"Master, is this here?" A short man in a cloak bent his body, holding a bundle in his hand, and muttered to himself. The reason why he said this was because there was no one in front of him that anyone could see. people.
Maybe he was talking to a ghost
After all, this neighborhood is a cemetery.
There are desolate tombstones that have not been cleared for a long time, some of which are even broken, exposing sharp or rounded corners. Stand here and look to the right, and you can see a small church behind a tall yew tree black outline. On the left is a hill, and there is an exquisite old house on the hillside
"That's right...Peter." A snake-like hissing sound came out of the package, which indicated that Peter was not muttering to himself, but had someone to talk to.
"Master, you will be able to regain your body soon." Peter Pettigrew said excitedly at this time, all his hopes now rest on the strange-shaped lump of meat wrapped in his hand.
What was in the package was, of course, Voldemort who had lost his physical body and was still alive.
For Peter, Voldemort is also his last hope. If something happens to this man's resurrection, he can't keep running like this. Sooner or later, he will be caught by those lingering Aurors. Among Zkaban, because his Animagus is also exposed, he no longer has concealment.
"Stop shaking your hands." Voldemort said coldly in the package.
"Yes... yes, master." Peter Pettigrew immediately forcibly controlled his hands that were constantly trembling due to excitement, and made it quiet.
"Now I can start preparing...my "medicine" should be on the way by now, and it will be here soon."
Hearing this, Peter Pettigrew tremblingly walked towards a fairly flat mound, waved his magic wand, and quickly deformed into a huge crucible according to local conditions. This crucible looked extremely large, as if it could accommodate an adult people sit in it,
Then Peter took out a package from nowhere, slowly opened it, and then began to add various medicines into the crucible and stirred it. Soon, the liquid filled the entire crucible, as if it was about to overflow at any time.
The sound of splashing was endless.
"Hurry up." The person in the package placed on the ground said viciously.
A rather ominous premonition suddenly rose in Voldemort's heart, as if someone was staring at him, and it was someone who could make him feel fear.
Peter Pettigrew stirred the crucible faster and faster, his thick arm was desperately stirring the contents with the help of tools.
That faint sense of foreboding spread more and more in Voldemort's heart, as if to penetrate every corner of his body.
"Go! Get my father's ashes first!" Voldemort in the package suddenly screamed hysterically, and the slender arm was raised from the package, with a strong smell of blood.
"Yes, master." Panting, Peter Pettigrew threw away the branch in his hand, and then dragged his short and fat body to the direction Voldemort pointed.
He lifted the tombstone board, waved his wand, and took some powder from it.
"Master, I got it." Peter Pettigrew walked back, bent down, and said respectfully.
"Well, I feel a smell that shames me." After seeing the ashes of old Tom Riddle, Voldemort's mood eased a little, but he began to mock his father indifferently.
There seems to be a wonderful connection between father and son. Even after many years of death, for Voldemort, there is still a faint connection with his father's ashes.
As for some of the things mixed in, he has no time to care.
"Go ahead, Wormtail," his lips moved.
"But master, that boy hasn't come yet, and I still need to be responsible for bringing him here. He will definitely resist." Pettigrew Peter seemed a little hesitant.
"Are you questioning Voldemort's decision?" A cold voice came from the package.
"No, not at all, my lord." Peter said respectfully and fearfully.
"It's not suitable to stay here for a long time, so we need to prepare in advance. Or, are you doubting my ability? Even if I look like this now, do you think I can't even deal with that kind of kid who can only rely on luck? Old man Crouch is more useful than our savior, isn't he?" Perhaps fearing that this useless man would mess up his affairs again, Voldemort explained his intentions in a rare way to reassure his subordinates.
"We've got everything ready, we just need to wait for the boy to arrive." Voldemort said rationally, he would soon regain his physical body, recover his strength, and then kill the boy logically. As a symbol of washing away one's shame and declaring one's return.
Everything is so perfect.
Voldemort thought, fantasized, a distorted sense of satisfaction on that serpent's face.
Wormtail ripped the bundle off the ground, revealing its contents.
A slimy, ugly, eyeless thing—no, worse than that, a hundred times more. What Wormtail carried looked like a curled up baby. It has no hair, and it seems to have scales on its body. Its skin is dark and red, like wounded tender flesh. Its arms and legs were thin and limp, and its face--no living child had such a face--was that of a flat snake with sparkling red eyes.
The thing looked completely helpless, and it threw its thin arms around Wormtail's neck. Wormtail took it in his hands and walked over to the cauldron.
Wormtail carried the thing to the edge of the cauldron, splashes dancing on the potion's surface illuminating the evil flat face. Wormtail put the thing in the cauldron, and it sank with a hiss.
There was a soft sound when the limp body touched the bottom of the crucible.
Wormtail was talking, his voice trembling as if he had been deranged with fright. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and said to the night sky: "Father's bones, donated by accident, can make your son regenerate!"
The ashes, spread out on a black cloth, rose into the air at Wormtail's call and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond-like surface of the liquid burst, hissed and sparked, and the liquid turned a bright red blue, instantly poisonous.
The ugly thing in the cauldron screamed sharply: "Quick, next step, I can feel our savior is coming soon."
Wormtail was whimpering. He drew a long, thin, silvery dagger from under his cloak. His voice suddenly turned into a sob of extreme fear: "The servant's flesh-self... voluntarily donated, can make-your master-regenerate."