POV ?
An impenetrable veil enveloped the outskirts of the remote settlement, dampness seemed to permeate everywhere, and vague shadows and underlying fear spawned chimeras and monsters, only the blazing fireplaces in the houses invariably brought a modicum of hope and warmth to the blue haze. Electric bulbs created jagged balls of light that only exacerbated the mirages of frightened souls. People who happened to be outside the stone walls of a house or a warm and welcoming pub during this bad season tried not to even tread — literally sneaking from one ball of lantern light to the next.
These sources of hope for the best did little to dispel the evening darkness, and the gray haze seemed to scowl predatorily with a thousand creepy jaws, promising a multitude of dangers to slow travelers. Most people sought light, warmth, and noise — in the pub, the only place where they could calm their nerves, banish the habitual terror of the unknown, and laugh at the losers who had not yet managed to get their share of flavored whiskey or a mug of frothy drink.
The backwoods have not always been characterized by progressive enlightenment, old stories, legends and myths have always been preserved there, and will be for a long time to come. It is in the backwoods that the largest part of the folklore of the people has been reliably collected and preserved for centuries, and it is in the hearts and souls of the villagers that the most unusual and strange rumors and stories are born.
And why should they not be born, if not often, when in the mist you can meet something that has never been a man at all... and we are not talking about a wolf or a fox, not at all. There have been times when a weary traveler has met a hero of fairy tales — good-natured or not so good-natured alves, or deadly-dangerous... anyone — how few monsters have inspired human fears? And, of course, every such encounter, if the creature remained alive, became news that no one even thought of denying — it could happen to anyone.
And that foggy night prophesied bad things to all the careless people who decided to go to "unfriendly" or even downright "evil" places, like the local cemetery. However, the locals can't be called inconsiderate, and that's why no one will take a step outside of a small, tiny town, or even more likely a village.
Even the local pub is practically empty today — only a trio of old friends, who live very close to the "promised land", still make noise in the dark stone walls of the semi-basement room. The rest of the townspeople hid in their houses as if they sensed trouble....
— Worrrmtail! Hurry!
— Yes, my lord! Just a moment, then we can begin! — replied a short, overweight man with an unpleasant face.
The living present in this graveyard that night did not hide, did not lower their voices, but the mist carefully hid their children and admirers — not good people.
From the bundle, carefully placed on the enchanted chair, an ugly... no, not a baby, this creature is called something else, and only a stupid or blind and naive person could call it a baby. From the first glance it was clear that the creature was evil — so tiny and weak in appearance, it radiated a clearly perceptible aura of threat and danger, which made the dogs whimper softly and cower deep in their kennels.
The creature's thin, knotted fingers held a light, almost white staff. The creature kept a watchful eye on its servant, never letting him out of its sight for a moment, rightly assuming a willful or unintentional mistake.
The fat man himself, with gray-yellow skin and sparse hair, had brewed and drunk a potion of concentration beforehand. He knew himself, recognized and accepted his fear and almost horror of his master, and therefore had no doubt that without the potion he would not be able to do everything correctly and would disappoint the master.
Lord, for which, at best, he would be severely punished. Sometimes Wormtail wondered if the Lord realized that most of the mistakes his subordinates made were due to fear of their master, fear of punishment. But no matter how much he thought about it, he could never find a clear answer. Wormtail had never been a genius, but he was no fool (though some would argue that), so he quickly found a way to control his nervousness at his unprecedented responsibility by preparing and drinking a potion.
It helped a lot: behind the usual image of a short-sighted but obnoxious coward, there was a cold concentration that did not allow him to be mistaken about anything. And now the hour had come — the ritual potion was almost ready, all that remained was to wait for the one thing without which everything was useless — the enemy of the Lord.
The original plan was to use a boy whose name was almost the same as the Dark Lord's, which is a misunderstanding in itself, but somehow it all went wrong! The plan was worked out, everything was thought out, but someone interfered and broke the chain of events. It was good that the Lord allowed for the possibility of failure — after all, he was not playing with just anyone, but with the wizard of light himself — Albus Dumbledore, and that wicked man (a rascal!) was always capable of turning any slender plan upside down with just a few words.
The Lord's Agent, one of the Dark's most effective players in recent years, reacted in time to report an emergency during the final test of the Tournament. It turned out that the Auror guards, as well as the attached specialists from the Department of Mysteries (!), had discovered something in the Labyrinth that had caused unprecedented noise and commotion, almost panic, though even that was only loosely controlled. Support from the Aurorat was called in, a few more "people in gray" arrived, and then they all went deep into the labyrinth together.
It seemed that the battle groups from the countries whose champions were participating in the tournament had also gone there without asking anyone's permission. Barty was rightly afraid to go there — the atmosphere had become too tense, especially since Dumbledore had used a tricky 'card' of his own, and Potter had been pulled out of the labyrinth just a minute after the Aurors had left. Crouch Jr. urgently needed to adjust the current plans, and he relayed the message to the Lord, who gave the go-ahead to use a backup plan, according to which the agent, picking up the cherished box, would leave the dangerous Hogwarts at the speed of a waltz and be delivered to his master.
Here, like another monster breaking the mist with a confident and quick step, Barty appeared on the platform freed for the ritual. With a deft movement, he dropped the magic chest and its precious contents onto the stale grass, bowed low to his master, who waved impatiently, and the ritual began.
Wormtail begins to speak the words, using his voice and wand skillfully, and the flames beneath the stone cauldron take on new colors and shades, reflecting in the watchful red eyes the fires of evil anticipation and impatience. Here an old bone flies from the damp earth and disappears with a new syllable into the viscous slurry of the cauldron, while Barty pulls the stunned Moody from his trunk and throws him to the ground.
The old man, clad in a single robe, staggers lazily to the ground, apparently not only unaware of anything, but unaware of himself. The blood of the enemy and the flesh of the servant are taken, a flash of white-gray flame, the slurry in the cauldron changes color, a few words, and the creepy little creature disappears into the cauldron. Bubbles, hisses, an explosion of heavy smoke, the cauldron splits in two, and in the faint light of the magical fire rises the tall, slender figure of the one man the wizarding world has feared and dreaded for years — Lord Voldemort.
Slender fingers are stretched out under red eyes, a satisfied smile cuts across thin human lips, a normal nose greedily inhales the cold, damp air, goosebumps run down the pale skin, but it causes another wave of pleasure: he is alive again! He can feel and sense! After examining his painful thinness, the middle-aged man nods to the servant, who throws a black robe over his shoulders, his magic wand carefully hidden in the inside pocket.
The man turns his attention to his other servant, who lies sprawled on the floor nearby, hissing and sobbing as he cradles his stump. An intricate pattern was drawn with the wand, a few hissing and whistling words, and a thin silver ribbon woven in the air became a silver hand — a gift for loyal service and another collar for a possible traitor.
Another pattern and a one-legged man in a dirty shirt is enveloped in a scarlet glow, a few seconds later there are sparks of reason and understanding in his eyes, then desperate anger and hatred. His face is contorted with the emotions he is experiencing.
— Avada Kedavra! — aristocratic lips curl in pleasure, revealing even white teeth.
A dead flash of green light, and the one-legged man's eye goes glassy, the life draining from it, his body freezing. The man examines the dead man contentedly for a while, then gives a short command. Literally within a minute, there is no trace of what happened in the clearing, even the gravestones that were thrown aside have returned to their places.
The original plan had been quite different, completely different, but the events of the last months and weeks had forced the Lord to seriously consider how to accomplish His great plans in the present realities. Thus it was decided that giving the enemy advance notice of His return would now be folly and a direct path to loss. The Lord had lost too many subordinates, and with them wealth and influence — it had set him back a few steps, and it must be dealt with... quietly and carefully, as in his youth... ....
The damp mist, like the waters of a cold sea, carefully hid the traces of the magic that had been done, and froze with a bluish thickness... for the time being... until the hour when the hot sun of the new day would rise....