It was a dark and stormy night. Nobody was out that night, nobody wanted to be out in the pouring rain, which was falling almost horizontally from the force of the wind. Even the frogs and fish, who thrive in rain, had taken shelter wherever they could. As I said, nobody was out.
Nobody except a dark, cloaked figure, hunched against the wind, hugging the cloak about him tighter and resolutly turning to face his destination and taking up the grueling walk again.And another, more sinister figure.
Little did the traveler know that someone was watching his progress, someone who the traveler would prefer not to meet. This person, who was the only other person out and about on this night, is called Lord Voldemort, and anyone in their right mind would be keen on avoiding Lord Voldemort, and his wrath. Which, at the moment, was aroused.
Swiftly and silently, Lord Voldemort pursued the fleeing figure. Despite many glances back over his shoulder, the cloaked man braving the weather did not see Lord Voldemort. He was not supposed to. In fact, there was one person in the world who might be able to see Lord Voldemort at that moment, and he was busy running a school.
Finally Voldemort drew up to the cloaked figure. "Igor Karkaroff." he said in greeting – or warning, I cannot tell.
After gasping and jumping like a fish out of water, the man named Igor Karkaroff flung himself down in the mud at Lord Voldemort's feet, ignoring the fact that dirty water was seeping though his once fine furs, chilling him to the bone.
"Master . . . Master, forgive me!" he croaked, weeping and pleading as a small child does when about to be punished – a particularly violent punishment, as it happened.
"Crucio!" Voldemort screamed, a high, cold screech. Karkaroff writhed and screamed and howled as if he were on fire.
The tall, pale Lord Voldemort gazed coldly down at the pathetic figure on the ground. "You think I will forgive you, Karkaroff? You think I will forgive the feeble, yet strangely affective, efforts to save your own skin by putting my faithful followers in Azkaban? You think I will forgive that? And then not answering my summons, my first summons in thirteen years, and running away like the little gormless worm that you are? You could not stand and face me, you could not even attempt to face me that first night, to believe that I had risen again. And you think I will forgive you for that?" Thoughout the entire speech, Voldemort's voice had risen in pitch and volume, and had grown even more cold and uncaring.
"Master . . . Master. . . ." Igor still said in a weak sort of voice, panting slightly.
"You think wrong." Lord Voldemort's words held a lot of power in the, and the power in those three words did not bode well for Igor Karkaroff. Indeed, Voldemort raised his wand high, and screamed again. "Crucio!"
It was sick to watch the scene on the moor. It was sick to watch someone stand over a man and cause that man unendurable pain. It was sick to watch the squealing figure roll around on the ground, and scream his heart out.
Finally the scene stopped, and Lord Voldemort's hard voice came again. "You made a mistake, Karkaroff, and I do not tolerate mistakes. You do know what is coming next, don't you?"
"Death." It was less than a whisper. Then Karkaroff redoubled his efforts to beg his master to let him live. "Master, I will serve you better. I have made a mistake, I know, but I can fix it. I've been close with the Ministry for years, I could be a great asset to you, Master. Please, Master, please."
All he got in return for his groveling was a sneer, and a icy look. "No, your mistake is to big to repair. And you will have to pay. . . ."
Igor gasped and sobbed. Voldemort raised his wand again. "Avada Kedavra!"
There was a flash of brilliant green light, and Igor Karkaroff was no more.