The Prancing Pony Inn

Albania,

Torrential rains have been pouring down for days.

The ground was muddy and the mountains were like bathtubs, filled with water everywhere.

A road paved with bluestone winds its way between two hills, undulating like a giant wave.

At the end of the bluestone road is a four-way intersection, and a dilapidated inn sits beside the road.

There were worm-eaten supports in front of the door, and the sign was blurry and read:

Prancing Pony Inn!

This inn has been operating here for fifty years. The owner is a wizard who is blind in his left eye, and everyone affectionately calls him... Old Tom.

The location of this store is not particularly advantageous; in fact, it's rather remote.

But it's often packed, attracting admirers and adventurers from all over the world.

The main cause of this phenomenon stems from the famous wizard... Nostradamus.

This 16th-century France Seer authored the Prophecy poem "The Centuries".

One of the sentences mentioned was:

He searched the Albanian Forest, where the treasures of Death lay buried.

Local shamans have passed down the story that, in ancient times, Death chose this forest to bury the treasures.

Whenever someone questioned him, Old Tom would sit down, take a puff of his distinctive Albania tobacco, and loudly retort:

"Of course it's true!"

Then, using the various languages he had learned over the decades, he fluently said:

"That was fifty years ago. I was young then, and according to ancient legend, I ventured deep into the forest to search for the treasures of Death."

"At sunset, in a secluded part of the woods, one often encounters a young wizard, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen years old, with a handsome appearance."

"Is he really that handsome?" the witch with England accent interrupted.

She was slightly plump, with thick blonde hair styled in fashionable curls.

"Hey! Of course, miss! I still remember what he looked like." Old Tom grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.

"Just look at me, he's even a tiny bit more handsome than we were when we were young."

"That's it!" the witch rolled her eyes.

"Oh! Little girl, I don't like hearing you say that," Old Tom said with a smile.

"Back in my day, I was a well-known handsome young man in the surrounding villages."

"You? Don't be ridiculous." The witch said bluntly, "Have you ever seen a truly handsome wizard?"

"Can you give me an example?"

"William... William Stark, ever heard of him?"

"Stark, that name sounds familiar?" Old Tom stared, his right eye bulging. "I'm sure I've heard it somewhere before!"

"Here it is!" The witch pulled a copy of the Daily Prophet from her pocket and pointed to the prominent headline.

Old Tom read:

"Shocking! According to reports from our frontline correspondents, England are unbeatable in training matches and may advance from the group stage with a perfect record, making Quidditch World Cup history..."

"Sorry, I took the wrong one." The witch scratched her head awkwardly. She clearly remembered it being in her pocket.

My memory has gotten worse!

She quickly replaced the newspaper with another one.

The International Confederation of Wizards will be held in Venice, Italy on July 13th.

According to the latest news, besides the representatives from various countries, the biggest highlight of this conference is the invitation of the famous Mr. Stark and Miss Granger.

As is widely known, both France were eyewitnesses to the events of Paris. Various countries will hold consultations and negotiations regarding this matter in order to address the case of Arya Grindelwald...

Below is a photo of William and Hermione together.

"Oh, I remember now, it was him." Old Tom tapped his pipe.

"Last summer, it was all about the two of them. I heard a dark wizard almost destroyed Paris."

"That's right," the witch said smugly. "Now you know what outstanding looks mean, right?"

"Tch, a little wizard, let him come to Albania..." The wizard at the next table spat disdainfully.

"I could crush him with one hand without even needing a wand!"

Theon hates handsome people the most. In his opinion, looking like that is an absolute sin!

If I run into this kid, I'll break three of his legs so he can't be so cool anymore.

The witch glanced at Theon's scarred face and shook her head dismissively.

She was about to make a sarcastic remark when Old Tom quickly waved his hand.

"Alright, let's not Stark anymore. Geniuses like him are too far removed from our reach."

Seeing that the two were about to clash, Tom intervened, saying, "Let's continue listening to my story."

Everyone perked up.

"Fifty years ago, I encountered that young wizard several times in the jungles of Albania."

He was looking for something, sometimes chopping down trees, sometimes looking at a map.

Encountering people seemed to displease him greatly. Clearly, he wanted to avoid being seen, and his actions were shrouded in secrecy.

"And then?" Theon pressed.

"And then?" Tom raised his voice.

I never saw the young wizard again. But when he left, a local Muggle guide died.

I went to see him; he was unharmed, but his face showed signs of terror.

"Avada Kedavra?" Theon said thoughtfully.

Many wizards gasped, including the very imposing blonde witch.

"Yes, definitely." Old Tom was very pleased with everyone's expressions.

"But that doesn't prove anything... You just said he's only seventeen or eighteen, barely an adult yet," the witch couldn't help but retort.

"Can such a young wizard really cast the Unforgivable Curses?"

Old Tom smiled without saying a word, picked up his pipe, and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

Well, looking at that old man's pathetic smoking posture, it's all too familiar. Time to pay for some alcohol.

Sure enough, with a wave of his wand, bottles of marshalala floated gracefully toward the table.

Having bought the wine, Old Tom had piqued his interest further before continuing his story.

I've run into that young man several times and spoken to him. I told him my Little Tom.

"Do you know... what he said... what his name is?" Old Tom lowered his voice.

"What's your name?" the witch asked.

Old Tom almost whispered, "Voldemort..."

Hiss... Everyone, including Theon the Scarface, gasped.

"The You-Know-Who in his youth?" the witch asked, trembling.

"Yes! I, Tom, swear I'm not lying!"

"Yes, he was young then, probably using that name for the first time. He never imagined he'd become so famous," Theon murmured.

"What is he looking for?" another wizard asked tentatively. "The treasures hidden in Albania?"

"It must be a powerful weapon, which is why it's so powerful; even Dumbledore is no match for it," someone whispered.

"That's right, the Muggle guide must have discovered this, which is why he killed him!" said an old witch.

"But the You-Know-Who was defeated by the Boy Who Lived!" the witch said to herself, trying to bolster her courage.

"Yes, but... haven't there always been rumors that he's not dead?" Old Tom lowered his voice.

"Legend has it... he's returned to Albania. I even saw Dumbledore there investigating..."

Another deathly silence descended.

"Why?" Theon murmured. "Perhaps Voldemort didn't obtain Death's treasure in its entirety."

That treasure is still hidden deep in the forest!

Their eyes darkened, and greed began to rise.

Old Tom smiled with satisfaction.

The beginning of the story is true.

He had indeed seen that young wizard who called himself Voldemort. A guide had also died fifty years ago.

But the latter part, such as the fact that Voldemort was still alive and had returned to Albania, was a fabrication.

Only by creating a mix of truth and fiction can a steady stream of tourists be drawn to explore the Albanian Forest.

Only then can he attract business.

As for how many people die each year... who cares?

"What a pity, this damn weather!" Old Tom cursed under his breath.

It has been raining for half a month, and there are far fewer wizards exploring this year than in previous years.

I heard from Italy tourists that Venice, across the Adriatic Sea, is almost flooded.

What awful weather!

Just then, a figure emerged from the dark forest in the distance.

He was wearing a black smock and looked disheveled.

He would stop every now and then to observe the surrounding plains, as if trying to see if anyone had noticed him.

He moved stealthily, his demeanor, his swift and furtive movements, like a demon lurking in the forest at dusk...

The witch looked up, peered through the crack in the door, and stared at the furtive male witch.

(Seeking monthly votes from all the big shots at the end of the month.)

Thank you Ace101 for the generous donation.

Sorry for the late update, something came up.