I should mention that this fanfiction is going to be heavily exploring the world and laws of magic, and it is also a bit of a character study. I apologize if this is not appealing to you, but writing everything was pretty therapeutic. Originally, this story was split into two points of view: Harry's and Sirius's. Voldemort kept stealign the spotlight, however, and I ended up with this. The Tome of Persephone became The Tome of Hades. Obviously I was inspired by mythology. But the origins of this story actually come from reading a very interesting book about mythology; particularly Egyptian. I won't explain more because it would spoil a lot. So if you enjoy the word-blob, I'm glad, if not, I am sorry.
Chapter One
To Be Alive
Being alive again was an indescribable experience that can never be given enough words to be defined, or fully understood, without its absence. Voldemort feared death: the ultimate end, a venture towards the true unknown, to cease existing—and yet he could not have predicted the purgatory he spent as a shade when avoiding death. To summarize, this purgatory was to feel nothing, to not know if he could be considered alive when he had little else but his thoughts. His misty form felt, heard, saw, tasted, smelled nothing. When the sun shone, he knew not its warmth. When the wind whistled through the trees on wintry days, he heard it not. When the sunset cast the sky in gorgeous hues too numerous and subtle to tell where one shade ended and another blended into yet another, he witnessed none of its beauty. When the rain fell upon the dry earth in fine droplets of a summer shower, petrichor did not greet him. When fires burned hot, and ashes fell, he did not taste them. Voldemort, for all of his words, would never be able to describe those years he spent as a wraith, but he knew one thing: if not for a well-organized mind, he would have gone mad. Imagine it: you are in sensory deprivation device. You know nothing but what is in your own mind. How do you tell time? It may go by regularly, but how you perceive it is a very fickle thing. How do you know if you are moving, if you are breathing, or your heart beating? These things might ground you, but Voldemort certainly had no breath nor pulse. What then, does it mean to be alive?
Voldemort was a marooned islander in a sea no one dared traverse. There was no pain or suffering; there wasn't anything. He…almost wished for death. It was only thoughts of revenge, and plans of what he was going to do as soon as he had a body. This did not make him healthy or sane, of course, but it kept the Dark Lord functional. Small animals stumbled across him, and by possessing their tiny bodies, he slowly regained his mental faculties. Through their bodies, he had senses again. They felt brilliant, powerful, inspiring. Voldemort hadn't known what it was like to be without, hadn't known all that he'd missed as the years passed him by. The first animals he inhabited were colorblind. He did not mind; he could see, and they could smell so much. The bombardment was overwhelming enough that, had he more control of his hosts and they the ability, he would have cried. Oh, how he wanted to smite Harry Potter, that tiny green-eyed brat who had defeated him as a toddler. The things he would do—torture him slowly until all he knew was pain, until there was nothing but a broken mind to match a broken body; paint his flesh with bright blood, dried blood, with wounds of silvery scars and pink scars and fresh cuts and blisters. Voldemort wanted to do all of those things (and more) to that stupid child, and then let his body hang out for everyone to see what he had done to the one who 'conquered' him. To show them what his justice looked like.
[HIS WANT WAS A HUNGER]
[HE HNGERED FOR VIOLENCEJUSTICEREVENGE]
[ALL CONSUMING HUNGER]
Unfortunately, the body of a wraith did not allow him to do so, so he kept these desires in the back of his mind, to keep for the future.
Quirinus Quirrell's encounter was unexpected, and a blessing that Voldemort was certain came from the gods, if any even existed. It had been difficult convincing the man to become his host, especially when the professor seemed to know possession of that nature would almost certainly end in his death. Quirrell was a fascinating individual himself, however, to his detriment. He was the former Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts who decided to take a sabbatical in order to prepare himself for the role of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. The man had seen quite a few adventures, although a run-in with vampires had made him twitchy and skittish by the time he found Voldemort. Quirrell had taken to the curious habit of shaving his head, and wrapping a turban with cloves of garlic folded in. It was a subtle, if repulsive, way of hiding one's talisman. Who would think to remove the headwear to search for garlic? A vampire's nose would be far too sensitive to pinpoint the offensive stench.
Quirrell proved not unintelligent, and furthermore, his sabbatical had begun with good intentions. Yes, somewhere along the way…the man delved into a few Dark Arts. And the Dark Arts called to him in ways he never knew magic could. Quirrell wanted to live and breathe Dark Arts; he loved them, and it was this devotion that led him to allowing Voldemort to possess him. A Ravenclaw whose craving for knowledge became his undoing, a poetic ending for a man such as Quirinus.
Voldemort had not been conscious very often through the possession, but he'd seen colors. It took an embarrassingly long time to remember colors and their names, to identify even the simplest of shapes. Voldemort had been very, very angry that Potter and his friends managed to thwart him at the end of the school year. Despite the boy's mediocrity and that nothing about him stood out to Quirrell or Voldemort, he still accomplished the impossible. It seemed that the night of October 31st had been no fluke. That was actually quite a pity.
Voldemort had taken to waking periodically throughout the year whenever Quirrell had the child for class. He'd almost pitied the brat. He was an underwhelming example of a wizard his age, let alone the legend he was supposed to become as an adult. Voldemort had also seen, through his host's eyes that Potter had many layers to him; most of which stemmed from a rather unhappy childhood. Voldemort did not care about children, really, but there was some part of him that never wanted anyone to go through what he had (in part, because he feared someone rising to oppose him) to go through what he had. He saw that Potter shared something of a similar childhood to him. The boy was slim, and shorter than most of his schoolmates. He possessed a curious fire of defiance in his gaze whenever authority figures tried exerting power over him, or when someone tried to stamp over him. Someone in his past, more likely in the form of the guardians who had raised him, had tried to smother the boy in some way; Potter apparently took the path of disobedience and rebellion over submission. Tom Riddle had been the same in his early years, before he learned to hide it all away beneath a pretty facade. Potter was certainly hiding something about himself as well, but it wasn't his flaws. Voldemort was actually intrigued by the child over the course of the boy's first year at Hogwarts. If only because he presented something of a mystery. The events concerning the Philosopher's Stone made him reevaluate that earlier stance of a merciful death; now, the boy was going to suffer greatly. He was going to die young, and in pain.
Through time, failures, Wormtail's assistance, and Barty's return, the pieces of the puzzle finally fell together in the puzzle forming Voldemort's resurrection. Which brings us to the now:
Alive. Cool air filling the nasal cavity, and then the lungs. A thundering beat in his ear, awareness of the warmth of the sun. In retrospect, Voldemort had not been prepared for his resurrection, at least not for how it would feel to be alive again. Possessing Quirrell, a momentous and brilliant explosion of sensations at the time, did not hold a candle to having his own body of flesh and blood. He stood for a few moments too long, relishing in everything—to hear, to see, to smell, to taste, to touch. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to close his eyes and bask in the moment. Alas, Voldemort was a Dark Lord, and time was ticking. So the Dark Lord commanded that he be robed, and he studied his prophesized enemy.
How can something so small and weak cause so many problems? He wondered. How can this child be a threat to me?
He no longer doubted it, as he once had in 1991. Over the years, as he'd learned from both Wormtail and Barty, Potter had proven himself to be efficient at defeating impossible odds. He'd (apparently) destroyed both his Horcrux and the thousand-year-old basilisk in his second year, faced Dementors and helped a convict escape his holding in his third year, and this year competed on par with three seventeen-year-old competitors. Barty may have given him the means and the ideas, but Potter possessed some sort of innate talent when it came to staying alive. He was undoubtedly stubborn, and in the face of danger, he had yet to die. Voldemort would make sure he regretted that, of course, but he also admired whatever gift the boy possessed, as it was a skill any true survivalist would want.
Ah, how the mind wanders when given a form at last, thought Voldemort. He looked at the boy once more, pale and trembling in fear. He was so vibrant, eyes too bright, skin darkened by time spent in the sun, dark hair sporting highlights of a reddish hue as well. The Dark Lord could smell his sweat and blood on the wind—amongst dozens of other scents. He forced himself to ignore the stimuli that threatened to overwhelm him. He would have time to process everything once the rest of his plans were carried out. It was a simple matter of instructing himself to compartmentalize, and then he could do what needed to be done.
Voldemort replaced the sacrificed limb of Wormtail with a silver one. He summoned his followers and put on the elaborate show he'd been dreaming of for weeks now, meant to intimidate them back into loyalty— Harry Potter's demise.
Potter unfortunately escaped, and he was deeply irritated that their wands connecting seemed to have a unique effect. He may have also been smarting at the fact he'd been thwarted once more, this time in front of his Death Eaters. Still, he pushed that humiliation down and focused on the true problem: battling the boy in the future would be very difficult and require wandless magic. That is, if it was indeed the meeting of their magic channeled through the cores of their wands and not their actual magic. If their very magic shared equally opposing natures, matters could become complicated very quickly. If Potter every learned to do wandless magic, and it met Voldemort's own…theoretically it could blow up buildings in the vicinity as well as themselves. In addition to that, he really did not want to show everyone just what he was capable of. He feared that would make even his followers turn in fear.
Voldemort obliterated a few headstones in his rage, pretending to aim for his followers. They were sufficiently terrified of him, and he was proud to not have already begun decimating his numbers. As it was, he had very few followers that had been in war. They would need to train all of the new recruits; an entirely new generation needed to prepare for the battles to come, and unfortunately, he'd lost so many of his followers in the aftermath of his fall.
"Get out of my sight," he hissed at them. They fled at the mere suggestion of Parseltongue, and possibly because of his now monstrous form, and dismissed most of them. He would be reconvening tomorrow with instructions for particular individuals. Right now, however, he needed to finish dealing with the day.
"My Lord," Lucius said nervously. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but Voldemort had very little time to listen to him prattle away. Harry had undoubtedly been met with a reception and lots of answers and demands. He was likely still sorting everything out. Soon, Barty would be exposed and he would be arrested, questioned, and put into a cell until they could sort him out. This was perfectly fine as their plan included him being arrested—and then rescued. Potter had proved it was an easy thing to do. Voldemort still did not know the details of how a thirteen and fourteen-year-old had helped a convict escape, but if two children could do it, he saw no reason why he himself could not do it as well. There were only two things they needed to worry about: confirmation of his resurrection, and building his resources.
"I need you to return to Hogwarts. It is unlikely that your absence was noticed. I need you to keep an ear to the ground, find news on who is arrested for the fallout," he ordered. There was no need to alert Lucius as to the fact Barty was not dead. He did not trust that Lucius had become a greater actor than he had been as a child. The Dark Lord was pretty sure he had only avoided Azkaban due to the Malfoy money and Abraxas's own silver tongue. Quirrell had heard Lucius could manipulate Minister Fudge, however that was no great feat. The man was a moron. He hoped that the other adults present for the final task weren't genuinely incompetent enough to completely miss the culprit, although that outcome would certainly work in his favor. "If he is arrested, inform me of his location. We will need to retrieve him. A loyal servant deserves a reward, after all."
Yes, he would give Barty all of the peace and quiet he deserved after a decade of his own hell. Barty…his almost-apprentice. It was a tragedy that so much of his potential had been burned away. The man was entirely sane, but he was too skittish and edgy to use reliably. His paranoia and twitchiness had been useful in portraying Moody, but Voldemort did not think he could continue grooming Barty as Lucius's counterpart, as he had been a decade before. Perhaps one day, when the man had recovered some more, it would be a possibility. Once, there had been dreams of taking the boy under his wing as a father would his son. Some part of Voldemort still wanted to do that. It was a curious want. He didn't love Barty. He couldn't really feel love for anyone. He supposed it came from a deep, instinctive place, a need to do better than his own father, than Barty's own father.
"Of course, my Lord. How shall I contact you?"
"I will meet you at your home this evening," Voldemort responded simply. "Now go."
Lucius obeyed at once. Finally alone, the Dark Lord closed his eyes, and let everything wash over him: the warm humidity clinging to his skin, the lingering stench of fear in the air, the taste of ozone from the meeting of magic with Potter, the pressure of silence on his ears that made them ring.
[THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE ALIVE]
The presence of Nagini brought him back to reality.
"Are you my master?" she asked him, winding across the ground, tasting the air. "There was powerful magic, and a lot of fear. A ritual was performed."
"Yes, Nagini, it is I. I supposed I look very different now from when we met," he responded. Voldemort looked at his hands and wrists. His skin was unnaturally white, and he could see that though it seemed similar to flesh, the dermis was actually textured like scales. Voldemort hesitantly traced a finger across his face, over his features. His face certainly didn't seem human anymore. He wasn't certain how he felt about that.
"No, you are far from the boy dirty boy I met during that awful war," she replied. "But you are not so different from the wizard who walked the earth ten years ago."
Voldemort smiled faintly at the memory. They had met very briefly in the forties, when he'd only been twelve years old. Nagini, he later learned, had come to bid Dumbledore a last farewell. As a maledictus, her curse was beginning to take her over, and she knew that she would no longer be welcome around people, no longer able to talk to them. Albus Dumbledore must have pitied her greatly, for he summoned little Tom to his office after he finished classes for the day, and introduced them. Nagini had been overwhelmed. Dumbledore gave them privacy to talk, to make plans. Nagini swore an oath to be Tom's friend and protector, his most loyal of servants, if he took care of her in return and would speak with her. To keep the animal mind at bay. She was his first servant, and the closest thing that he had to a mother. They communicated through letters for the next decade. One day, she simply woke up in the form of a snake and could not go back. Somehow, she managed to find her way to young Voldemort, though her mind was hardly human. He had done his best to return it to its original state, but Nagini remained something both animal and witch. Riddle Manor became her home.
It was in such disarray now, it disrespected her. Nagini was important. Even more so now that she was his Horcrux.
"I think you are right," he agreed. "I need to go. I will return shortly."
Nagini wound around his legs in a brief display of affection.
"Be safe," she responded. "And welcome back."
He apparated to Malfoy Manor. It looked the same as the last time he visited. This could be the distance, however. It was common practice to apparate at the front gate (if the visitors had never visited before, and thus had limited access to the grounds due to the wards) or at the front doorstep (where familiar visitors did not simply burst into the lives of others; that would be rude in any circumstance). Voldemort felt he should err on the side of caution for manners. Striding along the gravel path leading up the structure, he noted that there were a few differences. He had noted neither Abraxas nor Cantankerous had been present in the graveyard when he summoned them; now, he saw no evidence of Abraxas's famed scarlet pimpernels. They were famed amongst the purebloods, because he purposefully seeded his stretching lawns with the weed so that they bloomed in the summer. Rumor had it that he even used magic to make it grow evenly rather than in clumps. Voldemort did not particularly care for flowers or gardening one way or another, but there was something about the simple touch of the green and red blanket that seemed so simple and refreshing compared to the intricate designs of other homes' gardens. Abraxas had been surprisingly mundane, when he no longer adhered to the expectations of society. It seemed that he had truly given his ancestral home over to the next generation. Either Lucius or Narcissa whoever claimed control of the grounds, they did not keep anything less than perfectly immaculate lawns.
Something white moved in the corner of his eye. Habit made the Dark Lord flick his hand at it haphazardly. The white peacock squawked in pain, scampering off in fear of being given another stinging hex.
Somethings do not change, he thought somewhat fondly. Those birds were still cocky morons. He still hated them.
The wizard reached the door, and he used the knocker. It took but a moment for the door to open. A timid house elf dressed in a clean, crisp pillow case stared up at him. She looked very frightened by him, and his (undoubtedly) horrifying appearance.
"Welcome, Malfoy Guest, I be Blinker," she said, her voice undoubtedly female. "What does Guest be needing?"
"Good afternoon, Blinker. Do forgive my rudeness, but I fear I cannot extend a name for you to use. Do tell your mistress that an old friend wishes to wait in the Tea Parlor for her husband," he instructed carefully. Her eyes widened. The Tea Parlor was actually an old study that Abraxas had loaned to Tom Riddle shortly after graduation, and was the early meeting place of the Knights of Walpurgis. By the time Lucius had been inducted, it was the place Voldemort visited when he needed to meet Abraxas for debriefing, and later (when Lucius was training to take his father's place) it was where he met with a young Lucius Malfoy. House elves were more perceptive creatures than their owners gave them credit for. Every time they cleaned that room—dusting it and keeping an eye for any signs of fading wall paper or tarnishing brass from the wall fixtures—they undoubtedly knew what the purpose of that room was. There had been no changes in its care, because the owners had known (regardless of what they hoped for) that one day the one the room belonged to would return. And now, on June 24th, 1995, Voldemort was reclaiming it.
"Of course, please be following Blinker," she said hurriedly. The Dark Lord felt the barest of brushes on the edge of his consciousness. Again, house elves were subtle creatures, their magic woefully under studied. Most had an instinctive command of it. Here, she was sampling the essence of his magic and looking for its taste. No doubt there was a lingering presence in the Tea Room somewhere, possibly even in the place his Diary had once rested.
[LUCIUS WILLPAY FOR HIS TRANSGRESSION IN BLOOD]
Evidently, he based whatever test she had given him, and Blinker was allowing him into the home. His standing invitation to appear at anytime had not been revoke, it seemed.
Voldemort looked around the manor as they strolled through its familiar halls. He was taken back to those early days, when both he and Abraxas had been young. This had been half a muggle lifetime ago, now, and no insignificant amount of time for wizards. There were differences. Abraxas's father had liked his manor—more of an estate, really—to resemble the time period it had been built in. It was Georgian in structure, which still had lingering touches of the Rococo era in it and ornate French influence. Whoever designed the home had loved these styles it enough to incorporate it into the home he was making for his family's legacy. Young Tom Riddle thought it both decadent and awfully gaudy. Voldemort as an adult thought of it as entirely gaudy now. He appreciated decadence and wealth, but he was comfortable enough with his origins at this point to understand he preferred simpler displays of opulence. Abraxas, when he inherited the home (oh, the unfortunate man met an untimely end at the hands of his wife, who also killed herself; inbreeding caused such madness) had spared no expense making his home a dedication to late Victorian aesthetics. He had gone to great lengths and expense to find authentic pieces to decorate his house, and even had the house elves incorporate a gas line to illuminate the house with. Abraxas…was a strange wizard. Despite his pureblood upbringing, he had a deep interest in the inventions of muggles, particularly of pipe systems. He loved the gas lighting, the system of steam engines, and even plumbing. He was also a great lover of Victorian literature, both magical and muggle alike. Lucius brought a few more items to modernize it more, but even he favored things from the era that Tom Riddle had grown up in.
Blinker brought him to his study. It looked exactly the same as he had left it: his favorite books on the shelves, at least whatever could survive raids (Voldemort had been no fool back in those days, and kept his other precious tomes in his own home) from the Ministry of Magic, a desk that he had bought from Diagon Alley when the enchanter's shop he worked at to escape summers at the orphanage closed down (it was a large thing, simple in design, and marked by scorches and stains of work, but still beloved because of its near-sentience), a simple oil lamp sat atop of it, and a small chest for ink, quills, and wax. Voldemort knew that the top left drawer would have the blank parchment and envelopes he used for correspondences, the left drawer contained a single black journal where he kept his appointments and notes in Parseltongue. The bottom drawer he kept memorabilia from Hogwarts; a single photo album that contained nothing that Abraxas Malfoy himself would not have kept. It was…a weakness he had given into, keeping something so sentimental in a place he thought of as his. If anyone ever stumbled across it, they would assume it belonged to his friend.
"The chairs I kept in here were removed," he noted, walking around the desk. The main one was there, the comfortable piece that Abraxas had crafted as an apology for their antagonistic early years at Hogwarts, but there had been two others that he had kept for when he took his followers in for private meetings.
"Blinker be apologizing, my Lord!" she squeaked out fearfully. "Young Master played and broke them years ago! Blinker can be finding new ones."
"Please do," he answered briskly. He looked around the room, ran his fingers over the familiar titles. "Please bring tea and biscuits. I find myself parched after a rather long day. And do not bother your mistress about my presence; I am sure she has much more to worry about than entertaining a guest."
"Yes, my Lord!"
The house elf departed. Voldemort did not relax, for he could be intruded upon at any given moment. He did, however, approach the window, peering into the small hedge-maze outside. He could just see the spout of water at the top of the water fountain at its heart. He recalled those days when he and Abraxas would stroll through the 'hidden' walks, finding alcoves to sit, to kiss. Days long gone. Voldemort was immortal. Abraxas was not. How old would he look now? Would he still think fondly of the man Tom Riddle had become? Especially as he appeared now.
Voldemort's eyes caught the trace of his reflection. It took him a moment to conjure up enough courage to focus on his image. The face looking back at him was not wholly that of a stranger. Even in 1981, he had become unnaturally pale, he eyes crimson, bone-structure changing. He hadn't looked quite like this. He definitely didn't look like Tom Riddle anymore. Was that a blessing? He hated knowing that he'd been the spitting image of his father, hated the way some people had stared at his face with ugly, vile desires. He didn't love this face very much, either. No matter how much work he'd put in to earn it, it didn't feel like his own. Dabbling into Dark Magic as old as what he meddled with meant corruption and mistakes. This could not be reversed. It could be hidden.
Voldemort bit his nail until it was a jagged edge. He drew a sharp line down his forehead, from crown to just between the eyes. The nail tore through flesh like paper might, though it was shallow and barely drew any blood. He bit his thumb until his sharp, inhuman teeth allowed the taste of blood to burst on his tongue. Then, staring at himself in the mirror, he drew the bleeding digit down the scratch.
[BLOOD OF MY BODY HIDE MY SINS]
[BLOOD OF MY BODY HIDE MY SCARS]
[BLOOD OF MY BODY HIDE MY FACE]
[HIDEHIDEHIDEHIDEHIDE]
[BRING BACK WHAT IS MINE]
It was blood magic. There wasn't really a spell for this type of glamour, and as with most types of magic, it was more about intent of magic. What one wanted more than anything else in that moment. The use of blood was more symbolic of what one was willing to give up, to promise that one really and truly wanted to cast magic. That there was an edge of desperation. It would fade in a week or two. Voldemort hadn't used anything permanent, like ink. The blood was his own blood.
The white skin morphed into a healthier hue, and hair grew from his barren scalp. A nose reformed on his face, his cheeks losing their gauntness. The scratch on his forehead disappeared. His eyes were dark. Once, when he'd been younger, they looked brown. But when he turned fourteen, they darkened into a deep and piercing color that even he could not tell if were a very dark brown, or pure black at this point. This was, sadly, not even the effect of Dark Magic. Many had thought it was attractive, and he could admit there was something about the darker color that made his gaze seem more piercing. Back then, he had never felt more alone. Eyes were the window to the soul, and for lonely little Tom Riddle, those windows became dark and empty; no one would want to look inside, and if they did, they would see nothing.
Voldemort reached out to his reflection, his touch turning the window into a looking glass. He took in his appearance, which put his features as they should be without interference from other magical…accidents. He hardly looked the same, and there was less of his father than he remembered. The resemblance was there. So was his mother's genetic legacy. Those eyes were definitely hers, as were her brows, and even his mouth. Apparently she had possessed a few attractive features, contrary to what he'd heard.
There was a gasp. Voldemort turned and found the house elf staring at him in shock. She carried a tray, though it had become lopsided in her shock.
"Thank you, Blinker," he said pleasantly, flashing her a charismatic smile. It did not feel as smooth as he remembered. He would need to practice it in the mirror like the days of youthful manipulation. The wizard nodded to towards the table. "You can place it on my desk. I can serve myself."
She obeyed him, leaving when he had no more commands for her. Voldemort took a book from the shelf and seated himself at the desk. He poured the tea, and then paused.
Do I drink my tea with milk? Sugar?
The Dark Lord had not taken tea in over a decade, of course, but he hadn't expected to forget something so simple or mundane. He felt lost, like he did not even know himself anymore.
[ANOTHER THING POTTER WILL PAY FOR]
Voldemort tried to ignore the feeling of turmoil in his stomach as he added one sugar and one splash of milk. He could try as many variations as he needed until he found the answer.
He picked up the cup of tea. The saucer was cool and smooth to the touch, and when he lifted it with his cup, he could see the translucency of the fine porcelain in the sunlight. The fingers curled around the handle of the cup itself could feel the heat of hot liquid heating the delicate ceramic. The finest of hairs on the back of his fingers brushed lightly against the surface of the cup. The scent of tea filled his nose, the smell of fresh, clean water, of tea, and an earthy tea at that. He could not recall what kind it was; his memory had been deprived of it for so long that it could no longer associate the sense with the name. he could smell the sweetness of the sugar, though, and the flatness of the milk. Voldemort closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The air he drew into his lungs smelled of old books, dust, the wood of the furniture, faintly of the roses growing somewhere nearby. Outside, he could hear a bird warbling, and the tinkle of the water fountain. He took a sip of the tea. It was hot, the sensation almost foreign, and definitely uncomfortable on his tongue. Voldemort could taste the crispness of the water, the flavor of the tea leaves (a smooth texture too), of the sugar, of the milky base. It was good. It was amazing. He swore he could even taste hints of spices in it too, but what kind, he didn't remember. Cinnamon, or vanilla, or nutmeg; he would not know. It was subtle, but he could taste it.
[THIS IS WHAT IT IS TO BE ALIVE]
He savored that first cup covetously. The second cup, he managed to be more controlled with, and sipped at it sparingly as he read No Star Too Far. Despite the whimsical title, it was a book about theory. In the fifties, it had been groundbreaking. The author built on the foundations of scholarly articles published in the 1800s by applying the scientific method through a series of experiments. More curiously, in the 1800s, a great deal of the articles the author used as the basis for his experiments had deep roots in traditional forms of magic. Voldemort had been given the book by his friend, Cantankerous. Before its publication, magical theory was taught the same way that it had been since Elizabethan England, which had been based on the original education provided in the time of Merlin. The original Hogwarts system treated the school as a general education until third year, in which students were given a trial of trades to become familiar, where they specialized in a particular field after fifth year. Seventh years often had the choice to become apprentices to their teachers if they showed enough promise; otherwise they were prepared to seek out masters of their own to train under. The less successful students usually fell amongst the 'hedge' witches and wizards. Queen Elizabeth's reign had produced William Shakespeare, a muggleborn graduate of Hogwarts who used his education to become a wordsmith. Because of him, Hogwarts changed its curriculum to incorporate a more thoroughly rounded education accessible to all of its students in order to help bridge the gap between the gaps, but the essence of the educational system did not change again until the turn of the twentieth century, where magical society belated began to adopt the muggle system. So slow on the uptake, the true magical theory pieces had been done solely by muggleborns and half-bloods with a foot in the muggle world. Inspired by the growing interest and discovery of science, there was an explosion of scholarly articles published—that largely went unread until No Star Too Far. It revolutionized everything so much that an entire decade had been dedicated to transitioning the next generation of students into a curriculum based on it. sadly, the context was never mentioned, nor was the fact that the root of understanding magical theory came from the study of traditional (and now many forbidden) forms of magic.
It was late afternoon, early evening, by the time Lucius came. The younger wizard had given a polite knock. When granted entrance, he immediately fell to his knees and bowed low to his superior.
"My Lord, forgive me for my tardiness. There were…unforeseen circumstances," he said breathily. Voldemort could see the man trembling in fear. He snapped the book shut. The sound made Lucius start violently.
"Oh? This shall be interesting. Tell me what you've learned, Lucius," Voldemort instructed.
"Yes my Lord, thank you for your merci—"
"Please do not waste my time; it is very valuable." The Dark Lord eyed the man. "And for Merlin's sake, get off of the floor and talk to me face to face like a wizard."
The Malfoy scrambled to obey, his head jerking up. His eyes widened as he took in the man; he'd been so frightened that he had kept his gaze firmly on the ground from the moment he'd entered. Voldemort's appearance took him back, it seemed. Still, he did not say anything about it as he seated himself in the chair across from the Dark Lord, and Voldemort respected that. Lucius had grown something of a spine in the years they'd been parted, after all. Perhaps he would make a worthy successor to Abraxas after all.
"I returned to the event, my Lord, and it was in chaos. Minister Fudge was trying to get answers from Potter about Diggory's death, but he was too hysterical. He announced your return. No one believes him," Lucius added. Voldemort waved a dismissive hand.
"That does not concern me. Minister Fudge is disgustingly weak and cowardly. Even if he believes the boy, he will deny it so that he can live in ignorance and maintain control of the public," he replied. "Do continue, Lucius."
"Yes, my Lord. It was hectic. Minister Fudge ordered that Potter be taken aside to heal while they summoned the aurors to question him. Moody took escorted the boy to the infirmary, and I remained with Minister Fudge. When the aurors arrived, we went to find Potter, but he was not in the infirmary. Before a search could be made, Dumbledore came in, dragging Potter and levitating…Barty Crouch Jr." Lucius shook his head as if to shake away the cobwebs of disbelief. "He told us what he had heard from Potter, and then accused Barty of disguising himself as Moody, putting the boy's name in the Triwizard Cup—all in a plot to resurrect you."
Voldemort saw a twitch in the man's mouth. He wanted to say something, but did not want to say it.
"What do you hesitate to tell me?" the Dark Lord asked.
"Severus…was present. Dumbledore forced him to bear the Dark Mark on his arm to show the Minister. He also gave medical treatment to Potter there."
Lucius and Severus were very good, if unlikely, friends. Voldemort did not know how that relationship came about, but the two were close enough that the Potions Master was Draco Malfoy's godfather. Voldemort was not surprised to hear that Severus was involved in this incident. He'd always been a self-serving individual with a shocking knack to endear himself to people (despite his unpleasant personality). Voldemort also knew that the death of Lily Potter likely pushed the man's loyalty away from him forever. He had used a young man's insecurities and a half-blood's lack of connections to bind the wizard to himself in the past. Severus Snape was no longer weak. In the war, he became a skilled duelist, a talented spy, and from those two things came a certain amount of confidence. In the years following the war, Severus had built himself from the ground up. Wormtail confirmed that Dumbledore had kept his spy out of Azkaban, and tied to Hogwarts; the Potions Mastery and the sparkling clean "no-student-deaths" streak of the Potions classroom were his own doing. Voldemort also suspected that the man had cultivated other ties to help secure his position. He did not need to tie himself to a Dark Lord anymore, nor even to Dumbledore.
Voldemort suspected that he was not entirely loyal to either him or Dumbledore. His behavior when they'd been coworkers indicated the man was going through the motions of life with a few very specific purposes: to survive, and to protect. He had loved Lily Potter, the mother of Harry Potter. It was no coincidence that he had been seen directly saving the boy's life twice (once during that Quidditch match, and when he put himself between a werewolf and three students), and to be see healing the boy just that day. Harry Potter, through accident of birth, held the loyalty of Severus Snape. Voldemort was very much envious of the boy. Severus was a great asset that he would love to keep at his disposal. The thoughts churning in his mind, the barest hints of ideas that have not yet become plot, whispered that Potter could be used to control the spy.
"That is not unexpected. Severus must play nice with Dumbledore. Tell me what happened to Barty. Was he arrested?" the Dark Lord asked, changing the direction of the conversation. "Or did they kill him outright?"
That had been a possibility that they'd considered as well. Barty promised that he did not mind a quick death, and the Ministry—in denial—would not want him to linger around long enough to cause trouble.
"No, my Lord," Lucius responded. He swallowed. "He was Kissed on sight."
Voldemort, hand reaching towards his tea cup, stopped in midmotion. That had not been in any of the scenarios that they'd considered.
"Where is he?" he asked.
"His body is in St. Mungos until they can decide what to do with the body," Lucius answered. "I am sorry—"
"No. Do not speak. I must think."
Voldemort did not like the fate that had befallen his loyal Barty.
[THEY WILL REGRET THIS]
[LONGING FOR A CHILD THAT IS NOT OF MY BLOOD]
[CRYING SCREAMING TEARING FIGHTING]
[BRING HIM BACK]
[IT IS POSSIBLE]
"My Lord…"
Voldemort lifted his head up, his mind made up.
"Go. Leave me be. I have work to do." The older wizard paused. "Expect me tomorrow. I will be using your dining room for a gathering."
Voldemort returned to his father's ancestral home, and went through the wardrobes. Long ago, he had claimed a room for himself as a hideout if he needed one during the war. Wormtail had given him a basic robe that he transfigured the moment it slid onto his body. He still wanted real clothing, however. Voldemort picked out simple black robes he would have used to blend in Knockturn Alley. He stripped himself of the cheap material provided by the rat, and slid on the finer robes. Contrary to muggleborn beliefs, there were a variety of styles of robs in magical Britain, and even more in magical Scotland. Muggleborns who entered society felt embarrassed and uncomfortable in robes, particularly the lack of trousers or jeans underneath robes. A school uniform had been provided when Tom began attending, but the truth of the matter was Hogwarts was in Scotland, and at one point Scotland had been the seat of their world. Really, Britain had quite a history, where a large part of the native population of Britain had been forced to migrate. In short, most of the witches and wizards of the United Kingdom lived in Ireland and Scotland; the tales of faeries and magic were powerful, relevant to present day even in muggle memory. Merlin had brought a great wave of acceptance back to Britain when his deeds served muggle royalty, and even during the witch hunts, the newly planted witches and wizards did not return to their lands. Nor did they forsake the tradition of robes made in Scotland; in fact, there was a resurgence in trouserless robes around the same time that Scotland adopted the kilt for its identity and rebellion against the Crown. That was no coincidence. Robes that made muggleborns uncomfortable were now as much a part of their identity as kilts to the Scottish, though only the purebloods could actually explain that. That being said…Voldemort favored the more stylish designs the did include trousers. He slipped on nondescript black robes with a pair of fitted trousers underneath.
"Welcome back," Nagini told him as she slithered into the room. "Have you brought me food?"
"I have not," Voldemort responded. "Unfortunately, you will need to find your own meal for tonight. I have an errand to run."
The snake wound herself around the post of the bed so that she reached a similar level of her master. Voldemort pretended not to notice her attempts of trying to meet his gaze.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"Something that is risky," he admitted. "I will do my best not be discovered."
"Why take the risk?"
Voldemort paused. That was difficult to explain. "Because Barty is mine and I want him back."
Voldemort found an empty whiskey bottle in the bedroom that once belonged to his father. He took it with him and left his father's home, idly wondering when he would be able to fix it up for Nagini.
The Dark Lord apparated into an alley near the Ministry of Magic. He found the Ministry more crowded than usual, a bustle of reporters and concerned citizens trying to get in. The Dark Lord waved a hand over his form, drawing on his fathomless well of want to make the magic work.
[DO NOT SEE ME. DO NOT SEE ME.]
[DO NOT FEEL ME OR HEAR ME.]
Once he felt the tingle of magic settling over himself, he approached the Ministry of Magic. Aurors were keeping guard with a nonmagical barricade. They wore stony, impassive faces, although the eyes of the youngest, a blonde witch, betrayed her uneasiness. It was night time, and still there were people asking questions. Minister Fudge had very little to say, and promised a report in the morning. It wasn't enough—a boy was dead, barely of age, in a tournament that everyone promised would be safe. Furthermore, there were rumors of the Boy Who Lived, winner of the Triwizard Tournament, being involved. Some were saying that he had killed Cedric Diggory, some say they had both fallen victim to a previous Death Eater. There were many questions, a fear of an uprising (less than a year ago, there had been the attack at the World Cup, after all).
Voldemort edged around the crowd, slipping underneath the barricade—it was a simple rope. He went unnoticed.
Voldemort had been in the Ministry of Magic countless times; he had only gone to the holding cells in the heart of it twice. Once, to visit Cantankerous when he'd been charged with slander. And once to murder a witch who had cast a spell on him while he'd been disguised. Aurors arrested her immediately (ironically, yes?), but he wanted revenge. Now, he was going to retrieve his almost-apprentice.
Barty had physically recovered in Hogwarts. When he'd escaped his father's control, he'd been thin, pale, with dark circles under his eyes and lines on his face. Those had faded in the time that they had been apart, and with slack features, dear Barty looked even younger than his age. But there was no essence of him. No dilation of his pupils as Voldemort approached. No smile or reverence. Barty had a mild case of magic sensitivity, and the Dark Lord's magic had always been compatible with his in a special way. The young man could often be found drifting into the Dark Lord's space, just on the edge of the aura he exuded. They were something between master and vassal and father and child. Voldemort once had dreams of taking him on as his apprentice to bridge that gap.
The Dark Lord crouched before Barty, cupping the pale cheek and staring into blank eyes.
"I promise you there shall be no more suffering," he whispered. "I will bring you back. You will have your peace."
Voldemort could not feel emotions as deeply as most, but he did have them. The softer ones were faint compared to the way anger and hatred could consume him, but he definitely felt fondness for Barty. Enough that he pulled the husk towards himself to give a modicum of comfort to it in apology. Then he transfigured the cot the younger wizard sat on into a chest, put the soulless body inside it, then shrank and placed it into his pocket.
Sneaking out of the Ministry of Magic was just as easy as sneaking in. Voldemort had learned long ago that they did not even keep an eye on the cells; too many aurors took their lawless methods into hand—or their frustrations—and put them to the prisoners. If nothing was every recorded about their misconduct, then no one could be blamed. It was also quite easy to find the Dementor that they put in a cell to escort Barty once they had decided what to do with the living body. If they sent him back to Azkaban, rules dictated he needed an escort. What the Ministry chose to do was ghastly: overlook the fair treatment of prisoners, yet strictly enforce the escort of even the most harmless convicts.
Voldemort opened the door—it stood only three cells from Barty. His lack of soul gave him some immunity to the Dementors. He had also learned that surrounding oneself with anger gave them nothing to feed off and therefore lessened their effects. Voldemort was very angry.
"I hear you took the soul of one of my followers," he said with deceptive mildness. "I am going to be taking it back."
The sound of a Dementor's laugh is indescribable. It sounds like the low crack of thunder in the distance, rolling through the air, like the horrid crack of a glacier breaking, or of a mountain's landslide.
'I feasted on his soul and now we are one. You cannot separate us,' said the Dementor, drifting towards Voldemort. The sound of a Dementor speaking is also difficult to describe; when they do speak, it is a cacophony of the softest susurrus that one might imagine, and as cold and smooth as the water in a stream, full of whispering sounds and sibilant noises. The sound sent chills down most peoples' spines, though they almost agree unanimously that there is something entrancing about it; some even believe this is why victims of a Dementor, when they are Kissed, have that one moment right before contact is made—a moment where they stop struggling and freeze. At heart, Dementors were predators. This one stopped laughing abruptly, and made a noise between a hiss and a growl. 'A pity that your soul is out of my reach, nothing but a tiny shard too sharp to take.'
"You haven't digested it quite yet; I will remove it from you," Voldemort answered. There was a determination in his gaze that even the glamour he'd placed on himself could not hide.
'You cannot keep me, mortal,' it sneered. The Dark Lord did not back down, even as it drew near him. He was angry, and his soul was like a jagged bone. If the Dementor chose to take it, the shard would indeed cause it harm. So what did the man have to fear? Nothing.
"That is where you are wrong," Voldemort replied. He snatched at the Dementor, grabbing the wispy robes made of something similar to ectoplasm, yanking the creature down towards him. It screeched, the sound like fingernails on chalkboard and the brakes on a train, the whistle of a steam engine. Though it struggled, it could not escape. Voldemort's skin emitted a soft white glow that illuminated the space between two monsters. "I am no longer mortal. I've made sure that I am unlike anything that has walked this world before."
Voldemort's fingers curled and twisted.
[YOU ARE BENEATH ME]
The Dementor shrieked and cried for help, sounds only the darkest of minds could hear. It writhed and it shrank, twisting to get away. It felt good to use his magic, intoxicating. Few things were beyond the Dark Lord's capability, though it seemed that space often limited him. Voldemort took the glass bottle that he'd pocketed from home and popped off the cork of the old whiskey bottle. Happy to flee, the Dementor leapt into without caring about the consequences, and Voldemort replaced the stopper.
Dementors were a cousin of the genie. Equally mysterious and unknown, some scholars speculated that they were a branch of genies that had taken vaporous forms to protect themselves from magical peoples that sought them, and eventually lost the ability to transform back. They warped, whatever their diet had been became lost. Stories spoke of genies granting wishes; so many lost their souls for those wishes. It only made sense that Dementors then began to consume them. Perhaps these are even the source of where deals made with demons came from in origin. Regardless, some instincts of the Dementors, abstract though they were from their origin, seemed to linger.
This is how Voldemort walked out of the Ministry of Magic with the empty shell of a convict in one pocket, and the frightened form of a Dementor in another.
Voldemort had studied magic in as many forms as he could find. He found a secret to it that reconciled much of the Old Ways, to what magical peoples used modernly: belief. And a good dose of wanting. If one believed that a talisman held power, then it did. If one was raised to believe in gods that could move the foundations of the world from the depths of the fathomless sea to make mountains, and that they could tap into that awesome power with a few sacrifices of animals—well, that just made their beliefs even more potent. Ancient witches and wizards operated under the mistaken belief that their magic came from gods and forces of nature in ancient times. When they began to discover that they could manipulate power through words that they crafted, could follow very expected results by following rules that they called 'laws', they managed to both free themselves from old beliefs and restrict themselves with new ones. The truth was this: witches and wizards had never really understood where their power came from, or the proper way to harness their full potential. Voldemort himself wasn't too sure. Every witch, wizard, and squib seemed to possess a magical reservoir that either replenished itself or drew magic from some unknown source. Any witch or wizard who had performed a ritual or rite could tell you that they rarely felt the effects of powerful feats of magic, even when they were indeed very weak. Voldemort suspected that this was more to do with belief. He also suspected that they were in fact conduits of magic, and the magic inside them was in fact akin the to build up of minerals in a pipe. He believed that he could control the pipe in that analogy: widen and constrict the flow, squeeze it so that it escaped in a powerful blast of magic or a trickle.
Most importantly, however, he believed in the powers of symbolism. A color evoked feeling because the person attributed some sort of meaning to it. Voldemort was not infallible to this. He had goals of making seven Horcruxes for a reason, after all. So it was no small coincidence that he took Barty to a sacred place: the infamous Stonehenge.
At night, Stonehenge looked more imposing and intimidating than any singular photo could convey. Merlin had brought them over to England when his acts made Britain a welcome place for witches and wizards again, and modern magical folk (the few who ask questions) wondered how he managed such a feat. A witch or wizard could cast a weightless charm on one easily, and travel some ways with it. Merlin had done that to all of them, carried them from one country to another, and some accounts even claimed that he had done it while lifting the entire structure as seen today (albeit complete) and apparating with his precious cargo. Even Voldemort, with all of the wonders his mind could conjure up, considered this an impressive show of both control and application of one's magical abilities. He would be hard-pressed to do the same on the first attempt. In part, this is why the Dark Lord felt there was something special about Stonehenge, just as there was some part of him that knew the rocks were special enough to be moved by Merlin himself; at the very least, it represented a Great Migration, bringing magic back to Britain. Just like he believed in the very special properties of the solstice. He'd arranged to be brought back just after the solstice; ideally, because he'd been born so close to the winter solstice, he should have been resurrected on June 31st, however they did not have quite the same opportunity. Here, at night, Barty would not have the power of the daylight hours to aid him, but he was not being resurrected. The obscuring power of the shadows would have to suffice; as long as Voldemort believed—and he did—it would be enough.
Stonehenge's true purpose was difficult even for Voldemort to understand, and choosing which fallen stone to place Barty upon was a difficult task. He chose the centermost one he could find, unshrunk the chest, and pulled his loyal servant out. He held Barty in his lap for a moment, feeling the warmth of the body, and the breaths filling lungs.
Are we truly reduced to this when one has no soul? He wondered. There was a pang of worry that struck him in the gut, quick and fleeting as lightening.
[AM I THE SAME]
[WILL I BE THE SAME IF I MAKE MORE]
The Dark Lord laid the other wizard's body out. Then he removed the Dementor from his pocket and stood. He walked around toward the nearest 'wall' of the monument. Clockwise seemed the way to begin, to illustrate that time was current, and moving continuously moving. He walked clockwise then along the circle, voicing his desires out loud. Speak and so it shall be; something to that effect. And because he felt he knew himself more when he spoke Parseltongue, and therefore more powerful, he did so.
"I walk along the walls of this sacred place alone. My servant lies soulless. In my pocket I have his vanquisher and his soul." Simple, but he needed to lay out exactly what had occurred, and what needed to be fixed. "Time continues, and every second that passes, this creature digests him a little more, and he edges closer to dying."
Voldemort had now made a full circle and was at the point he had begun. He took out the glass bottle. He looked down at one of the most feared creatures of magical civilizations across the world.
"Now I stop, and ask that this man's fate be reversed."
The Dark Lord wondered who he was asking such a thing of. He didn't believe in gods, or a chthonic, sentient entity that embodied magic. Even as his feet started to move in reverse and he begun to walk backwards along the path he had already taken, he wondered who was listening.
"Turn back the seconds, the minutes, the hours."
Well, it was obvious. No one was listening.
"I hold the creature in my hand as a sacrifice."
Voldemort learned long ago that he needed to do everything himself.
"All of the souls it has devoured, and its existence, I offer in exchange for the return of my servant."
And he possessed both the power and the ability. Halfway back around Stone Henge's circumference, the Dementor began to writhe and scream in its fragile prison. Tiny lights began to slip from its hooded face, souls escaping. And they melted through the glass, into the night air.
"Everything has energy and potential. I take this one's energy and potential to return what it stole."
The creature shrunk in on itself.
"It will return all it stole, and make my servant renewed once more."
More and more souls escaped. Dementors did not feed nearly as much as the Ministry wanted to believe. How long had this thing been alive to amass over twenty. Over thirty souls? And now, they collected in spots where Voldemort had walked, trailing his foray into the symbolic past.
"You shall take no more. You shall haunt no more. You shall exist no more."
Now the Dark Lord was reaching the end of his circle. From the corner of his eye, he could see the soft light of souls illuminating the circle. He stopped, and the souls slowed in number, the Dementor so tiny The souls were so numerous that they almost made a solid, continuous line around the circle.
"He will rise now. Be gone."
The shadow snapped inside the container, and there was one last light inside in the place it had been: Barty's soul. Voldemort walked to his servant, the night no longer dark, but now illuminated by the victims of the Dementor, their remnants naught but Will of the Wisps. He knelt by Barty's side, feeling the magic flowing through him, between and around them.
"I owe you a great debt, and now I shall pay it in full," the Dark Lord whispered. He carefully uncorked the glass, tipping the soul into his hands. He'd held pieces of his own soul in his hands before, though he could admit that there was great beauty in seeing a soul whole. It felt proper that it was Barty's soul that he was holding. He did so gently and with great care and respect. Voldemort savored the moment. He imagined that holding a soul could be likened to the feel of brushing a finger against a sea cucumber, of all things. It felt cool, insubstantial, and so very smooth. Like the kiss of a ghost passing on.
The Dark Lord held the soul over the body, softly depositing it on the chest that rose and fell.
"I return this to you," he said, and like a miracle, the light began to slip through cloth and flesh, into the body it once inhabited.
Barty's awakening was rude, and jarring. He took a sharp breath, his eyes suddenly wide with awareness and shock and horror. Voldemort caught the man as he surged forward, screaming, curling, struggling, and weeping. He imagined it had not been a painless process. Through the violence and the fear and grief, the Dark Lord held Barty, even as the other souls faded and the normal night returned. Even as the high of magic filling him left him feeling so empty and lacking. Did he feel weaker, like he had lost magic? He wasn't sure. It wasn't like he possessed a natural body anymore.
Barty was back, with his soul, and hopefully more of himself than he had when he'd been Kissed in the first place. Voldemort was relieved to have the young wizard back, but more than that, he felt validated. He had just accomplished an 'impossible' feat. All of his theories and beliefs about magic were right. This meant…he would be near unstoppable. Voldemort could allow no one to know his full potential.
I apologize for the lack of historical fact and stuff. This is based off of stuff I learned years ago, and history is not my strong suit. I recall that linguistically speaking, the indigenous language of Britain had to be banished in order for English to form foundations; pockets of its related languages exist today in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Do not take this for fact, this is my vague recollection, and I am putting that witches and wizards took refuge in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales when invaders came to Britain. Merlin (I do not know where his origins are, but Hogwarts is in Scotland, and I think he was said to have attended Hogwarts) went ahead and started doing all of his stuff and paved the way for magical presence to return to Britain. In this story, they keep strong roots in their identity because of the role Hogwarts has to play. The first few generations still thought of themselves as Scottish, and when that faded, the magical families in Britain that attended Hogwarts still felt a cultural afilliation. When Voldemort mentions the resurgence of having no pants under robes, he is talking about the adoption of the kilt during the 1700s. The reform in education (as a result of William Shakespeare's success) allowed more families to attend Hogwarts, so more people loved or felt conencted to Scotland and its culture. When conflict arose between Scotland and England, they sided more with Scotland. Wizarding Britain largely remained outside of the politics of the muggles during this time period, but they stubbornly refused to give into the attempts to end their way of life. Robes then became a point of pride, and the traditionalists wear robes without pants to show their pride. And no one really goes into all of this or explains it. Because who would ask, "Why don't you put any pants on underneath it?"?
