I'm the King of Curry at Hogwarts

Chapter 317 Voldemort Returns

In Harry's view, ever since Peter Pettigrew pushed the cauldron over, the pile of clothes on the ground began to writhe violently, as if it couldn't wait to get into the cauldron to wash itself.

Harry started to speculate irresponsibly: if Voldemort was inside those clothes, would this be considered "boiled Voldemort"? Ugh... that sounds like a dish name.

He began to stop his divergent thinking; he couldn't think any further, the more he thought about it, the more nauseous he felt.

Peter Pettigrew, with his fat body bent over, clumsily stuffed firewood under the large crucible. Then he waved his hand, and crackling flames rose from under the crucible, while the great serpent slithered outwards.

Snakes are supposed to be afraid of fire, right? Harry wasn't sure, but he didn't have much time to think about it. The liquid in the cauldron was heating up very quickly. He felt like the snake had just slithered away when the pot started to boil, sparking as if it were on fire. The steam was getting thicker and thicker, and Peter Pettigrew, who was watching the flames, was becoming increasingly blurry in Harry's eyes.

At the same time, a purple and white mist began to spread around the cemetery. Harry felt that the mist looked familiar, as if he had seen it somewhere before, but he was not sure.

As the mist gradually drifted in, Harry, on a sudden inspiration, frantically activated the Occlumency Charm. But Peter Pettigrew, with his back to the mist, seemed oblivious. As the mist gradually spread over him, Peter Pettigrew became increasingly restless and impatient.

The fog seemed capable of corrupting one's mind; Harry noticed it immediately—something he'd learned about in Pandaria recently.

Thinking of Pandaria, Harry suddenly remembered that this energy seemed to be Sha energy.

According to the Pandaren and Mantis, it is the power of some ancient god that can corrupt people's minds and turn them into puppets who submit to their will.

However, Harry didn't have time to think too much. The situation over there was becoming less than optimistic. It seemed that some kind of evil ritual between Peter Pettigrew and the Voldemort infancy was about to begin.

The clothes trembled more rapidly, and Harry heard a sharp, cold voice.

"quick!"

Sparks now danced across the entire surface of the water, as if studded with burning diamonds, appearing even more eerie amidst the rising purple-white mist.

"It's cooked, Master..." Peter Pettigrew replied timidly.

"Now...!" the cold voice said in an unquestionable tone.

Peter Pettigrew ripped open the bundle on the ground, revealing its contents. Harry let out a scream, but his mouth was stuffed shut, and he could only make futile whimpering sounds.

It's like Peter Pettigrew suddenly flipping over a rock and revealing a sticky, ugly, eyeless thing... No, it's even more terrifying, a hundred times more terrifying.

The thing Peter Pettigrew brought resembled a curled-up baby, but Harry had never seen anything less than a baby. It had no fur, its body was covered in what looked like scales, dry, rough, and not at all smooth. Moreover, its skin was a dark, reddish color, like wounded tender flesh—in some places, there were purple and white scars, the white scars even shimmering with a bright white light.

Its arms and legs were thin and soft, and as for its face—no living child had such a face—it was a flat snake face with a pair of gleaming red vertical pupils.

The thing seemed completely incapable of taking care of itself. It raised its thin arms and wrapped them around Peter Pettigrew's neck, as if asking for a hug. If this action were done by a cute little animal, it might have been considered adorable—but since it was this creature resembling Voldemort, Harry only felt disgusted.

Peter Pettigrew held it in his hands, and then Peter Pettigrew's hood fell off, and Harry saw in the firelight a look of disgust on his pale, weak face.

He carried the thing to the edge of the cauldron, and for a moment, Harry saw the splashing water on the surface of the potion illuminate the evil, flat face. Peter Pettigrew placed the thing into the cauldron, and with a strange hissing sound, it sank to the bottom with a gurgling sound; Harry could even hear its limp body hitting the bottom of the cauldron.

"Let it drown," Harry pleaded silently to Merlin, his scar burning almost unbearably. "Please... let it drown... I'd study hard and improve myself every day in exchange for this thing drowning in the cauldron..."

Peter Pettigrew was speaking, his voice trembling, as if he were frightened to the point of being somewhat deranged. His gaze darted around, looking left and right like a mouse, as if he were afraid of something.

But soon, a thick purple mist drifted over and entered his body. Peter Pettigrew seemed to receive some kind of encouragement. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and said to the night sky, "Your father's bones, unintentionally donated, can bring your son back to life!"

The grave beneath Harry's feet cracked open, and to his horror, Harry saw a wisp of dust rise into the air at Peter Pettigrew's call, gently falling into the cauldron. The diamond-like surface of the liquid shattered, hissing and sparking, turning a vivid blue—clearly poisonous, and highly so.

Peter Pettigrew was sobbing as he pulled a long, thin, gleaming silver dagger from his cloak.

Peter Pettigrew's voice turned into a terrified sob: "The flesh of your servant—voluntarily donated—can bring your master back to life!"

He stretched out his right hand—the one missing a finger—and gripped the dagger tightly with his left hand. After struggling several times, he gritted his long, rat-like teeth, closed his eyes, and swung the dagger forcefully at his right hand.

Harry realized at the last second what Peter Pettigrew was about to do. He closed his eyes tightly, but he couldn't stop him.

The piercing scream that seemed to cut through the night sky went straight to Harry's brain, and his head began to throb again. He had the illusion that he, too, had been stabbed by a dagger. He heard something fall to the ground with a thud, then Peter Pettigrew's labored, painful breathing, followed by a nauseating thud as something was thrown into the cauldron.

Harry didn't want to look... but the potion turned fiery red, and a bright light shone into Harry's tightly closed eyelids.

Peter Pettigrew was breathing and groaning in pain. Harry only realized Peter Pettigrew was standing in front of him when those painful breaths hit his face.

"The blood of your enemy... forced to be offered... can bring your enemy... back to life!"

Harry couldn't stop it; he was bound too tightly. He struggled desperately, trying to break free of the ropes binding him. Through his slits, he saw a gleaming silver dagger trembling in Peter Pettigrew's single hand. He felt the dagger pierce his arm, and the blood of a fourth-class enemy (not really) slowly trickled down the torn sleeve of his school uniform robe.

Still panting in pain, Peter Pettigrew trembled as he pulled a small glass bottle from his pocket and placed it next to Harry's wound. A small amount of blood flowed into the bottle.

He staggered toward the cauldron, carrying Harry's blood, and poured it in. The liquid in the cauldron immediately turned milky white, like a perfectly simmered fish and tofu soup. Wormtail, having completed his task, knelt beside the cauldron, his body slumped to the ground, and he sobbed, 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 in Zhou Kingdom turned the color of black velvet.

"Waaah!" Harry whimpered, unable to utter a word with his mouth stuffed with a sock—in other words, what he really wanted to say was, "Why don't you boil me to death? Son of the Beach."

He kept praying in his heart for Merlin's help, urging him to quickly heat the pot and boil the grotesque Voldemort to death...

Then, through the white mist before him, he saw, with a chilling glimpse, an embryo-like nascent form slowly rising from the crucible, just like the embryos he had learned about in his Muggle elementary school textbooks. It was somewhat transparent, and he could even see the blood vessels inside. Soon, the embryo slowly grew, as if it were developing at an accelerated pace, gradually transforming into a figure dressed in a black robe, tall and thin, like a skeleton.

"Dress me." The cold, shrill voice said from behind the steam. Peter Pettigrew, sobbing and groaning, still clutching his amputated arm, hurriedly grabbed the black robe wrapped in a bundle from the ground, forced himself to stand up despite the pain, shook the black robe, and slipped it over his master's head with one hand.

The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, his eyes coldly fixed on Harry… Harry saw the face that had haunted his nightmares for the past three years, paler than a skull, with large, bloodshot eyes, a flat nose like a snake's, and nostrils like two thin slits in a socket. Harry, a veteran of the Muggle world, even felt a strong urge to find an electrical plug and plug him in…

As is foreseeable, Voldemort has been resurrected.

After all these years, after all this time, after fattening up so many Death Eaters, wasn't this the day we'd been waiting for? Voldemort narrowed his crimson snake eyes, sizing up Harry. He wasn't in a hurry to deal with Harry; there were many more things to do.

Voldemort looked at Harry for a while, but then stopped paying attention to him and began to examine his own body. His hands were pale and thin, with an unhealthy color. He touched this and that, just like a child who had encountered a new and interesting toy.

It's understandable that Voldemort would be so eager to see his long-lost body, after all, he had lived in a ghostly state for countless years, during which time he not only possessed Horcruxes but also stuck to other people's heads... Speaking of which, this Dark Lord has had quite a few pent-up frustrations.

At the same time, a bunch of indescribable monsters kept gathering around. Harry didn't recognize what these things were. Their appearance was hard to describe. They looked like empty skeletons with purple and white bodies and emitted an eerie light.

Seeing them surround him, Peter Pettigrew shivered uncontrollably, as if he had suffered from these things before.

"What are you afraid of? Wormtail?" Voldemort's voice was cold and shrill, enough to send chills down one's spine just by hearing it.

Harry swore that if he hadn't been tied to the tombstone, he probably would have run away in fear the moment he was there.

It was so torturous; the sound was like the most venomous snake, tormenting one's nerves.

It hurts, it hurts too much.

Peter Pettigrew cowered on the ground, trembling as he said, "N-nothing...it's nothing, Master, I just...I just...I'm not scared...Master, it's just that my hand hurts so much..."

"Oh...I see..." Voldemort looked at Peter Pettigrew for a moment, snorted, and let out a cold and sharp laugh, as if he was looking down on his cowardice.

"Master..." Peter Pettigrew sobbed, pleading, "You promised, you promised..."

Voldemort grunted, revealing a lazy expression, and stretched out his withered claws to pull his wand from Peter Pettigrew's pocket: "Stretch out your arm."

Upon hearing Voldemort's words, Peter Pettigrew was overjoyed. He knew that his master wouldn't let him give up his arm for nothing; his master was about to make amends!

Oh, how can you call it compensation? It should be called a reward, he thought to himself, secretly cursing his own foolish idea.

"Oh, thank you, Master, thank you... Master..." Peter Pettigrew looked so grateful that Harry felt like he was going to throw up again—this time not because of Peter Pettigrew's sour-smelling socks, but because of his fawning attitude, which almost made him vomit his dinner from the night before onto the edge of his socks.

Harry felt a deep sadness, a sadness for his father and the other two Marauders. "My father James, a fine man, is being compared to you, a sycophantic scoundrel?"

If his father were still alive, he would surely despise Peter Pettigrew's current behavior, right? Harry thought sadly, increasingly despising Peter Pettigrew cowering on the ground, feeling that he and his Animagus were truly a perfect match, both crawling in the shadows of the gutter.

He stretched out his bloodied, severed arm, his rat-like eyes squinting obsequiously at Voldemort, but Voldemort let out a cold laugh: "Not this one, Wormtail, you know which one I'm talking about."

Upon hearing Voldemort's refusal, Peter Pettigrew's heart sank to the bottom. He cried and begged, tears streaming down his face, "Master, please, please..."

Voldemort bent down, pulled up Wormtail's left arm, and used his wand to lift his sleeve up to his elbow. There, on the skin, was something that looked like a bright red tattoo, with a snake emerging from the mouth of a skull—the same symbol that had appeared in the Quidditch World Cup—the Dark Mark representing Voldemort and his reactionary gang.

Voldemort examined it closely, completely ignoring the insect tail's uncontrollable sobbing.

"It's back," Voldemort said softly. "They'll all notice it... Now, our time is about to begin..."

(End of this chapter)