justin!"

Hermione had already walked away excitedly.

Justin quickly followed her.

After the two hurriedly walked away, Hermione's excitement gradually turned into a little panic.

"We can do it."

she says.

"certainly."

Justin answered affirmatively.

Sheen watched them from afar and walked into a secluded corner.

Albania.

Tavern.

Little Pettigrew's face turned red.

He didn't notice the scrutiny implied in Voldemort's words—he only noticed that Voldemort hadn't immediately ordered the killings.

This seemed to give him the courage to speak.

"If—if we were to take action, Master—perhaps not now."

He lowered his voice, his speech quickening, "This place is too secluded, there are no other customers. If she disappears, the Ministry of Magic will track her down to this tavern immediately. We've been hiding in Albania for so long, we can't afford to be exposed at the last step—"

He stopped.

Because he suddenly realized what he was saying.

He is still opposing his master.

He was also advising his master, that ruthless dark lord, not to kill.

Fear poured over my head like ice water.

He would die because of those words.

He will surely die because of those words.

But Voldemort did not kill him immediately.

"----interesting."

The scarlet gaze lingered on Pettigrew's face for a long time.

So long that Little Star felt his heart had stopped beating, so long that the sound of the witch's cup being put down at the bar sounded like a bolt of lightning.

Then, Voldemort chuckled softly.

"You're right, worm tail."

Voldemort's voice was as soft as a viper's hiss, "But we need a murder. You know that very well. Without a murder dark enough, without utterly toying with death, I cannot gain enough power to complete the resurrection."

Little Starfleet trembled, unsure whether Voldemort was testing him or seriously considering the matter.

All he knew was that his heart was beating incredibly fast, and his ribs felt like they were about to burst out of his chest.

"Maybe----"

His lips moved, but his voice sounded like someone else's. "Maybe we can wait—wait until she leaves the tavern and goes somewhere where she won't be discovered immediately—maybe in another town, or somewhere else—it doesn't matter—what matters is that the master must ensure her absolute safety."

After he finished speaking, he felt a strange sensation.

It was as if he had said something he himself didn't know.

Voldemort remained silent for a long time.

Little Pettigrew dared not breathe.

He knelt there, head bowed, feeling as if the crimson gaze were two red-hot nails piercing his skull inch by inch.

"very good."

Voldemort finally spoke, "Your loyalty may still be tested. But she is the right target. However, you're right not here."

We'll follow her after she leaves.

Little Pettigrew almost collapsed to the ground.

A more complex emotion, one that he couldn't comprehend, was swirling in his mind.

It was as if his body was relieved of the burden of his own thoughts, while his consciousness couldn't catch up.

Night fell completely.

The witch sat at the bar for a while longer, then paid her bill, got up, and walked towards the door.

Little Pettigrew kept his head down, pretending to drink the tea that had long since gone cold.

He couldn't look at her. Even though Voldemort had said he wouldn't kill her here, he still couldn't bring himself to look at her face.

The witch pushed open the door.

A cold wind blew in, carrying the metallic smell of snow.

Then she stopped.

"you."

she says.

Little Pettigrew looked up and met her gaze.

Those blue eyes stared at him with a complex expression, somewhere between sympathy and wariness.

"You've been sitting there since the afternoon. Not moving at all. What are you waiting for?"

Little Pettigrew opened his mouth.

He should lie.

He should make up an excuse, anything at all. He's lost, he's waiting for someone, he's mute, anything will do.

But he didn't.

He said something else.

The words flowed naturally from his lips, as if he had rehearsed them countless times.

"Get out of here quickly."

He said in a very low voice, "Immediately. Don't look back. Don't Apparate to the next town—go straight back to England."

The witch was stunned.

Even Little Pettigrew himself was stunned.

He didn't understand why he said that.

That shouldn't be what he said.

This shouldn't be the case.

But his mouth was still moving; his lips seemed to have their own will, completely out of his control.

"You're being watched."

He said, "While I can still walk. Now. Right now."

The witch stared at his face.

She saw it—those always moist, rat-like eyes were now filled with pure fear.

The fear was so real that she instinctively believed it.

Without further hesitation, she grabbed her backpack and, in a flash, vanished into the darkness outside the door.

Only the sound of the wind and Little Star's rapid heartbeat remained in the tavern.

Little Pettigrew knelt on the spot.

His hands were braced on the cold ground as he gasped for breath, his mind blank.

He let her go; he really let her go.

Why? Why did he do that?

But he didn't have time to figure it out. Because in his arms, Voldemort smiled.

The laughter was extremely soft and cold, like a snake slithering across withered leaves on a winter night.

"Insect tail, "7"

Voldemort said, as his servant calmly took him from Wormtail's arms, "While I waited, you were restless. Just when I was ready to kill her, you let her go."

Little Pettigrew opened his mouth.

He doesn't understand.

He has no recollection of what he said.

Did he say he would let her go? Did he say anything like that?

He tried desperately to recall, but his mind was a complete mess, as if someone had stirred it with their fingers.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

He didn't know why he was crying.

It's because of fear, yet it also seems not to be.

It's because this woman was going to die, but she had clearly survived.

It was because he betrayed his master—yes, but he didn't shed a single tear when he betrayed James and Lily twelve years ago.

"I have no idea----"

He murmured mechanically, "Master—I don't know—I didn't mean to let her go, how could I?"

Little Pettigrew knelt there, his face covered in tears, futilely searching for any words that could explain himself.

He truly didn't know why he let her go, nor did he know where the anxiety in his mind that wasn't his own came from.

In the end, he could only stammer out a sentence: "—I just feel that the master shouldn't take such a big risk for a prey—the master is already so badly injured, if there's another accident—I can't accept it," "You don't know."

Voldemort repeated, as if savoring the meaning of those words.

Then his voice became calm—a dark, unfathomable calm.

"But you did it, Wormtail. You let your prey go, at just the right time, in a foolish way."

Little Pettigrew trembled all over, his mouth agape, but he couldn't make a sound.

Voldemort said softly, "He's not here, Wormtail. But he's been here, he's always been in your mind."

From a long time ago, from the first time you came into my life.

Little Pettigrew's eyes suddenly widened.

He couldn't understand those words.

He didn't know someone had been in his head; he couldn't believe it.

But a bolt of lightning struck his mind—the moment he let her go, that natural, involuntary feeling, was not his will.

Someone is speaking through his mouth.

He believed from beginning to end that it was his own idea.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, my servant. It was his compassion for life that led him to let her go through you. I saw it all clearly from beginning to end. And that's exactly the answer I needed. Ah—what a kind and weak wizard, he would rather expose you than let her go."

Little Pettigrew opened his mouth, wanting to scream, to beg for mercy, to say the things he had never had the chance to say before.

But he knew it was too late. From the moment the first thought was planted in his mind, it was already too late.

"You have one last use, Wormtail. You brought me back to this world, and you will now offer me your final death."

Outside the tavern, the wind and snow intensified.

The snow-covered bare branches were creased with varying depths by the wind, as if the whole forest was whispering in the darkness.

"Your father's bones, donated unintentionally, can give your son a second life!"

The ground beneath the insect's tail cracked open, and he was horrified to see a wisp of dust rise into the air at the hooded man's call, gently landing in the crucible.

The diamond-like surface of the liquid shattered with a hissing sound, sparks flew, and the liquid turned a vibrant blue, clearly indicating the presence of...

poison.

The insect's tail was whimpering.

A hooded man pulled a long, thin, gleaming silver dagger from his cloak.

"The servant's flesh—is donated—voluntarily, so that your master—may be reborn."

The man extended his right hand, then gripped the dagger tightly with his left hand and swung it towards his right hand.

At the last second, Insect Tail realized what he was about to do. He closed his eyes tightly, but he couldn't stop the scream that pierced the night sky from going straight into his body, as if he had been stabbed by a dagger.

He heard something fall to the ground, heard a man's painful gasps, and then a disgusting thud as something was thrown into the crucible.

The insect's tail didn't want to look—but the potion turned fiery red, and a bright light shone into its tightly closed eyelids—

The man was breathing and groaning in pain.

"The blood of your enemy—forced to be offered—can avenge your foe."

The man, still gasping for breath in pain, trembled as he pulled a small glass bottle from his pocket and placed the blood into the crucible.

The liquid in the crucible immediately turned a dazzling white.

The man finally completed his task, knelt down beside the crucible, slumped to the ground, and gasped for breath, clutching his bleeding severed arm.

The crucible was about to boil, and diamond-like sparks flew in all directions, so bright and dazzling that everything around turned into the color of black velvet.

"I hope the master drowns in the cauldron," thought the insect tail. "I hope it doesn't work."

Then, he was startled again. How dare he think such a thing?!

Suddenly, the sparks on the crucible went out.

A plume of white steam rose from the crucible, obscuring everything in front of the insect's tail.

He could no longer see the man, only a white mist—it definitely didn't work—it drowned—please—please let your master die—

Then, through the white mist before him, he saw, chillingly, a man's black figure slowly rising from the crucible, tall and thin, like a skeleton.

"Put a robe on me."

That cold, shrill voice spoke from behind the steam.

The man, protecting his amputated arm, hurriedly grabbed the black robe wrapped in a bundle from the ground, stood up, and used one hand to put it over his master's head.

The thin man stepped out of the crucible, his eyes fixed on the insect's tail—

The insect tail saw that face, paler than a skull, with two large, red eyes, a flat nose like a snake's, and nostrils that were two thin slits.

Voldemort has been resurrected.

Wormtail slumped onto the cold floor of the tavern.

He had already cried all his tears.

"Insect tail".

Voldemort's voice came from the mist, "Do you know why I waited thirteen years?"

Little Pettigrew's lips trembled, but he couldn't utter a single word.

"Hehe, but you don't need to know."

The insect's tail's perspective was completely dark.

The young wizard, far away in London, silently raised his head.

He seemed to have been lost in thought for a while, a faint look of bewilderment still lingering on his face.

Immediately afterward, he heard what sounded like an alarm going off in Gringotts.

He looked up at the sky.

In the deep blackness, the stars began to twinkle.

Actually, the stars have always been there.

Sheen suddenly realized something.

It is only the darkness that makes it shine.

So, in the darkness, some sounds were finally able to be made.

Thirteen years.

In the empty tavern, Voldemort spoke, his face pale.

The voice was no longer that hoarse whisper.

It was a deep, magnetic voice that could instinctively instill fear in anyone who heard it.

The sound echoed in the empty tavern, like someone ringing a bell in a deep cellar.

He looked down at the pile of shriveled, unrecognizable skin bags at his feet.

"That's been so long!"

He said sarcastically, "And you, you didn't abandon me when I was at my weakest—not because of your loyalty, but because you were too cowardly, too afraid, too lacking in courage to find another path. And I, I actually survived because of your cowardice."

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. That smile, however, was devoid of any warmth.

"So, cowardice is ultimately useful. At least, it brought me back to where I am today."

He stretched out his hand and moved each finger.

Those fingers were sharp and pale, as if they had never been exposed to sunlight.

"And you're not the only weakling."

The sneer at the corner of his mouth deepened and grew colder. "He did indeed choose a coward—Dumbledore."

He spoke softly, as if savoring the taste of the name, "You possess everything this world can have. Loyal friends, adoring students, the admiration of the entire magical world. And me..."

He surveyed the dark tavern, the bloodstains and corpses on the ground, 1

I own myself. Hehe.

He looked towards the entrance of the tavern.

The door was pushed open in front of him by an invisible force.

The wind and snow poured in and blew on him.

His bare skin was cut by the icy wind, but he only squinted slightly.

Then he laughed.

The laughter sounded exceptionally clear and jarring in the blizzard, like glass scraping against a sharp rock.

"I'm back,"

He spoke to the wind and snow, to the darkness, to the world, "And you, Dumbledore, you actually think I'm inferior to him?"

He tilted his head back, opened his arms, and let the wind and snow sweep over his newborn body.

"Voldemort—is back."

His voice seemed to pierce through the wind and snow, through the entire forest, through the Albanian wilderness, reaching far, far away.

In that far-off place, Albus Dumbledore, who was standing at the edge of the dense forest, suddenly stopped.

He reached into his robes, steadied the wizard who had just Apparated to his side in the tavern, and grasped the hilt of the Gryffindor sword.

"You've finally arrived."

He said in a low voice, "And we still have a lot to do."

Behind him, the wind and snow intensified.

In the darkness ahead, a new era—a dark and unknown era—is slowly unfolding.

The two-horned snake had shed its skin, while the lion had not yet shown its fangs.

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