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Chapter 373: Eighteen Months Later, Even Voldemort Flinched
🕑 Added 2025-05-22 16:07:53 +0000 UTCTime can be strange—it has no clear shape, no fixed form.
Eighteen months… long enough for a fledgling to become a swan.
And long enough for shadows to creep back into England's wizarding world.
…
The Lestrange Estate.
In an ornate yet slightly faded parlor, heavy with age and history.
Around a long, oval table sat over twenty individuals—packed tight, yet the silence was so dense you could hear a pin drop.
"Hahaha… how amusing! To rise from the dead—this isn't just magic anymore… it's practically a cosmic joke."
Voldemort reclined in the seat of honor. Though he was laughing, his crimson eyes were colder than a tomb.
It took a while before the laughter faded, and the silence returned like fog rolling in from the sea.
"You know," he said, his tone deceptively casual, "the hallmark of a fool is hating someone they've never met… and bragging about deeds they've never done."
"I'd prefer none of you become such fools. Not like little Barty Crouch Jr."
Voldemort swept his gaze slowly across the room. Before him knelt over twenty Death Eaters, their faces a mix of reverence, fanaticism—and nervous sweat.
Each one had once been buried deep in the bowels of Azkaban. Loyal to a fault. Mad, maybe. But faithful.
Once upon a time, Voldemort wouldn't have wasted a second thought on them.
Now? He saw them as useful tools—tools that could pry loose important secrets, fetch whispers from the corners of the wizarding world.
Barty Jr.'s insubordination still irked him. That little stunt didn't just breach their agreement—it had handed Voldemort a brand new enemy.
Sure, the boy turned himself in to the Ministry afterward, but some things don't go back to the way they were. Once the mirror cracks, you can glue the shards together all you like—good luck seeing a clear reflection.
So, now, Voldemort was in damage control mode. Especially after receiving the news that Swinbrune had suddenly resurfaced—the resurrected mystery, the dice, the rules behind it all…
He wanted answers. He wanted everything.
But not yet.
Not until Dumbledore was dealt with.
His thoughts were interrupted. He turned to a hulking, brutish wizard seated near the edge of the table.
"Fenrir," he said mildly, "how many of the roaming werewolves have you gathered?"
Fenrir Greyback—infamous, bloodthirsty, and a werewolf whose reputation preceded him—stiffened like a scolded student.
"Master," he said, his voice uncharacteristically meek, "thus far, I've gathered 276. The rest were swayed by that meddling Lupin—offering them Wolfsbane Potion in exchange for loyalty…"
He trailed off, head bowed, ready for punishment.
But none came.
Instead, Voldemort offered a rare thing: the barest hint of reassurance.
"Two seventy-six? That'll do nicely," he replied evenly.
"My dear old professor always loved playing the long game… Let's see how well he plays when we turn his chessboard upside down."
"Set the werewolves loose on the Muggles. I'm not expecting miracles—but idleness is unacceptable."
The calmness of his voice made the cruelty all the more chilling.
A few in the room—Bellatrix, Jugson, and a handful of others—looked wholly unfazed. As if genocide was a typical Wednesday.
Others, like Fenrir and Lucius Malfoy, paled visibly.
Fenrir, of course, was imagining his hard-won pack being used as disposable bait—and wondering if he might be next.
Lucius, on the other hand, saw something worse. An attack on Muggles would openly violate the Statute of Secrecy. Break that, and it wasn't just a Ministry matter anymore—this was global annihilation potential.
Voldemort watched them with a lazy, detached interest. Whatever thoughts his followers had behind their masks, he didn't care. Obedience was all that mattered.
"Meeting adjourned. Fenrir, Lucius—stay."
With that, the rest shuffled out.
…
When the crowd dispersed, the Lestrange estate fell into a heavy, anticipatory silence.
Voldemort finally spoke again.
"Lucius," he said slowly, "the Malfoy family always did have a keen eye for talent. Sometimes I even envy it."
Lucius stood, stiff as a board. "Master, I…"
"No need to grovel," Voldemort interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Sit. Let's talk."
"I'm not here to punish you. Just a small task—deliver a letter to Swinbrune."
Lucius blinked. "Swinbrune?"
"Yes," Voldemort replied with an odd tone—calm, almost wistful. "Little Barty turned himself in, but that doesn't erase everything. There must still be… closure."
Lucius sat back down, the unspoken weight of the task dawning on him.
Strangely, Voldemort's voice held a subtle undercurrent of resignation. A tinge of release.
And truthfully? He felt both.
He had to compromise—because if Ino joined forces with Dumbledore, Voldemort didn't stand a chance.
But more than that… ever since Ino vanished from Hogwarts eighteen months ago, Voldemort had lived with a constant, gnawing vigilance.
A Slytherin snake is most dangerous not in the open—but hidden in the grass, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
That fear was what led him to break into Azkaban and rebuild his web of spies and pawns.
Now, though? That snake had shown itself again.
Ino had appeared—briefly, and silently—at the Ministry.
Just long enough to meet with Fudge.
That alone was enough to change everything.
…
Lucius left shortly after, the weight of the letter in his coat pocket somehow heavier than the entire house.
Later that afternoon…
In the Stone District of Manchester, a modest three-story home nestled in a quiet middle-class neighborhood.
Inside a guest room, Ino sat on the edge of the bed, expression unreadable as he slowly lowered a letter to the side.
"What happened?" Hermione asked, sharp as ever.
After so long together, she could read him like a book—one with very sarcastic footnotes.
Ino wasn't surprised she noticed. He gave a dry smile and shook his head.
"Just a small thing," he said lightly. "Voldemort sent me a letter. Seems like he's… scared."
"Voldemort? Scared?" Hermione snorted. "That'll be the day. What, did someone hide his Horcruxes under a tax audit?"
Three days had passed since her return.
Her parents—thanks to Lockhart, of all people—had their memories fully restored. They were home. She was home.
A quiet house. Her family. The person she loved.
It was the kind of happiness she didn't dare dream of during the war.
"And what will you do?" she asked tentatively, though she already knew the answer—and dreaded it.
Ino glanced sideways at her. The pause that followed wasn't hesitation—it was compassion.
"Hermione," he said softly, "you know you can't ignore a snake just because it's coiled up quietly. One day, it'll strike—and maybe not at you."
"I know," she sighed. "And Barty's already rotting in Azkaban…"
Of course she knew he was right.
But for someone like her—who had already sacrificed everything—peace wasn't just an ideal. It was something she'd earned.
Parents. Love. Maybe children someday.
But not yet.
The room grew quiet again, the weight of reality settling like dust in the air.
After a moment, Ino broke the silence.
"Don't worry," he said. "This time, he's not getting away. I've got a plan—and a real Seer. No more gambles. Horcruxes or not, he won't last the season."
He already knew about Barty's confession—Fudge had told him when they met to arrange the memory restoration.
But some things… well, some things can't be wiped away by a single act of remorse.
Like a wizard who keeps a Moke as a pet—sure, it's cute until it vanishes and breaks the Statute of Secrecy. Then guess who gets fined?
Not the Moke.
The wizard.
…
With a breath, Ino lifted his hand and gently plucked the strings of the harp in his lap.
The notes flowed out—soft and simple. A tune like a breeze through a wheat field. A folk melody from nowhere in particular.
The room filled with its gentle rhythm, washing away the last threads of unease like sunlight through fog.
Sometimes, peace is a song.
