Chapter 327: The Next Consumable
Hiss.
Amidst a reeking garbage dump, a rare all-black adder slithered silently through the refuse. Its body moved with patient precision, tongue flicking in and out as it tasted the air—sharp, deliberate, hungry.
It had found its prey.
In the next instant, the snake reared back and struck.
Whoosh.
A plump rat vanished into its open jaws.
Yet something was wrong.
The rat did not struggle.
As the only venomous snake native among Britain's three major species, the adder possessed potent venom—but it was not wasteful. Its strikes were efficient, measured, rarely lethal at first contact. Normally, a victim would writhe violently, driven mad by pain and fear.
This rat remained unnaturally still.
The adder, lacking any human awareness, did not question the anomaly. Appetite overrode instinct. It swallowed the motionless prey whole.
A moment later, a faint black light pulsed beneath the snake's scales.
Magic—ancient, twisted, and perfectly attuned to serpents—stirred awake.
Wisps of pale white vapor leaked from between its scales, indistinguishable from the surrounding fog.
"Hiss… hiss… hiss…"
(I thought I was truly dead.)
The snake's eyes, once filled only with hunger, sharpened. Intelligence returned—cold, calculating, unmistakable.
Voldemort was in an exceptionally foul mood.
All he had wanted was information.
A solitary old wizard. A quiet church. A few answers regarding the Elder Wand.
Nothing more.
Everything had begun after he seized Fenrir Greyback's body.
Greyback lived like a stray dog—no fixed home, no protection. In the ruins of a Dark wizard's residence, one Greyback had recently slaughtered, Voldemort found a torn newspaper report.
The source was unknown. The page had been ripped free.
But the photograph was unmistakable.
Lucius Malfoy—smiling smugly—holding a wand of unmistakable craftsmanship.
The article speculated wildly: Could this be the legendary Elder Wand?
Voldemort had nearly laughed with delight.
Harry Potter was growing dangerous. Dumbledore still lived. One fragment of his soul had even betrayed him. If a wand truly existed that promised invincibility…
Then fate had not abandoned him after all.
With a temporary body restored, Voldemort relied on experience, cunning, and advanced magic to track down the wand's seller.
And then—
Disaster.
He had been reduced to his weakest state since infancy.
So weak that he could not even choose a proper host.
A mouse. A snake. Anything small enough to survive unnoticed.
Snakes were ideal. They resonated with his magic. Within them, his soul endured longest, recovered fastest.
But even that choice had been denied.
Left with no alternative, he had allowed himself to be eaten—a desperate gamble to preserve existence.
Yet none of that compared to what truly haunted him.
He was losing something far more precious than flesh.
Confidence.
Logic insisted he was immortal. Time remained his ally.
But so had it once been at Hogwarts.
And then there was him.
The wizard who dressed like a Muggle. The one who called himself Kamen Rider Chronos.
The God of Time.
At first, Voldemort had dismissed the spectacle as clever magic—perhaps a refined form of petrification, sensory suppression, or spatial manipulation.
But the Killing Curse…
His Killing Curse had stopped.
Frozen in midair.
The spell no wizard dared confront.
The spell no counterspell existed for.
Stopping time sounded deceptively simple to the ignorant. Wizards possessed Time-Turners, after all.
But Voldemort knew better.
Time was never controlled—only borrowed.
Time-Turners relied on ancient Egyptian temporal sand, a substance no wizard could touch directly. Powerful, fragile, and easily destroyed.
He knew this because he had studied it as a boy.
Which was why he understood, with chilling clarity, just how terrifying Chronos truly was.
Even more unsettling—
That power had been packaged using something disturbingly Muggle in nature.
Had the world advanced without him?
Had immortality become obsolete?
For the first time, Voldemort felt like an old relic—left behind by history.
And yet—
That only confirmed one thing.
The wand in Lucius Malfoy's hand had to be real.
Because a world capable of producing monsters like Chronos would also produce artifacts worthy of legends.
"Sss…"
Fear of the future sharpened his resolve.
His thoughts turned toward a familiar name.
Antonin Dolohov.
Among all his followers, Dolohov had been the most ruthless. The most powerful.
And, more importantly—
A perfect consumable.
Dolohov rotted in Azkaban. Crushed by Dementors, his resistance was nonexistent.
Once possessed, Voldemort could exploit the island's isolation, reclaim control over the Dementors, and rebuild from within the prison itself.
From Azkaban, Bella could be dispatched to gather materials.
From Azkaban, resurrection could begin.
Then—
Malfoy Manor.
The Elder Wand.
The Ministry of Magic.
Hostages. Control. Time.
Slow, patient domination.
"Hissssss…"
(Ahahahaha.)
Two hundred miles away, a boy jolted awake.
Harry Potter sat bolt upright in bed, lungs burning as though he had been running for his life.
His hand flew to his forehead.
The lightning-shaped scar throbbed violently, as if seared by molten wire.
He gasped, pressing his palm against it, struggling to breathe.
It was the same pain.
The same terror.
The Forbidden Forest.
He fumbled blindly for his glasses, shoving them onto his face as moonlight flooded the dormitory. Pale silver light spilled across the room, calm and deceptive.
Harry touched the scar again.
It still burned.
"I thought it was over…" he whispered.
Beside him, Ron shifted in his sleep, mumbling incoherently.
"Harry…"
Harry froze.
Ron's legs tangled in his blanket as he muttered the name again.
Harry stared at him for a long moment—then looked away, cheeks warming despite himself.
If Rita Skeeter ever saw this…
He sighed inwardly.
Once again, he understood exactly why certain rumors refused to die.
(End of Chapter 327)
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