Author's Note:
ATTENTION! This Fic is officially up for adoption! I have the whole story figured out, but this creeps me out so much, I can't keep on writing. Anyone who wants to continue it PM me. I can tell you my storyline if you want.
I'm so sorry. I'm scared to death by my own imagination.
If you don't understand, read this chapter. I'm hyperventilating right now. I'm such a scaredy-cat. This is just so spooky.
Sorry again.
Death? Death didn't look like your grandpa.
Death didn't look kind. Death had a big great sickle thing. Death had a terrifying black robe that covered his skeleton face. Death was merciless. Death was swift.
And yet, here Voldemort is, cowering at the feet of the Hogwart's headmaster.
Somehow, this was way scarier than having a man in a black hooded-robe look at you.
"I don't believe you," he told Death. "Why have you brought me here, Albus?" He spat the name out.
Death looked tired. Collecting souls must be hard. If he was actually Death.
"You're making another Horcrux." Voldemort waited for him to expand. "That's your sixth. No one has ever made more than two."
Voldemort laughed. "I'm a bad guy. I do horrible things."
"I know, Tom."
Voldemort's laugh turned into a sneer. "Don't. Call. Me. Tom. I may be Confounded, Obliviated or Apparated, but I'm still the Dark Lord." He pointed his wand at Death Dumbledore.
Dumbledore looked ruefully at the wand tip. "Didn't I tell you magic didn't work here?"
"You did. What kind of place is this? How do I know I'm not drugged? Where's Bellatrix?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "We are currently deep inside the darkest parts of your mind."
Voldemort sarcastically looked around him. "Really? And the darkest parts of my mind would be a schoolboy's bedroom?"
Dumbledore stood up. Voldemort backed away, and knocked over a wastebasket. The Headmaster walked over to the wardrobe, just like he did when Tom Riddle turned was eleven.
But there was no Tom Riddle here.
Dumbledore lay a wrinkled hand on the brass handle, tentatively, as if deciding whether or not to open it. "Do you remember Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson?"
Voldemort put up his Occumlemency barriers and kept his face blank. Lies shaped his life. "No. I expect some foolish Muggles caught up in magic, Albus?" He made his voice annoyed.
"Are you sure you don't? Remember the cave that you took them near that beach?"
Voldemort's pale palms were getting sweaty. "No. Enough with the vague answers, Albus. Who are they?"
"Don't you dare lie, Riddle!"
Dumbledore's voice changed. It was high-pitched. Definitely female. Screechy. Angry. Brings the picture of an angry old lady to your mind with a stick coming to get you. Like the Superintedent in his old orphanage.
For some reason, Voldemort snapped. He just saw red. Who did Dumbledore think he is? "What the bloody hell do you want with me?"
"I don't want anything to do with you. Yet, I am here with you. Odd, how the world works. I like to think I'm going to change your mind, to stop the war. Maybe I'm not. But I have to try."
At the last word, Dumbledore opened the door. Something tumbled out.
Voldemort's anger trickled away into curiosity. There were two things. Bodies. A boy's and a girl's.
Most people would have been grossed out, but Voldemort has seen bodies littering the streets, felt their still-warm blood on his feet.
Voldemort crouched down and used his useless wand to touch the girl's light curled brown hair. She must've been twelve when she died. He moved on to the boy. He briefly rested his hand on his shoulder, before turning him over.
His face was pale, his eyes were closed, his mouth was open in a moan, or possibly the earliest stages of a scream. But he looked so peaceful.
"Dennis?" The name felt familiar, though he had never said the name in any tone but spiteful.
"So you do recognize them."
Voldemort shrugged and flipped the girl over. Her lips were pressed together. "Yeah. I haven't seen these two in ages. Last time I saw them, though, Dennis was fifteen."
He didn't ask how Dumbledore had gotten them or why they were even there.
Dumbledore shook his head. "They died. They died when Dennis was twelve and Amy was nine. When you took them in that cave. They're dead inside."
Voldemort remembered. He stood up. "All I did was create a big cavern," he said smoothly.
Dumbledore looked into his eyes. "You killed them. They were your first kills. I own them now." Dumbledore thrust out a hand and Dennis and Amy's eyes opened. Grey and dead. They start to stand. For some reason, they grew taller and taller, their blank faces menacing. "I can order them to kill you. I can order them to destroy them. I can order them to make you feel what they felt. Not just them. I can make everyone you killed hurt you. James, Lilly, the Longbottoms, Bellatrix. Welcome to your worst nightmare."
This is Death.
Author's Note:
My goodness, while writing this, I kept looking backwards to see if anyone was there...
By the way, I have no idea why I listed this as a Humor Fic. I intended to put in some dark humor, so yeah.
This was also supposed to have some Voldy/Bellatrix in this, for all you shippers, but now...
Stupid, scary fic. Sorry it's short.