Chapter 590: The Serpent and the Lion
"We're tailing them now..."
Sirius Black's face appeared in the surface of the Magic Hand Mirror. Through
the shifting light of a dense canopy, Sean could see the man's expression—drawn,
serious, and alert.
"They stopped at a graveyard in Little Hangleton for half a day, then made a
straight shot for Albania... Mr. Green, I've sent a Pensieve memory via the
M-Net courier service. I suspect the visual will be far more illuminating than
any description I can give you."
Remus Lupin clearly knew which details were most vital.
"Little Hangleton... Albania..."
Sean furrowed his brow, sorting through the data. What was in the Little
Hangleton graveyard? It didn't take a Seer to know: the remains of Tom Riddle
Sr. were buried there. The "Bone of the Father," the most essential ingredient
for Voldemort's physical restoration.
Is the resurrection imminent?
Sean lowered his head, lost in thought. Should he stop it? If he disrupted the
ritual now, how would the Dark Lord react? If Voldemort didn't regain a body, he
would remain a shadow, a spectral terrorist hiding in the dark. A cornered
animal is dangerous, but a cornered Dark Lord with Horcruxes still at large was
a recipe for infinite chaos.
Sean could destroy Hufflepuff's Cup with relative ease, but that "Unknown
Horcrux"—the seventh anchor—loomed over his plans like a storm cloud. He
couldn't risk driving Voldemort back into hiding before all the anchors were
located.
He looked at the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts. Every wizard here was a living
soul. The loyal Hufflepuffs, the wise Ravenclaws, the brave Gryffindors, and the
ambitious Slytherins. If Voldemort went into a full, desperate frenzy, whose
parents would be the first to fall? Whose child would be the first sacrifice?
He thought of Grandpa Marcus—the old Auror who always laughed so heartily. A man
who claimed he was always ready to head back to the front lines, despite his
age.
"Mr. Green? Mr. Green! I hope your mind hasn't wandered—we're running out of
time! They're moving again! I hope you'll issue the command the moment you
review the memory—"
The connection cut as Sean snapped back to reality. He immediately opened a
different channel on his mirror.
[The Inner Circle]
[Sean Green: The timeline has shifted. We move early.]
[Justin Finch-Fletchley: Understood. I'm heading for the gates now. Hermione?]
[Hermione Granger: My hands are shaking. Are we really doing this? Breaking into
Gringotts? I've already skipped Arithmancy. Don't beat me there, Justin!]
"Phew..."
Sean let out a soft breath and vanished into the shadows of the corridor,
merging with the crowd of chattering students heading for lunch.
The Albanian Forest.
By late February, the woods were shrouded in a leaden, grey mist. The snow
hadn't yet fallen, but the air was as sharp as broken glass. The naked beech
trees groaned in the wind, a sound that carried through the timber like a
warning.
A figure draped in a heavy black cloak moved through the trees. His pace was
slow, his hood pulled low to hide the silver-white hair falling across his
shoulders.
Albus Dumbledore stopped.
Before him stood a stone hut, nearly consumed by moss and reaching vines. It was
a ruin, with only the chimney still pointing defiantly at the sky like a
headstone. Dumbledore noticed the door handle was clear of dust.
A guest. Recently.
He pushed the door open gently, as if afraid of waking a sleeper. The interior
was dark and damp, the smell of mold mixing with an older, more stagnant scent
of decay. But amidst the shattered furniture and broken glass, something caught
his eye.
A fire-pit. The embers were cold, but the ash was still slightly warm.
Dumbledore knelt, his fingers brushing the soot. A spark of light flared on his
fingertip before vanishing.
"Dark magic, certainly," he whispered. "But weak. Piteously weak."
The thought gave him pause. Pity? For Tom?
He stood up and surveyed the shack. Over fifty years ago, a young Tom Riddle had
murdered his own family in a house not far from here. Back then, Tom was full of
ambition and already blood-stained. Now, he had returned to his starting point—a
serpent crawling back to its nest to lick its wounds.
Dumbledore closed his eyes. He knew his role. He wasn't the bravest man—despite
what the world believed—but this move was his to make. The boy was too young.
Sean was a prodigy, and fate had mapped his path, but facing a Dark Lord driven
to the edge of madness was a burden no child should carry.
"Someone must clear the path," Dumbledore's voice echoed in the empty room. "A
fine task for a man looking to retire, I suppose."
He reached into his cloak and produced a long, velvet-wrapped object. He laid it
beside the ash-pit. The fabric slipped back, revealing a silver blade that
seemed to hold a dormant fire within the steel.
The Sword of Gryffindor.
Dumbledore knew Voldemort wouldn't be able to resist it. It was a weapon that
could kill Horcruxes, and a relic of a Founder. To a Dark Lord who had lost
nearly all his anchors, it was the ultimate prize.
"Come then, Tom," Dumbledore said softly. "Let's see how many pieces of you are
left."
Northern Albania.
In a small, storm-wracked town, the lights of a local inn flickered dimly. The
sign above the door read "The Serpent and the Lion." It was a gathering place
for traveling merchants and local hunters.
The pub was nearly empty. A drunk old man snored in a corner, and a woman in a
traveling cloak sat at the bar. She was young, blonde, and looked exhausted, yet
her eyes remained sharp and alert.
Her name was Bertha Jorkins, an employee of the British Ministry of Magic. She
was supposed to be on holiday, but a "lead" had brought her to this remote
corner of the world. The lead suggested a missing person case that had never
been filed: a wizard named Peter Pettigrew had been spotted near the Bulgarian
border.
Bertha was a diligent worker. Too diligent. It would be the death of her.
She didn't notice the movement in the shadows behind her.
Two snakes were watching. One was a real serpent—thick, with dark, heavy scales.
The other "snake" lived within the shell of a man, wrapped in a black cloak and
clutching a bundle that looked like a shriveled, malformed infant.
Peter Pettigrew was shaking. "M-Master..." he wheezed, his voice no louder than
an insect's hum. "This woman... she's from the Ministry. She's..."
"She is looking for you," the voice from the bundle replied. It was raspy, like
dry leaves skittering over stone. "And she has found you, Wormtail."
Peter flinched, nearly dropping the bundle. "No! Master, I—I was careful! I
swear! I didn't—"
"Silence."
The command was soft, yet Peter's throat went dry instantly. The monster in his
arms shifted. A pair of thin, blood-red eyes ignited within the swaddling
clothes, staring at the woman at the bar.
"It is not a trap," Voldemort said slowly. "No Aurors. No tracking charms. She
is alone. A foolish, hardworking little clerk. We have already peered into her
mind, have we not?"
Peter felt a chill race down his spine. He knew that tone. It was the tone of a
master who was calculating—the tone of a predator before the kill.
"M-Master... we have already modified her memory. Should we not...?"
"Should we what, Wormtail? Run?" Voldemort's voice held a trace of a laugh. It
was more terrifying than rage. "According to your report, I have already lost
too much to that boy... Tell me, Wormtail. What does a cornered Dark Lord do?"
Peter didn't dare answer.
"I asked you a question." The voice dropped to a freezing whisper.
"I will bring her to you," Peter managed to choke out.
"Excellent. You aren't entirely useless." The red eyes turned back to the witch.
"But Master... her disappearance will be noticed. If we continue, if I..."
"If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry will never know she died. Do
it quietly. I wish I could do the deed myself, but in my current state... Come,
Wormtail. One more death, and our path is clear. You won't be acting alone.
Soon, my truly loyal servants will rejoin us—"
"I am a loyal servant," Peter muttered, a hint of resentment in his voice.
"I need a mind, Wormtail. I need absolute, unwavering loyalty. You,
unfortunately, possess neither."
"I found you!" Peter hissed, his tone turning oily. "I am the one who located
Bertha Jorkins!"
"True," the monster chuckled. "I didn't think you had it in you. But let's be
honest—when you snatched her, you didn't realize how useful she truly was, did
you?"
"I... I knew she would be of use, Master—"
"Liar," the voice sneered. "But I won't deny her information was invaluable.
Without it, I never would have conceived of my current design. For that, you
shall have your reward. I shall allow you to complete a task that my other
followers would kill to perform..."
"R-Really, Master?" Peter's voice turned frantic.
"Ah, Wormtail. Do you wish to spoil the surprise? Or do you think we have waited
too long? It hasn't been long at all. We are still waiting for him... but I
promise you, the wait will be worth it. You will be just as useful as Bertha
Jorkins in the end."
"You... you..." Peter's mouth went dry. "You mean to... to kill me too?"
"I do not kill 'loyal' servants," the monster purred. "If they truly are as
loyal as they claim..."
Outside Gringotts.
Sean stood with a deep scowl. Justin and Hermione were flanking him, waiting
anxiously for their "interrupted" friend to snap out of his trance. The sun was
setting, and the bank was nearly ready to close. They were about to miss their
window.
"Hermione, Justin..."
They both turned at once, then froze. They had never seen Sean look like this.
He looked at them with a look of such profound, heavy dread that they felt the
air leave their lungs.
"The mission... perhaps..."
"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Hermione shouted.
"Sean, we've planned this for months," Justin said, his voice deep and steady.
"If you can't go, we'll do it ourselves. Don't underestimate us."
Sean remained silent. He was thinking.
Is Peter compromised? Since when?
The Goblin Contract should have altered Peter's memories perfectly. Not even a
Master of Legilimency should have been able to detect the shift. So how did
Voldemort know? Or was it just his natural paranoia?
And Bertha Jorkins... She was supposed to be in Albania now. How she'd been
caught was a mystery even to Sean's foresight. More importantly, Voldemort
planned to kill her.
Sean had thought that by directing Voldemort back to the Riddle House, these
deaths would be avoided. But the Dark Lord had returned to Albania.
Sean focused on the image of the snake beside Voldemort. Is that the Horcrux? Is
that why he needs a murder? Can a soul be split twice in such a short time?
He didn't think so. Which meant Voldemort hadn't made the anchor yet.
He remains cunning...
Voldemort had a second servant. His appearance couldn't be a coincidence. Even
in the original story, Voldemort had turned Nagini into a Horcrux after
returning to the manor.
"Sean?"
The call snapped him back to Diagon Alley. He looked at the worried faces of his
friends and focused his mind.
"We proceed," Sean said.
"Leave it to us," Justin smiled. It was a look of pure confidence, as if
breaking into the world's most secure bank was just another homework assignment.
Hermione was shaking, but her eyes were bright with adrenaline.
Sean reviewed the plan. Getting into Gringotts was easy—for him. But Justin and
Hermione were only fourteen. Without him, they would need a Goblin to open the
vault.
"You are doing something very dangerous," Sean sighed. He couldn't shake the
feeling that things were spiraling. He watched Peter in his mind... the rat was
about to move.
"Funny," Justin chuckled. "It feels like we've been doing 'dangerous' for years
now."
"Mmm," Hermione nodded, her face flushed with excitement.
The massive white building of Gringotts loomed over them in the twilight like
the skull of a giant.
"Snowy."
Sean called his owl. The white bird burst out of his Tome and landed on Justin's
shoulder.
"Tila."
A small Bowtruckle scrambled onto Hermione's arm.
"Then..." Sean hesitated.
"Go, Justin!" Hermione cried, already heading for the doors.
Sean watched them go before slipping into a dark alleyway.
The Albanian Pub.
Peter's face was beet-red. He had missed the underlying scrutiny in Voldemort's
words—all he cared about was that he hadn't been ordered to kill her yet.
"If—if we are to act, Master... perhaps not here," Peter whispered, his words
tripping over each other. "It's too remote. There are no other guests. If she
vanishes, the Ministry will track it back to this inn in hours. We've stayed
hidden for so long... we shouldn't risk it all on the final step."
He stopped, realizing he was arguing with the Dark Lord. He was advising the
butcher to put down the knife.
He waited for the flash of green light. He expected to die for his insolence.
But it didn't come.
"...Interesting."
The blood-red gaze lingered on Peter's face. It lasted so long that Peter felt
his heart stop.
Then, Voldemort laughed.
"You are correct, Wormtail," he purred. "But we require a murder. You know this.
Without an act of pure darkness, without the total violation of death, I cannot
gather the strength for my rebirth."
Peter shook. He didn't know if this was a test or a serious consideration.
"Perhaps... perhaps we wait until she leaves the inn? In the woods... or another
town... anywhere but here. Master's safety is paramount."
As he spoke, Peter felt a strange sensation. It was as if he were saying the
right thing without knowing why.
Voldemort went silent. Peter knelt in the dust, the red gaze feeling like two
hot nails being driven into his skull.
"Very well," Voldemort finally said. "Your loyalty may yet be proven. She is the
target. But you are right—not here. We follow her."
Peter nearly collapsed. A complex emotion washed over him—relief mixed with a
confusion he couldn't name. His body felt lighter, but his mind couldn't keep
up.
Night fell completely. Bertha Jorkins finished her drink, paid the bill, and
headed for the door. Peter stared at his cold tea, not daring to look at her.
The door opened. Cold wind and the scent of snow rushed in. Bertha paused.
"You." she said.
Peter looked up, meeting her gaze. Her blue eyes were filled with a mix of pity
and suspicion.
"You've been sitting there since noon. Motionless. What are you waiting for?"
Peter opened his mouth to lie. He had a dozen excuses ready. But they didn't
come out.
"Get out of here," Peter whispered, his voice low and frantic. "Now. Don't look
back. Don't Apparate to the next town—go straight back to Britain. Go now."
Bertha froze. Peter was equally stunned. Why had he said that? It wasn't his
plan.
But his lips were still moving, driven by a will that wasn't his own. "You've
been marked. Go while you still can. Now!"
Bertha looked at his face. She saw the pure, unadulterated terror in his watery,
rat-like eyes. It was too real to ignore. She grabbed her bag and Disappeared in
a crack of sound, vanishing into the night.
The pub went silent, save for the wind and the thudding of Peter's heart.
He fell to his knees, gasping for air. He had let her go. He had actually saved
her. Why?
"Wormtail," Voldemort's voice was as light as a snake over dry leaves. "You were
anxious while I waited. And when I was ready, you released the prey."
Peter fumbled for words. He didn't remember deciding to save her. "Master... I
don't know... I didn't mean to—I—"
"You don't know," Voldemort repeated, tasting the words. "But you did it,
Wormtail. You released her at the exact moment she could escape. An 'accidental'
act of mercy."
Peter was trembling so hard he couldn't speak.
"He isn't here, Wormtail. But he was. He has been inside your mind since the day
you returned to me."
Peter's eyes bulged. Someone in my head?
Then, the realization struck him. The way the words had flowed... the way his
body had acted on its own... it hadn't been his will. Someone had spoken through
him. And he had thought it was his own idea.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, my servant. It was his pity for a life that saved
her. I saw it all. And it provided the answer I needed. Ah... what a kind, weak
wizard he is. He would risk exposing you just to save a single clerk."
Peter opened his mouth to scream, to plead, to say anything. But he knew it was
too late. From the moment the first thought had been planted, he was already
dead.
"You have one final use, Wormtail. You have brought me back to this world. Now,
you shall provide the final sacrifice."
"Bone of the Father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
The ground beneath Peter's feet split open. He watched in horror as a plume of
dust rose at the hooded man's command and settled into the cauldron. The liquid
turned a brilliant, poisonous blue.
Peter was whimpering now. The hooded man drew a long, silver dagger from his
robes.
"Flesh—of the servant—w-willingly given, you will—revive—your master."
The man extended his right hand and gripped the dagger in his left. Peter
realized what was happening a second before the blade fell. He squeezed his eyes
shut, but the scream that tore through the night felt as though it were being
ripped from his own throat.
He heard the thud of something hitting the ground, followed by the man's
agonizing gasps. Then, a sickening splash as the sacrifice was dropped into the
brew.
Peter didn't want to look, but the potion turned a fiery red, the light piercing
through his eyelids.
"Blood—of the enemy... forcibly taken... you will... resurrect... your foe."
The gasping man fumbled a glass phial from his pocket and tipped the crimson
liquid into the cauldron. The surface immediately turned a blinding, pure white.
The man collapsed beside the cauldron, clutching the stump of his arm.
The liquid began to boil, diamonds of fire spitting into the air until the world
seemed to turn into black velvet.
Peter hoped Voldemort had drowned. He prayed for it. Then he flinched—how dare I
think that?!
The sparks died out. A thick white steam rose from the cauldron, obscuring
everything. Peter couldn't see the man anymore. It failed... it drowned him...
please, Merlin, let him be dead...
Then, through the mist, he saw it. A tall, skeletal black shape rising slowly
from the potion.
"Robe me."
The cold, high voice rang out from behind the steam.
The man on the ground scrambled up, clutching his bleeding arm as he threw a
black robe over the monster's head. The thin man stepped out of the cauldron,
his eyes locking onto Peter.
Peter saw the face. It was whiter than a skull. The eyes were large and
blood-red. The nose was as flat as a serpent's, with slits for nostrils.
Lord Voldemort had returned.
Peter slumped onto the cold stone floor of the pub. His tears had long since run
dry.
"Wormtail," Voldemort's voice echoed through the room. "Do you know why I waited
thirteen years?"
Peter's lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Heh... it doesn't matter. You won't live to hear the answer."
Peter's world went dark.
In London, Sean Green slowly raised his head. He had been absent for a long
time, a lingering look of bewilderment on his face.
Suddenly, the Gringotts alarms began to wail.
Sean looked toward the sky. In the deep ink of the night, the stars were
beginning to sparkle.
The stars were always there, Sean thought. It just took the darkness to reveal
them.
"Thirteen years," Voldemort said, his voice no longer a whisper, but a rich,
magnetic baritone that carried an instinctive terror. The sound echoed through
the empty Albanian inn like a bell tolling in a deep vault.
He looked down at the withered, unrecognizable husk at his feet.
"Such a long time. And you... you did not abandon me in my weakness. Not because
of loyalty, but because you were too cowardly, too afraid, and too pathetic to
find another path. I survived on the scraps of your fear."
His lips curled into a smile that held zero warmth.
"Weakness has its uses, after all. At the very least, it allowed me to stand
here once more."
He extended a hand, flexing each long, pale finger. They looked as though they
had never seen the sun.
"And you are not the only weak one," he sneered. "He chose a coward after all...
Dumbledore."
Voldemort whispered the name, tasting it. "You have everything this world can
offer. Loyal friends, adoring students, the worship of a pathetic society. And
I—"
He surveyed the blood-stained floor and the ruins of the inn.
"—I have myself."
He looked toward the entrance. With a wave of his hand, the heavy doors were
blasted open. Wind and snow rushed into the room. The freezing air sliced across
his new skin like ice-blades, yet he only narrowed his eyes.
Then, he laughed. The sound was sharp and jarring, like glass breaking over
stone.
"I am back," he told the night. "And you, Dumbledore—did you truly think I would
be surpassed by a boy?"
He threw his arms wide, welcoming the gale. "Voldemort... has returned."
His voice seemed to pierce the storm, carrying across the forest and the
Albanian wastes to a point far, far away.
In that distant place, at the edge of the deep timber, Albus Dumbledore stopped
in his tracks. He reached into his robes to steady the witch who had just
Apparated to his side, his hand tightening around the hilt of the Sword of
Gryffindor.
"You finally came," he whispered to the wind. "And we have much to do."
The storm roared around him. In the darkness ahead, the curtain was rising on a
new, unknown era.
The horned serpent had shed its skin. But the Lion had yet to show its teeth.
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