Truth

The air suddenly filled with the rustle of cloaks. Every second, wizards Apparated, appearing behind every gravestone and cedar tree, hooded and masked, slowly approaching Voldemort. They walked very slowly, cautiously, as though they could not believe their eyes.

When he saw Harry Potter bound to the gravestone, Malfoy, mixed among his "colleagues," staggered. He could not believe that, under the double protection of Dumbledore and Breen, the Dark Lord had managed to get his hands on Potter.

Then he noticed the young man beside the Dark Lord, glaring at them with blazing fury in his eyes, and was utterly speechless.

One after another, the Death Eaters dropped to their knees. They lined up and crawled to Voldemort's feet, kissing the hem of his black robes.

Malfoy did the same. As he bowed down, his heart was filled with bitterness. At last, he faced his true feelings—he did not want to see the Dark Lord return. But it was already an established fact.

An unfamiliar little girl, the youngest son of the Weasley family, the Mudblood who had been attacked some time ago and barely survived thanks to Breen's efforts, Old Barty—the powerful and highly influential official—and Igor Karkaroff, the traitor. He was not dead yet, but Malfoy knew it was only temporary. He knew why the Dark Lord had kept him alive.

Death had already sprouted, and it would flourish.

"Master."

Like the others, Malfoy called softly, kissing the Dark Lord's robes with utmost reverence, though his dignity was weeping.

"Welcome, Death Eaters,"

Voldemort said calmly.

"Thirteen years. It has been thirteen years since our last gathering. Yet you have still answered my summons as though it were yesterday. That means we are still united beneath the Dark Mark! Are we not?"

He raised his grotesque face and sniffed