Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor.
The white peacocks that once wandered the manor grounds were nowhere to be seen.
The interior of the manor remained lavish—opulent furniture, marble fireplaces, and gilded mirrors.
The purple wallpaper in the drawing room added a touch of aristocratic splendor.
But now, that sense of grandeur had been replaced by something cold and sinister.
The mist lingering throughout Malfoy Manor hadn't lifted for an entire year.
No one knew just how many truly evil beings lurked within these walls.
Lucius Malfoy sat at the right end of the long table, stiff with fear. Lippy, going by the alias "Drakon Geng," had managed to secure one of the seats.
The Death Eaters who had escaped from Azkaban had returned to their master—but now had to endure the oppressive presence of Voldemort.
The Dark Lord was in a foul mood.
And everyone could see it.
He was in a dangerous state, and no one wanted to be the one to provoke him.
Not even Biber Jaster, his most fanatical supporter.
They all kept their heads bowed, not daring to look at his face.
"Who can tell me," Voldemort said, his voice cutting through the silence.
He turned his gaze to Lucius. "Lucius, tell me—what is the most important thing we must do?"
Lucius trembled slightly. He swallowed hard, his voice quivering. "Master, we need to go to the Department of Mysteries… to retrieve that item."
"You're wrong, Lucius."
Lucius jolted violently. The fear hadn't even fully surfaced on his face before Voldemort continued, "That item can only be retrieved by Harry Potter. What we need is Harry Potter."
Every Death Eater in the room listened in utter silence as Voldemort spoke.
Then his voice turned suddenly irritable. "And that damn Johnny Silverhand who keeps getting in our way!"
"He's like a cockroach crawling out of a sewer—I constantly feel the urge to crush him."
The killing intent in Voldemort's voice was suffocating. Lucius, seated closest to him, felt like he could barely breathe.
"But," Voldemort said abruptly, the rage vanishing from his tone, "once we get that item, we can crush that cockroach."
The strategic goal was set: seize the item in the Department of Mysteries.
But how to lure Potter there?
That—Voldemort had an answer to.
He turned his eyes to the only person present who wasn't a Death Eater.
"Narcissa, I need you to carry out a task for me."
Under the gaze of those cold, serpentine eyes, Narcissa felt a chill run through her body. But she wasn't Lucius.
She nodded slowly.
The meeting was dismissed.
Lucius cast a worried glance at his wife. Narcissa felt a flicker of warmth in her heart.
"You must be careful," Lucius said in a low voice, gripping her hand. "Don't ever defy the Master."
Coward.
Narcissa shot her husband a sharp glare.
After speaking, Lucius glanced back at Voldemort, then quickly walked away with obvious unease.
Narcissa had to remain calm. She stepped forward respectfully, ready to follow Voldemort's instructions.
But just as Voldemort was about to speak, his expression suddenly changed.
Narcissa wasn't sure if she was imagining it, but she thought Voldemort seemed to lose consciousness for a brief moment.
When he came to, Voldemort staggered and gripped the edge of the table for support.
"My Lord?" Narcissa looked over at him.
A flicker of confusion and suspicion flashed in Voldemort's eyes. He could feel something leaving him.
"This.. is the second time!"
His expression darkened, shifting unpredictably—even he didn't know what was happening.
It was unprecedented. Too sudden.
His first thought was of the Horcruxes—but no, this wasn't right.
Even if something had happened to a Horcrux, it shouldn't feel like this.
What exactly had happened?
"The Cup… who is it?!" A rare trace of unease crept into Voldemort's voice.
He still didn't know who had taken the cup from Gringotts.
To think that he, the great Dark Lord, would feel this way.
People were supposed to fear Voldemort—he wasn't supposed to feel fear himself.
The feeling had lasted only an instant. But when he came back to himself, a glint of murderous intent flashed in his eyes as he looked at Narcissa.
Someone had seen him in that moment.
His first instinct was to kill them.
But Narcissa wasn't just Lucius's wife—she was also Bellatrix's sister, and more importantly, a crucial piece in the plan.
Fuu~ Deep breath..
Voldemort buried the killing intent, his expression calm as he beckoned Narcissa forward.
He whispered a secret plan into her ear.
Narcissa's expression remained unchanged throughout. But as she left the sitting room, a strange look flickered across her face.
"What a coincidence…"
In that moment, Narcissa felt a sense of absurdity.
Johnny Silverhand and Voldemort were using the exact same plan—it was almost too much of a coincidence.
...
John slowly regained consciousness, sitting up while rubbing his forehead.
Tommy hadn't shown up—he never let anyone enter this place.
The first thing he did after waking was take out his pocket watch to check the time.
"One night's passed, huh."
His throat itched, and he broke into a fit of violent coughing until he finally hacked up a mouthful of black blood.
He stared at the dark stain, calculating something in his mind.
"Very cautious… this way, by the time it's discovered, it'll already be too late to save me."
John remarked with interest, "This one's got more brains than Crabbe and Goyle combined."
Maybe it was because Voldemort had split his soul too many times—he no longer quite lived up to the brilliance a Dark Lord was supposed to have.
Still, he had once pushed the Ministry of Magic to the brink. In some areas, Voldemort wasn't so clueless.
On the surface, it had been Crabbe and Goyle who, as Death Eaters, tried to poison John. But in truth, there was a third party involved.
"A double-layered strategy. When it comes to underhanded schemes like this, you're pretty decent, Tom Riddle."
Wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth with a sleeve, John cleaned away the blackened stain.
The cup lay on the ground. When he picked it up again, that chilling, evil presence was gone.
"Hufflepuff's Cup," John murmured, fingers running along its surface. "Something left behind by Helga Hufflepuff shouldn't be ordinary."
He extended a silver finger and lightly tapped the cup, closing his eyes to feel it out carefully.
A moment later, he opened them again, a flicker of surprise in his gaze. "This craftsmanship is on par with Godric Gryffindor's sword. Just like Ravenclaw's diadem, it contains a unique magic of its own."
Stashing the cup away, John had now collected two of the four Founders' relics.
The remaining one—Slytherin's locket—should be at Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
With the Horcrux situation becoming clearer, a faint smile tugged at John's lips.
"Tom Riddle, I think we'll be meeting very soon."
By the time John emerged from the chamber, it was already midday the next day.
In the lavender garden, the black long-eared owl Riddle was lounging with its eyes closed, clearly enjoying the peace. Beside it was Basil.
The moment Basil saw John, it flapped its wings and flew over.
John took the envelope from its beak and opened it.
A flicker of pleasant surprise appeared in his eyes. After reading the letter, he burned it to ash.
Tommy walked into the garden. Seeing John, he finally let out a breath of relief.
"Sir," Tommy said respectfully, "Barty Crouch Sr. is here to see you."
"Hah~ Well, what a coincidence," John said with a smile as he adjusted his clothes. "I was just about to go looking for him."
He raised a hand and swept it across his face—a silver mask appeared.
Now transformed into Johnny Silverhand, John turned to Tommy. "Prepare some refreshments for me. The ones you sent to Oz Hild last time weren't bad."
Tommy, unusually, flushed slightly and coughed. "Those snacks were... purchased with my own money."
"If you hadn't bought them at ten percent of the ingredient cost, I might have actually complimented you," John said, shooting him a sidelong glance.
Tommy fell silent.
He was afraid that if he kept talking, his salary might be next on the chopping block.
When he arrived at the study, Barty Crouch Sr. was already seated, his short gray hair immaculately combed.
"Ah~ My friend Barty, I haven't had the chance to congratulate you yet," John said as he stepped into the room and shook his hand, smiling. "The most beloved Minister Crouch of the past two decades."
Barty chuckled heartily, clearly in a great mood.
After John sat down, Barty didn't bother with small talk. "I'm here on official business this time. The Ministry of Magic needs repairs and renovations in quite a few areas."
"From what I've heard, the Ministry doesn't currently have the budget for that," John said, hands folded beneath his chin.
"That was true," Barty acknowledged. "But since we cut back on equipment maintenance costs—and thanks to a few forgetful souls suddenly remembering to pay their taxes…"
It was obvious that those "forgetful souls" weren't really forgetful—they were just scared of being audited by Barty.
Thanks to that, the Ministry now had a bit of extra cash.
At least Barty didn't have to keep staring at the Fountain of Magical Brethren wondering when he could tear it down and sell it for parts.
However, the moment Barty mentioned plans to renovate the Ministry, something flickered in John's eyes.
With a subtle, persuasive smile, he said, "Barty, I have a suggestion that could save you a great deal of money."
Barty's expression shifted with interest as he looked at the ever-enigmatic Johnny Silverhand.
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