The man’s lissom fingers set to work, adjusting temperatures, cutting herbs and running over the defined grain covering his knife. This was his temple, and here he was a God. Alone and silent, he was unaided. He was secret, he was cold and he was catatonic. When he left, the sunlight was muted and the blue sky was masked by the dusky grey-brown of clouds. Clouds of smoke and destruction. Clouds that, too, were tinted green with the image of an enormous, hideous skull and a snake protruding from its mouth. This was Lord Voldemort’s world, not the one he had left behind. And he had created it.