Chapter 508: Chapter 508: Scar (Edited)
After Barty Crouch Jr. left the room, he looked around to make sure there was no one and no snake nearby. Then he took out a bottle from his pocket and uncorked it to take a big sip.
The drink in the bottle didn't seem to have a pleasant taste. After Barty Crouch Jr. drank it, his body trembled uncomfortably. After a shiver, he staggered down the dark hallway in search of Nagini.
After passing through the dark hallway, he reached a dusty staircase where no sound could be heard even when walking on it. Barty Crouch Jr. walked while searching for Nagini's figure using the dim light emitted from the tip of his wand.
He was determined. He really needed to find Nagini and get some of her venom from her mouth to prepare a magical potion to keep Voldemort alive.
However, when he reached the landing of the staircase, he stopped in his tracks. An elderly man with a cane appeared in front of him.
The old man was surprised to see an adult man as an intruder and was about to say something, but he saw the man pressing his index finger against his lips, indicating him to be silent.
The old man with the cane was Frank, who had entered through the back door with the spare key to the mansion, looking for the "thief" who had broken into the house. When he saw Barty Crouch Jr., he even thought that thieves had really entered the Riddle Mansion!
However, Barty Crouch Jr.'s actions awakened the combat instinct that had been dormant in Frank for many years. He closed his mouth without making a sound but instinctively tightened his grip on the cane in his left hand. Although he was nearly seventy-seven years old, he was confident he could strike a young man on the head with the cane without any problem.
Barty Crouch Jr. led the nervous old man to the corner of the staircase and asked in a low voice, "Have you seen a large snake on your way?"
Frank: ???
"Uh, no," although this question was quite strange, old Frank decided to answer.
Barty Crouch Jr. breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good. Go back quickly; this is not where you should be..."
"Go back, me?" Frank was surprised. "Do you know what you're doing? You've illegally entered private property; I can call the police and get you in prison-"
"Obliviate." Barty Crouch Jr. completely wiped the old man's memory. He now found this spell extremely useful and could easily include it in the list of the top ten spells used by wizards.
The old man's expression became confused. Barty Crouch Jr. took the opportunity to sneak away.
After a few seconds, Frank regained consciousness and looked around in confusion, realizing inexplicably that he was inside the old Riddle Mansion.
"When did I start sleepwalking?" he shook his head and limped away from the abandoned house.
Shortly after the old man left, Barty Crouch Jr. found Nagini in the downstairs living room, enjoying a mouse she had caught. Barty Crouch Jr. patiently watched as Nagini swallowed the mouse, then took out a small glass bottle to extract some venom from her fangs.
When he returned to the second floor, Peter had already prepared everything needed for the potion. He poured the venom into the bottle, shook it a little to mix the liquids well, and then carefully approached Voldemort with the bottle of the potion.
Voldemort, who was resting with his eyes closed, opened his long, thin eyes. His eyes were completely different from those of a normal human; they were narrow and pointed like a snake's. Most unsettling of all, his eyes were filled with a blood-red color, as if his pupils contained not tears, but blood.
He slightly opened his mouth, allowing Peter to pour the magical potion into a small silver spoon and then feed it into his mouth. As the potion entered, he felt a penetrating chill. If an ordinary wizard were to take it, it would only lead to death, but for the inhuman Voldemort, it had a poison-against-poison effect. Not only did it restore his energy, but it also alleviated the pain in his body by harnessing that shiver.
Feeling the cold flow into his extremities, Voldemort experienced mental clarity and a sense of freshness. Then, he thought about Barty Crouch Jr.'s future actions and couldn't help but laugh maliciously.
Three hundred kilometers away, the boy named Harry Potter woke up from his sleep.
He was lying in bed, his scar on his forehead throbbing as if someone had inserted a thin steel needle into his head.
Harry struggled to get up from the bed, one hand covering his scar as if that would alleviate some of his pain. The other hand groped in the darkness and finally found his glasses on the nightstand next to the bed.
After putting on his glasses, the world around him became clear.
Harry suddenly realized that he was drenched in sweat, the sheets were crumpled and stuck to his pajamas, giving him a very uncomfortable feeling.
Harry removed the soaked pajamas, got out of bed, and opened the window.
The cool night air entered through the window, quickly drying the residual sweat on Harry's body, providing him with a sense of relief. The stabbing pain in his scar disappeared along with the sweat.
"How many times has this happened?" Harry was worried. Lately, his scar had been hurting frequently, but the pain came and went quickly, sometimes lasting only an instant, as if someone was sticking a needle into his forehead.
Through the window, Harry looked out at Privet Drive. The outside world had the typical appearance of a prosperous middle-class residential area in England: clean and tidy streets, functioning streetlights, and perfectly manicured lawns at every house.
They were all respectable and decent people.
Perhaps that was also one of the reasons why the Dursleys were so disgusted with Harry: respectable people wanted nothing to do with magic.
Harry fixed his bed, smoothing out the sheets and spreading the quilt to dry. They were now soaked in sweat and it would be very uncomfortable to lie on them, so Harry had no intention of going back to bed to rest.
He stealthily walked to his desk and turned on the desk lamp on it.
The lamp illuminated the room, revealing all the details of its arrangement. At the foot of Harry's bed was a closed but not completely sealed box, with the handle of a broomstick and a corner of a wizard's robe protruding from it. Most of the desk spaces were piled high with spell books, tall enough to cause a "disaster" if left unattended. In the corner of the desk, scrolls, quills, ink bottles, and other objects had been randomly stuffed.
Harry's situation was improving. In second grade, he still didn't have the right to use his belongings outdoors. He could only sneak his things out of the cupboard on the ground floor and do his homework quietly at night.
Now, he could do his homework outdoors. This was probably because he had managed to inflate his aunt.
Chapter 509: Chapter 509: Why Not Ask Tom? (Edited)
Harry placed the birdcage on the floor, leaving an empty space. He sat in the chair in front of the table and immersed himself in his thoughts.
Harry knew that his scar had magical abilities, an inexplicable connection to Voldemort. Whenever Voldemort appeared near him, his scar acted as a detector and warned him with a stabbing pain.
That was the alarm signal: the pain.
That's why Harry was so worried.
Sitting in front of the table, he listened carefully to the sounds from outside. What if Voldemort was close by? What if he was already on Privet Drive? What if he was lurking from a street corner? Harry felt restless about the unknown and confused. For a moment, he felt that Voldemort was right behind him, smiling maliciously.
But Harry quickly turned, holding his wand, only to find an untidy bed. Outside, there were some noises, but they were just distant barking dogs, oblivious to anyone.
Meanwhile, the Dursleys were deep in a sound sleep.
Harry envied them. So carefree, so foolish, without any real concerns, except for the rivalries among Muggles.
Harry sighed. Although his scar hurt him, he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't even know who to turn to for help. The Dursleys? No, they knew nothing about magic. Even if they were willing to help, which was less likely than winning the lottery, they could only take him to the hospital and seek a private doctor.
His eyes fell on an open book in front of him, a gift from his best friend, Ron Weasley, titled "Flying with the Cannons." On the open pages, players in their red robes were passing the Quaffle between them. Ron was a big fan of that team, even if they had been in decline for nearly a century, he always supported them.
The book made Harry think of his closest friend, Ron Weasley. What would Ron say if he wrote him a letter? Ron's voice seemed to echo in his mind: "Is your scar hurting? Does it mean Volde... um... I mean, You-Know-Who, is planning to harm you? I don't know. Let me ask my dad. But don't worry too much. Maybe the scar from the Killing Curse always has some side effects, after all, it's the mark of Voldemort's Killing Curse."
The image of Ron's freckled face appeared before Harry. Ron's father, Mr. Weasley, worked at the Ministry of Magic, but Harry didn't believe he could help in this situation, and he might even cause the Weasleys to panic.
Furthermore, Ron's twin brothers would surely find out about the situation, and that would be a mess! If it turned out that his scar had nothing to do with Voldemort, Harry was sure he would become a source of amusement for the two of them.
Harry had another reason not to discuss his scar with Ron: he was soon going to stay at the Weasley's house. The Weasley family was his favorite in the world, and it would be the happiest thing for him to stay with them. He didn't want to ruin those beautiful days over a stupid scar. Just imagine how annoying it would be if everyone nervously asked him about his scar while he was at the Weasleys'.
So, who else could he write to and share his concerns with? The first name that came to mind was Professor Dumbledore. In fact, if it weren't for the "Flying with the Cannons" book, Dumbledore should have been the first person he turned to for help.
But Harry had no idea where Dumbledore was during the holidays. He pictured Dumbledore wearing his pointed wizard's hat, wrapped in a long gray robe, walking laboriously in the Alps. Of course, it didn't matter if he knew where Dumbledore was; Harry trusted that his owl Hedwig would find him.
But what was he going to write in the letter?
[Dear Professor Dumbledore, I'm sorry to bother you, but this morning my scar started hurting.]
Harry had these thoughts in his head and then erased them.
Harry scratched his head; his hair was a bit unruly. It had always been rebellious; maybe only a magical shampoo could salvage the quality of his hair. But as he looked at his father's picture, Harry felt that magic wouldn't solve his hair problem either.
Harry knew that what he really needed was someone who could replace his parents, an adult wizard, a wizard who didn't mind answering silly questions...
There was a very good option, but Sirius had warned him before the holidays not to write to him.
So, who else was there?
A new face came to mind.
Tom Yodel!
Why not ask Tom Yodel?
Although they were the same age, Harry had the feeling that this person was much further ahead in magical knowledge than he was, maybe he could have some unique insight.
Harry immediately took out parchment, dipped his quill in ink, and began writing enthusiastically at his desk.
At that moment, what was the wonderful Mr. Tom Yodel doing?
He wasn't sleeping either; instead, he was sketching at his desk. The patterns he was drawing were extremely complicated and dazzling. For someone who didn't know alchemy, they might even get dizzy looking at them.
This was an alchemical artifact that Tom had recently planned to create. He believed that if he could create this object, it would have at least a four-star quality, and it might even reach the level of five stars.
As a participant in Dumbledore's plans, Tom knew that Voldemort would be returning this year. Although Tom trusted Dumbledore, he still wanted to have some tricks up his sleeve.
Directly facing Voldemort with low-level magic would be extremely reckless, so he might as well take advantage a bit: the ability to use tools is the greatest difference between humans and monkeys. And the ability to use magical artifacts is the greatest difference between an alchemist and a common wizard.
For Voldemort, Tom spent the two hundred Galleons he had earned from Dawlish and used them to purchase magical silver and other alchemical materials.
After starting to build large magical items, Tom realized that alchemy was truly costly. His two hundred Galleons disappeared as if they had evaporated, which made him regret a bit not making that deal with the Ministry. That stupid woman was too greedy! Ten Galleons for a pair of anti-curse gloves, he could only earn back some money but with no real profits.
Tom also paid a visit to Mr. Ollivander and shamelessly borrowed the magical silver wand. Originally, he planned to melt that wand to make other magical items. However, he had recently had a completely new idea.
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