Chapter 264
"Voldemort is very forgiving."
A low, chilling voice drifted across the graveyard.
"He tolerates the inevitable stupidity and cowardice of his followers… even those Death Eaters rushing here now. They may have 'forgotten' me for a time—but that does not matter. Once I regain my power, they will return… and they will be more loyal than ever."
A pause.
"I can tolerate stupidity… but not repeated stupidity."
The tone hardened.
"Peter… this is the third time you have failed me. Tell me—what should I do with you?"
The silence that followed felt suffocating.
Then—
A faint rustling filled the air.
Between the tombstones, behind the trees, from every shadow—figures began to appear.
One by one.
Hooded.
Masked.
They moved slowly, cautiously, as though afraid of what they might find.
Death Eaters.
They gathered around.
One stepped forward, fell to his knees, and crawled to Voldemort. He pressed his lips to the hem of the black robes.
"Master… Master…"
Behind him, the others followed.
Kneeling.
Crawling.
Kissing the robe.
Then retreating.
Standing.
Forming a circle.
Voldemort remained motionless, watching.
"Your punishment… can wait," he said calmly. "First, let me look upon my… family."
He raised his wand slightly and pointed.
With a deafening crack—
The tombstone of old Tom Riddle shattered into pieces, collapsing in a cloud of dust.
Voldemort lowered his wand slowly, his red eyes lingering on it—on his fingers—as though measuring something.
There were still gaps in the circle.
Empty spaces.
Places where others should have stood.
But Voldemort did not wait for them.
He swept his gaze across the masked faces.
No wind blew.
And yet, the entire circle seemed to tremble.
"Welcome… Death Eaters."
His voice was soft—but it carried.
"Thirteen years… thirteen years since we last stood together. And yet—you have answered my call as though no time has passed."
A faint smile.
"Which means… we are still united beneath the Dark Mark. Are we not?"
No one answered.
Voldemort inhaled slowly, lifting his head slightly.
"I smell… guilt."
A pause.
"The air reeks of it."
The circle shuddered again.
Some seemed ready to retreat—but none dared move.
"I see you all," Voldemort continued. "Healthy. Powerful. Quick to return."
His voice dropped, quieter.
"And I wonder… why none of you came to help your master… the one to whom you swore eternal loyalty."
Still silence.
Only Peter's quiet sobbing broke it, as he lay curled on the ground clutching his bleeding arm.
"I will answer for you," Voldemort said softly.
"You believed I was finished."
"That I was dying."
"That I was gone."
"And so… you slithered back into the world of my enemies. Claimed innocence. Claimed ignorance. Claimed you had been under enchantment…"
His tone sharpened.
"And I ask again—why did you believe I would not return?"
"Did you not know I had taken steps to cheat death?"
"Did you not see, time and time again, that my power surpassed all others?"
A pause.
Then, colder—
"Or perhaps… you believed there was someone stronger."
"Someone who could defeat Voldemort."
"Perhaps… you have pledged yourselves elsewhere."
"To that leader of the weak… protector of Mudbloods and Muggles…"
Albus Dumbledore.
At the name, the circle stirred violently.
Some shook their heads.
Some muttered.
Voldemort ignored them.
"This… disappoints me."
"I admit it."
"I am… disappointed."
Suddenly—
One man collapsed forward, crawling desperately.
"Master!" he cried. "Forgive me! Forgive us!"
Voldemort's lips curled.
A flick of his wand—
"Crucio!"
The man screamed, writhing violently on the ground.
The sound tore through the graveyard.
Then, just as suddenly—
It stopped.
The man lay gasping, barely conscious.
"Stand up… Avery," Voldemort said softly.
"You ask for forgiveness?"
"I do not forgive."
"I do not forget."
"Thirteen years…"
His voice turned almost gentle.
"You will repay those thirteen years… then perhaps I will consider forgiveness."
Then—
A voice.
Calm.
Old.
Carried through the trees.
"Will there ever come a day when you learn to forgive… Tom?"
The circle broke.
Chaos rippled through the Death Eaters.
Some tried to turn—slowly, stiffly—too afraid to fully look behind them.
Others froze where they stood.
"Dumbledore."
After a brief silence, Voldemort spoke the name.
His red eyes widened.
Shock.
Suspicion.
Betrayal.
The thought struck instantly.
Their plan had been flawless.
Only two possibilities remained—
A leak.
Or a traitor.
Who would believe Dumbledore had simply wandered here by chance?
"Crouch? Malfoy? Or…"
Voldemort's thoughts raced.
Then, without hesitation—
A flash of green light shot toward the old man.
Dumbledore walked forward calmly, wand already in hand.
The half-moon lenses reflected faint light, hiding his expression.
The moment the Killing Curse reached him—
He moved.
Like wind.
Gone.
The spell struck the tombstone behind him instead, exploding it into fragments.
Voldemort steadied himself.
Forced it.
He could not show weakness.
But he knew.
He could feel it in his body, in the wand, in the magic flowing through him—
He was not at full strength.
Not even close.
Every movement felt… wrong.
Limited.
Unstable.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
His resurrection—
It should have made him stronger.
Not weaker.
Why?
The thought struck him sharply.
Was it…
Because he lacked the boy's blood?