As soon as he landed, little Barty let out a cry like a ghost, broke away from Hoffa, and rushed towards the dilapidated building towering in the night, "Master...Master! Your most loyal servant is back!!"

A hoarse voice like a broken gong echoed far into the night.

Nicoléme frowned and looked at the crazy little Barty, looking around, "Is this where Voldemort is staying now? It looks like... it has been abandoned for many years."

"Otherwise, you'd think he was staying in a five-star hotel," Hoffa shrugged. "After so many years of poverty, it's pretty good to live in a place like this."

"I didn't expect that the Dark Lord, who was so famous more than ten years ago, would sink to this." Nicoléme sighed: "I think you may not know how arrogant he was in the past."

"To what extent?"

Hoffa raised an eyebrow.

"There is no one in the world who cannot be killed. In this regard, he is really like his ancestors."

"Slytherin?"

"Including the three Peverell brothers, except for the youngest Peverell, the other two are murderous guys."

"You know it well?"

"Although I have never seen them, I believe that everyone's alchemy products will bear the indelible mark of their master. And Cadmus Peverell is a legendary master who plays with life and death.

"

After a pause, he smiled and said: "It's just that people like this are often paid special attention to by the God of Death. I heard that after his death, his soul is hung on the thorny path of Helheim, and he will never be able to be freed."

"Helheim's Way of Thorns?"

Hoffa asked curiously, "What is that?"

"I've only heard of it once."

Nicoléme shrugged, "That's a very old legend, no one knows what it means."

At this time, the appearance of a short figure interrupted the conversation between the two. His head was bulging, and an uneasy smile flashed on his face. He nodded and bowed to Hoffa and said: "Mr. Bach, master, master."

You are invited in."

"It's you, Wormtail!"

Little Barty, who looked extremely excited, grabbed Peter Pettigrew's arm, touched his bald head, and said urgently and fervently, "Quickly, take me in quickly. Take me to see the master quickly. I haven't seen the master in thirteen years."

Such style!"

Peter Pettigrew uneasily pushed Barty's hand away, "Come with me."

After saying that, he took the three people and walked to the heights of Riddle Mansion.

While walking, little Barty asked: "Where are the others? Where's Lucius, where's Bella, where's Severus, are they all back?"

"No....."

Peter Pettigrew muttered, "I am the first, uh... If you don't count Mr. Bach, you are the second..."

"What!?"

Little Barty immediately started shouting unjustly.

"Do those people have a vicious and cruel father? Why don't they come back? Also, why do you let the master live in such a dirty place!?"

Faced with his question, Peter Pettigrew remained silent and did not answer.

At this time, a lingering question came from the depths of the castle.

"Is Buddy back?"

It was Voldemort's voice. Barty Crouch Jr. was excited, his face showed extremely happy joy, and he was running like a tiger at his feet: "As expected, the master loves me the most, and as expected the master still remembers me...

....”

Bang!!

Returning to the fireplace hall where the flames were burning, little Barty stood at the door of the hall panting, with tears in his eyes: "Master...my respected master, my dear master, your most loyal servant is back."

The disgusting tone made Hoffa standing beside him get goosebumps.

"Come here, let me see you." Voldemort leaned back in the chair and said hoarsely.

"Yes, Master."

With tears in his eyes, little Barty knelt down and crawled forward like a pilgrim.

In front of the fireplace, the chair where Voldemort sat turned around.

Little Barty climbed to the chair and slowly raised his head.

Hoffa on the side kept glancing at this guy, and then he saw a wonderful scene that he would never forget in his life. Before that, he had never imagined that a person's expression could be so complicated.

I saw little Barty looking at the crumpled little thing that looked like a monkey fetus on the chair.

The expression on his face gradually changed from enthusiasm and joy to astonishment, then gradually cooled down and turned pale, then gradually became frightened, then gradually became confused. Finally, he lowered his head and his body trembled: "Master...

Owner!?"

"It's me." Voldemort smiled.

Little Barty lowered his head and asked stammeringly, "You...how did you become like this...?"

"I have been cursed, by a vicious woman."

"Is that so... Ha... That's really damn..." Little Barty said, but he didn't have much of the same hatred. His tone only sounded numb and confused.

Hoffa couldn't help but raise the corners of his mouth.

At this time, the smile on Voldemort's face gradually changed. He leaned on the large chair, his short fingers resting on the back of the chair, and his red eyes were somewhat sinister.

"Why, I make you feel very disappointed."

"I, I, I didn't..." Little Barty immediately said subconsciously, "You, what are you thinking about?"

"Oh, that's fine if you don't,"

Voldemort squinted his eyes and said slowly, I haven't heard you call me master for many years, and I really miss you. Call me a few more times now."

"Master...Master..." Little Barty's cheek muscles twitched and he shouted with some stumble.

"Look at my face." Voldemort said calmly.

Little Barty raised his head with difficulty, and Hoffa standing aside could see a smile on his face, but the smile was extremely stiff and restrained.

"Lord...Lord, master."

Well. Voldemort raised his thin fist, smoothed the withered yellow hair of the young man in front of him, and then looked at him weakly and teasingly. This action made his smile, which was as stiff as a stone, even more distorted.

Voldemort: "No, call me respected master. Just like when you came in."

Little Barty: "Respect...respected, master..."

"Call me dear master again," Voldemort continued.

"Dear...Dear, dear...Master."

Barty Jr. forced a smile, but his expression was as stiff as if he was about to collapse. Hoffa could see that the fists on his knees were clenched tightly and the veins on the backs of his hands popped out.

After staring at each other for a while, he finally couldn't stand it anymore, bit his lip, lowered his head, and dug his nails into his flesh.

"Okay, you go down."

Voldemort waved his short arm and said with an expressionless expression: "Our guest and I still have some things to discuss. Wormtail, take him down."

"Yes, Master."

Peter Pettigrew, who was hiding in the corner and watching coldly, stepped forward and took Barty Jr.'s arm. Barty Jr.'s face turned pale, and he stood up in despair. He staggered and followed Peter Pettigrew outside.

When passing by the door, I accidentally fell.

"Mortal... hum..."

When there were only three people left in the room, Voldemort raised his head, with a hint of desolation and loneliness in his eyes, but that emotion was quickly extinguished by the flame of desire.

He looked at Hoffa and Nico Flamel: "Which one of you two makes the decision?"

Nico Flamel glanced at Hoffa and was about to stand up, but Hoffa beat him to it and said: "We are just partners, no one makes the final decision."

"Hmph, you are so smooth, Bach." Voldemort smiled noncommittally and looked at Nicoléme: "Hey, old man, why do you want Peverell's alchemy? You want to re-shell yourself?

What?"

"You really have a sharp eye, Lord Dark Lord."

Nicolas Flamel kept his posture very low, "I've had enough of this old and frail body. Now I'm unable to do many things."

"Then why don't you use the Sorcerer's Stone?" Voldemort sneered: "Four years ago, I asked you to borrow the Sorcerer's Stone. Not only did you not borrow it, you also carefully hid it."

"The Philosopher's Stone can barely extend my life, but it cannot bring me strong vitality."

Nicolas Flamel spoke eloquently: "I didn't know it was you who needed it at the time. Moreover, Dumbledore said hello in advance. I couldn't refuse. A person of your status can certainly understand."

Hoffa looked at the old man's flawless lies and thought that he was right that his skin would grow thicker as he lived.

Voldemort, who punched the cotton without taking any advantage, soon lost interest in Nicolas Flamel. He waved his hand, "Okay, let's go out. For Bach's sake, I will let you participate."

When you come to my resurrection ceremony, how much you can memorize depends on your ability, but don't expect me to take the initiative to teach you anything."
To be continued...