Voldemort was sad. He was once again a ghost, bodiless, formless and almost powerless just like four years back. The only difference was that in his first attack on Harry Potter, his body had vanished, so people feared he could return some day. This time, his body was left behind at the site of the duel.
He had been thwarted once again by a teenager, a mediocre wizard. He knew all this happened because of JK Rowling's last-minute inventions of weird and stupid wand laws. But for him, it was fate. He had to accept it, embrace it, and ... he shuddered to think, learn from it.
What use would learning be when he might never be back in his bodily form. His earlier savior Peter Pettigrew was dead. He knew Peter had come back to help him only because he felt he had nowhere else to go. Still he should not have been that rude to him. At lease he returned. So many of his other death-eaters who had sworn eternal loyalty to him did not.
He watched the sun set from atop a small hill in this desolate place of his former residence, Albania. As the sun vanished behind the white clouds, he pondered. As darkness spread everywhere around him, he was seized with a sense of gloom. He knew the red sun would be back again, unlike him. He had lost all hope.
He saw a cat chasing a rat in the wild forest a few yards below where he was. His thought was turned to Peter, the animagus who could transform into rat, who had been his savior four years back. He was not sure whether anyone still remained who would have faith in him, who would love him, and who would come to his location in Albania to help him regain his body and power.
Though the days passed and the night followed, it seemed he had to toil to achieve that. He envied the school-boys praying for the day of exam never to come. He was not even certain what he should pray for: for quick passage of time, or for slow motion. Should he even pray? He had not done so till now. Though he had celebrated Christmas, though he had visited churches in his early youth, though he had passed by some mosques more than once during his last stay in Albania, and had been at times mesmerized by the melodious two-minute reading in a foreign language, he had never thought he would need God's help. He was so confident in his abilities, in the abilities of the magical arts, he never had time to think about its limitations.
In the cool afternoon breeze, he noticed a band of ten white-clothed people walking on foot close to him. People, Muggles, Avada Kedavra, ah, the thought of it. He felt tears would have now fallen from his eyes, but he had no eyes. And what were these Muggles doing here. Weren't they afraid of the animals in this dense and dangerous forest. Should he teach these foolhardies a lesson.
Alas! more than teaching lessons, he felt he needed to learn now. Magic, no. He didn't think anybody on earth could teach him magic. He had surpassed all teachers. But there was something beyond magic, as his old transfiguration teacher, the Muggle-loving, Potter-mentoring fool Albus Dumbledore often said. He hated Dumbledore, so he never paid attentions to his eccentricities. But now, when he had nothing to do, wouldn't it be a good idea if he learnt something which Hogwarts could not teach him.
There was a small clearing, heavily shaded under the branches of large sesame and dense banyan trees, a few yards from where he lay. The band of ten, most of whom were dressed in white cloaks with small skullcaps on their heads, had stopped there. They had put their bags and luggages which they were carrying on a side. They had noticed a small stream of water, and were now washing their faces, arms, and all sorts of things. Though he didn't know why each one in the group would need to wash his body parts exactly three times at the same time, he thought he could guess. Was it something related to religion. When they were back to the small clearing, they saw them spread a mat on the uneven ground, one of them stood in front, the others formed a line behind him. All faced the same direction of sun-rise. Now he was certain they were doing some sort of prayer. But there was no statue of Christ or Mary, nor was the recitation of their leader in English. In fact, it was quite similar to what he had heard in mosques. Oh, were they Muslims? Though he had showed little interest in his own Christian religion, he thought at this moment when he had nothing better to do, he could spend some time in their company.
He knew he won't gain much wondering at Potter's revelations during his last encounter. He had thought it over and over again, a thousand times whether what Potter said about Snape's loyalty to Dumbledore was true. The thoughts pained him. The past tortured him. Why not have a diversion. And there he was, watching from close range as the ten Muslims stood in humility, bowed in modesty and prostrated on the ground again and again. Finally, it ended. Till now, the leader and the followers were facing the same direction. But when this short ritual ended, the leader turned back, faced the followers, and recited a book. Oh, it was in English. For the first time he could understand something.
"Let's see what these Muggles have to teach," he thought and came still closer to the reciter and leader, of course un-perceived by them.