Iridescent

Written by, AvalonTheLadyKiller

Beta'd and Cowritten by, UnburntKhaleesi

A Harry Potter Fan Fiction

No Copyright Infringement Intended

All rights belong to JK Rowling

As we continue onwards darlings, this story will continue to rise and fall through several dark concepts. I want to state that though I may write these characters to be hateful or cruel at times, I in no way condone their monstrous acts. This is fiction. Above all, it will get dark.

Chapter Two: Mindscape

She didn't know what thoughts were warring inside him, but his brow inched north at her high-handed tone. From the pulsing of his magic alone, she knew it was him. His temper urged him to kill the audacious witch for her tone, and yet his utter confusion at her use of endearment won out. A long moment of silence rang out, from the either side of the wall. Neither the crashing of the Atlantic's bone-chilling waves, nor the moaning cries from within the prison were heard by the trio. Until finally their silence was broken by the raging voice of the woman, who'd long been her morning songbird over the years. Waking her from thought and slumber.

"Such madness you speak, my pretty!"

"Bella!" A masculine voice sliced through the air between them. Silencing her outburst, before she could work herself into a state. His voice caressing every word, in a sibilant nature. Though, remaining weighted in manner. She knew she had acquired his attention.

"You are mistaken, child. I have no family."

So, it was true, she hissed in fury at the one who had touched things, he shouldn't have. Though, she had always known in her heart, that if his mind remained intact, he would have come for her. Just as she would him. Memories were such a precious thing. Housed deep in your mind, when all else had abandoned you. Jaw clenching in anguish, she had to force herself to push through the pain she was feeling biting away at my insides.

She knew her next words, would be weighed and measured. Determining her worth to his cause. Always planning ahead. Some things never change.

She pressed her temple against the cool crumbling cement wall.

"And if I told you, that I knew who had stolen from you, precious things! Would you allow me the honor, of telling you?" She inquired.

Knowing he'd heard her soft voice, though it was not much louder than a whisper. Overtop the breaking waves from the approaching storm, he heard her as clearly as if she had spoken from right beside him. Her tongue caressed her syllables with such passion. Sibilant sounds honoring his ancestors beautifully. His Nagini would approve of her flawless pronunciation.

Cocking his head in perilous interest, his breathing immediately ceased. His eyes dissected every inch of her face that he could see. Within the depths of her pitch black cell, her long white blonde hair cascaded down; glowing in contrast to her dark surroundings. Shielding her eyes from view, while giving her a natural barrier from prying eyes. From the sharp angles of her prominent cheekbones to the soft curve of her lips, she made quite a striking image. A ghost come to life, he thought.

Footsteps approached from over the ridge, sending rocks careening in their haste to be by their Lord's side. Falling to their knees in supplication, they chanted his title exultingly.

So the others had finally scampered out of their cells, like little rats. Begging for scraps, the fumbling imbeciles, The Dark Lord wryly thought. Sneering at their pathetic display. He despised helping those who'd been too mentally deficient to help themselves. There were only but a handful of Death Eaters who deserved his attentions, and the others' complete incompetence couldn't be helped. He'd ensure they were properly punished for their loose lipped arrests. Of that, he had no doubt. Bellatrix silenced their cries, with a loud bark.

"QUIET." Slashing her arm through the air to silence their interruption.

The others knew instinctively to obey her command. For the very moment Bellatrix Lestrange arose from Azkaban's walls, she'd taken back her position as his most favored. Their Lord greatly admired her ability to read his moods, so effortlessly. His War General who held rank above the men, as if a thousand years of gender inequality didn't exist.

He waited with baited breath, almost hoping one of them opened their mouth once more. His magic sizzled to life, causing the tips of his fingers to tingle in anticipation. All but seconds away from ripping their tongues forcibly from their bodies, had they not ceased their constant mewling. Truly, the only sounds he wished to hear was their cries of supplication and pain under his hand. It had been so long since he'd really tested the limits of a perfectly-cast Cruciatus.

His eyes never faltered from their intense study of the waif, standing just a few meters in front of him. Scrutinizing her every breath as if to piece together just how she came to think herself so familiar to him. And who would want to? His mind remained flummoxed as to the true state of her prison-addled mind. He, who had killed the last of his family off before graduating from Hogwarts. Those disgraceful fools who had let his family name disintegrate beneath them, and left him to rot in that Muggle version of Azkaban, named Wool's.

Bellatrix, herself couldn't help but to wonder at what the girl had said to the Dark Lord. For he seemed to be riveted to her every breath. Pretty little Spectre, what ever could you have to hide? She queried, glaring back over at the cowering men who'd just raised their Master's ire. Eager to see if any had inched closer, giving her just cause to strike. But alas, she was forced to return her hawk-like gaze unto the only other female, to have captured her Lord's attentions so.

Over the years, Bellatrix had wheedled as much as she could from the other prisoners. Some spoke of her never changing beauty. Debating amongst themselves, whether or not she was truly a ghost, for nary a word did she speak. Others told a tale, told to them by their predecessors. A girl carried unconscious to her cage by a bearded man, half a century before.

She wasn't sure what to make of most of their tales; each more inconceivable than the last. But even she had to admit, the existence of such a phenomenon wasn't as impossible as others would believe. For she had stood at her Lord's side through the years, as he wore alternating faces to defy death's many attempts. But on subject of everlasting youth, she would admit that such a thing would be highly problematic, if not devastatingly ambitious for such a young woman. She couldn't fathom the sheer will one would need, in order to succeed.

From inside her cell, the blond wraith had turned slightly to face the newcomers; the dwindling remnants of the great Death Eater regime. Those loyal followers whom had been captured after his fall. Finally released to once more, serve him ever so faithfully.

Just as she heard their commotion die down, she suddenly caught the sound of careful footsteps approaching her cell.

"Of what precious things, do you speak little one?"

His voice twisted deftly around each syllable. Parseltongue whispering through the air around them. He spoke to her tentatively. Utterly taken aback by her unorthodox use of his ancestral tongue; used so casually between two strangers. For to him, she was but a child. Tortured and left abandoned in the crevices of Azkaban. Forgotten by any whom might remember who this young woman once was. Still, Voldemort thought, she seeks the comfort from a lost sibling. One whom may never return. And for the rarest of moments, he feels pity. Almost apologetic for the confusion clouding her mind. Though he could not deny a sinister twist of curiosity addling his mind. Encouraging him to discover what other secrets dwelled in the deepest recesses of the most famed Magical Prison on the continent.

She smiled assuredly. Raising two fingers to tap against her temple.

"What is mine, is yours My Lord," she proposed. Giving no hesitancy whatsoever, toward the idea of him entering her mind. Lowering her shields, just as a door materialized in her fortress; swinging forth in anticipation of his long awaited return. He approached with hesitant steps, wary of any hidden protection spells underfoot.

If he was shocked by her forwardness, he said nothing. All the while, she could do little more than twist her fingers idly down the cracked veins running through the concrete; watching his slow approach with an avaricious desperation. Towering only a meter away, as she continued to stare serenely at his form. His palm rested flat onto the stonework, bracing himself to breach her mind's depths.

She could feel his slithering mind edge toward hers, just as easy as she could feel his dark magical aura, pulsing with vitality. Even sustaining the damage it did during the horcrux process and his sudden death, hadn't diminished any of his raw power. Merely forced him into a new shell.

One had to truly be able to understand, the essence of what magic really was, to see what she could. Her senses themselves, were quite keen. Possessing the ability to perceive magical influence in the air around her. But then again, ever since she was a young child, she'd always been able to see past what others see.

As long as she'd remembered, she'd been different. Tom once described her mind to her, as being built like a clock set to run counterclockwise. She still got to the same place the others did, only through alternate means. Many times, instinctively finding a more efficient manner altogether.

In school, few could wrap their head around some of the leaps her mind made and as such, she had long felt a disconnect from her peers. Paired with her heightened IQ, it was a recipe for solitude. As such, she could often be found wandering alone through the halls; speaking with portraits over some of her most recent discoveries. Something far too intricate to explain to the simpletons, who clustered in the halls; spreading the tastiest gossip they'd heard that week.

She engineered different methods to utilize her magical sensitivity. Listening to its ebb and flow rather than to the strict teachings the books would have them adhere to. Vera found herself developing qualities similar to that of her brother. His skill and intellect quickly marked him as being somewhat of a child prodigy to others. Nothing she herself had not previously admired, or recognized as a youngling. The children back at Wool's were riotously jealous of his high marks, which only fueled their bitterness after Tom had treated them with such palpable disdain. She however, remained somewhat of an unknown element in their eyes. Tom never allowed for much idle chatter to pass between the others and his sister. He watched over her guardedly; ever suspicious they might take their resentment out on her, unwarranted.

As they grew of age, their magic became an addictive force. It mattered naught whether they were away at what the other children thought was 'some dodgy boarding school,' or alone in the confines of the Muggle World, they practiced endlessly. Wand in hand or wandless, they'd practice long into the night. Their classmates at Hogwarts never understood the desperation, living in a world not their own brought. Forced to hide everything about themselves, or be taken to the nut house hung over their heads at all times. Their greedy natures, paired with the two's shared eidetic memory, led to them spending nearly every free moment inside the library's walls. Earning them additional respect from their elders, had their well-spoken manner not already acquired them the respect they'd deserved.

Time never seemed to stand still during those months away from the orphanage. It rushed through their fingers, like sand in a hourglass. But no matter how desperately they clung to it, the winter months passed and the days lengthened, as summer grew ever more on the horizon. It was the time when nature presented them its most punishing contradiction. The brightest time of the year, when life thrived and rejoiced over making it through yet another frigid winter, instead persecuted them with its arrival.

The sweltering sunlight had the tendency to reveal faults in the orphanage's staunchly under-compensated budget. The whitewashed walls, which had been white at some point, mirrored the depressingly grey streets of London at the time. The paint peeled, and the woodworkings showed signs of mold and deterioration around the edges. As though the place was ready to fall apart at any moment, but waylaid such an event out of some stalwart desire to cause the young Slytherin heirs complete and utter misery.

As such, they heartily refused to squander their allotted time by falling victim to childish games and trifles, as others their age had. Professors quickly learned to make certain allowances, for their remarkable aptitude in spell-crafting. Very rarely did anyone question her differing wand motions, or diverging from a potion's recipe. Professor Slughorn praised her talents as something beyond the normal potioneer, at once. He had the propensity to announce her success to the class, as her brother grumbled under his breath. Fighting to achieve utter perfection, without deviating from the recipe's strict stipulations. Causing her to fight a war of her own, not to break into giggles at the way his eyes would check and recheck the book fifty times over, so as not to miss a single step. Working hard to earn his grade in the class, much as she did Arithmancy. His dedication endeared her, as she knew how hard he studied to understand the why's behind the chemical bonding and separation involved in potion-making. He simply wasn't adept to the subject, like he was at spellcraft. He was built to fight. To create and destroy, that was something she couldn't deny. His need for control fed it. His dominance, demanded it.

Long before their years at Hogwarts, they'd practiced controlling their powers. Those who spoke out against them or lingered too closely, were quickly dealt with. The other children couldn't explain the things that would happen. None of the attendants could explain it, though Mrs. Cole, the Headmistress, was determined to find blame in the twins. Without fail, if one had been wronged earlier that day, the other was never far off when an 'event' occurred. They protected one another, long after the magical world had left them to rot in that filthy orphanage. Because of this, the twins' bond grew beyond something of this world. It was as if they were one entity, split into two bodies. If one felt pain, they both did. If one was ill, the other couldn't be kept away. They always found a way back to each other.

Both maintained a united front, as they began developing traits which marked them as 'of a different sort' to the staff and other children. Their hatred grew after having survived multiple attempts by the Headmistress to quell their 'freakish ways.'

As the years went on, Tom himself became quite the golden boy at Hogwarts. As his sister, she overheard many a conversation in the girls' bathroom; each jockeying for a chance to speak with him. Nearly every witch sought to capture his attention, much to his initial annoyance. Though, quickly he realized the gift in such a thing. He could have had any witch in half of Europe, with his charms and strikingly good looks, but he paid them no mind. Though his ability to sway nearly every witch or wizard around became quite an asset to his cause, as he quickly built a following amongst them. An exclusive crop of their peers. These few Slytherins, would soon after become his first collection of followers. Death Eaters before their time, one might say.

Throughout their time at Hogwarts, they proceeded to grasp classes and spellwork beyond others of their age. Slytherin House as a whole, acknowledged them as Purebloods, whose family had perished; for they would have been unable to be sorted there otherwise. Nary a word was spoken as to their strange last name. One or two from other Houses questioned their status, but were quickly put in their place. For neither twin would suffer such blatant disrespect, surrounding their lineage.

Well into their teenage years, as he grew into the figurehead of Slytherin House, she began to turn many an eye. Her use of magic blossomed into an art form, in its own right. Leaving many of her teachers speechless at her innovations and sound insight. Though male eyes followed her for a much different reason. Tom and his followers formed a circle around her, shielding her from those fumbling idiots who dared to try and speak with her. Her brother was immeasurably cruel to her admirers.

He grew to be so paranoid, he forged her a pearlescent pendant made from the finest of moonstone; charmed to alert him of her distress. It was because of this necklace, that he knew to come to her on the night she was taken from Hogwarts. Sensing her pain and fear, he rushed to her aide. Never questioning for a second, who might have been behind her torment.

But there on Azkaban's guarded shores, the Atlantic ocean roared through their ears, as everything else faded away. Memories fell into the abyss as they gazed at each other for an immeasurable amount of time. His silhouette shined in the moonlight overhead, while she disappeared into the overwhelming darkness of her cell. His mind grasped hold of her proffered invitation, sliding through the threshold of her mind effortlessly. Quickly taken aback by the cathedral-worthy architecture inside. He couldn't help but to applaud her skill in the craft. Few could manipulate the scenery inside one's mind, even fewer were able to create such a detailed stronghold; able to preserve one's thoughts. Something like this, he'd expect from the likes of Dumbledore, or himself.

Light shined down on his snake-like visage, causing him to gaze skyward at the sunlit glass in the domed ceiling overhead. She guided him to a set of doors, beyond the entrance hall and down two flights of stairs. Her white-blonde hair stood nearly incandescent in the sun's rays, cascading about her face and giving her a halo of protection against his piercing stare.

It was with great triumph that her abilities finally became acknowledged by the Dark Lord. His hardened mask slipped ever so slightly at the sheer marvel of the place around him. Stained glass covered the cylindrical wall of the stairwell. Thousands of pieces placed with such precision, to make up the grand image of a sea of snakes. Intertwining with one another, following their downward spiral.

Trailing his fingers just inches away from the glass tiles, he sensed multiple overlaid codes warding memories from sight. Warming his skin in its potent energy. Foreign languages were used throughout the piece, serving as an added layer of protection against prying eyes.

The hallway just beyond, led them to a series of doors. Each panel along the walls and floors, whether brick, tile, or stone had been expertly placed to hide her secrets. He gazed back at her modest appearance, more than a little taken aback by her magical ability. Even he had never seen Occlumency taken to such heights. One would have to be a master of the Mind Arts to create half of the mental palisades she exhibited without care.

Halting in front of a vast set of double doors, she passed her hands in a series of gestures mid-air. Unlocking more wards, much the same as he'd encountered inside Gringotts's depths. Locks clicked into place and the doors smoothly swung open, allowing them entrance. All at once giving him a view into where she had spent most of her time, over the years. Her grand library stretched as far deep as the eye could see. Dwarfing the Great Hall in Hogwarts by nearly twofold. The circular room stood nearly as breathtaking as the Muggle's Coliseum. The undeniable opulence, appealing greatly to the eye. Similar to the royal ballrooms of old. Streaming light in through the domed ceiling, drew attention immediately to the strange flooring.

Covered in one unending sheet of mirrored glass, the floor made one feel as though they would fall right through. Her inside joke on her brother, as she used to tell him much in the same whenever he'd disappear for hours on end, while in the school's library. She jested to the mild possibility that such an event might take him from her, to which he'd quickly responded that such an occurrence could never happen, for he could never be kept away from her. She was his Sun, his light. For without her, he knew no warmth. No life could survive the blistering cold his wrath would bring, without her by his side. He spoke determinedly, as though he was making an unbreakable vow to himself that day.

Where as Tom enjoyed sitting by the fires in the back nooks of the school's illustrious library, She had much preferred to learn from the greats that roamed the halls. Those figures captured eternally in the canvas walls of the school, offered much insight into the ancient ways. The originating rituals and magical scripture that had been long forgotten in the school's descent from Pureblooded teachings, were often more potent than anything they practice in their day and age. Her strange inclinations proved fruitful, when time after time she was able to explain why certain magical components reacted to stimuli accordingly. She was able to follow a spell's derivative ancestry to bind it to another, or to determine if it held a volatile base; which would affect the method by which she would proceed.

The ever more lucrative lesson was learning how to temper its strength for her purposes. Tracing the spell back to its source could change a simple Tergeo, cleaning charm into the rune for Destroy. The derivative in many cases was powerful enough to kill indiscriminately, as well as over a broad spectrum. Such was the reasoning behind the development of the wand, in fact. Created to funnel one's magic safely, while runes were created to decimate through magical means. It was a culmination of magical strength, manifesting itself through violence. A means which saved and ended countless lives, as neighboring villages warred endlessly.

She had first adopted The Old Ways as her way to honor their ancestors, but she soon realized the potential in harnessing such a thing. The Old Ways were founded in a time when Magic was so raw, so ferocious that Merlin and Morgana themselves, had been some of the last to tame it within their grasp. Not this weak mockery the school taught nowadays, watered down by generations of Mudbloods, as Hephaestus Montague liked to grouse about whenever she could lend the elderly wizard her ear. He wasn't much of a talker, and it was only by means of her revealing her connection to the school's founding father, did he utter a word in her direction. He remained stoutly prejudiced even in death, though she could admit he had his purpose.

As a one of Hogwart's first renown spellcrafters, he could concisely describe the methodology behind one of her most burgeoning interests. For he had found the connecting points by which to connect wizard or witch to wand, with his partner Ophelia Ollivander back in 1008A.D. Much as Garrick Ollivander led them to the discovery of their own wands, Ophelia led Hephaestus to the significance each ingredient had to its owner. Magical harmony existed, in such a manner that one's core had to find balance when combined with the wand's core. A mirroring image, must exist for magic to travel conducively. Meaning if one were to bind their wand's ingredients to a spell or ritual, the circuits would bind into each other tenfold. Something no witch or wizard her age could ever hope to master, none the less, grasp. Theoretically, this was something she could profit immensely from, if she had any desire to become magically legendary. Alas, she had far greater plans than simply becoming a famed spellcrafter.

Much greater plans indeed.

Shaking her head to rid her thoughts, she proceeded to walk toward her destination.

Stacks lined the walls surrounding the room. In the center sat a collection of fine leather upholstered furnishings, surrounded by two semi-circled low standing walls. Both of which stood bereft in the daylight hours. Granules of glass shards stretched out overtop the barrier. The flames would erupt from the glass-lined tier, every sunset; such was her will. She lit Botswana Agate for its calming properties. Burned in a circle to maximize magical currents in the air.

Just off to the side of the circle, a dark wood desk domineered beautifully.

He stepped toward the heart of the vast room. Feet carrying him to the furniture, running his finger down their dragon-hide leather backed chairs, before whipping around to face her. Wand aimed at her, while he circled predatorily.

"What is the meaning of this?" Waving his arm toward the dark leather covered chairs, in frustration. For he had seen those very pieces, sitting proudly in Slytherin Manor just hours before.

In fact, the desk looked startlingly familiar as well. Even their placement correlated with the pieces in his home. His ancestral home, that he had spent the last few months reviving from its decade of slumber, in his wake. Having only just discovered of its existence, when the prophecy had been foretold. Forcing his attentions away from his war efforts, to track down the Potter boy.

He was quite confident no living being had stepped foot in Slytherin Manor, in over 800 years. Upon his entrance every evening, the wards sent out magical readings. He could feel his ancestor's magic holding strong, nearly one thousand years later. In all those years, only three magical signatures had ever crossed the manor's wards. The first carried Salazar's distinct air about it. The second his son, Vidar. The third, his very own.

It was a tragedy all its own. Upon his arrival just months before, the Manor stood to be more aptly described as a tomb, than the palace he knew it to be. In one thousand years, only three pairs of eyes had ever marveled its rich splendor. In age, the home stood nearly as ancient as Hogwart's itself, and only three men had ever walked its elegant halls.

The house itself, lived off the dark enchantments, placed upon it by his ancestor in his final days. Its isolation however, originated not from a break in the direct descendant line. But rather, followed Vidar's descent into madness. Long before he had killed Helena Ravenclaw, he'd begun to devolve mentally; growing more unstable as the months wore on.

The house's wards locked down immediately upon her death, sensing no worthy candidate in existence. The Manor's final failsafe to preserve the integrity Salazar had imbued into its very foundation. Disappearing from sight and memories altogether, as was Salazar's will. Broken, and with no memory of love or home, Vidar ended his life. Cursed even in death, as his spirit took the form of The Bloody Baron. With no memory of his past self at all.

Centuries past, as the home stood lost through the ages. Until one day, the wards rattled. Shaken awake by a man so dark, the world quivered in fear. As heir of the great Salazar Slytherin, he was tested. The dark magic surrounding the manor found him worthy, at once. The ancient wards wove around his magic, sending out a beacon; invisible to all except its recipient. He, who had only ever found safety in Hogwarts' enveloping walls; found his home, at long last.

But in this home, Voldemort could feel echoes of Vidar's madness reverberating off the stone walls. He harbored disgust for his ancestor's weakness. Paltry feelings like love and longing, he had cast out of himself years before; with those six pieces of his soul. Salazar's presence however, roused his fighting spirit. It was with Salazar's encouragement, that he stormed the Wizarding Prison with naught but his wand and his mind. His first advance on the battlefield, and toward taking back what was rightfully his.

And so here he loomed, wand pressed into her sternum, as she raised her arm.

Grasping his wand tighter in anticipation, he held a curse at the tip of his tongue. Ready to show her how unamused he was by her efforts, assuming she'd meant to retaliate against his threat of violence. But instead of lashing out at him, she simply shifted her hair. Uncovering her eyes. Finally allowing him to view the pale coloring that covered her pupils and irises completely.

His realization of her blindness caused him to stagger back, sucking in a breath in shock. He was so disturbed by her appearance, his eyes flared wide. Blindness was a nearly unheard of condition for a witch or wizard. St. Mungo's had the means, by which to cure such an hindrance.

"My impairment allows me to utilize forms of magic hidden from plain sight." She speaks formally, as if he had not just spurned her appearance so rudely. He, whose face looked more monster than man.

"I've long ago established a connection to the Otherside. Allowing me to see glimpses into the future." She pauses, allowing him a moment to take in what she was telling him. "Mine. Yours. Even strangers." She continued. "That's how I've been able to see inside your fortress, Lord Voldemort."

He reared back at what she had just told him. He had not heard of a Seer's existence since reading an entry back when he worked in Borgin and Burkes, all those years ago. An old dame had brought in a couple of her dead husband's books, and he remembered one concerning the darker side to Divination. Stories of old, telling of Morgana herself to be the most powerful Dark Seer ever in existence. Though much was left unknown concerning the pair's abilities. Lost to time.

If this child, barely a woman, before him bore even a hint of such a great gift, she would soon find herself under his ever watchful eye. For he would not suffer the Light getting their hands on her, and gaining an edge in the war. Undeniable proof, in the form of a vision; not just a pithy furniture display.

"And, these visions, do they happen at whim? Or have you not managed to reverse the influx?" He was finally speaking with some of his usual bite. Having grown irritable with her continual ability to throw him off balance. He, who was always in such tight control. Shaken by a confused girl, who can't have long been out of Hogwarts gates. Whether she was vastly gifted in the field of Occlumency or foresight, he would not stand anyone's resistance. If she sought freedom from her confines, she would bow to his will.

She blinked blankly, at his tone. Untouched by the dark thoughts brewing in his mind.

"Both. They are both subjective and sent when I am meant to receive them." Turning away from him, she grasped her hands behind her back, leisurely. As if they were simply discussing the weather. "I have grown quite fond of your great library, through my visions. The air there almost vibrates with an eery calm. It's uncanny I must say. I have sought to replicate the feeling, though the result is somewhat milder than the original. Mental Magics only extend so far."

Her apt description of the library's aura, told him just how detailed her visions were. For Salazar had spent years perfecting the room's mental influence. Voldemort found himself growing quite intrigued by the possibilities such a seer could have for their side. Schemes ran through his mind once more, with a renewed rush. "If you wish to be released…"

"My visions also told me you might one day seek me out, and here you are." She interrupted. "Forgive my intrusion." She quickly apologized. "I fear we have only a few minutes more time, before my captor makes an appearance. He's extremely cumbersome, and I'd rather like to be at full strength when I torture him into insanity."

Causing a sudden burst of air to try and escape his lungs. He had but a second's time to silence the outburst; which he quickly identified as some sort of chuckle. Laughter, he surmised. Caused by such a delicate creature speaking to him of mental torture, so flippantly. Gathering himself, he calmly stalked across the room behind her.

When she turned to make her way toward the far wall, she stopped short. Flicking her hand out in the manner one would mount a broomstick, she flipped her palm facing up and the mirrored floor, cracked beneath her ministrations. As the floor rose up, some three meters or so, she flicked her hand out to grab a heavy tome, from a rising shelf; ceasing its escalation.

Its crimson leather binding crackling from disuse, as she set it upon the desk scanning through its contents. Flicking the pages aside, pausing on the page 297. Quietly mumbling a quick incantation, she nodded her head assuredly as the page began to pulse. Reading the inscription magically, she knew she had found just the memory, she was looking for.

"Do you still wish to see the forgotten My Lord? These memories that were taken from you will not come easy." She peered blankly at his visage. Untouched by his threatening features.

"I do, yes. But be forewarned; if you waste my time, you will not live to see another vision." He spoke firmly. Uninterested in her idle chatter.

"Threats now?" She stated dispassionately. Quite unimpressed with his tone on the matter.

"Only a promise." He quipped.

"You should know that the mind, once bereft has a tendency to do strange things indeed. You may never remember fully, what you have lost."

"Then so be it." He resolutely stated.

She nodded agreeably, and turned back to the book; engaging its contents once more. A mere moment more and light took hold of them both; bursting forth from the pages before them. Then as if diving into a pensive, her memory flew forth. Swallowing them both inside its grasp, without so much as a second's hesitance.