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Yorkshire, England, two months ago—
A wisp of existence, weaker than the humblest spirit, drifted aimlessly beyond the village of Little Hangleton. It was not quite a ghost, yet not entirely lost to oblivion.
This was all that remained of Lord Voldemort.
The day he had attempted to steal the Philosopher's Stone, eleven years of painstakingly accumulated soul power had been utterly annihilated by Dracula's accursed blood prison. Now, his very survival depended entirely on the integrity of his Horcruxes, the only anchors keeping his shattered soul from dissolving into nothingness.
He was less than a whisper, a barely perceptible bubble of consciousness, his form a translucent wraith that quivered with the wind. His face had all but faded, his essence reduced to something so fragile that even the cold night air threatened to disperse him. Yet, from within the depths of this near-nothingness, his mind still clung to a single, unwavering belief.
"I have not lost... I have not lost yet... I still have other cards to play... I will return..."
Over and over, the words escaped him in a hoarse, spectral murmur as he drifted toward Little Hangleton, the place of his ancestors.
He had initially intended to return to the Albanian forests—his refuge for over a decade—where at least familiarity would be his comfort, and where his loyal companion Nagini could shield him from utter solitude. But his encounter with his Horcrux diary had changed his perspective. The process of partial resurrection through young Ginny Weasley had revealed a faster, more efficient means of regaining his strength.
Eleven more years of waiting? No. He refused.
And so, he chose instead to seek out the Gaunt shack.
After what felt like an eternity, Voldemort arrived at the edge of a desolate valley, where a decrepit shack stood half-hidden among tangled trees. It had once belonged to his mother's family, the Gaunts, and time had done nothing to ease its decay.
The walls were caked with moss, the roof riddled with gaping holes that exposed rotting rafters. Vines twisted around its frame like skeletal fingers, reaching toward grimy, thick-paned windows that let in neither light nor warmth. It was a place of ruin, of forgotten lineage, of bitter history.
He did not care.
A thread of anticipation flickered through his frail existence as he passed through the cracks in the windowpane, slipping into the darkness within.
Inside, time had preserved nothing. Rusting pots and broken furniture littered the floor, their decay echoing the wretched state of his own soul. Mold bloomed unchecked, and dust swirled in the air, disturbed only by his ethereal presence.
When he had first come here at sixteen, he had been filled with scorn for this miserable place, a stark reflection of a family that prided itself on blood purity yet wallowed in squalor. But now, there was no room for disgust or pride. He had no energy left for such luxuries.
There was only one thing that mattered—retrieving the Horcrux hidden beneath the floorboards.
Voldemort's spectral form slipped beneath the warped, rotting planks, sinking into the filth-strewn depths below. There, half-buried in the dirt, lay a gold ring, its dark stone glinting ominously in the dimness.
The ring was crude, its craftsmanship unremarkable, but the stone it bore was something else entirely. A triangle enclosing a circle, bisected by a vertical line, was carved into its surface—the mark of the Peverells.
To Marvolo Gaunt, this was an ancestral crest, a relic of pureblood heritage.
To Albus Dumbledore, it was something far more dangerous—the Resurrection Stone, one of the fabled Deathly Hallows.
But to Voldemort, it was simply power.
He had never concerned himself with its deeper legend. To him, the ring was a tool—one that once allowed him to command Inferi, and now, one that would restore his strength.
With a flicker of eagerness, he poured himself into the ring, merging with the fragment of his soul imprisoned within.
A blinding flash of light erupted from the floorboards, sending splinters and debris flying. The wooden beams groaned in protest, their decay unable to withstand the surge of dark magic. As the dust settled, a shadow rose from the wreckage.
A ghastly, half-formed specter.
Not yet a man, but no longer nothing.
Voldemort's awareness sharpened as he felt the semblance of a body begin to coalesce around him. His fingers twitched, thin and ghostly, not yet fully formed. He needed more. He needed substance.
He needed a body.
Without hesitation, he vanished, reappearing in a place of death and history—the Riddle graveyard.
The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. To his right, the ancient yew tree stood watchful, its twisted branches silhouetted against the moon. Beyond it, the small village church remained dark and undisturbed.
To the left, on the hilltop, the Riddle House loomed in eerie contrast—a grand estate abandoned to time. A place of murder. A place where his father had perished by his own hand.
Voldemort paid it no heed.
Instead, he walked among the tombstones, his scarlet gaze sweeping over the names of the dead, searching. Until finally, he stood before one:
Tom Riddle.
He felt nothing as he looked upon the name he had long since forsaken. His past was of no consequence. Only the future mattered.
Raising his ringed hand, he let its dark power flow. The grave split open with a crack, and from the broken earth, a skeletal form slowly rose.
The remains of Tom Riddle Sr.
Bathed in pale, eerie light, the bones floated toward Voldemort's waiting form. The Resurrection Stone pulsed, drawing out the essence of what once was, purging dirt and decay until nothing remained but pure white bone.
Then, with an unnatural force, the skeleton lunged toward him—not in defiance, but in acceptance.
Bone met shadow.
For a fleeting moment, a glow engulfed the cemetery. And then—where once there was a wraith—there stood a man.
Pale as death, gaunt as a specter, his skin stretched tightly over sharp, skeletal features. His crimson eyes gleamed with malice, his slit-like nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. His fingers, long and spidery, flexed as he relished the sensation of being whole again.
A shudder of pleasure coursed through him.
"So exquisite... the feeling of having a body once more," he murmured, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction.
A wicked smile curled upon his lipless mouth.
His father's bones had given him form, but the work was not yet finished. His body remained incomplete, merely a shell given shape through ancient sorcery. Flesh must follow.
"The flesh of a servant... the blood of an enemy..."
He chuckled darkly, fingers clenching into a fist.
The graves around him began to tremble. Then, one by one, they cracked open, and from their depths, corpses stirred.
Rotting, reanimated, enslaved to his will.
An army of the dead, their cloudy eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Voldemort's laughter echoed through the graveyard.
It was time to reclaim his empire.
A dense black smoke engulfed a newly formed group of Inferi, and in an instant, Voldemort apparated with them to the desolate entrance of a dark cave.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of damp earth and decay. Scattered throughout were half-clothed humans, their ragged garments clinging to their mud-caked skin. Their eyes burned with hatred and despair, yet when they saw the sudden arrival of Voldemort—his serpentine features twisted in a sinister expression, accompanied by a grotesque horde of Inferi—they tensed, baring their teeth in warning as they formed a barrier at the entrance.
"What do you want? Outsiders aren't welcome here!" growled a man at the forefront. Unlike the others, he was slightly better dressed, though still draped in tattered remnants of once-decent clothing. His tone carried hostility, but it was also laced with caution.
"Boom!"
Without a flicker of movement from Voldemort, the man was hurled violently into the air, slamming against the jagged rock ceiling of the cave before crashing to the ground, unconscious.
"Next time you see me, remember your place," Voldemort said, his tone icy.
Yet, the ragged people did not recoil in fear. Instead, they snarled like feral animals, as though accustomed to such brutality. Without hesitation, they lunged forward, clawing at the air with long, dirt-encrusted nails, their teeth bared as if to tear into flesh.
Voldemort remained motionless, his expression unreadable. Then, with a mere flick of his wand, a powerful force erupted, sending bodies flying in all directions. In an instant, the cave's entrance was cleared, leaving a wide path for him and his Inferi to advance unimpeded.
As they ventured deeper, the cavern swelled with the presence of more figures—dozens, then hundreds. All bore the same wild, predatory look, their sunken eyes gleaming with anticipation as they observed Voldemort and his undead entourage. It was as if they were waiting for a signal to attack, poised on the edge of frenzy.
"Who dares to trespass in my domain?" a deep, guttural voice rumbled from the shadows.
A towering figure emerged from the depths of the cave, his aggressive stride shaking loose dust from the rock walls. His gray-streaked hair framed a beast-like visage, his yellowed nails curving like talons, and when he spoke, the gleam of his sharp teeth confirmed what he was—
A werewolf.
Yet, the moment his gaze fell upon Voldemort, his ferocity faltered. His bloodlust drained into something far more primal—fear.
"You… you…" he stammered, his voice betraying a tremor. Then, with a sudden realization, he dropped to his knees, bowing his head low. "Dark Lord… it cannot be… you live!"
Voldemort's lip curled in satisfaction. "It has been some time, Fenrir Greyback. Is this how you welcome my return?"
Greyback lowered his gaze further, his expression darkening with suppressed rage and submission. Without a word, he turned to the man who had first confronted Voldemort—the one now sprawled on the ground. Greyback's eyes flashed with savage intent before he lunged, sinking his fangs into the man's neck. A sickening crunch echoed through the cave as he tore the body in two, a spray of crimson painting the cavern floor.
He lifted his blood-streaked face from the corpse, his breathing heavy, eyes gleaming with reverence. "Dark Lord, does this appease your wrath?"
Voldemort's lips parted into a chilling smile. "Very good."
A silence fell, thick with tension, before he continued. "Since you are so… obedient, I have a task for you, Greyback. One that befits your ambitions."
Greyback's ears perked up at this.
"Haven't you long sought to bring the werewolves of Romania under your command? Consider it done. These Inferi shall be your most loyal subordinates," Voldemort said, his voice smooth as silk yet carrying an undeniable edge of menace. "Should you require more, I have countless Inferi lying in wait within a cavern by the London seaside. Their corpses are yours to command."
Greyback's breath quickened, his pupils dilating with excitement.
"But," Voldemort's voice sharpened, "I demand results. Within two months, every werewolf in Romania must swear loyalty to you. Fail me, and you shall join the ranks of my Inferi."
A wicked grin stretched across Greyback's face, his bloodstained teeth glistening. "Consider it done, my Lord."
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In stark contrast to the macabre scene unfolding in the cavern, Hogwarts Castle basked in an air of joy and relief.
The torturous exam week had finally ended, freeing the young witches and wizards from the clutches of endless revisions and stress. With results not due for another week, even those who feared the worst in their performance had a brief window of carefree bliss.
The sun blazed in the June sky, yet the heat did little to dampen the castle's cheerful atmosphere. By the Black Lake, the giant squid stretched lazily in the warm shallows, its tentacles undulating in the water as it soaked in the sun's golden rays. Nearby, the Weasley twins and their friend Lee Jordan crouched at the water's edge, their hands tentatively stroking its rubbery skin.
"Professor!" George Weasley called out, his voice carrying over the lapping waves.
His gaze turned towards a tall Scots pine standing nearby, its dense foliage casting a wide circle of shade. Beneath it, a silver-haired figure leaned against the trunk, lost in thought.
Dracula's fingers traced the smooth surface of a crystal ball, his crimson eyes fixed on the swirling darkness within. At its center, a dull silver moon pulsed faintly—a signal from Romania.
It had brightened, indicating something unusual had occurred within his vampire clan. But it was not urgent. Only when the moon turned a deep blood-red would it signify a true crisis demanding his intervention.
Dracula sighed. It had been a century since he last saw his kin. Though they now had a means to summon him, he had no desire to return. Too much awaited him there, and he loathed being burdened with their endless conflicts.
Slipping the crystal ball back into his pocket, he turned his attention to the voices calling him.
"Professor, are you listening?"
Dracula's eyes flickered to the approaching Weasley twins.
"What is it now?" he sighed, rubbing his temple as he regarded them with mild exasperation.
"Professor," George grinned, "since you're outside today, that must mean you've finished grading the test papers, right?"
Fred leaned in, his eyes gleaming. "Yeah, so who's getting the three enchanted amulets?"
Dracula smirked. "Why does it matter? It's not like you two have a chance."
Before they could protest, Lee Jordan came skidding up, panting. "Professor! I have to report something—Fred and George have placed a bet! They're gambling that Cedric and Hermione will win the amulets!"
"Hey! Betrayal!" Fred shot an indignant glare at Lee.
"Yeah, Lee, we had a deal!" George chimed in.
"Oh, you mean when you paid me half in worthless bronze Knuts?" Lee crossed his arms.
Dracula exhaled wearily. "If you three are so free, perhaps I should make you correct the test papers."
As the twins groaned, he shook his head and stepped into the sunlight, smirking. "Unfortunately for you, I never intended to grade them myself."
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