Harry Potter’s Natural Villain

For a normal person, to cut off part of his own arm by self-mutilation is really a matter of great courage, and it is no wonder that he is so fearful and hesitant.

Peter Pettigrew shivered and stretched out his right hand—the one with a missing finger, then clenched the dagger tightly with his left hand and swung it toward his right hand.

"Thorn."

At that moment, he closed his eyes, trying not to see the cruel and bloody scene.

A shrill scream resounded through the night sky, and a few owls perched on the yew tree not far away were startled, and the branches swayed and made rustling sounds.

With a soft plop, one of Peter's arms fell into the boiling cauldron at this time.

Breathing in pain, he fell down beside the cauldron, his still intact arm supporting his body.

"Very good, well done." Voldemort in the cauldron smiled with satisfaction, "I feel my strength is recovering, then, we just need to wait quietly for the arrival of the little friend, right? Tail?"

"Yes, my great master." He said excitedly, once Voldemort regained his strength, he would receive a supreme reward. Even if he made some mistakes before, he still returned to his master's side, dutifully serving He worked hard on his plan,

"Okay, master," Peter said respectfully, but still frowning in pain, the intact hand picked up the wand it had just dropped on the ground.

"Trash." Voldemort sneered, and then just stretched out his thin arm with a lot of medicinal liquid attached to it and pointed at Peter's severed arm, and said coldly:

"Healed as before!" A ray of light flashed, and the broken hand that was bleeding continuously healed immediately.

"I'll give you new arms later, that'll be stronger, that's your reward," said Voldemort with a chuckle, and the effect of the wish seemed to make his shrill voice less oozing people.

"Thank you for your generosity, Master!" Peter Pettigrew flattered, then slumped on the ground, regaining his strength, and waiting.

"The blood of the enemy...the blood of the enemy...forced to give...to make your enemy...revive." Peter muttered to himself in a low voice.

"Oh, our protagonist hasn't come yet, Peter." Voldemort was in a great mood now, and the uncomfortable feeling had been left behind by him, and his power was about to be restored.

The terrifying Dark Lord was about to return, so he was even in the mood to tease his minions.

"Master, I'm just trying the spell, I'm afraid I'll forget it later." Peter Pettigrew hurriedly said.

Then something amazing happened, and the smile on Voldemort's disgusting baby face faded.

The liquid in the crucible turned dazzling white at this time.

The cauldron was about to boil, and diamond-like sparks flew out, so bright and dazzling that everything around them turned a black velvet color.

Suddenly, the spark on the crucible went out. A white vapor rose from the crucible.

"Insect... Tail... Ba?" A chill from the soul hit Peter Pettigrew. He still didn't know what was wrong, but Voldemort's voice was full of hatred and trembling deep into his bones. Make him cold all over.

Did the resurrection fail?

Peter Pettigrew couldn't help but think so.

Then, through the white fog in front of him, he saw horribly the black figure of a man slowly rising from the cauldron, tall and thin, like a skeleton.

Then thrown on the ground before, the black robe responsible for wrapping the package suddenly moved, ran into the cauldron, and put it on Voldemort's body.

"Oh, I thought you were just cowardly, stupid, and not so loyal to me, but I didn't expect you to have hatred for me?"

The man said coldly and sharply.

Peter Pettigrew was in a cold sweat, and he vaguely guessed what was going on.

The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, his eyes fixed on his servant, a face paler than a skeleton, two big red eyes, a nose as flat as a snake's nose, and two slits for the nostrils...

Voldemort is resurrected.

Voldemort began to examine his body. His hands were like big pale spiders, and his long pale fingers stroked his chest, arms, and face; the red eyes were brighter in the dark, and the pupils were two slits, like those of a cat. Eye. He raised his hands and moved his fingers.

Peter Pettigrew couldn't see the expression of his master in front of him, but the chilling back and the keen premonition of danger made him understand that Voldemort didn't seem to be in a good mood.

At least not in line with the joy that should be given to taking back the body.

At this time, a large snake suddenly came out of the dark grass, its huge body twisted flexibly, and then began to wrap around Voldemort gradually.

Then he left quickly as if untying a rope, and slumped at Voldemort's feet.

In a short time, Voldemort had already put on his clothes.

"Oh? Nagini, are you happy for me too? But I'm not in the mood to be happy now." Voldemort said lightly, unable to see his emotions, but Peter Pettigrew knew that he was about to face this man's monstrous anger .

"Voldemort's return should be perfect, and using the blood of the boy who ruined his foundation as a marker of shame would be a perfect choice."

Voldemort muttered.

"But now it seems to be ruined by an idiot. What do you think I should do with him."

Peter Pettigrew lay on the ground shaking like a sieve, not daring to say a word.

"Listen." Voldemort said suddenly and softly, Peter Pettigrew immediately obeyed the order subconsciously, and pricked up his ears.

"I feel the space trembling, and many people are coming here." Voldemort said, Nagini suddenly straightened up his flexible body at this time, looking around in a rather anthropomorphic manner, the snake's eyes rolled, scarlet Xinzi stretched out and twisted.

"Let's guess who they are?" Voldemort said softly, in a nostalgic tone, then glanced at Peter aside.

"Ah!" The pain that penetrated the bone marrow caused Peter Pettigrew to let out a shrill scream, and he began to roll on the ground. He watched as the wound on his arm that had healed suddenly burst open, blood blossoming again, and the arm again Going up, there was something on the skin that looked like a bright red tattoo—a skeleton spewing a snake out of its mouth, the same figure that had appeared at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort studied it carefully, completely ignoring Wormtail's uncontrollable sobbing.

The jet-black blood looked so strange and coquettish in the pale night.