Barty Crouch Jr. dropped to his knees at the right moment. "Master! I will safeguard them properly and ensure they can all fully serve their purpo—"
Before he could finish, Grigory Vladimirov, who had been lying on the ground, let out a groan, and the turbulent magical fluctuations subsided.
Grigory Vladimirov opened his eyes. His slightly vacant brown gaze was filled with confusion as he laboriously moved his eyes, seemingly wondering why he was here.
He struggled to prop himself up with his arms, stiffly attempting to sit up. The next moment, his arms gave way, and he fell heavily back to the ground with a dull thud.
Voldemort still stood with his arms folded, watching coldly without the slightest intention of helping Grigory Vladimirov up.
Barty Crouch Jr. read the room. Since this prophet who was about to awaken might become his future "rival" and affect his chances of becoming "Master's favorite servant," he likewise stood by and did nothing.
Herpo, however, raised his wand at Grigory Vladimirov and murmured an obscure incantation, seemingly making some sort of preparation.
Grigory Vladimirov—or rather, Calchas, as he should now be called—the confusion in his eyes quickly vanished. His body was no longer stiff, and he was finally able to sit up smoothly.
Calchas looked around before finally fixing his gaze on Herpo. The color rapidly drained from his face, only to flush crimson a moment later.
His eyes flew wide open, the veins in his neck bulging as he nearly roared out the name, "Herpo!"
"You damned traitor! Faithless scum! I curse your soul to be torn into piec—"
His curse came to an abrupt halt. His mouth kept opening and closing, and the fury twisting his face grew increasingly distorted, yet no sound emerged.
"Herpo, Calchas is..." Voldemort's lips slowly