On the western edge of Surrey County stood a small town, home to an old mansion that had been abandoned for many years.
Legend had it that twenty years ago, a husband murdered his unfaithful wife, her lover, and their two children there, before taking his own life.
Because of this grim history—and the lack of any heirs—the house failed repeatedly at auction and was eventually left to decay. Two decades of neglect stripped it of its former grandeur. The townspeople avoided it like the plague; only mischievous children occasionally climbed in through the windows to play.
Yet tonight, a faint glimmer of light suddenly appeared in one of the upstairs windows, flickering unsteadily, bright one moment and dim the next.
The ivy-covered front door showed no signs of being forced open, and the windows were intact. And yet, two uninvited guests had indeed entered the house, as though they had appeared from thin air.
Guided by the faint glow at the tip of his wand, a man dressed in black stepped into the cave-like darkness of the mansion. After some effort, he found the door leading to the corridor. As he felt his way forward,the stench of rot assaulted his senses.
Perhaps because a thick layer of dust coated the stone steps, his footsteps made almost no sound.
Ahead of the man in black, a rat scurried forward, as though deliberately leading the way.
"Wormtail?" the man sneered. His voice was unnaturally high-pitched, sharp and icy like a cutting winter wind.
"M-Master… my master…" In the blink of an eye, the rat transformed into a short, balding man. His hair was gray, his frame small, his face narrow and rodent-like, with a sharp nose. His voice trembled with fear.
"Light the fireplace first. I'm cold," Voldemort said indifferently.
"Then go back and clean up any traces we left behind."
"Y-Yes… yes, my lord!" Wormtail replied, still flustered.
He fumbled with his wand and rushed over to the fireplace, busying himself with the remaining embers for quite some time before finally coaxing the flames back to life.
After that, he transformed back into a rat, darted across the floor, and vanished once more.
...
The bright firelight illuminated Voldemort's face.
It also brought a faint sense of warmth to his fragile body.
The past few months of life on the run had been miserable indeed… yet they had inadvertently led Voldemort to a profound realization.
Ever since his defeat at the Department of Mysteries, since the destruction of his body, subtle changes had begun to take place.
It was as though something he had once lost was slowly returning.
His temper no longer flared as easily. His mind was no longer so readily ruled by impulse. Certain thoughts could once again be buried deep within his heart. Compared to before, he had grown far more rational.
This reminded Voldemort of the distant past—many years ago, when he was still young and his disposition had been much the same.
Polite on the surface, courteous in manner, hiding everything beneath a calm exterior.
But after that successful journey to Albania, everything seemed to change. That voyage granted him the power of immortality, yet from that moment onward, his reason steadily eroded.
And now, that lost rationality had returned.
The price, however, was that five of his Horcruxes had been destroyed one after another over the past year.
"Could it be that the Horcruxes have been influencing me all along?" Voldemort murmured to the blazing fire.
"It must be so."
At last, he understood why Herpo the Foul had created only a single Horcrux in his lifetime—because every fragment of a divided soul exerts an influence on its owner.
In other words, his attempt to create seven Horcruxes had been a grave mistake.
Now, he had only one Horcrux left. Although their destruction had left him extremely vulnerable, the influence of his fractured soul had been greatly reduced.
In a sense, it was a blessing in disguise.
A twisted smile crept across Voldemort's lips.
...
Voldemort reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled newspaper.
Having spent many years in the Muggle world as a child, he understood Muggles far better than his Death Eaters ever did. He knew how to obtain information through Muggle channels—especially now, when he could no longer make contact with the wizarding world.
Earlier that afternoon, he had come across a particularly exhilarating piece of news in the Muggle papers:
"Transylvania in Flames!"
After confirming the report's authenticity, the Dark Lord visibly relaxed.
It seemed Fenrir Greyback had done well.
Voldemort had always looked down on werewolves, but he understood their loyalty. Only under his rule could they hope for a better life.
That was why he had sent Fenrir Greyback and his werewolf army to Transylvania. His purpose had never been to rescue or enslave the vampires—those creatures were utterly worthless.
His true objective was simple.
To draw attention.
Not just the attention of the Ministry of Magic, but above all, that of Albus Dumbledore.
Everyone knew Fenrir Greyback served the Dark Lord with absolute loyalty. His high-profile appearance in distant Eastern Europe would naturally attract countless eyes.
Especially Dumbledore's.
That cunning old man was likely already on his way toward Transylvania—perhaps he had even arrived.
As long as Dumbledore was not in Britain, it was the perfect opportunity.
...
Wormtail soon returned, apparently having erased every trace of their arrival.
Voldemort had already tossed the Muggle newspaper into the fireplace, watching it burn to ashes. He did not truly believe Wormtail would betray him, but caution was necessary—especially given how often his whereabouts had been discovered by the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix.
"Wormtail," Voldemort called coldly.
"Master…" Peter Pettigrew raised his head, his voice timid.
"Hold out your arm," Voldemort commanded.
As he spoke, Voldemort bent down, seized Wormtail's left arm, and rolled up his sleeve to the elbow.
Revealed on the exposed skin was a vivid crimson mark, like a tattoo: a skull with a serpent emerging from its mouth.
Voldemort extended his long, pale index finger and pressed it against the mark.
Wormtail let out a shrill cry as the red symbol darkened, turning pitch black.
In an instant, the air filled with the soft rustling of cloaks. Outside the old mansion, wizards Apparated in every shadowed corner.
All of them wore hoods, their faces hidden.
One by one, they stepped forward—slowly, cautiously.