Harry Potter’s Natural Villain

"Master, is this here?" A short man in a cloak stooped, holding a bag in his hand, muttering to himself, the reason why he said that was because there was no one in front of him that anyone could see people.

Maybe he was talking to a ghost?

After all, there is a cemetery nearby.

There are desolate, long-uncleaned tombstones, some even broken, revealing sharp or rounded corners, standing here and looking to the right, you can see a small church behind a tall yew tree. Black outline. On the left is a hill with a delicate old house on the hillside

"That's right... Peter." A snake-like sound came out of the package, indicating that Peter was not muttering to himself, but had someone to talk to.

"Master, you will be able to have a body again soon." Peter Pettigrew said excitedly at this time, all his hopes were pinned on the strangely shaped meat ball wrapped in his hand.

In the package, of course, is Voldemort who has lost his physical body and is still breathing.

For Peter, Voldemort is also his last hope. If something happens to this man's resurrection, then it is impossible for him to keep fleeing like this. Sooner or later, he will be caught by those ghostly Aurors. Among Zkaban, because his Animagus is also exposed, it is no longer hidden.

"Don't shake your hands." Voldemort said coldly in the package.

"Yes...Yes, Master." Peter Pettigrew immediately forcibly controlled his trembling hands due to excitement and made it quiet.

"It's time to start preparing... My 'medicine' should be on the way now, and it's coming soon."

Hearing this, Peter Pettigrew tremblingly walked over to a fairly flat mound, waved his wand, and quickly deformed a huge crucible according to local conditions. This crucible looked huge, as if it could accommodate an adult people sit in it,

Then Peter took out a package from somewhere, opened it slowly, and then began to add various medicines into the crucible and stirred it. Soon, the liquid filled the whole crucible, as if it was about to overflow at any time.

The sound of splashing is incessant.

"Come on." The man 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 he was someone who could make him feel fear.

Peter Pettigrew's speed of stirring the cauldron became faster and faster, and his thick arm was desperately stirring the liquid in it with the help of tools.

That faint ominous premonition 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 arm that was slender to a certain extent was raised from the package, with a strong smell of blood.

"Yes, Master." Peter Pettigrew breathed, dropped the branch in his hand, and dragged his squat body in the direction Voldemort pointed.

He lifted the tombstone, waved his wand, and took a little powder out of it.

"Master, I got it." Peter Pettigrew, walking back, bent down, and said respectfully.

"Well, I sense a smell that makes me ashamed." After seeing the ashes of old Tom Riddle, Voldemort's mood eased a little, but he started mocking his father indifferently.

There seems to be a strange connection between the father and the son. Even after being dead for many years, for Voldemort, there is still a faint connection with his father's ashes.

As for some of the things mixed in, he didn't have time to care.

"Go on, Wormtail," his lips moved.

"But master, that boy hasn't come yet. I still need to be responsible for bringing him here. He will definitely resist." Peter Pettigrew seemed a little hesitant.

"Are you questioning Voldemort's decision?" A cold voice came from the package.

"No, not at all, my esteemed master." Peter said respectfully and terrified.

"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 that I can't even deal with that kind of kid who can only rely on luck? Crouch is always more useful than our savior, isn't he?" Perhaps fearing that this useless man would screw up his own affairs again, Voldemort rarely explained his intentions and reassured his men.

"We have everything ready, just wait for the boy to come." Voldemort said rationally, he would soon regain his own body, regain his strength, and then kill the boy logically. As a sign to wash away one's own shame and a sign to announce one's own return.

Everything is so perfect.

Voldemort pondered, fantasized, a twisted satisfaction on the snake's face.

Wormtail ripped the pack off the ground to reveal its contents.

A slimy, eyeless, ugly thing—no, it's scarier than that, a hundred times scarier. What Wormtail carried looked like a crouched baby. It has no hair, and it seems to have scales on its body. Its skin is dark and red, like tender meat that has been injured. Its arms and legs were slender and soft, and its face—no living child had such a face—was a flat snake face with gleaming red eyes.

The thing looked completely incapacitated, and it raised its thin arms around Wormtail's neck. Wormtail took it in his hands and walked towards the cauldron.

Wormtail carried the thing to the edge of the cauldron, and the throbbing splash of the potion illuminated the evil flat face. Wormtail put the thing into the cauldron, and it sank with a hiss.

The limp body hit the bottom of the crucible with a soft sound.

Wormtail was talking, his voice trembling as if he was going crazy with fright. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and said to the night sky, "Father's bones, donated inadvertently, can regenerate your son!"

The ashes spread out with the black cloth rose into the air at Wormtail's call and gently fell into the cauldron. The diamond-like liquid surface cracked, hissed, sparks flew, and the liquid turned a bright red blue, poisonous at first sight.

The ugly thing in the cauldron shouted sharply: "Quick, next step, I can feel our savior is coming soon."

Wormtail whimpered. From his cloak he drew a long, thin, silvery dagger. His voice suddenly turned into a sob of utter terror: "The flesh of the servant--self-donated voluntarily, may regenerate--your master--."