While Harry and Bertha carried on their conversation, Peter Pettigrew was hastily making his way through the narrow alleys of the same hidden magical settlement.
His steps were uneven, erratic and he was trying to as quick as he could on his feet. His face was marred with an expression of anxiety. Every few moments, he glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to emerge from the shadows.
At the far edge of the settlement, where the houses grew sparse and silence thickened, a single isolated home stood.
Unlike the rest, this house exuded a quiet menace as if prohibiting every human from getting close to the house.
Peter reached its wooden gate and knocked, his knuckles trembling. At once, a wave of warding magic surged from the house, engulfing him. His body stiffened as it was scanned, probed down to the bones. A few tense seconds passed before the wards receded. Peter exhaled shakily.
Despite having crossed this magical barrier more than dozens of times, every time he was scanned, a feeling of dread took over him. Because if he failed the test, there was only one result- Death.
He stepped inside, crossing the porch and entering the main hall.
In the centre of the hall, a large wooden chair had been placed. A hideous looking creature was resting on the chair.
The creature looked like a young boy but none of his facial features were clearly defined. His lips, ears and nose appeared as if they had somehow merged with the face.
The eyes were nothing more than a narrow slit with a blood red colour sparkling from it. The head of the boy was completely bald and the eyebrows were also missing.
The colour of the entire skin be it the face, or the bald head patch or the body was white. The boy overall was hideous and frightening and evil looking.
To even look at the creature was disgusting. And this creature was none other than Voldemort.
"Peter…" the creature hissed in a hoarse and deep voice.
Peter dropped to his knees, shuddering.
"My lord…" he stammered. An expression of deep fright formed on his face for he knew what was coming his way.
But before the words were complete, a flash of grey light struck him in the chest.
"Crucio," Voldemort roared.
Peter collapsed with a cry, convulsing under the curse, his limbs twitching uncontrollably as the pain ravaged through him. He slithered on the ground in the very uncontrollable pain.
"You were supposed to feed me," Voldemort shrieked.
His voice echoed with fury and disgust. How far he had fallen.
That this, a trembling, pathetic rat, was all he had for an attendant. It was an insult to his legacy. To his power.
He silently cursed Harry Potter, that wretched boy, who was responsible for reducing him to this.
Peter whimpered, dragging himself back to his knees, gasping for air.
Despite the pain, he knew that he needed to move otherwise only more pain awaited him.
"My lord," he said, his voice trembling. "Give me a chance to explain… I've brought good news."
Voldemort stared.
"Good news, you say?" His tone dripped with disbelief and contempt.
Magic stirred in the air, thick with warning. If Peter was lying, the punishment was going to be dire.
"Speak then, Peter," Voldemort drawled.
Peter nodded quickly, desperate.
"Yes, my lord. Hogwarts is going to host the Triwizard Tournament. Representatives from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will come to Hogwarts to participate. Only students over the age of twenty are eligible to compete."
At this, a flicker of interest passed through Voldemort's crimson eyes. He leaned slightly forward.
"Where did you learn this?" he asked coldly.
Peter swallowed.
"While I was at the inn nearby," he said, trying to suppress the wobble in his voice, "I encountered a witch named Bertha Jorkins. You might not know her but she works at the Ministry of Magic. She was here with a friend… vacationing in Albania."
He paused dramatically, eyes darting up to Voldemort for a reaction. But Voldemort was expressionless or probably he could not form expression on his disgusting face.
"I decided to keep an ear out," he continued, "and as luck would have it, she began telling her friend about the tournament in detail. I had to strain, but I managed to hear it all."
Peter smiled weakly, emboldened. He had hopes that this news would prove to be useful.
"My lord, I believe this could be useful for your return."
Voldemort let out a long, disappointed sigh.
"You heard her. You spotted her so close to me. And yet you did not bring her to me?"
Peter's blood froze in fright. Despite the news, Voldemort was not satisfied.
"She—she was not alone, my lord," he pleaded. "I thought it would be too risky…"
But before he could finish, another jet of grey light slammed into him. Then another. And another.
"Crucio," Voldemort roared continuously.
"Coward… pathetic worm…" Voldemort muttered, punctuating each insult with another blast of pain.
Peter writhed, sobbing on the floor. He was used to the constant pain on Voldemort's whims but it did not nothing to feel better. Every time it was worse.
Despite his fury, Voldemort's mind was already working at a terrifying pace.
He needed a body. A proper one. To reclaim his power in full. He had a ritual in mind—one that required Harry Potter. And now… this tournament could provide the opening he needed.
Yes. There was potential here.
But for such a plan, he would need better support. Someone capable. Not Peter.
He stared down at the still twitching form of his servant with loathing. He needed a true follower.
He needed to find someone. Probably some of his slaves who had avoided Azkaban by abandoning their loyalty to him. He could give those unfaithful a chance to prove their loyalty once again.
.
.
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