Staring at the latest newspaper in his hand, Voldemort had never felt worse.
What soured his mood was not the headline about the "International Confederation of Wizards dispatching an Auror force to England."
It was because Voldemort had caught the scent of a conspiracy in the matter.
That damned, familiar feeling.
That was right—the damned Mudblood.
Though he had no concrete proof, Voldemort was not someone who needed evidence.
His certainty that this was Anderson's scheme also stemmed from the bitter losses they had suffered at Albert's hands.
Wasn't Scrimgeour the same? As that Mudblood's blade, he had stabbed Voldemort viciously, nearly wiping out all the Death Eaters under his command.
Now, that Mudblood had borrowed himself another new blade, ready to strike at the half-dead Death Eaters and completely erase the support around him, thereby weakening his power.
Once the Death Eaters truly fell into that Mudblood's trap, England's situation would utterly rot away.
Voldemort knew full well that he had to return to England and take charge, resolve every problem before the country's situation deteriorated beyond repair, and drive the Aurors sent by the International Confederation of Wizards out of England so they would not dare send more people to interfere in England's affairs.
Fortunately, by the time Voldemort returned to England, things had not yet become too terrible.
Yaxley, in whom he had placed great hopes, still had some sense and had not gone to war with those Aurors. Otherwise, the situation truly would have become impossible to contain.
"Master..."
Yaxley had intended to say something, but Voldemort raised a hand and cut him off.
"This is all that Mudblood's conspiracy. That arrogant fellow apparently wants to repeat the Scrimgeour affair and use those foreign Aurors to slaughter all of you."
Voldemort swept his expressionless gaze across