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.
Furthermore, I've made a few changes to canon which will become apparent further on in the story, so please keep an open mind. They're just some changes that I thought would spice the story up a bit. I appreciate all of your reviews & follows immensely, so please don't be afraid to drop me a line or two. What did you like? What don't you like? How can I improve the story? Let me know!
Chapter Six:
When Lord Voldemort finally opened his eyes, they were so filled with wrath that his irises took on a crimson-like glow. Evidence that the beast within had begun to awaken. Jaw clenched in anguish, his tightly gripped control slipped further and further out of hand. His aura lashed out at those closest to him, targeting all but her. In that moment, he wanted to make another feel pain; pain beyond any he'd ever endured or dispensed before. Every part of his brutalised soul yearned for it. Demanded it.
Torrential waves of pure darkness burst forth from the inner depths of his magical core. Shaking the ground beneath their feet, as thunder roared from the storm overhead. The air ignited off her skin at the mere sight of her sibling's poisonous fury. A mere taste, she knew, of the formidably dark power that lie within. Resting, as it had been, like the great beasts of old, until it could truly quench its thirst for blood. He was starved for it. So with a gasping release of his true power, the Earth quaked beneath his feet. A flare of magic that seemed to shake half the island, from its force.
It was all in the name of the woman standing before him. The one who remained unharmed even though his most delirious state of madness. His magical assault spawned from the countless injustices they had underwent. The pain and utter loneliness they had each been forced to withstand, while the one who deceived them so bitterly had lived free. But even through his soul's gasping cry for death, to be the divining rod by which such a punishment would be meted out, he still held back. Her eyes understanding what only they knew. As intimate a truth as it was, for even his closest of followers had no idea what he was truly capable of. How tightly he bound the beast within, for fear that he'd one day lose his carefully sought after control.
Within the truest of depths, dwelled a creature so vicious and unforgiving that he could bathe in the blood of his father without remorse. A monstrous entity that had lurked underneath his carefully constructed exterior for as long as he had lived, whether it be the visage of the man or this hybrid of man and serpent. An inhuman gleam, that appeared in his obscure eyes only during his strongest of emotions. Those which sought to be filled by only the darkest of fantasies. Ones he'd yet to show this vile world. The likes of which would, one day, send Grindelwald quivering back into the shadows, when Death chased him down like the dog that he was.
His outburst quickly had begun to drop the already cold temperatures on the isle to below freezing. With every breath, came with it a sharp and knife-like sensation of cool metal penetrating one's very lungs. The air was both heavy and visible upon the lips of his Death Eaters, becoming clear that they had already begun to suffocate underneath the sheer pressure that he was creating. Panic ran clear through their minds, filling their veins with ice. His magic, acting like a plague to their own, killing them from the inside out. Ripping the very life from their decrepit bodies. Their organs began to collapse from sheer pressure, as the bleeding began from their eyes and noses. But the sound of their bodies collapsing on the ground did nothing to stem his anger, nor did their echoing pleas for mercy. He despised their willingness to show such weakness, even if it was to him.
She called out to him, to no avail for her voice drowned, beneath the rising winds. Rage had thrown him out of darkness of her mind, and into his own. There, he fell further into the abyss; into the all-encompassing void that numbed the senses. He floated through the darkest of spaces, disembodied completely. There was only the color of pitch. Here, there was no light.
Only cognizant of his own thoughts, he drowned in their overwhelming nature. Deception. Betrayal. Pain. He felt them all, mixing haphazardly within. The treachery behind Gellert Grindelwald's duplicity would not go unpunished. He insulted him, by not simply killing them both when they were younger. Did Grindelwald not know who exactly the boy named Tom Marvolo Riddle would become? Or did he watch with malicious glee as he shattered Tom's mind? Knowing all the while, that he had laid the groundwork for the world's most vicious Dark Lord yet. The possibility that he'd been manipulated into action hit him like a well placed Cruciatus. Burning his insides, at the mere thought.
Acid flushed through his veins as he wondered, if ever he'd ever had any choice in the matter. Was he just a pawn in a far grander game; deceptively fed the ripest of lies, while being led to the slaughter? To what ends did Grindelwald mean to see his plans come to fruition? What lengths would he seek to see her back in his own grasp? She who had made the swine feel so unworthy to so much as breathe the same air. He knew that the wizard would not be so lenient as to leave her somewhere so unguarded next time. If he was to get his filthy hands on her once more, she would be forever at his mercy; or at least until he discovered just what it was that made her continue to tick. For once he had found the source, he would surely seek to steal it, or at the very least bleed it out of her until she lived no more. A thought that stole the marrow from his bones.
Underestimating him. Stealing that which belonged to him. Those were crimes which one might have lost their life over. The disrespect fed a righteous flame deep in the pit of his stomach. His pride, ferociously salivating at the idea of retribution. The sheer fact that his Dark predecessor had ripped his mind asunder by removing his soul's mate; infuriated Lord Voldemort beyond any rational thought. For him to toss him back broken, bleeding, and feral in his soul's desperation; without even a care for retribution, told him Grindelwald felt unthreatened by any promise of vengeance. His beast bared his deathly fangs at the hit to his pride. Everything in him wanted to bathe in the blood of his enemy. From his viperous tongue to his stone cold grip around his wand, he was ready to kill. And kill him he would, even if he had to destroy every witch or wizard whose bodies he had stolen, to chase him into his own. Now, Lord Voldemortwas the hunter, and he the prey.
He, whom had come from such meager beginnings. He who had claimed the Wizarding World as his own! He'd given himself a new name. One worthy. One that the people of the Magical World would remember for generations. His devotion to the Dark Arts rivalled none but Morgana herself! Lord Voldemort was not the weak child, Grindelwald had last encountered. Now, he found himself standing vigilant on the battlefield. His opponent, a Dark Lord whose fall had shaken much of Europe at the time of his childhood. It had been said that the once powerful Gellert Grindelwald had been banished to live out the rest of his days imprisoned, in the very place he'd hoped to one day reign from. Dethroned by none other than Albus Dumbledore! He spat at the very thought of the withering old fool.
Whether his original body indeed resided in the prison known as Nurmengard, Voldemort planned to uncover. He very well doubted he would find any trace of the man, especially with as secure as the Ministry wanted the public to think they were. He'd long since given up on that bloody laugh of an institution, but if there was one thing they did right, it was a cover-up. He, himself had benefitted from their obstinacy to admit fault. Between their conniving secrets and The Daily Prophet's ripe hunger for a mere trickle of scandal, the two had quite the symbiotic relationship. The thought of which nauseated him immensely. The disgraceful fools.
The Ministry's weakness concerning Muggle and Muggle-born sympathizers, had given Grindelwald his platform to begin with. If there was truly no blood already in the water, then the grindylows wouldn't have been gathering just beneath the tide. No, the Ministry was just at fault as Grindelwald's followers, for their inaction against blood-traitorous fools like Dumbledore, was just another step into oppressing their very own people. Only, the British Wizarding Community had not sat back and simpered like the Americans had under MACUSA. They had gathered under a cause they supported for the greater good, and pieces were lost under Grindelwald's regime. But now, a different opponent approached the board, and Voldemort planned to rally and lead the remaining pieces into battle. No matter where they had once stood on the board.
However one thing he knew for certain, was that an enemy watched from afar through the eyes of others. He laid hidden underneath the shed skin of another, moving ever closer in his camouflage, until the enemy was close enough to strike the killing blow. Any trust Voldemort had for those followers he closely surrounded himself with, vanished the moment he realized any number of them could have been spying for another Lord of the Dark. For he had no doubt whatsoever in his mind, that Grindelwald had in fact truly released his hold of the Magical Realm all these years. And Voldemort would not rest until he conquered and killed all that stood in his path.
But through this all, Albus Dumbledore stood as ominous as ever. A second opponent, whose presence riled every vengeful bone in his body. For Voldemort could never truly turn his back to the Lord of Light. It was because of Dumbledore's prejudiced negligence, that he had been left to rot in that Muggle infested orphanage! And if the pale beauty's words bore any measure of truth, it was by his very own hand that something so essential as family, was taken from him!
Family, he thought with an astounding edge pounding within his blood, as his mind had begun to positively shudder within the disquiet that engulfed him. From within the almost shrouding decay that that had become of Salazar Slytherin's lineage, he had now come to discover that he was not as alone as he'd thought he was beforehand. Before him, stood someone that invoked strange stirrings within him, as both her mind and the truth of who she claimed to be unfolded before his eyes.
It brought upon such a sense of inquisitiveness. He wasn't sure he would even understand the emotions attached, wayward to anything he had ever felt before in his life, though real all the same. One thing he did know, above all else that mattered at the moment, was that she was his. Just as surely as he held his remaining horcruxes, those last few pieces of himself that needed to be protected at any cost. He could already feel his magic claiming her as his; and much like everything that he regarded as his, he discovered himself to be possessive when it came to her. But above all, protective.
So to him, it mattered naught whether the withered old fool was aware of the deceiver's actions. For they, as children of Hogwarts, were under his care. His weakness allowed their home to be compromised. He had made their home unsafe. When his sister closed her eyes every night, it was his visage that haunted her dreams. Dumbledore's hands had mutilated her body, and while Grindelwald animated him into action, it was still their old Transfigurations professor's skin that touched her own. And for such violent actions done unto a child, could never be forgiven.
Nor could they be forgotten.
He was not some toy to be discarded whenever someone thought they were through. No, he was not someone to be used. Furthermore it mattered naught to him whom this thief was beneath the mask he wore, Dark Lord or not, there was a debt to be paid; and he planned to collect in full. Rage pounded within him as his bloodlust rose; Voldemort's crimson orbs glinted as behind them his brilliant, devious mind set to work. With the knowledge that he had gained, he would not allow himself to be blindsided again. It was in this moment that he remembered once again that knowledge was power. To rise victorious above the ones that attempted to overpower you, and then make them all regret for ever acting on such a thought.
"Come back to me." Her words were like a cooling balm to his fiery wounds, whistling clearly through the roaring din inside his mind. Nothing except her voice could quell his boiling rage from completely overtaken him; and while he found it to be shocking that she held such a firm hold over him, it somehow felt right all the same. As if she was the missing part of him that he hadn't realized until now was gone and given the turn of events, it seemed likely that it was exactly so. She had spoken to him in the language of snakes, the one that only they understood, effectively capturing the attention of the predator lurking beneath his skin. She somehow knew his rational mind was beyond reason; overwhelmed by the predatorial instincts that had grasped ahold of him after this sense of shock had finally taken over.
In truth, she had feared he would've reacted more violently to what she revealed unto him. As such, she had prepared herself for the worse. Fully expecting him to become infuriated with her for even suggesting such a slight. But as much as it grieved her, she had steeled herself to face whatever fury he might have unleashed, as her flesh and blood looked upon her with murderous intent. Scenarios unfolded whereupon she had been unable to speak her peace, before he lashed out at her for her daring to seek his aid. Even ones where he had outright tried to murder her, she had considered. And so with a determined heart, she had fought furiously to achieve just the right amount of his attention, to allow her respite to pull back his blindfold. For there was only one true way to capture such interest.
Parseltongue, the language of their ancestor. A tongue the Wizarding Community had let themselves believe was long since dead, and she was more than happy to let them think such an untruth. It was theirs and theirs alone, after all. But more importantly, it was a solid tie to him and to the ancient line of Slytherin. A trait, that could not be developed or learned, only passed upon birth from their line. Simply put, she could not have stated more plainly that they were related, had she sliced open her veins and performed an old world Blood Rite before his very eyes.
Vera would do anything to make her brother realize that she was far from just any prisoner that had been left here in Azkaban to rot. Her heart warmed at the very thought that she need not resort to such dramatic lengths, as she feared. He had believed her to the fullest measure, upon little more than her word, her memories, and naught but a hiss of the truth. His ability to read when one spoke such lies seemed to have grown exponentially. Shifting the gravity of the situation vastly, when she had been just minutes before merely a long forgotten soul hiding in the darkest of places. And had he not come to retrieve his loyal followers within Azkaban's depths, a lost soul, she may have remained.
The Occlumency skills that she had fought to uphold through the most grueling of torture had swiftly fallen to the wayside upon his arrival. Her mind wanted nothing more than to bare her very consciousness for his perusal, to reveal to him that she indeed was worthy. Her Legilimency skills, though less proficient than his own, had proven themselves worth every painstaking hour in this moment. For while she had realized almost immediately that neither the prisoners, nor Dementors warranted such tactics, she had persevered. Practicing until her nose bleed from over exertion. Knowing in the pit of her stomach that a time would come, when reading body language would simply not be enough. That she would be forced to enter the chasm that was her own twin's mind, in order to save him.
She supposed it was quite possible that he not only sensed their burgeoning weakness, but because they fought in some manner against his magical sway. Whether it was something in their thoughts or in their hearts, his magic was a vengeful force, that was quick to punish for even a mite of doubt. Even if their ambitions were unknowingly felt, he despised any disloyalty. This much was clear in the lack of restraint he exhibited now. Just minutes before, his followers had lined the cliff's edge, as he had spoken to her. Their body language subtle as it may have been, was as apparent to her as his; though such allowances were made when you were siblings after all. However, their shifting, restless bodies had leaned ever so slightly away from him, long before his magic had begun to react so violently. With a observant glint in her eye, she had watched as they now cowered beneath his strength. How they sought to protect their own skin over facing their master with humility. All but his Bella, she allotted. Appreciating the other woman's loyalty to him, without so much as a hint of selfishness piercing her heart.
Vera herself could not deny what either of them had longed for now, craved even, anymore than she could fifty years ago. As magical twins, their touch was considered to be sacred by many due to how her magic was intricately woven into his, and vice versa. Continuing to move in a cycle between the two of them, never ending and mirroring the other's core. It had become their language before speech had developed; and it was through their flesh that thoughts and feelings could be shared. This neural bridge between their two bodies, was a natural phenomenon that was once openly praised by their pure-blooded ancestors. Vera and Tom had each devoted hours upon hours reading doctrine dedicated to protecting their condition from the rest of the world. For to those few Magical Beings who had first walked the Earth, it was almost as though Magic herself had blessed these nearly identical individuals. In a way, Vera thought, she had.
Closing her eyes to block out all distraction, Vera could remember every detail of their time there at the orphanage. From the time she and Tom had first made contact outside the womb, to the feel of his 16 year old hand wrapped securely around her own as they stepped out of Wool's together that last time, heading toward Platform 9 ¾. She held fast to these memories. The way those smoothed ridges and veins travelled throughout his pale artistic fingers, belying the strength she knew he possessed. With his magic surging through her as a conduit, she felt like she was whole once more; no matter what deformity the world saw when their eyes fell upon her.
His touch made her feel brazen and beautiful, in a way she could never quite fully feel on her own. She was quite used to the emitted waves of disappointment or pity, when someone gazed upon her nearly flawless form only to eventually find their way to her milky orbs. For as truly magnificent as it was to be granted the ability to connect her magic to that of the all-encompassing force around her, it was not one to be wished upon the tender-hearted. Nor the magically inept. For upholding such an advanced practice, if not prepared, had the ability to send one straight to St. Mungo's, for a permanent stay. Though such conditions, be them weak of the heart or magical aptitude were long beyond what she considered herself capable of nowadays. But she had once been made of softer things; more prone to feelings of depression and shame at the physical reminders of the illness that had ravaged her body to the brink of death, at such an early age.
But, as beaten down as she felt body and mind on any given day within Wool's smothering clutches, her darker emotions thrived off the malice that had drowned both she and her brother. The abuse they suffered at the hands of the Muggles who resided in the orphanage, would stick with them for as long as they both lived. It was this violence that had brought forth some of their first few magical manifestations. Far earlier than most children experienced in a stable home. Their touch had been the first, for its ability to both center them mentally, but more importantly to heal them physically.
For in the miserable grey scaled building that was Wool's Orphanage, corporal punishment was hardly a thing of note. The mistress of the orphanage was unforgiving and often drank to ease her foul temper. It was not long before she'd turned her punishing gaze upon Vera and Tom, as strange things began to occur around them. Through no fault of their own, they began to unsettle the other children. Whether new to the house or otherwise, it hardly took one glimpse before one realized conversations seemed to pass between the two, with nary a word. And that was just one of their many devilish things that they had been seen doing. They all reacted the same violent way, making Vera regard them all on the same level of disgust that she felt when she'd seen them smashing bugs and cheering over their conquests.
And while Tom had thought of them with disdain, he couldn't fault her for regarding them like rabid dogs that could be found wandering around London. Not after the torment that they went through day in and day out. He often fared worse than she had, trying to protect her from their attacks. Even then, starved and beaten, he had instinctively shielded her from that which would cause her harm when she was at her weakest. He'd rarely left her side until she had been able to sustain her magic long enough to see and fight back to his satisfaction. Slow as the process had been, she steadily built up her tolerance, until her fainting spells grew more and more infrequent. She worked tirelessly to show her beloved brother, who sheltered her with such unwavering loyalty, that she too could stand firm beside him instead of behind. As an equal. Never a hindrance.
They had just turned seven, when Tom first spoke of their differences. Long before they had been paid a visit by the illustrious Albus Dumbledore. Their 'gifts' had made them freaks in the orphanage long before, but they weren't the only differences they began to notice. Vera supposed they'd just innately known, even if they couldn't truly comprehend why. He had once told her that he didn't think he felt enough. 'Not like you deserve,' he'd said. 'Certainly not like the others.'
Speaking of course, of the way the other orphans saw the world. For as feral as the little monsters acted toward them, they had such a innocence in the way they saw the world; so trusting and forgiving. Even Mrs. Cole had worn seemingly genuine emotions over the war's casualty counts. The war seemed to bring to front all sorts of fear in their eyes, but not the twins. But clearly, there was something a little more different about his interactions with others than hers, leading back to his first few years back at Wool's.
She could remember the confusion he felt when she had cried, after being pushed down the back steps; he felt anger easily enough at the older child, but he couldn't fathom what emotion drove the salty tears to fall down her cherubic cheeks. He knew he didn't like it. He knew he needed to make her better. She had described the feeling of pain, but all he could do was imagine what such an emotion would feel like.
He healed her quickly, but his questions didn't end there. She understood, his want to analyze that which baffled him so. His trust of her was not lightly given by any means, but after she continually earned his respect, she grew to be his confidant on all matters. He trusted her not to tell anyone the wrongness that such a lack of empathy, could mean. That they might take him away to the asylum, or set another 'doctor' upon him. With her, he could be himself; with anyone else, he had to work to make them feel so at ease. But at such a young age, Tom just didn't know how to force himself to care so much about the world around them.
Vera had always known there was a modicum of truth behind his words. He was a little more different, but then again so was she. For a different set of reasons, but coming to such a revelation didn't leave her dismayed. It made her feel possessive of his affections, as significant as they were. They were a gift, something that she always cherished as much as she did him. While he'd once considered the fact that she might one day leave him for something better; something more - she, herself was not he didn't understand was that for her, there would never be anything better. He was hers, and she was his. It was a fact of life. People died everyday. There were 708 bricks lining the border wall around the orphanage. There had been a beautiful family of adders living under the berry bushes in the back. And if her brother could understand what love meant, he'd realize it was what he felt for her. In his own way.
As if confirming her own thoughts, she reached out as far as her confines would allow her. Seeking out his pale flesh against hers, as she grazed her fingertips along his robed arm and down to his palm. Weaving her fingers inside his clenched fists, until her heat permeated his cool, serpentine flesh. Something she'd suspected was due to the hybrid nature of his horcrux. It was when Vera began to feel his skin warm to the temperature of her own, a fleeting glimpse of happiness swelled within her for what was the first time in many years. Even after all of the time that had slipped from their grasp, long lost no matter how much she had fought to preserve it, she still could sense her Tom underneath the protective outer shell that was Voldemort. She felt the all too familiar spark that initiated from the very first touch of her hand meeting his, and attempted to conceal the resulting smile as she welcomed the heat that traveled up her outstretched arm and slithered upwards to dwell within her heart. Throughout all the years, their touch still held everything she had cherished within their years apart.
"Come back to me." She repeated. Her words coaxing, as they slipped from her lips in a gentle manner. Urging him with underlying desperation that festered in her heart during his absence. Thoughts bubbled past her consciousness that lingered like an outstretched hand, just waiting patiently for him to take notice, as she held fast to him. Driving her last words home with a fierce tug on his conscious mind, she spoke with undeniable fervor. "I need you."
I always have and always will. She pushed the thought in his direction with enough force to make him, even subconsciously, grab onto it. It was the utter definition of what kept her going throughout the cold, lonely nights here in this forgotten cell. He was everything that she ever cared for, the one person that made everything else in her life fall short. Nothing would ever exceed the love that she harbored for him; for such deep rooted feelings could not be wiped away by others. Least of all the Dementors that greedily tried to suck away every bit of her soul. She held no doubt plaguing her that he would come, it was only a matter of time. So, knowing this, she dutifully waited for such a moment to come to pass. When they would finally cross paths once again.
It was then, with a sigh escaping her lips, that she saw the brief flicker of life re-enter his crimson orbs. Pupils almost illuminating from within the darkness shrouding them, mirroring the rage still housed within his blood. Vera knew with certainty that she'd reached him, for she'd taken notice of just how his eyes dilated from what her intrusion wrought. Her sight offering her a clear view of the burst of color to flashing across his orbs. Jerking his head to the side, from the force of it; his jaw clenched at the disruption. His smooth brow furrowing, as she'd unwittingly pulled not only him back from the void, but shifted a lost memory forth as well.
She didn't know what moment he was currently remembering, but she could tell it was one of the rarest of all. This was good, she privately thought. Knowledge only could ever amount to power and the sooner that he remembered what had been, Vera knew that they would be ready for what is to come. It was for there, exposed for her gifted eyes to take in, rested at first confusion then overwhelming realization. As he processed the memory that her actions had brought, the raging wind wisped around her eyes. Her grip upon him tightening as she held onto him like the anchor that he had always embodied, holding her firm despite all that may come to pass. It was an action that was so familiar to her; finding and revelling within the comfort that he only held for her.
The shadow of a genuine smile, tugging up the corners of his lips, curved with the trepidation of a young thestral taking its first few steps; as beautiful and morbid as the sight was. It was one a young child would bear, as his cheeks betrayed his heart's true amazement. Curious and innocent in its beauty, as it stepped into the unknown with a sense of wonderment.
She knew exactly how seldom such emotion had been truly felt in their childhood. For before Hogwarts, they had merely survived. Never to know true joy or decadence, until they'd stepped foot in the castle they'd soon come to call home. But for the two of them, the mere idea of Hogwarts had been a source of elation and utter terror. A feeling of almost fear dug deeply into their hearts, refusing to release, as they carefully negotiated their way through the social castes within. Secretly terrified they'd wake from this dream, to find themselves back in their own personal hell. Self-preservation and pride would not allow them to cower, under the pitiful stares of others.
Eyeing his form closely now, drifting her observant milky orbs over the smooth glide of his browline down toward his curving lips, she saw no sign of the overwhelming paranoia she knew they'd both felt during that time. In a time where their last name was far too Muggle for the world that they grew to deeply care for. It hadn't done them any favors at first with the Purebloods that ruled over Slytherin house prior to the day that they were sorted. They'd been called 'Half-bloods' with disgust as if part of them were that of a mindless animal or Muggle themselves. In those situations, Vera fondly recalled how Tom had risen to the challenge; showing the inbred animals just how superior their blood truly was. Blood was blood, after all.
It was with nary a night's rest in the castle, that the twin's made it their duty to bleed the reigning King and Queen of Slytherin. Splaying them across the Common Room's domineering wall, for all their house to see come morning. Illustrating just how filthy and crimson, their own leaders' blood looked as it dripped across the finely woven carpets. After that, their housemates solemnly made note not to dare make a cutting look or remark toward either of the twins. For Vera and Tom had swiftly proved themselves worthy of the 'Most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin,' and soon their housemates' fear shifted into respect, when it was discovered that they could speak Parseltongue. That in combination with their advanced abilities toward wandless magic, elevated them high above the filth that tainted the halls, in many of the heirs' opinion. In fact, in her own opinion, it demonstrated less of how worthy they were, and just how unworthy the most prestigious of pure-bloods were.
So, as she positively burned with curiosity to discover what memory his mind had chosen to release, she could already feel him drifting away from reality. For as he spiraled back into the depths of his mind, desperately chasing after the memory that had been forgotten; fixating his attentions solely on whatever had caught his eye. However she knew this was only the beginning, for soon he'd begin trying to force his memories to the forefront. It's only natural, Vera defended as she sought to allow him this moment, to seek that which one has lost. She also acknowledged that if he did not get a grasp of himself soon, none of them would make it off the island. So, it was with a heavy heart, that she tugged him back from what could very well be the only memory he would ever have of their shared past. His immensely resilient mental shields seeming to work in conjunction with whatever Dark Magic Grindelwald had left in his wake.
Coming back from the void had shaken him, much more than he wished to reveal. Voldemort found his eyes wandering down to the warmth that seemed to be radiating from his wrist. Her delicate fingers having wrapped themselves around his own, desperate for purchase. His greedy eyes followed her deft fingers up to the curve of her wrist, narrowing in confusion, before finally understanding just what the dark device clamped abusively around her flesh was. The other wrist bearing an identical weight, from its resting place on the crumbling ledge between them.
Where both of her wrists had been bare in her mindscape and memories previous, they now bore the true reason for her weakened state. Metal contraptions with spikes puncturing deep into her flesh, serving the sole purpose of inflicting agony upon her for as long as she drew breath; as each cuff covered nearly half of her forearm. He had no doubt the blades served their purpose by locking themselves into her blood, and into her magic. He raised their joined hands, like some gentleman of old, scrutinizing the craftsmanship behind such an artifact. He had bore witness to similar torturous items in his travels abroad, but he was confidant he hadn't seen one made quite like these before.
Such a well-crafted piece, he could not deny this even as he found himself desperate to dislodge it from her immediately and violently ensnare the offender responsible of putting it on her. While heavy and cumbersome, just as he assumed the Muggle version to be, he did not doubt the purpose of such an Goblin-made object. Manacles, he thought, meant to bind her magic. Meant to make her weak, like a Muggle, his mind sneered. Only, she was like him, he admired that about her as he lifted his gaze to stare at her with a possessive edge before dropping it once more on the cuffs that attempted to hinder her. Too powerful to be kept in a prison meant for lesser beings. Pride flared in his chest as he began to read the etchings scribed across in the metal. Just above where it pierced the inner curvature of her wrist, stood the elegant scrawl of Gobbledegook.
'Magic bound by blood of the offender, I hereby warn thee, helpful lender. Cursed be thee unto bearing these irons yourself, for only in death may ye restore your magical wealth.' He read in silence, slowly analysing what he must do, before scrutinizing her carefully.
He was certain that she'd read these words countless times whilst she was trapped here, left only to wait. It dawned on him for maybe the first time that he stepped into Azkaban that she had hoped that he would be the one to cross her path first, for with him she knew she would have at least a chance to speak. If Grindelwald had come before him, armed with a Dark weapon or spell strong enough to silence her for good, Vera would've been dead without him ever having the chance to know exactly who she was. The forgotten past that she stood for. It would have left him unknowing that there was another player that had taken it upon themselves to join the battle that raged between both Dumbledore and himself. It could have led to his death.
He locked his orbs with hers as they stared back at him solemnly. Though it wasn't without a knowing edge glinting from within her moonstone-carved eyes, as she too knew what would grant her freedom. The manacles would have no doubt, been keyed into Grindelwald's magical signature when she was bound; to leave them on would be giving him an open invitation to where ever she thought to run. She set her jaw, at the thought of the pain that could be about to come. But it wasn't until she issued a firm nod in acquiescence, that he finally spoke.
"Stand back." He instructed sharply as he gazed upon her before he drew forth a wand, that she was almost as familiar with as her own. Vera hastily leaped back from the wall, severing the contact she had made with him as she turned her body away from the expected blast. Only, instead of the shrapnel raining down upon her body, it crackled and popped like breaking ice as he broke through the wards. Forcing the wall's molecular structure to bend and shift, according to his will. He easily transfigured the heavy brick and mortar into the thinnest glass, translucent and brittle, before sweeping his wand minutely toward the ground. His magic effortlessly forcing the entire piece to collapse in on itself.
Disintegrating harmlessly into tiny granules of sand beneath their feet, with nearly no effort at all on his part. Within seconds, one of the most fortified walls in all of Azkaban came down like the falling remnants of a slain chess piece. Azkaban was still the very place that all of Europe feared more than Death himself. If only, one were to show the public the ease in which he had crumbled the fortress, from foundation to ceiling. They would fall and scatter from fear, she was sure.
Vera Eleanora Riddle, sister to The Dark Lord and heir of the great Salazar Slytherin, was no fool. As easily, as she had stretched her arm through the crack in the prison's walls, she had not dared to try to escape through the enclosure. The weight of Grindelwald's enchantments suffocated her on the best of days; and it was the heavy metal irons around her wrists, that reminded her just how unyielding her vengeance would be. Curses had been laid upon her skin, threatening pain far worse than the physical, should she venture beyond the demarcation he had allowed her. Her magical core itself, had been bound inside these four walls for longer than some had lived. Entry into her cell would have been nigh impossible to any fool ignorant enough to try, here in Azkaban. The dozens of intricate wards and ancient spells that kept her inside its borders, repelled the weak as much as it did the ignorant. It was enough to drive any normal witch mad. Had the dementors not already, that is.
After Grindelwald's supposed 'fall from power,' Voldemort admitted grudgingly Gellert had taken great care in his manipulations of Dumbledore's body. Possessing the outright appearance of the wizard into doing not only his bidding, but giving him the ability to steal everything he had sought to have: power, influence, and loyal followers. Those of the Light flocked to Dumbledore's side, after the duel that had taken place, and while many stayed for the appearance of 'good' - few acknowledged more than what was expected of them by the world. It was unclear exactly how long it took for Gellert to gain full control, but to have been ousted by a mere slip of a girl. Her notice of his subtle differences could not be left unhandled and through Albus's thoughts, Grindelwald had uncovered the bond she shared with her brother. But more importantly, he had succeeded in trapping her in the passageway where Albus Dumbledore knew her to frequently travel. Gellert effortlessly overpowered her, though Voldemort had to applaud his previously forgotten sister for putting up such a vicious fight in response.
While he had been more afraid of her eventual escape than of anyone assisting her, Gellert had not been careless in his designs. Strengthening Azkaban's wards had been childsplay to the man who had build Nurmengard from the ground up. But still, locked away as she was, with every year that passed he expectantly must've grown less worried over what she knew and more concerned with the next steps in his plans. From what she had shown Voldemort in her mind's eye, Vera had seen Gellert time and time again speaking to others with the face of another. Had looked through the mask that he wore, into the eyes of Gellert Grindelwald himself whilst he commanded the Light to do his bidding, and secured darker allies in the shadows.
Countless other bodies were at his disposal and yet he still refused to shake his hold on Dumbledore. The one whose magic he had used to Obliviate every soul at Hogwarts, until Vera truly was no more. Not even the ghosts or the basilisk had any memory that there had once been another Riddle. His fascination with the wizard whose body he wore most often, was something of constant disgust. It was a sick sort of fixation, one that still disturbed her greatly. Her hatred of the man knew no bounds. Voldemort seemed to possess the ability to feel such mirroring emotions himself almost immediately after she produced them, tantalizing his primitive senses as soon as her body released pheromones into the air around her. As strong as they were, and he once again couldn't find fault in her line of thinking.
Voldemort had chosen to watch silently as she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth when the thoughts of the things he had done, seeped into her thoughts, before he made a split decision to step further out of range of her subconsciousness. He could blame it out of the respect that he was regrowing for her, but instead readied himself for what was to come. In the meantime, Vera tried to breathe deeply in through her nose and out of her mouth, as she sorted through both the pain she previously thought she grew to endure as well as the thoughts that surged within her mind.
Gellert had a sick fascination with defeating Death, this she knew. He craved power. Was addicted to its seductive call, pounding through his veins. The idea of becoming invincible, in a way that would bring the Magical and the Muggle Worlds to their knees, was all that drove him most days. She feared the means by which he would see these wants achieved; but she knew somewhere deep down, he was troubled. Her presence was the poison to his dreams; it was why he refused to come and mock her.
She was a girl, barely a woman when he had set his sights upon her; but still he had failed. She lived, unlike any witch or wizard he had punished before for their interference. Sure he felt rage within him at the mere thought of her, that much had been abundantly clear, but Vera predicted it didn't produce enough confidence within him to make him come and face her. It was more of what she represented to him, Vera suspected, that she was the one that would not break for him. No matter what he - or anyone else, for that matter - could ever do unto her.
For a little waif of a witch, to so easily cheat him out of watching her die under his most favored wand, astounded him. The wand that 'Dumbledore' had pried from Grindelwald's hand upon his victory some months prior. He'd even tried to torture her by her own wand, thinking the act would have been most satisfying. But he'd been less than impressed when the very core of the thing had crumpled beneath his hand. Thinking that it could not handle his power, and never realizing the truth behind its final act of loyalty to its owner. But for Vera to withstand the full force of his own wand, time and again until he exhausted himself, it was certainly enough to wound his pride.
His envy and utter madness drove him to grow careless, for not checking up on her as he should have. Wards be damned though, for they weren't strong enough to keep out the only one she sought. The only one strong enough to smash her captor's little glass house that he kept her locked ever so tightly in, was the one that he had forcibly parted her from. Gellert may have twisted around in Tom's head; erasing all that he could find of her to make Tom believe that he was utterly alone in this world with no one that would truly understand him - but he didn't tamper with her mind. He may have been under the impression that she would be too broken in the face of everything that had been done to her; that Tom would ignore her if their paths dared to cross. Perhaps even seeing the poetry in allowing her own brother to kill her, where he could not. Voldemort could not deny the possibility that he could have slain her, thinking that she was just another victim of Azkaban's esteemed caretaking.
Grindelwald was quite capable of such cruelty, after all. Perhaps he'd just hoped to one day come back to find a crazed prisoner in her place, much like he had upon discovering Morfin Gaunt all those years before; stark raving mad and practically seething with ill-manner. Confirming just how utterly disgraceful his 'family' had allowed themselves to become. How the mighty fall. Gellert would no doubt take the same path, he guaranteed it. He promised her this. He would receive that and more for the pain he had caused her.
Gellert Grindelwald in all of his designs, had not even considered what she would do with the knowledge that he hadn't taken away. What she would do given the chance to speak with her brother. Funnily enough indeed, for it was by this fool's mistake that worked in their favor. Vera alone would make sure of that.
Grindelwald was not worthy of the title declaring him as a Dark Lord. His desires were disgusting, urged forward by the twisted sociopathic tendencies that fueled him. She had seen the level of madness he had set upon the Muggle World by encouraging the War that resulted millions dead. Magical and Muggle blood spilled, for what?! Dark amusement? She may have held no feelings toward Muggles given her childhood other than disgust, but that did not mean she let such emotions - or lack thereof - blind her anymore than her own eyes did. Her magical core may be dark, darkening more for the things forced upon her, but that didn't mean that she let it rule over her heart. Only one person held that kind of power over her, and he now stood before her. Close enough to touch. Gellert's malicious sense of humor may have caused her stomach to turn more than once over the years, but she refused to allow her own flesh and blood to fall victim to his seduction. Tom would not be the puppet Gellert aimed him to be, not if she had anything to say about it. In everything that Gellert had ever done, he only served to twist the Dark into something it was not meant to be and she strongly despised him for it. His manipulations were intricate in a way that threatened to collapse the balance of Light and Dark Magics everywhere.
When her skin began to vibrate, Vera was driven back to the wizard who was her balance. The Dark to her Light, as dim as it shined these days, she solemnly thought as she raised her moonstoned gaze to look upon his troubled visage. Her core felt like it was going through a metamorphosis, but to what extent it will end is what she wasn't aware. She had always felt a distinct pull toward Light magic upon her entry in Hogwarts, but these days… she wasn't sure of much more than the feelings she harbored for Tom. Maybe, Vera attempted to guess at pinpointing the feelings dancing underneath her skin, just maybe… her magic was accommodating the one that was seeping through the walls of Azkaban, whom held her captive? It was something to contemplate: If you send most of your time held within a dark place, do you shift to accommodate your surroundings in an effort to survive? It made sense in retrospect.
His magic flared through the small space, seeking out any danger that may have camouflaged itself from view. The familiar tingling sensation of his own magic warmed the frosty air around them with intent as he sought to disillusion and break through the last of the wards that pressed down upon her, causing her skin to tingle at its inquisitive touch. She was proud of his apprehensive nature for it revealed that he was reasonably suspicious, and that would help keep him alive. She pushed the warmth that bloomed within her heart aside, though unashamedly, as her breath never paused nor quickened at how his leery gaze settled over her form. For very little had the ability to keep her brother out physically or mentally, if he truly wanted in; and she had nothing to hide from him.
Testing emotions and thoughts were but a routine he'd adapted to assure his safety, which she respected without comment. His magic was an unstoppable force, and to climb to the top he had made many enemies he would require it to be so. Like many times prior to this - Voldemort stood ready, willing, to crush those who threatened him and those he considered his. It was a possessive sort of mind frame, that she knew him to have. No one other than herself had ever been important enough to share what he deemed as his; whether it was important or otherwise. For in revealing such things to others, one allowed themselves to be preyed upon. To be made the fool, and he despised the idea of have a weakness. Refusing to even give another the opportunity to take what was only his to lay claim upon.
And his, she was. The thought echoed in both of their thoughts, mirroring with conviction that such a thing was the utmost truth. It made Vera smile, even if times such as these, with the knowledge that he claimed her as his even when he knew so little of the bond the two of them held. It was just as the ashen beauty took him in, in all his glory, that the rolling thunder sounded overhead. Ominously forewarning the approach of something foul on the air that triggered her heart to stutter out a rhythm of unease. She could feel it. He was almost here. Whether he felt a disruption in the wards wrapped around the cell or had simply caught wind of the attack on the prison, she knew naught.
Before the Dark Lord could take even one step closer, another gale came forth from over the water behind him, sending the sharp granules of glass up into the enclosure. Tossing thousands of shards up into the air, preparing to slice scarlet rivers across her exposed flesh. Her arm rose up to shield her eyes. An instinctual response, after having lived for so long cut off from her magic. For having it bound so tightly around her core even after all of these years, she could no more defend herself than a muggle could within these hazardous moments.
Only, she felt the frigid night's breeze hit her skin instead, cutting through the heat that Tom had invoked whilst working on the wards with ease. The transfigured pieces seemingly halting mid-air from the path of which they had tried to descend upon her. She slowly lowered her gaze from where each individual piece seemed to have been engulfed by an invisible shield of sorts, holding them in place, toward the man who had wandlessly shielded her from such mutilating cuts. He met her eyes with a brooding darkness that she could not even begin to describe for the life of her. Slate blue turning a forbidding navy in the shadow of the moon's fading beams. She wondered just what could have been running through his mind in that moment.
Sweeping the remainder of the dangerous sands to the side, he cleared his path into the cell; robes twisting about in the riotous winds circling the island. After gesturing toward the cot at their side, she laid down without so much as a word of complaint passing her lips. For she knew, this was a necessary evil; and required for her only hope of escape. Her bed of stone and mortar was as cool as the salty waves crashing against the shore just beyond the rise. Small bumps danced across her skin from the chill. Reminding her of the cold nights they had faced in the orphanage, when they were forced to conserve the wood for the worst of the winter storms.
Forcing her mind to remain calm, she pushed air out of her lungs with resolve. Not allowing one flinch toward the discomfort she currently felt, nor the pain she undoubtedly was about to endure. Slowly, she raised her heavily manacled wrists over her head, where he stood staring down at her. Their eyes met once more, as she allowed herself one more look into the eyes of the man, she knew to be buried beneath his war-hardened exterior.
Carefully, she ignored the distortion his original visage faced. His handsome features misshapen under the affects of his latest soul-fragment's difference in species. It was his eyes that captured her, and it was those that she focused on. Cold as they might have been toward her now, they'd once held the warmth of a thousand suns. So similar were they to the boy she'd remembered all those years ago, watching from their window as yet another couple failed to meet his expectations in the adoption process. Whether they denied to take in both he and his sister, or he questioned their ability to care for them properly, it all mattered not. He held strong in the decision that either they left together with a deserving family, or they remained together here in one of the worst places to grow up in all of London.
For, if they were together, they could survive even death. This, had he vowed to her, always followed her despite all that she did. In all that she had overcome with him in mind. It was here - now - on the stone mockery of a bed that she'd been forced to sleep on for all of those years, she could see now that his vow had been made reality. For there she laid, awaiting death with impatience; knowing that when she awakened, he would be there at her side. Just alike he always had promised to her.
And as she laid there so still in that moment, he could not help but to see just how young her body appeared. She couldn't have been but sixteen or so, when her body stopped aging. It was eerie to know she truly was his age, having only carved out a different path toward her immortality; whether a willing participant or not. Her mannerisms and tones of speech weren't something one saw in this day and age. Her every movement and thought set her apart. From others, and to him. She gazed up at him, pensively, managing to cease all but the smallest of quivers from the overdriven nerves within her at what was to come. He forced himself to grasp her bound hands with his left, cradling her wrists together above her head with a gentle but firm lock.
Trying his best to ignore the warmth that spread throughout his chest at the feeling of her smooth skin once again touching his, Voldemort gripped his wand tightly. She then shifted before his eyes. Offering him the cleanest of angles, to remove every bit of tainted flesh and metal, as he raised his wand arm threateningly. The magical core within him seemed to pulse with protest as he leveled his wand to her, and for yet another time since meeting her Voldemort found himself astounded that though he had to actively search to recover the memories he held of her - a part of him still recognized Vera for what she was. His to protect; and though it felt right to express possessive behavior regarding her, it still left a sensation that was strange within a man such a he.
"Close your eyes." He gritted out between his teeth, the command hissing past his lips before he could stop himself. Hating how easily his heartbeat faltered in his chest at the sight of her, so defenseless beneath even him. His magic fluttered inside him, causing his stomach to drop; as if pleading with him to do her no harm. To find another way, even though he knew there was no time for such indecision. Every second that passed was to be calculated and used sparingly; for even without being gifted by her sight, he too sensed that their enemy was fast approaching.
He chose not to retract the request that slipped from his lips seemingly upon its own accord, for had no desire to gaze down into her silvery orbs as they lost their light, even if it was for but a moment. The trust that shone from within them was too much to bare for him whilst he considered all the pain she had experienced at the mercy of another. Even after all she had been subjected to, the unadulterated emotion she held for him knew no amount of time or bounds. The iridescent, nearly colorless glow of her eyes, was also a reminder of things he'd only just been allowed remembrance of. They were once so clear, before her sight had been taken; a pale blue that rivalled the ocean's waves. His memory of them was clearer than anything he'd ever seen before. It was why, without question, he treasured it above all others.
They'd shone within his mind's eye almost as brightly as he remembered her smile to be. Both luminous in how they made him feel such warmth. Filling him with this indescribable feeling that somehow, in a room full of people, she saw only him. Tom Marvolo Riddle. The monster and the man.
Forcing himself to speak the words that had always come so easy, he closed his own eyes in absolute anguish. Refusing to allow even a break in his voice.
"Avada Kedavra."