Chapter 261 "The Messenger"

Peter set Harry down, returning his wand to his hand. Harry stood beside the tombstone, his legs trembling. The Death Eaters closed in, encircling him and Voldemort closely.

"Let us show courtesy, Harry," Voldemort intoned, bowing mockingly, his serpentine visage fixed on Harry. "Come now, proper etiquette must be observed... Dumbledore would expect nothing less of you. Show respect... Bow before death, Harry..."

The Death Eaters erupted in laughter, while Voldemort's lipless mouth curled into a smile. But Harry refused to bend. He wouldn't allow Voldemort to toy with him before his demise... He wouldn't let him succeed...

"I said, bow," Voldemort commanded, raising his wand. Harry felt an invisible force pressing relentlessly against his back, bending his spine forward. The laughter of the Death Eaters intensified.

"Very well," Voldemort murmured softly, lifting his wand, and the pressure on Harry's back vanished. "Now, look at me like a man... Hold your head high, just as you did when your father perished..."

"Now, let the battle commence—against whom?" Voldemort's gaze suddenly shot upward to Harry's upper left side.

A weighty, unseen pressure materialized in the heart of the cemetery. All the air seemed to vanish in an instant, as if a colossal shroud had descended from the heavens, enveloping the cemetery's center.

Harry felt as though his lungs were being squeezed, making each breath a struggle. Collapsing to his knees, he gasped for air.

The Death Eaters, too, were affected, visibly discomforted under the oppressive force. Forced back by at least a dozen steps, a vast empty space opened up in the center of the cemetery, leaving only Voldemort and the kneeling Harry.

"Dumbledore?" Voldemort's icy voice echoed faintly.

Silently, a swirling vortex of color materialized, and from it emerged a figure. Despite the myriad of transformative techniques in the wizarding world, Voldemort was certain that this was not Dumbledore.

The visage that greeted him was that of a chillingly young boy, no more than 15 years old at most. His platinum-blonde hair billowed in the wind, his dark gray eyes gleamed with intensity, and the corners of his mouth curled in a cynical smile. His expression, indifferent and aloof, conveyed a sense of detachment from the world.

Even during Voldemort's recent years in hiding, he had heard of this name, particularly after Peter Pettigrew's discovery. Images of this boy frequently graced the pages of major media outlets and newspapers—a name that had been discussed by Voldemort and the Death Eaters not long ago.

Skyler Malfoy.

A murmur rippled through the ranks of the Death Eaters. The recent atmospheric disturbance had nearly compelled them to their knees in supplication or to flee in terror, their minds momentarily convinced that Dumbledore himself was descending upon them. Yet, the emergence of a mere boy from the vortex left them utterly confounded, unable to comprehend the stark contrast.

"Is it you? The one that has been thwarting all of my plans?" Voldemort's pupils contracted slightly, betraying his acute perception.

None of the Death Eaters raised their wands in hostility toward the newcomer.

Clearly, this was a formidable form of psychological magic, capable of subtly eroding their aggression and resolve. Overwhelmed by the preceding pressure, they remained stunned, their capacity for action momentarily paralyzed.

Voldemort swiftly unleashed his magical power, causing the temperature to plummet and an aura of dread and desolation to pervade the cemetery.

"How audacious! Daring to venture here alone!" Voldemort's voice sliced through the eerie silence, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Skyler, as he began formulating his strategies.

"Fascinating..." Skyler's initial reaction upon seeing Voldemort was one of bewilderment—

"Shouldn't I be meeting Meredith? How did I stumble into this gathering of Death Eaters?" Skyler mused to himself.

True to form, Skyler swiftly composed himself. Despite confronting the infamous Lord Voldemort and being encircled by ten lethal Death Eaters, he maintained an indifferent smile, as though nothing before him could perturb him in the slightest.

"How intriguing... My esteemed Dark Lord," Skyler remarked with a smile, "Your expression suggests that you recognize me, which is curious indeed. I am a direct descendant of the Malfoy lineage, your most loyal subordinate—the biological offspring of Lucius Malfoy. Upon my sudden appearance, shouldn't your initial inquiry have been—"

"Why am I here? Where is my father, Lucius?" Skyler's smile waned, replaced by the keen gleam of his eagle-like eyes. "Could it be that I am representing my father, attending this gathering of Death Eaters in his stead?"

"Then—" Skyler's gaze darkened. "Why, upon stepping onto this stage, did I sense not affection but rather a profound hatred emanating from each of you? Where is the hospitality?"

Voldemort's brow furrowed slightly, indicating his impatience. He was not one for unnecessary banter; he could clearly sense that something was amiss.

Observing Voldemort's reaction, Skyler found himself unable to decipher the Dark Lord's thoughts.

"The noble and illustrious Dark Lord..." Skyler's gaze swept around the assembly with lightning speed, causing the Death Eaters to involuntarily shrink back as if caught in the act of some misdeed.

Yet, despite their retreat, Skyler's smile returned. "It appears that prior to my arrival, you were engaged in a lively discussion with your esteemed Death Eater comrades, were you not? And pray tell, could your conversation have centered on none other than myself? It seems likely. I'd venture to guess your final conclusion: the Malfoy family has committed some act of betrayal, and I, besides dear old Dumbledore, have become the foremost adversary of your Death Eaters. Am I correct?"

Voldemort remained tight-lipped, offering no response.

"It appears my assumptions were on the mark," Skyler sighed, feigning sorrow. "I must say, you disappoint me greatly. We are all members of the esteemed pure-blood lineage. Even in the face of disputes over interests, we remain bound by our shared social standing and affiliations. My father and yourself, Dark Lord, have long been regarded as the most trusted and capable lieutenants. Must you treat me with such hostility?"

"I've pondered this for quite some time, yet I fail to comprehend how I've incurred your wrath. Unless..." Skyler's gaze fixed on one of the Death Eaters. "Someone has set you against me, perhaps another master lurking in the shadows." He smiled softly. "My esteemed Dark Lord, I'm genuinely curious—who was the first to mention my name to you just now? Let me hazard a guess... Selwyn?"

"Se... Selwyn!" Voldemort's fury erupted.

"Master, please, hear me out... It's not what you think... Master..." Selwyn hastened to kneel, groveling on the ground, pleading for mercy. Tremors wracked his entire frame, revealing the depths of his fear.

"I am merely taken aback..." Voldemort's voice softened. "How could those insidious puppeteers orchestrate Potter's unwitting involvement in my resurrection? It seems... I've been used as a pawn..."

"The Shadow Dragon... using me as a pawn..." Voldemort lamented with a disappointed expression.

"Hahaha..." Skyler's laughter rang out, as if he'd heard a particularly amusing jest.

"What's so amusing!" Voldemort struggled to contain his mounting anger, striving to maintain his composure. Tonight's events demanded his utmost restraint; he couldn't afford to act rashly.

"Dear Dark Lord, you've truly tickled my funny bone," Skyler chuckled, his hand patting his chest as if to quiet his laughter. "Have you been absent from England for too long? Have you lost touch with the recent developments?" His demeanor shifted, his eyes growing colder, a hint of wariness creeping into his gaze. His lips quivered slightly as he spoke in a solemn tone. "My lord, times have changed—"

"How can you be so certain that the Shadow Dragon regards you as the wielder of the spear," he paused for emphasis, "and not me?"