HP North Star's Radiance

This madwoman, she's Voldemort's dog, even madder than Bellatrix. At least Bellatrix considered whether the person opposite her was loyal to Voldemort; Mrs. Burstdle didn't care at all, she just bit indiscriminately.

But she also brought Prass some news: Voldemort was in a bad mood, so bad that Mrs. Burstdle noticed.

Praris didn't hesitate at all, maintaining her original pace, acting as if it were none of her business, as if she had never thought that Voldemort's anger had anything to do with her.

As soon as she pushed open the door to the reception room, she sensed that something was wrong with the atmosphere inside, almost like the first time she met Voldemort.

But this time, even Bella, who was watching, was gone. Only Sylvia sat to the side with a tarot card in front of her—the Seven of Swords.

Thanks to Voldemort's superstition and Sylvia, Praris roughly understood what was going on.

“Master.” Praris’s eyes held a hint of confusion, but he still bowed respectfully. “Mrs. Burst said you summoned me?”

Voldemort stood with his back to Praris, the moonlight filtering through the clouds, casting a long shadow that made him look like a menacing Dementor, ready to steal Praris's soul at any moment.

He turned his head, looked directly into Praris's eyes, and asked in a calm but undeniable tone, "Intelligence indicates that Porter and his group firmly believe you can help them solve a crucial problem. What do you have to say about that?"

A problem? Praris certainly knew what it was, but she shouldn't have. It was a blatant trap, and the moment she revealed even the slightest understanding of the problem, she would be exposed.

“Help them—me?” Praris frowned, his face filled with disbelief and doubt. “This is very unusual. Unless… they have received false information about some of my abilities and intend to capture me to achieve some goal.”

She pondered for a moment and then added, "Or perhaps, this is a scheme... The Hogwarts resistance attacked me, destroyed my laboratory, and injured my hand... I understand now, they somehow learned that I was working for you, and thus devised this plan to create a rift between us?"

Praris understood that she could not deny it; simply denying it would trap her in a vicious cycle of self-justification, preventing her from escaping Voldemort's judgment.

"Oh?" Voldemort also remembered the fact that she had been injured by those students. Thinking about it, it made sense. How could a Slytherin sacrifice her hands, which were crucial to her future?

Thinking of this, his tone softened: "So, which one do you think it is?"

Praris shook his head, but his gaze was unwavering: "Master, whether they are so helpless that they turn to me, their enemy, for help, or they are framing me, it all proves one thing: they are desperate."

At this point, Praris gave a mocking sneer, as if he were looking at some clown: "Whether it was a colleague who inadvertently revealed my existence, or someone who used a little cleverness, I dare say I've become a threat in their eyes. The enemy's fear is our honor, isn't it?"

Voldemort repeated Prareas's words meaningfully: "The fear of our enemies is our honor... Yes, Prareas, I'm glad you think that way."

Yes, this was the view Voldemort always held. He preferred to see everyone bow down at his feet out of fear rather than win people over with virtue!

He had long admired Praris's approval of his strategy, and now he felt as if he had found a kindred spirit. Voldemort waved his wand, magically conjuring an armchair for Praris to sit down. He then sat down opposite Praris, next to Sylvia.

Praris bowed again in gratitude, and as she sat down, she said, “I understand your meaning, Master. You told me this so that I might be more vigilant and avoid being ambushed by the enemy while traveling between the school and the manor. You also hope that I will focus more on the experiments and improve the flaws in the Soul-Gathering Agent, is that right?”

It seems contradictory that Prarese previously accused Mrs. Burstow of speculating about Voldemort's thoughts, but now he himself is speculating about Voldemort's thoughts. But that's not the case; this isn't speculation, it's praise.

In this crisis, what she needed to do was never to dispel Voldemort's suspicions—which was impossible anyway, as Voldemort was always on the path of suspicion.

It should be understood that only spies need to prove themselves; why would a loyal servant need to prove his innocence?

Her job consisted of only two things: First, to serve Voldemort. She had to deduce the enemy's schemes from a Death Eater's perspective and offer advice to her master. Second, to acknowledge and praise Voldemort's insights. Regardless of what Voldemort said, she had to ultimately steer the conversation towards praising his foresight, satisfying his vanity.

Voldemort glanced at the Seven of Swords and guessed that the card did not mean that Praris was deceiving him, but that the Order of the Phoenix was trying to deceive him with a divisive tactic.

Ever since he got Sylvia, he was sometimes relieved that she was a fool without her own thoughts, and sometimes annoyed that the witch couldn't explain the true meaning of the cards to him.

Voldemort said, "I am pleased to see your growth, Praris."

“This is all thanks to my master’s guidance,” Praris said sincerely. “In potions, Professor Snape was my mentor in the past. On the path of life, you are my guiding light.”

Prarese showered Voldemort with compliments as if they were free, fully compensating for the frustration and betrayal he suffered with Winnie.

More importantly, unlike other Death Eaters, she also possessed the sincerity that Voldemort saw through Legilimency.

This is all thanks to the thorough instruction of Snape, the master of Legilimency—this time it was genuine.

Chapter 296 Fallen Flowers and Flowing Water

“Prareth,” Voldemort hissed, “now is the time for you to make your mark.”

Praris looked at Voldemort with a mixture of joy and confusion, seemingly not understanding why he suddenly said such a thing.

Voldemort stood up, walked to the window again, stood with his hands behind his back, and looked north—towards the location of Hogwarts.

His voice was dangerous and menacing: "Harry Potter has lost his mind, made a terrible mistake, and walked right into the trap of returning to Hogwarts... This is a golden opportunity that cannot be missed."

"To think that—" Praris stepped forward, a hint of excitement in his voice, "Then, is there anything I can do for my master?"

"Hand over all the Soul-Gathering Potion you have. I need to be in the best possible condition to face Harry Potter's death," Voldemort said. "Then, get back to your professor as soon as possible and have him and Carol begin the hunt for Potter immediately."

"Yes."

Prareas obeyed Voldemort's orders and immediately turned to retrieve the potion from the makeshift laboratory.

Although Soul-Gathering Elixir is indeed a rare and difficult potion to make, as its creator, the time required to prepare it is relatively shorter.

The reason for the low production was that Prarese had been intentionally controlling it to prevent Voldemort from having too much of an impact on Harry's mental state.

Praliss opened the laboratory door and took the remaining four vials of potion from the wooden shelf. As she locked the door, some Death Eaters, summoned by Voldemort, were hurrying towards the drawing room.

“Little Pettigrew!” Praris shouted.

Peter Pettigrew shrank back as if someone had pinched the back of his neck, and slowly turned his head to look at her, stammering, "Prince, I am eager to answer my master's call."

“I know,” Praris said calmly. “My master gave me two urgent orders, one of which was to give him all the remaining potions. Since you’re going to the drawing room, please take them to him for me.”

Peter Pettigrew gasped and stammered, "But...but...but the master's order is for you to..."

“There’s no difference,” Praris said casually. “My master won’t blame me, so take it!”

Peter Pettigrew thought to himself: The master won't scold you, but he will scold me!

Prareas has never been a considerate person among the Death Eaters, so she has to do what Little Star has to do.

She coldly rebuked Little Pettigrew: "Hurry up and go! Can you afford to delay your master's mission?!"

Pettigrew was startled. By the time he realized what was happening, the witch had vanished, leaving him standing alone in the corridor, clutching four potion bottles.

The Death Eaters inside the manor have already gathered, while those outside are still on their way. From the windows, you can see some Death Eaters walking inside.

Pettigrew swallowed hard and strode towards the drawing room. But gradually, his pace slowed as he looked down at the four potion bottles in his arms.

Peter's mother had once told him not to put foxes in the henhouse or let drunkards work in the brewery. Prince, clearly unaware of this, put the mice with the rice bin.

The master asked her to take the remaining potions, but didn't specify how many bottles. Four bottles wasn't a good number; it would easily arouse suspicion that he had stolen one. Since people were already suspicious, he might as well just take one; three bottles would be a more reasonable number.

Pettigrew looked around and quietly slipped one of the bottles into his tattered robe.

"Wormtail!" A voice suddenly rang out behind Pettigrew, making him freeze instantly, as if he were being pricked by thorns.

Yaxley, who had just rushed over from the Ministry of Magic, said, "What are you standing here for!"

“I…I…I’m delivering things for Prince,” Little Pettigrew said with a dry laugh. “I’m adjusting their positions so they don’t fall.”

Yaxley scoffed, looking down on Pettigrew's precarious demeanor. He could be bossed around by a young witch who hadn't even graduated yet; this guy was really getting worse with age.

The two Death Eaters entered the drawing room together. Pettigrew's heart pounded. He lowered his head and placed the three vials of potions in front of Voldemort: "Prince asked me to give these to my master... She has returned to Hogwarts."

Voldemort casually responded, glancing at the three vials of potions with some dissatisfaction—it was a bit too few for him. He didn't take Pettigrew's words to heart; some people deserved his attention, while others weren't even worthy of his peripheral vision.

Now, he has something more important to do—get rid of Potter to prevent future troubles.

After addressing his core Death Eaters, Voldemort approached Sylvia and whispered, "Miss Sylvia, you've served me for so long, it's time for a reward. I'll grant you a good opportunity to witness my victory—come, let me see your prophecy!"

First image: Death.

Second picture: Stars.

The third image: The sun.

Harry gasped, his eyes flashing as he saw the three cards placed in front of the gaunt woman. He couldn't help but read the English on the three tickets aloud.

“What?” Hermione asked.

Despite his discomfort, Harry asked Hermione softly, "You've taken arithmetic and divination classes. If you draw these three cards, what does it mean?"

Hermione, the top student, instinctively said, "That's a good omen."

Harry's forehead veins throbbed. Voldemort's good omen was hardly a good thing for them.

Seeing Harry's discomfort, McGonagall, who was standing to the side, said, "As far as I know, most wizards' tarot readings are just a fun card game. Divination has never been a guide for our lives; destiny is in our own hands."

Harry and his friends stumbled upon Amycus Carrow humiliating Professor McGonagall. Almost without thinking, he attacked Amycus, and together they subdued the Carrow siblings and hid them.

Professor McGonagall's words brought Harry some comfort, but the prophecy's impact on his fate also stirred some strange thoughts in his mind.

Sometimes, Harry even felt that the entanglement of fate made him resemble Voldemort, which made him feel extremely nauseous.

“Time is running out, Professor McGonagall,” Harry said. “We must find Prader as soon as possible. Could you please get her out of the Slytherin common room? But in the meantime, I’m afraid you’ll have to evacuate the students from the school. Voldemort wants to kill me, and that will affect others.”

Harry remembered that it was Professor McGonagall who had called him out on the morning Dumbledore died. He didn't want war to break out at Hogwarts either, but he had to find a way to destroy the locket, and that way... only Praris, who had destroyed Horcruxes and possessed a vast repertoire of ancient and mysterious spells, would know.

They had given it careful consideration; the spells that could be attached to Horcruxes were no ordinary things, just like the curse on the ring that harmed Dumbledore—this was not something an ordinary person could handle.

Harry gradually realized that Prader wasn't purely good, nor purely bad. He trusted Prader, but they couldn't make decisions based solely on trust. Prader's choice of path wasn't solely determined by good or evil; there were many other factors at play. It was a gamble, but they had no other choice; it was the only way he could think of to defeat Voldemort.

“No, Harry.” Professor McGonagall’s eyes were filled with disappointment and confusion. “I don’t know why you want to see that child, but I’m afraid she’s not at school.”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione asked softly. “Where would she go?”

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, seemingly hesitant to speak. Suddenly, she raised her wand, pointed it in a direction, and assumed a fighting stance: "Who is it?"

"It's me." A deep but familiar voice rang out.

Snape emerged from around the corner of the corridor, dressed in a robe and carrying a wand, seemingly ready for battle.

“Where are the Carlo siblings?” he asked.

Professor McGonagall said, "It depends on where they want to go."

Snape stepped forward, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. He lowered his voice and said, "I have a feeling the Carol siblings have stumbled upon something terrible."

“Such a thing is true?” Professor McGonagall said sarcastically. “Where does this feeling come from—it’s my oversight, I forgot about your ‘unique’ way of communicating.”

Ignoring Professor McGonagall's sarcasm, Snape's gaze continued to wander, and he asked casually, "It doesn't seem to be your turn to patrol today..."

“I have an extraordinary passion for my work,” Professor McGonagall said.

"Really? This enthusiasm drives you to get out of bed in the middle of the night for no reason?"

"I think I heard some noise."

"If this commotion were Harry Potter, I must emphasize—"

Without any warning, Professor McGonagall unleashed her magic, releasing a series of wind-blade-like attacks that whizzed towards Snape.

Snape reacted quickly, raising his armor charm the same time Professor McGonagall made his move, deflecting some of the wind blades back and embedding them into the wall, leaving deep marks.

Professor McGonagall waved her wand, and the torches on both sides of the corridor flew up, transforming into a black and red fire dragon that attacked Snape. The fire dragon was blocked by Snape's magical armor, then transformed into daggers that clattered against the armor.