Thank you especially to those who have reviewed and inspired me to write this chapter.

It's a challenge to balance plot, humor, and drama, but I aim to please and hope you continue to enjoy this work.

Love from,

LadyFlorentine

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"Far off from these a slow and silent stream,/

Lethe the River of Oblivion rolls/

Her wat'ry Labyrinth wherof who drinks,/

Forthwith his former state and being forgets,/

Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain."

John Milton

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References:

"Abandon all hope ye who enter here" - Dante's Divine Comedy

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Death lingered in Regulus' veins. After drowning in the Dark Lord's nightmare of a lake and returning from the Void, he'd become something more powerful and uninhibited. His magic felt wild and free like never before.

(With an effortless twitch of his finger, a flawless sugar dragon of his own wandless, wordless creation flew to land on the rim of Regulus' tea cup.

"Wicked," said Sirius' godson breathlessly.)

Instead of the gratitude he knew he should feel, Regulus was overwhelmingly angry. Angry at himself for his fear and his burned and scarred limbs, at his family for their lies and violent expectations, at his brother who had gone and died not knowing of Regulus' heroism.

Well, hopefully that would change with Potter's growing necromantic power. If only Regulus could just find the rat and avenge Sirius. What he would not give…

But worse was the confirmation of multiple horcruxes.

("What else aren't you telling me?"

The Headmaster who bore the face of Harry Potter frowned. "I suspect that you are after information regarding the horcruxes."

"…Plural?"

"Yes, but do not despair. I have the notion that your cousin may know the location of at least one.")

So here he was, tasked with hunting down Bellatrix in addition to his personal mission to extract vengeance from Pettigrew. In the downtime before they embarked on their hunt, Regulus was reading Essence of Quintessence. It was a brown, non-threatening book of average size, which made it all the more sinister for its plain appearance.

Like most of the books Kreacher had brought to him from the Grimmauld library, it was beyond rare and priceless. However, this one was unique in that it had annotations from many generations of Blacks. Reading through the margins of the first chapter alone was enough to damn the family name, scrawls of sadistic streams of consciousness and hand-drawn accounts of human experimentation lining the pages.

He'd been reading the same section for three hours: a ritual to enslave another's soul, control beyond Imperius. With this, Bellatrix could hunt Pettigrew for him. The rat was notoriously difficult to find, and would likely be as close to the Dark Lord as possible. With Kreacher's aid and existing ability to find members of the House of Black, Regulus stood a much better chance of capturing Bellatrix first. Who would then hand over every secret she'd amassed as a follower of the Dark Lord, with no choice in the matter.

Regulus was already damned, knew as much from his time floating bodiless in the cold of the Void, knew enough dark magic and alchemy to know that at the very least, for this plan to work it would require sacrifice.

But how to lure Bellatrix…?

A thought struck Regulus, an utterly mad idea.

He considered for a moment that the poison from the lake had addled his mind, and with all likelihood it had… To even contemplate it was beyond horrific for a Slytherin, to whom self-preservation was everything. Yet contemplate it he did, and the longer Regulus entertained the idea, the more he was convinced that it might just work. His heart thrummed in fear. But wouldn't it be worth it to see the Dark Lord finished? A Dark Lord, who left alone, would remain immortal?

"I have an idea," said Regulus finally, his hoarse voice loud in the library of Grimmauld, which was silent as a tomb.

Lupin, wearing an old, orange t-shirt that proclaimed Beastie Boys, closed the massive book from which he had been reading with enough force that dust puffed up and landed on his lined face. Mundungus just lazily ashed his cigarette, smoke curling out of his nose like a dragon as he did so. Both wizards gave Regulus their full attention.

"Don't keep us in suspense," said Lupin with sarcasm that ticked off Regulus endlessly.

Regulus sneered at the werewolf. "Were you born a cunt, or is it something you have to recommit yourself to every morning?"

Mundungus cackled. His charming, full body laugh was contagious, and Regulus found himself smirking before he realized it.

Lupin merely drawled his response with a haughtiness he most certainly picked up from Sirius. "Well, that certainly speaks to your character."

Regulus briefly entertained violent fantasies involving Lupin's suffering. "I envy people whom have never met you. Kreacher," called Regulus, after electing to ignore Lupin's next words and the painful reminders he brought forth just by existing.

The elf popped into being and sat beside him.

Regulus said, "I have a plan."

"Wot's this plan, mate?" said Mundungus in a hedged tone. He was sprawled out on the couch, the only one of them who had not been leafing through books for the past several hours.

"We attack first by going after Bellatrix. We use Kreacher and myself to lure her out, then strike. We'll force her to reveal information we need, and to do our bidding. Offense as the best defense. You get the idea."

Lupin scoffed, his amber eyes piercing him with judgement. "A suicide mission…Great solution. Is it a control thing? You'd rather get yourself killed than let Voldemort do it?"

Regulus stared at the werewolf and clenched his fists. "What did you say to me?"

"I want you to be a bit more worried about the fact that we'll be dead by tomorrow evening if we try that." Lupin paused, pensive. "At the latest."

"You don't know that," said Regulus, lip curling in disgust. "If you want to be a half-wit and coward, go ahead. Just shut the hell up and do it somewhere else. Not around me."

Lupin's eyes narrowed. "I'm trying to be rational. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you can't get a handle on your anger to save your life. Besides, what happened to going after Peter? Hear me out, Regulus, I'm just playing devil's advocate—"

Mundungus snorted. "Devil's got enough advocates."

Regulus couldn't agree more. "Fuck you, Lupin."

Lupin raised both hands in the air in exasperation. "Regulus, we are on the same side. If you could stop taking your frustrations out on me for five fucking seconds—"

"I am not taking my frustrations out on you!"

As he concentrated on taking deep breaths, Regulus felt a tug on the sleeve of his robes, and looked down. Kreacher's lip trembled, his large eyes filling with tears. "Master Regulus is being bait? Madness, Master Regulus. Madness indeed."

"A great amount of madness is required to fight the Dark Lord. If you would let me explain…"

When he finished, Regulus shared a look with Kreacher, Lupin, and Mundungus, and in the space between them grew an ugly conspiracy. Regulus didn't voice it, but thought it was only fair that Kreacher be used to lure Bellatrix to her doom when he had proven capable of doing so for Sirius.

Kreacher burst into tears. "Brave Master Regulus!"

Lupin looked at Regulus with a mix of despair and determination, as though he were putting off suicide to make Regulus' life hell for another night. "Are you sure about this?" asked Lupin, his jaw clenching with stress. "This is dark magic. And what you'll lose…"

"She killed Sirius."

"Albus won't like it."

"She murdered my brother." Regulus' voice was soft, but his magic pulsed with rage. "I would give anything to have Sirius back. Until then, I want my pound of flesh."

The werewolf grimaced but did not deny she deserved it. "Where would you even hold her, should you successfully lure in Bellatrix?"

"Grandfather's old home, the Ebony Estate. Only Blacks can enter, but I can handle the ritual to enslave her will from there."

"Forget Albus. I don't like it," said Lupin, ignoring Regulus' derisive scoff. "You'll be alone without backup. What if Voldemort tracks her?"

"The wards grandfather Arcturus has around that manor have been built upon by generations of Blacks with zero moral compunction regarding their creation. It was built to protect the House of Black from whole hosts of Dark Armies, the might of the Ministry, and bloodthirsty Dark Lords. I have faith they'll withstand his efforts to find her for the three days I'll need."

Mundungus nodded as though this was a perfectly fine explanation, rather than one Regulus was hoping beyond hope to be true. "Sounds abou' righ'. Majority rules. Go t'yer happy place, Beastie Boy."

Lupin bared his white teeth at Mundungus and said, "Fire is my happy place."

Mundungus laughed and rubbed his hands together in glee. "Righ' then ladies, let's put a smile on Lupin's sour mug and ligh' this candle."

The next day, Bellatrix Lestrange neé Black went missing.

Regulus talked to distract her, but mostly to distract himself. "I've always wondered—how is it that the Dark Lord lets you brag about bedding him?"

Bellatrix threw her head back and laughed, an unhinged and savage sound. The chains rattled as she did. "You can say fuck, dearie," she crooned, tracing the blood running from her ragged fingernails. "Is that what this is?" Sitting on the floor, Bellatrix peered up at him from beneath her mane of heavy curls. "Did you want me to fuck you instead? Regulus Black, darling apple of Auntie Walburga's eye—a nasty little turncloak, out of jealousy?"

This time it was Regulus who laughed, lips curling. "Jealousy?" he mocked as he continued the preparations. "Oh no, Bella. I don't envy you at all what is to come."

Just as quickly her laughter ceased and she lunged toward him, stopped only by the taut line of chain shackling her to the floor.

Regulus swore and jumped back, almost dropping the wand in his hand.

"I will kill you for this, you filthy fucking blood-traitor," she hissed, obsidian eyes murderous and intent upon him. Even as his prisoner, her beauty was stunning, her ferocity even more so. "The Dark Lord will hunt you," she promised, her voice exultant now. "Can you feel the mark, little cousin? Can you feel it burn?" She laughed once more, and chills slipped down his spine at the ease with which she changed from manic to coherent. "He knows that I am missing. I—his most beloved! I—his most favored!" She panted, face flushed with impotent fury. "He will find you."

"Perhaps he will," said Regulus coolly, trying hard to hide how much the idea unnerved him. He vehemently thanked Merlin and Morgana that the Dark Lord could not track Death Eaters through the Dark Mark. "But not before I ensure he can meet his end."

The wards on Grandfather Arcturus' Estate had held for two days and needed to for only a few more hours. He begged the universe to ensure it. He absolutely could not fail in this. If the Dark Lord discovered him, the consequences would be disastrous. Regulus' corpse would end up desecrated and displayed for the world to see.

Bellatrix spat at him, enraged. "The Dark Lord is invincible! You, treacherous, foolish, Regulus Black," and never had Regulus heard his name spoken with so much venom, "you cannot hope to match his power."

Regulus met her eyes with just as much hate. "Got you, didn't I?"

"Tricks and lies! You, and that filthy, wretched elf!" she screeched. "Fool me once, Regulus... but the Dark Lord will never be fooled by you." Then Bellatrix's rose-petal lips curled into a sinister and dangerous grin. "I hope your friends die slow from the parting gifts I left for them. And to think—my friends all believe you're dead. We've missed you, Regulus…They will be ever so surprised to see you. The Dark Lord will so look forward to welcoming you home."

Regulus grimaced."It won't come to that."

For all that she was chained and at his mercy, Bellatrix still watched him with a predatory gaze, a little dare in her dark, dark eyes. Just one moment of freedom, they promised, and you're dead.

It was difficult to stay in control of a creature like her when he could feel himself devolving.

Perhaps sensing this, she switched tactics. Bellatrix lifted her shackled hands and jerked her head to one side. "Maybe it won't…" She was quiet for a long moment, her expression going blank as she examined Regulus, pensive.

Like this, without the snarling and the threats, she looked almost sweet.

Then she smiled cruelly and Regulus was reminded that she was not sweet in the slightest. "After all you aren't looking well, dearie. Half-dead already, for all that you are still a child. Tell me, traitor, how did you manage to hide away all these years? And what part am I to play?"

Regulus smiled faintly, ignoring her first question. "You're going to help me steal from the Dark Lord. You're going to tell me every little secret you've been protecting for him."

The incredulous look he got in return was almost worth the question that followed. "Have you gone mad, Regulus?" she asked, delighted. She tucked her chin on top of her knees, glee in her heavily hooded eyes. "Ickle cousin Reggie, three curses shy of an unforgivable? One wand short of a duel?"

It was nothing short of outrageous to be asked that by Bellatrix fucking Lestrange.

But at the same time… he could feel the madness that eagerly crawled through his veins. The vestiges of Death that sapped at his sense of time and day. He wanted to scream, he wanted to dance, he wanted to fucking murder someone.

He wanted to ask for forgiveness.

It was hard to think, perpetually one breath away from panic, but Regulus managed. He painted the last of the runes around her, trapping her within them.

"Maybe I am," he murmured, a hoarse chuckle escaping him. "But maybe I have to be, to help kill the Dark Lord and avenge my brother."

"You will not!" The idea was enough to send her raving again. "You cannot! The Dark Lord is the greatest, the most powerful, the most magnificent—"

"I will, you crazy bitch, and you are going to help me."

She screamed in fury, but Regulus ignored her, now following the final steps he'd so carefully prepared.

"Kreacher. I'm sorry, old friend, to make you watch this."

Tears streamed freely down Kreacher's face.

"What is this? What the fuck is this, Regulus?"

There would be no going back.

Mother would be so proud.

"Of the four infernal rivers, I beseech thee, River Lethe." With a small wave of his wand, the runes around Bellatrix begin to glow.

She looked thunderstruck, lucid realization dawning on her face. "What have you done?"

That sense of urgency re-doubled, rapid and discordant. "For River Lethe: let her which belongs to him, forget him."

Then Bellatrix screamed Regulus' name, over and over and over again, lunging for him, always snapping backwards, beginning to chew at her own flesh to break free...

Tendrils of darkness wrapped around Bellatrix like twines of ash, reaching out to consume and possess. She grew still, trapped in her body and horror in her onyx eyes…

Pulse racing, he ignored the bile in his throat, ignored every part of him screaming in protest.

He held out his left arm, the wand in his right hand hovering at the shoulder.

The Dark Mark pulsed painfully.

The adrenaline rushed through him. "For River Lethe," said Regulus, forcing the words to come. "Let me who abdicates from him, bind her."

A quick flash from his wand.

It felt surreal, but the effect was immediate.

Agony coursed through him as his left arm fell into the ritual circle.

Darkness pressed against his heart, a rapid infection of black spreading along the outer skin, damning him as he stood. The magic in the room surged, now a monolith of violence and staggering power.

He nearly stumbled as he took as step back.

"For River Lethe, let those who were marked by him, be free from him."

Regulus closed his eyes. He braced himself for an anticipatory drop.

"So mote it be."

A devastating, blinding flash sent them all flying with the force its shock wave.

The power of it was staggering, and Regulus was in the air, they all were, and this was terrifying, this was uncontrollable—

Darkness swallowed.

One week later, Mundungus Fletcher limped out the doors of Gringotts with careful nonchalance on his handsome face. The damage Bellatrix had wrought to his leg was permanent, but worth the price.

Her capture had allowed for him to reach heights of thievery he'd never believed were possible.

Internally, he was crowing with satisfaction.

He was truly the greatest thief of all time, and when this blasted war was over, the world would know it too.

When he sat alone in his office, Albus Dumbledore closed his eyes, the confident mask falling from place. His boyish features seemed ruined by tiredness, a weariness wrought by decades of leadership in a war-torn society.

His imagination thrummed with idle energy. The molten silver of memories swirled lightly in the pensieve next to him, unprovoked. On its surface danced the image of a young man with golden curls and cruel eyes. Every so often, the memory surged to reveal the unsmiling face of another young man; hair dark, eyes crimson, his teeth white and sharp.

The images of the two wizards faded into its dark pools.

Another, more recent memory rose to the surface.

(The strangely still figure of Bellatrix Lestrange stood before Albus, staring blankly into the distance.

"What have you done?" asked Albus in horror, looking to Regulus Black for an explanation.

Regulus, who was missing his left arm. Regulus, whose eyes were now entirely black: no grey iris, no white sclera. "What the ritual demanded. A sacrifice of flesh, soul, and magic. She remembers nothing, feels nothing. Lives only to do as I ask."

"My dear boy..."

"Save your sanctimonious speech for another. It has already proven worth my damnation."

Mundungus Fletcher, beside Regulus, withdrew a gold cup from his robe.

It gleamed beautifully in the light.)

Hufflepuff's cup, ruined beyond magical repair, sat upon Albus' desk.

Albus only regretted that it was not he who had borne its price.

In the midst of so much darkness that weighed heavily on his soul, where Albus did find true joy was in teaching. Even and especially because of his ability to create chaos among his students while imparting valuable lessons.

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter Professor Potter's class," muttered Antonio Moon in a very audible voice as he walked through the doorway to take his seat. He was tall for thirteen, with a head full of white hair, and he glared daggers at Albus with an impressive consistency. Moon was a talented student and as such, Albus didn't doubt his ability to actually conjure said daggers. He was the petty type too; but then again, so was Albus. In his own way, naturally.

Albus smiled with endless amusement. "Five points to Slytherin for being well-read in muggle literature."

Moon scowled fiercely. Perhaps one day Albus might compose a limerick of their epic clash of wills.

Nevertheless, Albus stood before his third-year students in the body of Harry Potter and found himself digressing toward astronomy while discussing centaurs. "According to astronomy, when you wish upon a star you are truly a few million years too late." Albus sighed dramatically. "Alas, that star is dead. Just like many of my youthful dreams…"

The students stared back, bewildered.

Moon looked around at his fellow students before standing up and hotly retorting, "Unless that star is the sun. Then it's only an eight-minute delay. And if the sun died in eight minutes, then we're all screwed."

Albus bobbed his head thoughtfully, the stars on his robes twinkling a bit brighter as they talked of the sky. "This is true. Five more points to Slytherin."

Antonio Moon grimaced. Albus grinned.

So, it went.

"Professor Potter," said Dennis Creevey, his cherub face peering at him in a way that was both earnest yet unsure. "Weren't we going to talk about other creatures in the Forbidden Forest today?"

"Ah, yes. Thank you Mister Creevey. Two points to Ravenclaw for your excellent memory. Today's double lesson will involve me guiding you all into the center of the Forest."

Dennis looked at Albus with great suspicion. "Why do I suddenly feel a sense of imminent doom?"

Because you are the sharpest one here, my dear student, Albus wanted to say.

Instead, he stared at Dennis appraisingly and chuckled. "Once we have all gathered in the same, central location, I will withdraw my presence, and allow you all to demonstrate your mastery of my teachings in facing the creatures within the Forest. The first student back to Hogwarts will receive a year's supply of lemon drops!"

"You," said Antonio Moon, aggrieved, and fingers twitching toward his wand, "are going to get us all killed."

"Nonsense!" said Albus airily, and flattered himself to believe that he delivered his next words with a bit of pizzazz. "I…am the Chosen One."

Antonio was looking at Albus as though there was no one he would have liked to see less. "How are you a teacher?"

"Mister Moon, even first year students serving detention in the Forbidden Forest have returned whole and hale. I have the utmost certainty in all of your abilities to do the same. Besides, it was this or dueling Hide-and-Go-Seek Tag."

"You, Professor Potter, have all the teaching authority of a five-time divorcee writing a book on how to make love stay."

"No, I'm afraid that would be Madame Zabini," said Albus jovially. "Oh, and before I forget," he shouted, snapping a finger and raising his voice over the rapid and loud protests. "Do not forget to fill out your feedback forms from last semester! I cannot review results until the summer, but still I look forward to the responses. Strangely, some think I walk on water, others think I should be drowned in it. Enough about that though, off we go!"

He led the third years to the heart of the forest, all of whom followed with the air of walking to their own executions. Even Dennis Creevey looked betrayed when Albus vanished from their sight, but the pride Albus felt upon seeing each of his students protect themselves and each other made bearing the disappointment of his favorite student easy.

Antonio Moon, to Albus' surprise and immense delight, accepted his winnings with a smile that he quickly squashed under a scowl.

"This doesn't mean I like you," said Moon in warning, gaze darting from the lemon drops clutched in his hand to Albus' green, green eyes.

Albus, sitting behind his desk, beamed at him. "Mister Moon, I would never dare to presume otherwise. Should you, however, decide to pursue a more amicable relationship, the ball is in your court."

Moon squinted. "No, it's in yours. You and your syllabus' court."

"I disagree."

Dennis Creevey, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping, chimed in. "Yeah, you tell him, Professor Potter. If you're gonna play basketball, you're gonna have to be pushy."

"Ah, I believe that phrase refers to tennis," said Albus.

"No," said Dennis, shaking his head. "That has one court. Even though the metaphor fits better…volleyball might work too."

"Muggle sports are not what we are arguing about," fumed Antonio Moon. "You. Are. Impossible," he said, in a way that turned each word into its own punctuated sentence.

Albus did not deny it, and just laughed.

These were the bright moments that made it possible to continue on.

In the game of chess, there is an opening used primarily on fools. It leaves beginners with their mouths agape at their swift demise. It is the four-move checkmate. As a student at Hogwarts, Lord Voldemort had executed this strategy countless times, and grew steadily more bored with his opponents' lackluster abilities with each instance.

Albus Dumbledore was not one to deploy a four-move assault. The Headmaster waged a war of thought, of improvisation, of manipulation.

To have left such obvious traces of his movements these past few months seemed an uncharacteristic miscalculation, or a deliberate trap.

Add in the recent, unexplained disappearance of Bellatrix Lestrange, and Lord Voldemort…was intrigued. He was the apex super-predator, and it was only natural to follow the scent of blood, even if it led him to a bleak prison clinging to the side of a mountain.

This was Voldemort's second time at Nurmengard. The first had been from a distance, when he was a youth who had regarded the prison as a cautionary tale. Now, decades later he stood before the ominous prison which held his predecessor, his conviction only growing that Magic is Might was far more appropriate a goal than the words etched above the prison: "For the Greater Good."

Soon, all would know the brilliance of his vision. They would kneel before his power, subservient to the greatest wizard of all time.

Lord Voldemort had everything within his grasp. Omnipotence, divinity, immortality. It was all but clenched in his fist. There were precious few things left that stood in his way. The Warden of Nurmengard being one of them.

"Madame Meyer," said Voldemort with a malicious grin as he approached, allowing his magic to crackle in the air like the build-up before a lightning strike. "It's a pleasure. I've heard so much about you."

The Dark Lord relished in the trepidation crossing the features of the magnificent witch in front of him. A thrill of sadistic pleasure went through him as the witch hardly masked her fear. It was gone in a moment, and something like determination flashed in her violet eyes.

Oh, yes. The infamous Madame Meyer was certainly going to be fun to play with. Such fire. Such indignation. Voldemort had always believed strongly in Destiny, and with this interesting, powerful little witch in front of him, he could not shake the feeling that he was following a thread of great importance. News of her acquaintance with Potter and Dumbledore was practically an invitation to him: a curiosity.

Voldemort smiled in a wolfish manner as Madame Meyer went for her wand. His red eyes gleamed as he saw the goosebumps rise on her pale arm. He studied the limb for a moment. Her arm was lean and muscular.

"What do you want?" she asked. Her voice was barely a whisper, a hoarse scrape of pipes while her eyes were blown wide, iris swallowed by a deep, black circle, and he drank in her terror like ambrosia.

Voldemort could not suppress the fantasy of savagely ripping out her arm from her torso, just to see how separated her bones and flesh truly were. "To define is to limit. I want it all," he said, letting a hint of his violent desire seep through his words. "I want everything. I want to know everything about you, what you fear, your most shameful desires, your secret dreams. I want to know exactly who I am destroying."

There was a sharp crack of magic, and Madame Meyer was almost enveloped in the torturous throes of the Cruciatus. The warden reacted with impressive speed to the Unforgivable, throwing up a massive white slab of marble which absorbed Voldemort's spellwork in a magnificent flash.

He could feel the intensity with which his spell dissipated, and it was formidable.

If he had not been planning to send a message, Voldemort might have considered extending her an offer to join his ranks. "Out of respect for your power, you will die well."

The Dark Lord fired three spells simultaneously at Madame Meyer's shield of marble, and she grunted with the effort to maintain it.

He laughed coldly. She could not hide beneath her shield for the entirety of their duel. "Hiding from me, warden? You can run, you can hide, but I will find you."

Madame Meyer was no coward. She aimed her wand at the ground and a thunderous, explosive crash shook the prison from below. Waves of great flame howled into existence from the Warden's wand. The gates of Nurmengard caught on fire behind him, forcing Voldemort to defend from both directions.

The duel was catastrophic. It was devastating. It was chaos. The Warden brandished her wand, emitting fierce and deadly spells like wildfire towards Voldemort. There were brilliant flashes in a cacophony of different colors.

She managed to draw blood from him, a feat he could count on one hand.

The Warden finally took a hit, flying backwards as a colossal boom knocked her off her feet.

With astonishing reflexes, Voldemort disarmed her.

When he finally held her wand in his hand, Voldemort tilted his head to the side. The scent of burning was all around them. Powerful heat gave the air a mirage-like quality. The flames were slowly dying down now.

"I want everything," he repeated to the horrified witch who was trapped in a circle of fire. "But first," he said, deceptively gentle, "I want to know why Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore met with you."

He stood before her, darkness made solid. His power rolled off him and saturated the warm air.

Madame Meyer trembled in exhaustion, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath. Still, she bared her teeth, rage bleeding from her eyes, and said, "Never."

Voldemort smiled, tasting blood on his teeth. He licked his lips and reveled in the proof of the violence she had inflicted upon him. In a voice low enough that it could have been parseltongue, he murmured, "Crucio."

Her screams bewitched him. Every cry of pain was a wonder, each plea for mercy brought Voldemort a lesson in rapture.

And when dusk turned to dawn, the Warden of Nurmengard spoke.

His appetite for blood whetted, Voldemort walked up the stairs of Nurmengard with no haste. He allowed for the sounds of his footsteps to echo up and down the spire as a warning of the violence to come. A reminder to all who were imprisoned that they were powerless and trapped. That they were but flies in a web.

Floor after floor he ascended, passing iron bars and prisoners huddled into corners of dark brick rooms.

A tune whistled down to Voldemort as he approached the top: do de do de do de do de do do do.

To his slight irritation, he could not place the melody.

He took the last steps at a slower pace, letting his prey's anticipation build.

Before he came into view, a hoarse voice called out to him. "Lord Voldemort. Welcome to my humble abode."

His monstrous famine for suffering so recently sated, the Dark Lord laughed indulgently as he ascended the last steps with grace. "What gave me away?"

"Madame Meyer's endless screams."

Voldemort turned the corner and …There.

A man. He was upright and leaning against the wall of his cell. There were thick, metal chains around his neck and wrists which glowed with a soft, silvery light. His blue, blue eyes flickered up and down Lord Voldemort's body before he smiled in an amused, twisted way. His wrists were weeping with blood where the chains touched his skin.

His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut stone.

Gellert Grindelwald was a bloody, emaciated prisoner. "So… Voldemort," he said conversationally. Like they were discussing weather over tea. "What brings you to me?"

"None other than Albus Dumbledore…" said Voldemort in a falsely innocent tone. His lips pulled up into the smallest of slight smiles. "I confess, I am most curious. What interests could Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter have that would merit a visit to you…?"

Gellert Grindelwald did not physically react at all, but something dangerous sparked to life in his cruel eyes.

There was a long, horribly uncomfortable stretch of silence.

Then Grindelwald clicked his tongue. "I fail to see how that would be any of your business."

"I did not come here to kill you, Gellert Grindelwald," said Voldemort quietly in warning. "I would regret spilling magical blood from a wizard such as yourself. But Lord Voldemort does not ask questions twice."

Grindelwald smiled a nasty grin that did nothing to disguise his fury. There was another emotion flickering across his face that Voldemort could not identify. "You know… Rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated, but the warping of your appearance was not. Albus did do your hideousness justice."

"Listen well," said Voldemort with soft menace at the same moment Grindelwald seethed and said: "Go fuck yourself."

"For someone with such an insolent mouth, you do possess so many teeth," Voldemort threatened, eyes roaming contemplatively over Grindelwald's sudden, sharp smile.

If anything, Grindelwald grinned more broadly. "I truly hope you do not attempt to take any as a trophy. I do so hate violence."

"Me too, Grindelwald," said Voldemort with a dark smile. He laughed in sadistic delight at the lie, at the promise of pain. "Me three."