London.
Though the room was bright, it was filled with an eerie chill at this moment.
Under the influence of this chill, even the flames dancing in the fireplace seemed to lose their rightful warmth. A long, dark green snake was coiled on the light gray carpet in front of the fireplace, the flames casting shards of light across its dense scales.
In the corner, six cauldrons bubbled and steamed in two rows, a strange smell permeating the room.
Suddenly, a wrinkled hand lifted the lid of one cauldron. Milky white steam shot up to the ceiling, and the owner of the hand nodded in satisfaction at the gradually subsiding bubbling of the brownish "mud" in the cauldron. Next, he raised his magic wand, and the Polyjuice Potion in the cauldron floated up, then poured evenly into several transparent glass bottles on the table, with corks bobbing up beside them to seal the prepared magic potion.
Having done all this, the owner of the hand seemed to nod in satisfaction. He raised his hand and ruffled his hair, letting a handful of dry brown strands fall to the ground.
"It's at the limit again."
The man's voice was dry and harsh, and when his gaze was lifted up, his face was deathly pale, his withered body covered with fine wrinkles... No, more than wrinkles, these crevices appeared more like cracks, and beneath these cracks, the blood-red muscle fibers were clearly visible.
"Hiss—"
The snake coiled on the carpet raised its ugly triangular head, its scarlet tongue flickering in and out.
"Hiss."
The man opened his mouth, emitting the same hoarse "hiss." The scarlet eyes of the snake squinted slightly, and the hissing Parseltongue sounded obscure and unpleasant, as if the conversation between the human and the snake made the entire room dimmer.
"Hiss."
The deep green snake nodded, then moved out of the living room, slithering on the dark brown wooden floor, which was covered in dust and seemed long uncleaned, with a complex mesh of fresh and old footprints.
"Click."
Just as the snake was moving out of the living room, the front door suddenly opened from the outside, and a middle-aged man in a dark gray wizard robe walked in. His expression was numb, as if he hadn't even noticed the snake slithering in front of him. He turned and placed his briefcase on the shoe cabinet.
"Master."
The middle-aged man did not open his mouth. The voice seemed to come from the void, but soon the air beside the man began to undulate, and an invisibility cloak fell to the ground. A young man in a black coat emerged from the air, taking a deep breath and respectfully bowing to the room.
"You're back, Barty, my most loyal servant..."
The fragile figure emerged from the room, wearing a black robe, hands crossed in front of him, gently pinching a slender purple fir wand between two fingers. He squinted his eyes, his narrow red eyes sweeping over the two men in front of him, "It seems everything went smoothly."
"Of course, my dear Master—"
Barty Crouch Jr.'s face bore an inexplicable excitement as he licked his lips, his voice growing softer, "No one can detect the flaw, Master, I will never let you down, unlike those traitors..."
"Very good."
Voldemort interrupted Barty from continuing his endless declaration of loyalty, shaking his head slightly, "The Polyjuice Potion is ready."
"...This will add another stroke to our great plan!"
Barty's excited expression turned frenzied. Eagerly, he followed Voldemort back to the living room. Behind him, Barty Senior stood up slowly from the shoe bench, looking dazed and following sluggishly.
"..."
On the wooden floor of the entryway, the deep green snake turned its head, giving a long look at the three figures in the living room before slipping through the small gap in the door left ajar. "Click—" The door then gently closed, making a faint sound.
...
Gray hair fell into the brown "mud," which had just calmed down but began to boil again, turning a dark gray that soon replaced the unsightly ochre. An indescribable odor wafted from the bottle.
Barty lifted a small bottle of Polyjuice Potion, tilting his head back to drink it all.
After drinking, he smacked his lips... Hmm, it tasted like footbath water.
"Gah—"
The next moment, his insides began to churn as if he'd swallowed several live snakes—
The man bent over, a burning sensation from his stomach swiftly spreading throughout his body, reaching his fingers and toes. Then came the feeling of melting, as if his skin were hot wax rising into terrifying blisters, causing him to lie prostrate, gasping on the floor...
Finally, after a brief groan, Barty lifted his head once more, and his appearance had changed, now almost identical to the middle-aged man lying on the sofa behind him, except his expression was far more lively compared to the other's numbness.
"Cough cough—"
The man's voice had also changed, becoming deeper and more magnetic. Looking at his transformed self in the mirror, he excitedly knelt down, "Master, as long as there is enough Polyjuice Potion, the plan will surely progress smoothly—"
"Of course, enough it is."
Voldemort glanced at the table behind him, where six cauldrons continued to bubble slowly. He had calculated the time—they would produce a batch of premium Polyjuice Potion every five days, and each batch could fill six glass bottles, with each bottle's effect lasting 24 hours...
Even more affluent, enough to allow Barty Crouch Jr. to handle some possible special situations.
Relying solely on Imperio would eventually lead to problems, especially since Barty Senior often had to meet with foreign officials as the Quidditch World Cup and that unknown tournament were happening simultaneously, making the International Magical Cooperation Department incredibly busy lately.
Moreover, he had a bothersome assistant …
Voldemort felt somewhat agitated; everything was progressing smoothly, and everything could be planned gradually, but for some reason, there was always a feeling inside him, a kind of impulsive desire …
No, you couldn't alert them too early; last time, that man —
Voldemort raised his hand to cover his face, his expression grim. He leaned back on the sofa, this shattered body constantly bringing him excruciating pain, but that pain-induced irritation was far less than the noise of a voice constantly buzzing in his head.
"You could accomplish it now, but instead you're going in such a roundabout way… is there something wrong with you?"
A younger voice rang in his ears, Voldemort's expression darkening so much it seemed like water could drip from it. He moved his hand away from his face, and in his view, the entire room suddenly seemed to dim, while opposite him on the couch sat a young man in Hogwarts robes, reclining on the soft sofa, holding one knee casually, with an air of mockery in his black eyes.
His other hand was lifted, gently tapping at the side of his head —
Sixteen-year-old Tom suspected that something was wrong with this imprisoned head …
He looked at the almost unrecognizable broken figure on the opposite sofa, unable to refrain from sighing. How did he grow over the next few decades to become such a fool? Simply … simply a disgrace to the name Voldemort.
He initially wanted to cooperate with this imprisoned Voldemort, but the other's stubborn and inflexible attitude was unexpected, though they were one and the same, glorying together …
"…You don't understand."
Voldemort's voice was hoarse as he stared at this being in front of him, unclear whether it was real or a hallucination, his tone heavy.
"You have to fixate on Harry Potter? You know full well, the entire United Kingdom is filled with people who hold grudges against you, you might even go to the Ministry of Magic to catch a Crup, its parents might have a grudge against you, but it has to be Harry Potter? You know well! That person is right beside him!"
Young Tom's expression wasn't great either, the mockery in his eyes vanished, his tone rare in its heaviness.
"That's why I say, you don't understand anything at all."
The imprisoned Voldemort's expression remained unchanged; he looked at young Tom, his narrow red eyes devoid of emotion.
… Damn it.
The boy's head drooped slightly, a hint of malice passing through his black eyes; this bastard not only couldn't be moved now, he also intended to drag him to seek his own death … In this current state, if caught by that damn William during the plotting …
Young Tom made up his mind, at the next moment, without saying more, his figure disappeared with a pop.
Light shone in from the window partially obscured by curtains, and Barty Crouch Jr., kneeling by the sofa, felt no ripples in his heart; during this more than a month, he had seen Voldemort talking to himself more than once … perhaps it was the price of immortality?
Instinctively, Barty Crouch Jr. thought, but this matter did not affect his "loyalty" at all.
"Click—"
The door was opened, and instinctively, Barty Crouch Jr. turned to look, only to find a figure crawling slowly from outside the door… no, that wasn't a human figure at all; it was the snake that had just left.
At this moment, the snake's originally slender streamlined body appeared bloated and awkward, but upon careful discernment, its contours could be seen.
It had a person inside its belly.
"You did well, Nagini—"
The snake called Nagini struggled to crawl to Voldemort's side, using its triangular head to nudge against the man's dangling hand, then opening its mouth wide, its throat began to shake, soon spitting out a man in gray work clothes, whose slime-covered body fell onto the floor with a dull thud.
"Crouch."
"I am here, Master."
"Leave."
"…Yes."
Barty Crouch Jr. exited the living room, followed by Barty Senior. He needed to properly "settle" his old father, and after his departure, Voldemort's form started to tremble violently, blood flowing from the crevices all over him, soon discarding a broken husk —
Black mist dispersed and gathered in mid-air in the living room, finally converging into a stream and entering the mouth of the man lying on the floor.
At last, the black mist completely vanished, and the man lying on the floor opened his eyes, crimson snake pupils faintly glowing in the dim room.
"…"
Nagini reclined back onto the floor, coiled into a ring, green shimmering pupils staring unblinkingly at the unfolding events —
Fifty miles away, a boy named Harry Potter abruptly woke from his sleep.