Chapter 263
For an ordinary person, cutting off one's own limb required unimaginable courage. It was no wonder he trembled so violently, hesitation written all over him.
Peter Pettigrew raised his right hand—the one missing a finger. His left hand clenched the dagger so tightly his knuckles turned white. For a moment, he froze.
Then—
He swung.
"Slash."
At that instant, he squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to witness what he had done.
A piercing scream tore through the graveyard, so shrill it sent the owls in the nearby trees flapping into the night. Branches rustled wildly as the sound echoed.
With a dull, wet thud—
His severed arm dropped into the bubbling cauldron.
Peter collapsed beside it, gasping for breath. His remaining hand braced against the ground, his entire body shaking violently from the pain.
"Very good… very well done."
From within the cauldron, Lord Voldemort's voice rose, filled with satisfaction.
"I can feel my strength returning… Now, we only need to wait quietly for our little guest, isn't that right… Wormtail?"
"Yes… my great master…"
Peter forced the words out, though his face was twisted in agony. Still, beneath the pain, there was a flicker of excitement.
When Voldemort fully returned—his reward would come.
He had made mistakes before, yes… but he had come back. He had proven his loyalty.
That had to count for something.
"Yes… Master…" he repeated weakly, picking up his fallen wand with his uninjured hand.
"Pathetic."
Voldemort let out a cold sneer.
A thin arm, still dripping with potion, rose from the cauldron. With a flick—
"Heal."
A flash of magic.
The bleeding stopped instantly. The wound sealed itself as though it had never been there.
"I will grant you a new arm," Voldemort continued, almost lazily. "Stronger than before. Consider it… your reward."
"Thank you, Master! Thank you!" Peter said quickly, almost groveling.
He sank to the ground, clutching himself, waiting.
"The blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… will restore your master…" he muttered under his breath, rehearsing the final step.
"Oh?" Voldemort's tone carried faint amusement. "Our protagonist hasn't arrived yet, Peter."
"Master, I was only practicing the incantation," Peter said hurriedly, fear creeping back into his voice. "In case I forget…"
Then—
Everything changed.
The smile vanished from Voldemort's grotesque infant-like face.
The liquid in the cauldron turned a blinding white.
It began to boil violently, sparks bursting out like scattered diamonds, lighting the graveyard in eerie brilliance before plunging everything into deeper darkness.
Then suddenly—
Silence.
The sparks died.
A column of white vapor rose slowly from the cauldron.
"Worm…tail?"
The voice that emerged was no longer amused.
It was cold.
Sharp.
Filled with something far more dangerous.
Peter's heart dropped.
Something… had gone wrong.
Through the mist, a figure began to rise.
Tall.
Thin.
Skeletal.
A shadow taking shape.
The black robes lying nearby suddenly lifted on their own, as if pulled by invisible hands. They flew through the air and wrapped themselves around the emerging body.
"Oh…" the figure spoke softly. "I thought you were merely weak… and foolish… and insufficiently loyal."
A pause.
"But it seems… you also harbor resentment."
Peter froze.
Cold sweat drenched his back.
He understood.
At least… partly.
The figure stepped fully out of the cauldron.
His face was pale as death. His eyes glowed red. His nose was flat, slit like a serpent's.
Lord Voldemort had returned.
He examined himself slowly—his long, pale fingers brushing across his chest, his arms, his face. His hands resembled pale spiders in the dim light. His eyes gleamed unnaturally, pupils narrowed into slits.
He flexed his fingers.
Testing.
Feeling.
Peter didn't dare look directly at him.
But the chill in his bones told him everything—
Voldemort was not pleased.
Not at all.
From the darkness, something large slithered forward.
A massive snake.
Nagini.
She coiled gracefully around Voldemort's body, then unwound herself and settled at his feet, her movements smooth and deliberate.
Within moments, Voldemort had fully dressed himself.
"Oh? Nagini… are you pleased to see me return?"
A pause.
"But I… am not in the mood to celebrate."
His tone was eerily calm.
"The return of Voldemort… should have been perfect. The blood of the boy—the one who destroyed my foundation—was meant to cleanse my humiliation."
Another pause.
"But now…"
His red eyes flicked toward Peter.
"It has been ruined. By a fool."
Peter collapsed completely, trembling uncontrollably, not daring to utter a single word.
"Tell me… how should I deal with him?"
Silence.
Peter didn't even breathe.
"Listen."
Voldemort's voice dropped suddenly.
Peter snapped to attention instantly, straining to hear.
"I can feel it…" Voldemort murmured. "Space itself is trembling. Many are coming… rushing toward us."
Nagini lifted her head, scanning the surroundings. Her tongue flicked in and out, sensing the air.
"Let us guess… who they might be?"
Voldemort's tone turned almost nostalgic.
Then—
"Ah!"
A scream ripped from Peter's throat.
He collapsed onto the ground, writhing in agony.
The wound on his arm burst open again, blood spilling out anew. Something began to spread across his skin—dark, burning, twisting.
A mark.
A skull.
A serpent emerging from its mouth.
The Dark Mark.
It pulsed, glowing faintly in the night.
Voldemort stared at it intently, ignoring Peter's cries entirely.
Under the dim, cold light—
The blackened blood gleamed… strange, hypnotic… and full of dread.