Chapter Ninteen:

Not Alone

Lord Voldemort's eyes widened as a small, nearly imperceptible pain flared just behind his forehead. The feeling was like a pinprick that had been heated beneath hot embers in a fireplace.

He blinked, seeing everything around him for a brief second, then at the same time seeing absolutely nothing at all. His focus was within himself, searching for the cause of this sudden pain - the source.

Then, as quickly as it started, the pain subsided, but did not fade entirely. It remained a shallow hum in his mind, like a migraine. Whatever the cause, the pain was constant. Steady. Something that he had not felt in many months, perhaps not even for a full year.

The pain brought another sensation to life that he had not felt in the same amount of time: Fear.

"My Lord?" came Bellatrix Lestrange's voice, filled with genuine concern, just behind him. She stood in the doorway to his chambers, her black robes cascading around her high-heeled boots, accented with silver clasps. Black hair streaked with gray was piled atop her head and framed her pale face as it tilted to one side. Dark brown eyes were wide with curiosity as she wrapped her slender fingers around the aging wooden door frame. "Are you alright, My Lord?"

Voldemort blinked again, as if the steady rhythm of his movements would banish the painful sensations that plagued him, and his mouth slid open to take in a breath.

"I am fine," he replied as he straightened his posture in the burgundy leather armchair. The aged animal hide creaked slightly as he settled back into the chair and reached for his wand that rested on a nearby end table.

This terse answer didn't seem to be enough for Bellatrix, for she walked confidently into the room, her boots clicking forcefully with each step.

"Are you sure, My Lord?" she asked. "I haven't seen you slouch in...I don't even know the last time. The graveyard, perhaps?"

He knew that she was being led by her base feelings for him, yet he couldn't allow her to get too close, or too comfortable. Even in these days of victory, there was a certain amount of distance that he required from all of his followers. He turned his head slightly so that he could see her out of the corner of his eye and responded.

"You dare to question your Lord's answer?" he said, his voice even.

Bellatrix came around the back of his chair and stood just to one side of him, slightly off-center. Her shoulders and back were straight, partially due to the corset that she had laced around her torso. But, there was a piece of her that could be gracefully fluid. Even with her erect stature, her arms were folded in front of her and her hands moved like pieces of fabric. Fingers intertwined and separated. She was almost like a curious child in the way that she posed her fingers. Like something out of a classical painting.

"I dare to ask about the man I love," she clarified. "The man I have dedicated my life to. You are not yourself. Any of us can sense that. There is a shift in your stance. It's as if your footing is unsure of itself." She clasped her hands together, her fingers resting now. "What has happened?"

When he looked up at her, his eyes were drawn to hers. She was staring intently at him, waiting. Even as she studied him, her eyes were not probing or accusatory. Bellatrix was perhaps the only person who truly cared about his well-being.

He took in a breath and then allowed himself to relax. With a wave of his wand, the door behind them shut and locked, magically sealing itself of all sound and penetrability.

"I suppose I can be honest with you, Bella," he said, using her nickname for added punctuation. "Please, sit."

There was another identical leather armchair beside Voldemort's, and Bellatrix lowered herself gently into the seat, not resting her back entirely on the chair, but rather leaning forward to be closer to him.

The chamber was sparse - plain plaster walls covered with a few choice tapestries. A bed was off to the side, tucked into a corner with four posters supporting royal purple curtains. There could have been any number of treasures surrounding the ruler of the Wizarding - and soon to be Muggle - world, yet the only other furniture in the room was a square trunk, magically and physically locked with his personal effects.

He liked the simplicity. It gave him the room for what really mattered, which was loyalty and conversation. Words were what mattered most to him, and from those words, reflective actions.

He liked to think that he had everything figured out. After all, wasn't the point of these years of struggle and conflict to have him become the unquestionable ruler of all? The most powerful being, able to bend the world and its population to his will - his unerring vision of purity?

For a while he thought that he had finally achieved that goal.

He was sure.

But, now…

He glanced over at Bellatrix who remained waiting, her fingers drumming over and over against each other, one at a time.

"I suppose I should be frank with you," he muttered. "If I can't be with you, then who else?"

"There is no one, my Lord," she reassured him. "I am here for you. Your struggles are not your own. You have my shoulders to rest upon, should you need them."

"And I am very appreciative, Bella. Truly. Out of all of my followers, none have proven more loyal than you. It seems only customary that I should confide in you in everything...even my insecurities."

"Insecurities?" Bellatrix frowned. "A man of your power should feel no shortcomings at all. You are perfect, and your world is being molded into an equal vision."

This elicited a chuckle from Voldemort, though not an unkind one.

"The more you speak, the more I am reassured of your dedication to me," he said. "But, I am far from perfect - or indestructible. I am still a man, even beneath this cold visage. I thought for a long time that we were all in the final stages of my master plan to rid the world of the impure…" His voice trailed off and his eyes looked away from her, not seeing anything in the room, but again looking inward towards the pain that remained. "I am sensing something...off. Something has deviated. I have a feeling that we are no longer alone."

"Is it the resistance?" asked Bellatrix. "We are close to finding them. Fenrir assured me that their trail is just in reach. Once we have their headquarters, it should be as simple as Apparating and muttering a few words."

"If only it were that simple…"

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking comfortably once again.

"Do you remember when I killed Harry Potter?" he asked. As soon as the name left his lips, the room became deathly quiet, as if they were in the center of a giant vacuum.

Becoming suddenly uncomfortable, Bellatrix adjusted her weight in her own chair.

"You haven't spoken that name in months, my Lord. What makes you bring up the boy in this late hour?"

His eyes slid shut gently and he reached up to rub at the center of his forehead.

"I feel like I did just before I killed him," he said. "A tinge of pain has surfaced in the front of my mind. I thought it was nothing, but it's persisted all afternoon. I am reminded of how our minds were connected - mine and the boy's. His scar was the physical form of the curse that tethered us to one another. When I captured him and killed him, that tether became more than just a physical feature. Our souls were connected."

"But, you claimed his half," Bellatrix said, the frown still evident on her porcelain features. "You consumed him. That's how you gained your victory. There's nothing left of the boy now. Perhaps you are just feeling residual pain."

"Perhaps…" he said. "But, from what source? What could cause a reaction in my own mind? I thought I was impenetrable at this point."

"A new weapon from the resistance?" Bellatrix reasoned. "Some sort of advanced magic?"

Voldemort drummed his long-nailed fingers against the arm of the chair.

"But, to what end?" he muttered. Then, after another moment of contemplation he pressed his lips together and straightened up. "Where is Severus?"

"Snape?" said Bellatrix, looking alarmed for a split second. Or was that jealousy? "What would you need with him?"

Without wasting another moment, Voldemort got to his feet, unlocking and opening the doorway with a flick of his wand.

"Severus is my advisor for all things mind-related," he said. "A man so skilled in the art of Occlumency is a valuable commodity. Find him for me."

He turned at the doorway, his ebony robes floating around him like a small hurricane, as he waited for Bellatrix to join him. She seemed reluctant to leave, but after a moment they were both out in the long, narrow corridor and Voldemort sealed his chambers behind him.

"I will hunt him down for you, my Lord," said Bellatrix, slightly emphasizing the word hunt.

"Very good," said Voldemort. "I put my trust in you. Expect to be rewarded upon your return."

Bellatrix's mouth broke out in a rueful smile, and without further hesitation, she disappeared with a pop.

Alone now, as far as he could tell, Voldemort made his way down the corridor until he came to a patch of wall that was completely bare. With his wand out, he traced the shape of a coiled serpent, leaving a glowing green trail behind, until the image was complete. The wall pulled into itself and swung into a set of wooden stairs that descended into a darkened room.

As he reached the bottom, the stairs disappeared along with the door, and he was in the storage facility that only he knew about.

His treasures were here. Mementos of his time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Bits of memorabilia from his days of study. More than a few books that he found quite useful in his pursuit of the Dark Arts were shelved on a massive bookcase that wrapped around one corner of the room.

Then there were the most important things. Those that could be seen, but not touched by anyone but the Dark Lord himself.

On a long marble table were laid out these forbidden things.

At one side was the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw. Its silver make glimmered in the firelight of the sconces around the room. Then there was a battered journal with a hole in the center where a basilisk fang had penetrated its leather cover and pages. His old school journal…

It was mostly useless now.

But, the other two things on the table were far from useless - and far from small.

Lying beside the diadem, with arms folded neatly onto his stomach, was the body of Harry Potter. If one didn't know any better, they would have guessed that the boy had merely laid down to take a nap.

Voldemort knew better. The boy was dead, and had been dead for many months. The Dark Lord had secured the body here so that no tricks could be played with it, nor any resurrection magic, either - though there were no spells or magic that he knew of that could bring this boy back to life. His purpose was fulfilled.

Now his body was just a trophy, like the diary.

Only Voldemort knew that the body was here, just like all the other objects. This was his sanctuary. He came here to feel secure, and it normally worked.

Yet, the nagging feeling in his mind refused to go away, even as he laid his eyes on his prized possessions.

A hand reached out and grasped the edge of the marble table. He rested his weight upon it, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself.

No, he thought. The boy is still here, just as I left him. There are no mistakes.

His mind told him that he was unbeatable. At this stage in the play, he had to be.

His eyes opened and came to rest on the last item that he prized above all others.

The locket of Salazar Slytherin.

It was draped around Harry Potter's neck and rested on his chest, just above his folded arms.

Voldemort ran a finger along the locket's jeweled casing and felt the energy surge through his finger and up to his mind. The pain started to go away.

"That's it…" he muttered to himself. That was what he needed.

There were no mistakes. It was all in his head.

Once Snape arrived, he would help the Dark Lord decipher and quell whatever was in his head. Then things would be back to normal.