Staring at the latest newspaper in his hand, Voldemort had never felt as wretched as he did now.
What soured his mood was not the headline about the International Wizarding Federation sending an Auror squad to Britain.
Rather, Voldemort had caught the scent of a conspiracy in the matter.
That damned sense of familiarity.
That was right—the damned Mudblood.
Though there was no concrete evidence, Voldemort had never needed any.
His certainty that this was Anderson's scheme also stemmed from the bitter losses they had suffered at Albert's hands.
Hadn't Scrimgeour been the same? As the sharp blade in that Mudblood's hand, he had stabbed Voldemort hard, nearly wiping out all the Death Eaters under his command.
Now that Mudblood had borrowed a new knife, preparing to slash at the half-dead Death Eaters and completely remove the support around him, thereby weakening his power.
If the Death Eaters truly fell into that Mudblood's trap, Britain's situation would rot beyond repair.
Voldemort knew he had to return to Britain and take charge, solve every problem before the situation deteriorated completely, and drive the Aurors sent by the International Wizarding Federation out of Britain, making them afraid to keep sending people to interfere in Britain's affairs.
Fortunately, by the time Voldemort returned to Britain, the situation had not yet become too disastrous.
Yaxley, in whom he had placed high hopes, had at least shown some sense and had not gone to war with those Aurors. Otherwise, things would have been truly difficult to contain.
"Master..."
Yaxley had originally wanted to say something, but Voldemort raised a hand and cut him off.
"This is all that Mudblood's conspiracy. That arrogant fool seems to want to repeat the Scrimgeour affair, using those foreign Aurors to slaughter all of you."
Voldemort swept his expressionless gaze