Little Britain almost lost Northern Ireland and is not much of a United Kingdom, Little Hengton.
The gray sky gradually darkened.
Thick, ink-black clouds steadily and slowly filled the entire sky, with dim light barely illuminating the surroundings, covering everything in a misty glow. A scrawny old man, dressed in a security guard uniform, sat at his post while wispy vapors drifted from the edge of his teacup—
"Is it going to rain?"
Looking at the gloomy weather outside, the old man mumbled under his breath and began to recollect—did he bring in the clothes before leaving home tonight?
…He forgot.
Well, he would go back and check later. After all, even if he left his post, it wouldn't matter much; no one would bother to report an old man who was on the verge of losing all his teeth, and no one would possibly come to this graveyard to steal anything—
What could they possibly steal? Some homeless person's thigh bone? Or his dentures soaking in a teacup?
The old man really couldn't imagine that anyone would come to this forsaken place, where not even dogs would dig holes—
Staring out at the ominous clouds for quite a while, the old man finally stood up slowly, slinging the long pole over his back as he opened the door and walked out. Before going home, he decided to conduct a routine check around the graveyard, although he doubted there would be any grave robbers targeting a public cemetery, but... one should have love for one's work.
…
"Bang—"
"Bang bang—"
A dull pounding sound emerged, and the loose soil began to tremble slightly. Finally, after who knows how many thuds, brown soil flew up, and a wooden coffin lid was forced open from within. A pale-faced man gasped for breath as he sat up, inhaling the bloody smell of the soil. The man steadied himself.
He had died and then lived again, as expected.
"Hiss—"
The scent of charred flesh entered the man's nostrils. He lowered his eyes and looked at the source of the "aroma," his own right hand. A black ring was firmly fixed on his middle finger, a roughly crafted black gemstone ring. In the black gem, a complex "triangle" flickered in and out of view with a glow.
This was the emblem of the Peverell Family, also representing the pattern of the Deathly Hallows.
And now, this ring, once considered a family heirloom by Marvolo Gaunt, was exuding an unbearable heat, countless sinister thoughts emanating from it. But Voldemort picked up the magic wand he had prepared earlier, and with a light gesture—
His right middle finger then fell off, and the joint had no severed mark, as if it had healed over years, with the skin covering the wound again. After picking up the finger with the ring and putting it in his pocket, Voldemort's gloomy expression finally eased a bit. Gazing at the overcast sky, he stiffly stood up.
Glancing at the coffin lid left on the ground, suddenly hesitating, the man, who intended to leave, still lifted the magic wand, and the coffin cover was put back in place. Together with the scattered soil, everything seemed as though nothing had ever happened... unless there was an unforeseen witness to this "drama."
"Click—"
The sound of a mechanism striking in the silence of the graveyard was slightly jarring, and Voldemort paused his steps.
He turned around, only to find an old man standing not far behind him, frowning, his graying hair slicked back. A cigar was clamped in his mouth, and he was holding a strange iron rod with both hands—
"What are you?"
The old man instinctively glanced at the man's right hand. He had just seen this person point with that little stick, and the finger directly fell off, moreover, this man crawled out of a coffin, who knew what he was...
A zombie?
Or some blinding technique?
"Ha, an ignorant Muggle—"
Voldemort turned his body, looking at the frail old man who seemed like he could fall over with a puff of wind. His lips curled into a slight smile, his scarlet pupils glimmered with a faint light, and he began to drawl, "Now, kneel before me, and I might consider sparing—"
"Bang—"
Intense fire burst from the shotgun's muzzle. The next moment, blood spurted from the man as his body was flung several meters away.
"...What kind of crap is he babbling about?"
Puffing out a cloud of smoke and gazing at the tattered figure lying on the ground, the old man hesitated for a moment—
"Bang, bang bang—"
After firing three more bullets in succession, and seeing that the man lying on the ground appeared to have ceased all movement, the old man finally relaxed slightly, reloading the chamber.
"Stop playing ghost!"
He muttered as he walked forward, poking the remains on the ground with the barrel of his gun. Realizing the other likely couldn't crawl up anymore, he finally took the cigar out of his mouth and spat fiercely. Then, he turned around leisurely, ready to make a call to have the town's police deal with this neither-human-nor-ghost "zombie."
"…"
But the next moment, he saw a young man with a complicated expression standing right behind him.
"Damn—"
The old man widened his eyes, and crucially, he saw the wooden stick in the young man's hand. Just now, that man pointed at his finger with that stick... Are these two together?! This man is also a zombie!
His brain quickly wove the event together, but the old man's action was much faster than his thought —
"Expelliarmus!"
"Boom—"
Red light and fire burst simultaneously, but the charm was ultimately faster. The red lightning struck the old man's chest, and his body flew backward—though the Disarming Spell usually wasn't this powerful, the actual effect of magic always depended on the situation. After all, the opponent was a Muggle old man nearly at the end of his life...
... A Muggle old man who nearly wiped out the Death Eaters organization.
Clutching his shattered knee... or rather, Barty Crouch Jr's right calf now missing, the Disarming Spell came in handy; otherwise, it might have been his head missing now. Enduring the pain from his leg, he hopped to the side of the "rag."
Lowering his body, Barty fumbled for a while over the latter's body, finally digging out a pitch-black black gemstone ring from the pile of flesh with a forced smile on his face. He held the ring, struggling a bit as he moved beside the fainted old man, and put the ring on his finger.
The old man's figure was skinny, and naturally, his fingers were no exception; the ring, a size too wide, hung on his finger, but the effect wasn't hindered by the ring's poor fit. Thick black smoke spewed from the ring face, pouring into the old man's orifices—
"...Cough cough."
Finally, the old man stood up again, a flash of shock and anger flickering in his scarlet eyes.
"Master!"
Barty's forehead was drenched in sweat, enduring the stinging pain reaching his soul. He called out to Voldemort, who was forcing himself to stand, and the latter ceased to vent his emotions any further, aware of time's critical nature. Grabbing Barty's shoulder, both figures began to tremble, and with a "snap—"
Two figures vanished, leaving only the corpse lying on the ground, seemingly narrating the battle that once happened here.
"Swish—"
Not knowing how long had passed, heavy rain followed nightfall, with gusts sweeping the rain, purging everything in the world.
...
...
Rich hot cocoa emitted a comforting sweet aroma.
Looking out from the car window, the pale cloud almost concealed everything in the world, with rain tapping against the glass, producing reassuring sounds. However, the people inside the compartment evidently had no thoughts of comfort—
"... Was it really Voldemort?"
Harry's face was pale, with the Hogwarts uniform haphazardly thrown on him, looking a bit disheveled. He gazed at William and Lupin seated opposite him, a hint of pleading emerging from his eyes from an unknown source.
"You've already asked that question thirteen times."
William finished his cup of chocolate milk and handed the newspaper to Lupin, "But the answer remains the same, Harry. You're being targeted by Voldemort, though it's not unexpected. It's apparent he's making a comeback, and you are likely essential to his plan."
"..."
Harry's face turned even paler. Ever since the night before last, hovering so close to death, his heart rate hadn't dropped below 90, overwhelmed by a flood of anxiety, irritability, fear... An array of emotions drowning the boy. Were it not for the Emotion Magic stabilizing and adjusting within—
This renowned Savior might have crumbled just like that.
Watching Lupin unfurl the newspaper, William refilled his mug with hot cocoa—
Yesterday was a long day, after Voldemort's death, he ended up "controlled" by the Ministry of Magic—
Well, rather than controlled, it was more tactfully requested for him to stay for a deposition. When he seemed to intend to leave, Tonks almost kneeled on the ground, with the senior student's eyes slightly twitching and her hair turning the blue representing sadness—
Originally, the Head of the Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour had no plans to offer William any treatment.
He clearly didn't trust William's words about "Voldemort's resurrection," even repeatedly attempting to threaten him with force to get him to 'speak the truth' during questioning.
At that time, William had already planned to define him as a Black Wizard. Luckily, Dumbledore's timely arrival at the Ministry of Magic and Fudge, rushing upon receiving the news, saved this "Mane Lion King's" life, though he clearly wasn't aware of this fact, still wearing a defiant expression.
But with Dumbledore and Fudge vouching for him, the opponent, despite being unwilling, had to forcibly swallow his grievances.
"Senior, she says she's ready."
Before William could continue reminiscing, the compartment door was opened from the outside. Hermione flicked off the water droplets from her hand and, in the somewhat overly crowded compartment, found a spot and sat down with difficulty.
"... You, don't want me to do this interview?"
"No? Why say that?"
"... Then why don't you let me go out?"
Watching Hermione squeeze beside him, nearly sitting on his lap, William couldn't help but twitch the corners of his lips.