Bellatrix and her Master

by SamaraXX

At 14, Bellatrix becomes engaged to the Lestrange heir, a union that soon leads her to a chilling encounter with the dark wizard, Lord Voldemort, whose name echoes through the pure-blood elite. Drawn to his power and the promise of liberation from societal constraints, Bellatrix embarks on a tumultuous 23-year journey as his devoted disciple.

16. The Heir of Slytherin

Chronology of Events to Remember for This Chapter:

• July 1969: During her very first mission, Bellatrix kills Isabella Jdanov, the young wife of Dmitri Jdanov, a Russian dark wizard who fled Europe after Grindelwald's fall, in New York. Before being killed, Isabella reveals to her the origins of Lord Voldemort.

• January 1970: Bellatrix takes a potion and becomes sterile by choice.

• July 1970: Andromeda's birthday. Rodolphus, Rabastan, Andromeda, Narcissa, Sirius, and Regulus discover Bellatrix's Dark Mark.

• October 1970: Bellatrix is kidnapped and tortured by Maggins. Mrs. Lestrange is killed. Death Eater counterattack; Bellatrix is rescued and treated by Edgar Mirepoix, a French healer hired by Reginaldus Lestrange, who takes the opportunity to regenerate her ovaries at Reginaldus's request.

• February 1971: Rodolphus and Bellatrix try to overcome Bellatrix's traumas and attempt intercourse. Unsuccessfully.

• June 1971: Voldemort visits Bellatrix at the Lestrange Manor while she is lounging on the lawn and asks her to retrieve a hair from Rodolphus so they can go to Gringotts together and access the Lestrange vault. He takes the opportunity to discreetly pour a bit of Eros Potion into her pumpkin juice.

• At various points in the story, Bellatrix tries to solve the mystery surrounding the name "Ludmilla Thenn" mentioned several times:

a. Her Master brews a dreamless sleep potion crediting Ludmilla Thenn.

b. Bellatrix finds markings like LT, LVLT, or 7S on potions in the laboratory of the headquarters.

c. Druella Black, Bellatrix's mother, informs her that the young Ludmilla Thenn taught at Hogwarts in September 1944 until the Easter holidays of 1945, during which she disappeared.

d. Druella also claims to have witnessed a strange scene at Hogwarts when she was a student, where the young professor seemed to be begging Tom Riddle.

---

Chapter Sixteen: The Heir of Slytherin

Immersed in the silvery swirls of the Pensieve, Bellatrix quickly realised that her control over the memories unfolding before her was limited at best. Trapped in the role of a mere spectator, she remained powerless, confined to the edges of her Master's reminiscences.

-o-O-o-

January 1970,

Lestrange Manor.

In the austere sitting room of Lestrange Manor, flames crackled in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows on the panelled walls—ghostly silhouettes that danced with unsettling grace. Two men occupied the room: the first, tall and draped in black robes, stood motionless near the hearth, his gaze fixed on the embers. The second, a middle-aged man with a face etched in irritation, paced the room with restless energy, his boots ruthlessly grinding into the luxurious carpet stretched between the sofa and the coffee table.

Not far away, a frail, unassuming woman sat quietly on the sofa. Her hands, nervously entwined, betrayed the anxiety that hung heavily in the oppressive air.

"I cannot fathom the madness of that foolish girl!" Reginaldus Lestrange fumed, his voice brimming with anger.

"She has proven to be a monumental disappointment," added the woman coldly, her tone lower but no less cutting.

"And as for that eccentric Cygnus," Reginaldus continued, blatantly disregarding his wife's presence, "he's shown himself utterly incapable of raising his daughter properly."

His gaze, however, repeatedly drifted toward Lord Voldemort, whose silent, imposing figure stood with his back to the room, commanding its tension without a word.

"We knew she had a rebellious streak," Reginaldus raged on, his face flushed with fury, "but this insanity defies belief! She's jeopardising my bloodline! What kind of witch attacks her own ovaries?"

"It's utterly abominable," the woman murmured in agreement, her voice tinged with a mix of disgust and resignation.

Reginaldus shook his head vehemently before continuing:

"If she were my daughter or my wife, I'd have given her a punishment she wouldn't soon forget! But Rodolphus… he's far too lenient. This union was meant to be a blessing for our family! The Blacks and the Lestranges: two bloodlines of unparalleled purity, finally united. And now it's all ruined!"

The woman, pale and trembling, nervously bit her lip as she fidgeted with the hem of her gown. It was then that Lord Voldemort finally turned, breaking the oppressive silence he had imposed until that moment. His piercing gaze swept over the couple, lingering just long enough to make their discomfort palpable.

"How did Rodolphus react?" he asked, his voice icy and inscrutable, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

"Not too badly…" Reginaldus muttered, suddenly uneasy. "My son has always had a soft spot for that girl. He's mostly relieved that she survived."

The Dark Lord remained impassive; his tone measured as he posed another question:

"And her condition?"

Reginaldus shrugged brusquely.

"She's still at St Mungo's. Let's just say she's not in the best shape, but it'll teach her a lesson."

The patriarch hesitated for a moment, his gaze evasive, before finally daring to pose the question:

"Master, might you not know of a spell or potion to undo her mistake?"

The Dark Lord allowed a fleeting, ironic smile to cross his lips.

"I fear I lack that power. Medical magic has never been my speciality."

His tone was biting, almost mocking. Reginaldus, unfazed, straightened, his fury undiminished.

"If Bellatrix can no longer bear children, she is of no use to me as a daughter-in-law!" he raged.

Voldemort, as impassive as ever, replied in a flat voice:

"You have a second son… It is entirely possible to marry Rabastan to Cygnus Black's younger daughter."

At these words, Madame Lestrange, who had remained frozen until now, abruptly lifted her head. The suggestion also seemed to catch Reginaldus off guard, and he stammered, struggling for words:

"That's… that's certainly possible, but there's no guarantee the younger one won't be just as uncontrollable as the first!"

Voldemort's barely perceptible smile deepened, his amusement almost tangible.

"Don't be so pessimistic, my friend. I have little doubt that at least one Lestrange son will manage to tame one Black daughter, even if they prove… recalcitrant."

His smile stretched slightly, a glint of irony flickering in his eyes. Reginaldus, however, was too preoccupied to notice the Dark Lord's mood.

"Master, I realise this may seem trivial to you, but we are speaking of my family's future. Rabastan and Rodolphus are the last heirs of the Lestrange name! Bellatrix's decision to render herself sterile is a devastating blow to the Pure-Blood families. We are in dire straits—there are far more men than women left among the Pure-Bloods!"

"I sympathise with your plight, Reginaldus, but I fail to see what you expect of me."

Reginaldus hesitated again, doubt flickering across his face.

"If Bellatrix cannot be healed, might it be possible to annul their marriage?"

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow, a faint trace of irritation in his demeanour.

"Annul it? But their union was sealed six months ago," he countered, his brow furrowing.

Reginaldus, evidently prepared for this objection, straightened slightly before replying:

"It has not yet been consummated, Master."

A fleeting spark of interest passed through Voldemort's gaze.

"Indeed?"

"They do not share a bed. Rodolphus has complained to his brother, who then informed us. Can you believe such audacity, Master? That girl permits herself behaviour that borders on insult."

The Dark Lord remained impassive, though a glacial glint flashed briefly in his eyes.

"It is curious that she deemed it necessary to brew a sterility potion if nothing had yet transpired. That will not remain the case for long."

Reginaldus, unsettled by the remark, straightened further, attempting to mask his discomfort.

"You are, of course, correct… I must act without delay. But what do you think, Master? Should we pursue an annulment of this marriage?"

"That would provoke unimaginable tensions with the Blacks," Voldemort observed, his voice calm and calculating.

"They'll recover… especially if we offer them a new alliance, as you suggested. A marriage between Rabastan and their second daughter. What is her name again, my dear?"

The woman, silent until now, lifted her head slightly and replied in a clear voice:

"Andromeda."

"Ah yes, Andromeda. Master, I assure you, I will conduct these negotiations with tact and diplomacy. And if their primary concern is Bellatrix's future, I am prepared to keep her under my roof and support her."

Voldemort fixed him with a long, penetrating stare, weighing every word.

"If Rodolphus is so attached to her, what makes you think he will agree?"

"I will persuade him! He is my son; he will listen to me. Do I have your blessing, Master?"

A heavy silence fell over the room. Voldemort considered for a moment before responding, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

"You have my blessing, Reginaldus."

-o-O-o-

April 1970,

Headquarters.

"What progress has been made on the annulment of this marriage, Reginaldus?" Voldemort asked, his glacial tone carrying a hint of impatience.

Reginaldus, visibly uncomfortable, lowered his gaze slightly before replying:

"Rodolphus has flatly refused to consider an annulment, and as if to defy me, the marriage was consummated a few days later… It seems I am doomed to endure Bellatrix as my daughter-in-law."

The Dark Lord remained silent for a moment before responding curtly:

"That is unfortunate."

Straightening, Reginaldus attempted to recover his composure.

"I have taken the liberty of contacting Cygnus Black to discuss potential betrothal arrangements between Rabastan and Andromeda."

Voldemort gave a slight nod.

"Very well."

After a brief hesitation, Reginaldus continued, his tone more confident:

"Master, my wife and I would like to visit our family in France in the coming days. Would you permit us to be absent for a short while?"

The Dark Lord regarded him for a moment before responding in a detached tone:

"I have no objection."

Reginaldus bowed deeply.

"Thank you, Master."

-o-O-o-

August 1970,

Graveyard.

In a windswept graveyard, where the night hung heavy as a shroud, two figures faced each other, motionless amidst the tombstones: Lord Voldemort and Reginaldus Lestrange. The tension between them was almost tangible, anger radiating from both men.

"Master, I must confess I do not understand… How could you recruit my daughter-in-law? That is no place for a woman, let alone the wife of my son!"

At these words, Voldemort stiffened instantly, his features sharpening like a blade. His piercing gaze locked onto Reginaldus's, making the air around them seem to tremble.

"Are you questioning my decisions, Reginaldus?" he asked, his voice icy.

Reginaldus swallowed hard, but his fury remained undiminished.

"Master, there have never been women among your Death Eaters. Why my daughter-in-law? How long has she been under your command?"

Voldemort's tone rose, cutting and lethal.

"Take care, Reginaldus. You are treading dangerously close to insubordination."

Reginaldus was now trembling, unable to contain the rage bubbling within him. His voice grew sharp, almost venomous.

"You are endangering my family's future!"

Like a striking serpent, Voldemort raised his wand in a flash.

"Crucio!"

A wrenching scream tore from Reginaldus's lips as he collapsed to his knees, his body convulsing violently. The agony seemed endless before Voldemort finally lifted the curse.

Panting, Reginaldus struggled to catch his breath as Voldemort approached slowly, towering over his loyal servant with an imposing presence.

"Reginaldus," Voldemort began, his tone cold and deliberate, "do not mistake our long-standing association for permission to disrespect me. My decisions are mine alone and are not up for debate. Do you truly believe I seek to harm your family? For decades, every action I've taken has been in the interest of preserving Pure-Blood lines. But if a single young woman of barely nineteen years has managed to undermine your plans, how, exactly, is that my fault?"

He paused, letting the weight of his words fall like a guillotine.

"If I were not surrounded by incompetents," he continued, his voice cutting like frost, "I would not need to rely on the services of a woman. And yet, she has proven more capable in a few missions than your son has in a hundred."

Reginaldus raised his head slightly, his face still contorted with pain and indignation.

"Rodolphus has not had the opportunity to prove his worth, Master. He has only been assigned surveillance and minor executions… tasks that hardly showcase his true potential."

Voldemort allowed a glacial smile to form.

"You have always been far too stubborn for your own good, Reginaldus."

Still kneeling, Reginaldus dared to ask one final question, his voice trembling with restrained anger:

"Master, what will it look like for me to have a daughter-in-law in your service?"

Voldemort let out a brief, cruel laugh.

"And what do you think I look like, surrounded by servants so forgetful of their place? But do not worry, Reginaldus. I have heard your complaints. I will ensure my errors are rectified… starting with your second son."

A flash of uncertainty crossed Reginaldus's gaze.

"Rabastan is still young, but he will serve you as faithfully as Rodolphus, my Lord."

"I do not doubt it. He and Bellatrix will have the honour of accompanying one of my finest Death Eaters on a mission of the utmost importance."

Reginaldus lifted his eyes, searching Voldemort's expression for the true intent behind this decision. Was it a gesture of trust… or a veiled punishment? Unable to discern anything in the crimson depths of his Master's gaze, he remained silent, the weight of doubt pressing heavily upon him.

"Thank you, Master," he mumbled.

-o-O-o-

February 1971,

Headquarters.

Lord Voldemort stood tall and motionless, like a statue, in the corridor leading to the reception hall. Through the narrow gap of the heavy doors, he listened with an air of distracted indifference, torn between irritation and amusement, to the chatter of four of his Death Eaters. They appeared to have lingered after a meeting of the Dark Order, more inclined to banter than reflect on their missions.

"I assure you, Ethan, marriage is far from an easy ride!" joked Rodolphus, lounging lazily on a chair he balanced precariously on its back legs. A sly smile played on his lips. "I can only advise you never to embark on such a perilous venture."

Ethan Rosier, leaning against the table, replied with a sardonic tone:

"My dear Rodolphus, it's not marriage that's complicated. It's the person you're married to."

This earned a round of laughter from the pair. Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov exchanged knowing glances, faint smiles tugging at their lips.

"Are you sure you want to marry the second Black sister, Rabastan?" Rosier asked, his face creased with a sceptical frown.

Rabastan shrugged, his features clouded with irritation and weariness.

"That would depend on whether she bothers to reply to my letters. She's been ignoring me for months."

This admission prompted mocking laughter from Rodolphus and Ethan, while Antonin Dolohov responded in a mock-serious tone:

"Not a great start… But perhaps she's just a little shy?"

Rabastan shook his head.

"Shy? I doubt it!" he said with biting irony.

"Why aren't you married yourself, Ethan, if the thought doesn't scare you?" Rodolphus asked, his tone dripping with curious mockery.

Ethan Rosier gave a nonchalant shrug and replied in a low, measured voice:

"I prefer to dedicate all my energy to my mission for the Dark Lord. Marriage is a distraction I can't afford."

Antonin Dolohov, lounging comfortably in his chair, let a mischievous glint appear in his dark eyes.

"Well then, tell us, Rodolphus. What's wrong with your little wife?" he asked, feigning innocence.

Rodolphus's smile vanished instantly. He sighed, clearly annoyed, before replying in a resigned tone:

"To be blunt, she refuses all intimacy."

A heavy silence, laden with implications, descended over the room until Rabastan, with a cautious tone, broke the tension:

"Considering what she's been through, it's understandable."

Rodolphus, however, nearly exploded:

"Of course! But I don't know how to help her anymore! She has nightmares every time she sleeps without potions. And Father keeps berating me about it."

Rabastan squinted slightly, puzzled.

"She's sterile now, isn't she? What does it matter to Father if you and Bellatrix have… relations?"

At this, Rodolphus shifted awkwardly in his chair, abruptly bringing all four legs to the ground with a thud.

"Since Mother died, he's lost his grip on reality," he muttered sheepishly. "Maybe he's hoping her ovaries will grow back? Who knows?"

This earned a roar of laughter from the three Death Eaters. Dolohov, laughing uncontrollably, leaned on the table to keep from toppling off his chair.

"He's an optimist!" he choked out between fits of mirth.

Rodolphus waved the joke away with a weary gesture.

"Anyway, never mind," he said, regaining his composure. "Do any of you know of a spell or potion that might help her relax?"

Ethan, still amused, raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"A Cheering Charm, perhaps?" he suggested.

Rodolphus shook his head, unconvinced.

"I don't think that would be enough."

Antonin Dolohov narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment before offering, in a detached tone:

"The Imperius Curse… It's incredibly effective, as you well know."

Rodolphus let out a brief laugh, likely sharing some unspoken, dubious memory with Dolohov, but his expression quickly turned serious again.

"I don't want to control Bellatrix like that."

Rabastan suggested hesitantly, in a low voice:

"A love potion?"

"No!" Rodolphus snapped, irritated. "Not a love potion. Something more subtle, just a little nudge, nothing more. But… should I ask the Dark Lord?"

At this, Ethan Rosier burst into laughter.

"You're joking, right? You want to ask the Dark Lord for help to—what? Sleep with your wife?"

"Keep your voice down, Ethan!" Rabastan hissed, glancing nervously at the double doors. "He might still be there!"

Rodolphus scowled, a shadow of irritation crossing his face.

"He's the only one who truly understands the art of potions and enchantments of this sort. It's not something you learn at Hogwarts."

"Forget it, Rodolphus. It's absurd," Ethan insisted.

"Honestly," Antonin Dolohov chimed in, his lips curling into a sly smile, "I'm no Healer, but maybe your wife just needs time… and a good bottle of Firewhisky. Get her to drink one, and I bet she'll be as docile as a doe in spring."

At that moment, Lord Voldemort turned on his heel without a word. The amusement had drained from his face. Leaving the corridor, he moved toward the potions chamber, a vaulted, dimly lit room thick with the acrid smell of ancient fumes.

He opened one of the chests marked LVLT and removed several black leather-bound notebooks. Flipping through the pages of a volume adorned with handwritten runes, he paused at an entry: Eros Potion. LT.

-o-O-o-

The whirlwind of thoughts intensified, growing into a chaotic storm where images surged at a dizzying speed. Bellatrix tried to grasp at some of them, fleeting fragments that slipped away like elusive shadows. The visions rushed past, indistinct and disconcerting, like trains hurtling through darkness. She wanted to stop, to slow the relentless flow, but her body refused to obey. She was trapped, frozen in a constricting cocoon, as if wrapped in suffocating silk.

Vertigo overwhelmed her, pulling her into a maelstrom where she was nothing more than a powerless spectator. The thoughts carried her, tossed her about, until she finally surrendered, letting herself drift, landing wherever they decided to take her.

Suddenly, she found herself in a sumptuous sitting room, bathed in a soft, muted light that accentuated the elegance of the space. Delicate mouldings adorned the walls, and warm-toned tapestries hinted at understated refinement. Plush armchairs and artfully arranged cushions invited a deceptive sense of ease. The room exuded a carefully balanced opulence, a perfect harmony of wealth and comfort.

Bellatrix felt her breath catch as her eyes fell upon a figure seated in one of the armchairs, legs crossed with calculated nonchalance. It was an old wizard, his face etched with the passage of years but illuminated by piercing blue eyes that seemed to cut straight to the soul. She recognised him instantly, and an icy shiver coursed down her spine.

Dmitri Jdanov.

The old Dark wizard who had hosted her and her Master for a dinner in New York during the summer of her induction. A night that had ended in a bloodbath: Bellatrix had murdered Isabella Jdanov, the young, pregnant wife, while Lord Voldemort had dispatched the Dark wizard himself.

Now, Dmitri Jdanov sat before them, perched in a high-backed armchair, his presence both imposing and unnerving.

Opposite him, seated in an identical armchair, Lord Voldemort regarded Jdanov with an unshakable intensity. His piercing, fathomless black eyes seemed to bore straight through the man, like a motionless but vigilant serpent assessing its prey before striking. A palpable aura of latent menace radiated from him, suffusing the room with an almost suffocating tension.

Leaning forward slightly, Voldemort's long, slender fingers brushed the armrests of his chair, each movement slow and deliberate, exuding an air of absolute control. Yet, beneath this composure lay the unmistakable promise of imminent danger.

-o-O-o-

July 1969,

New York.

"What a delightful little fiancée you've found for yourself, my dear Tom," Dmitri Jdanov drawled, his tone teetering between mockery and a hint of curiosity. "I can call you Tom, can't I?"

Without waiting for a response, he continued, his voice laced with sly sarcasm:

"This Helga Black of yours is utterly fascinating. She reminds me of a little panther—poised to pounce, fierce and untamable. Particularly alluring, I must admit."

Opposite him, Lord Voldemort allowed a faint, icy smile to ghost across his lips, fleeting and sharp as a shard of glass.

"Thank you, Dmitri," he replied with feigned courtesy.

Seeming pleased with his provocation, Dmitri carried on nonchalantly:

"And how do you find my little Isabella, with her round belly and golden curls?"

"She's exquisite," Voldemort murmured.

"I've always had a soft spot for blondes, as you well know," Jdanov declared, his fingers trailing slowly over his wand in a gesture that betrayed a simmering tension. "Isabella may not have the fire or the talent of my first wife, but she has her bite, despite appearances."

"The first also had quite the talent for deception," Voldemort noted idly, though his gaze glinted with dangerous intent.

Dmitri burst into a booming laugh, his face creasing with what might have been genuine amusement—or perhaps something more calculated.

"Yes, you'd know something about that, wouldn't you?"

He fixed Voldemort with a piercing look over the rims of his gold-framed glasses, his tone sharpening.

"Tell me, my dear Voldemort, it's been years now, but the question still lingers… Did you sleep with my Lyouda?"

A brief, almost embarrassed chuckle escaped Voldemort's lips before he regained his composure, smothering the moment in a wave of cold disdain.

"After everything that happened… does it still matter?"

"Oh, it does," Jdanov replied, a hard edge gleaming in his eyes. "That doubt influenced more than a few of my decisions."

Voldemort remained silent, his gaze fixed on Dmitri, studying him with chilling precision. An old, visceral hatred boiled in the depths of his black eyes, yet his face retained an expression of terrifying calm.

Then, in a voice as cold and calculated as a blade, he broke the silence:

"Let's dispense with the pleasantries. I must reveal the true reason for my presence here, Dmitri."

Seated with unnerving elegance, one foot resting on the opposite knee, his hands joined in a pyramid atop his thighs, Voldemort was the picture of composure. Yet beneath the stillness lay a coiled tension, poised to explode. Every gesture, every angle of his posture exuded latent menace—subtle, inescapable, like a predator biding its time before the kill.

"Helga Black is not exactly my fiancée," he stated, his tone soft.

"No? How surprising," Dmitri replied with a mocking smile. "Well, you should treat her as if she were. One look at her, and it's obvious she's expecting nothing less!"

Lord Voldemort met the remark with glacial indifference.

"While we are sitting here talking," he said, his voice unnervingly calm, "that little panther, as you so poetically described her, is in the process of slaughtering your charming wife."

Dmitri bolted upright, starting to rise. But before he could move further, vines erupted from nowhere, wrapping around him and forcefully pinning him back into his chair. Voldemort hadn't even raised his wand.

"Be reasonable, Voldemort!" Dmitri exclaimed, his voice betraying a panic he struggled to mask. "Is this some kind of joke? You're insane to provoke me like this! Let's take the time to talk this through!"

"I've taken all the time I needed," Voldemort replied sharply. "Years. Decades, even."

A cruel smile curled on Voldemort's lips.

"And I note, with a certain irony, that you finally know how to properly use my true name—now that you've been reduced to powerlessness."

"Why are you doing this?" Jdanov hissed, his voice sharp with desperation. "You'll lose the support of all the old influential families who sought refuge here!"

Voldemort let out a dry, mirthless laugh.

"Refuge? In my vocabulary, fleeing after the imprisonment of your leader is no different from desertion. Cowardice. You abandoned Europe to sink into the hands of Mudblood sympathisers, of Dumbledore, and ministries riddled with corruption."

"We've worked tirelessly here in America, Voldemort!" Jdanov shot back, his voice brimming with indignation.

A mocking smile tugged at the corners of Voldemort's mouth.

"Gala dinners and city cocktail parties hardly qualify as meaningful actions, Dmitri."

He rose slowly, his movements deliberate, his spectral form dominating the room. The dim light seemed to retreat around him, as though the very space bent to his presence.

"My arrival here today," Voldemort declared, his voice cold and as sharp as glass, "marks the close of the first chapter of my ascent. You, Dmitri, and your ilk represent the old world—the world of cowards and fugitives. Your lineage is finished. Your influence? Nothing more than a footnote."

He paused, letting his words sink deep into the mind of the bound man before him.

"The new order begins with me. I have dreamed of this moment night after night, for it serves not only my vision and my purpose but also satisfies, I admit, a very personal vengeance."

Dmitri, though bound, straightened slightly, his eyes gleaming with a flicker of defiance.

"This is about Lyouda, isn't it?"

At those words, Voldemort erupted into a sharp, cold laugh, devoid of any warmth.

"You had the unmitigated gall to spread rumours about my origins—me, the heir of Salazar Slytherin."

"No one doubts your heritage," Dmitri countered, his tone wavering between provocation and challenge. "But Ludmilla confided many interesting things to me when you were her pupil. It wasn't your uncle, that deranged Morfin Gaunt, who massacred that Muggle family—it was you, wasn't it? Why target them, Voldemort?"

A frigid silence fell over the room, thick with tension, broken only by Jdanov's laboured breathing. Voldemort stared at him unblinkingly. His dark eyes, laced with faint red glimmers, narrowed slightly, their depths burning with a searing, almost incandescent contempt.

"Believe me, Dmitri," Voldemort said, his voice soft and venomous, "it is not without a certain satisfaction that I bring your existence to an end. But know this—I will never forget you. You've taught me a valuable lesson: a great wizard must be willing to sacrifice even key pieces to continue his ascent."

With deliberate slowness, almost ceremonially, he raised his wand, every movement humming with quiet menace.

"Goodbye, Dmitri."

"Tom, Voldemort, wait! Listen to me!" Dmitri cried out, his voice cracking under the weight of fear he could no longer conceal. "I still have contacts in Europe—funds, resources! I can be useful to you!"

A disdainful sneer curled Voldemort's lips as he pierced Dmitri with a merciless gaze.

"I no longer have any use for you," he declared, his voice sharp and final.

"No! Listen!" Dmitri stammered, his panic mounting as he grasped desperately at any hope. "I know a way to get to Dumbledore! I know the secrets he pursued with Grindelwald! Artefacts of unimaginable power! I… I can reveal everything to you if you spare me!"

A brief, cruel laugh escaped Voldemort, echoing in the room like a sinister mockery.

"Still gambling to the bitter end, Dmitri… Do you really think me naive enough to believe you now?"

"I beg you, I'm telling the truth!" Dmitri cried, his voice rising to a desperate pitch. "Let's have a drink, talk it over! Give me a chance!"

Voldemort remained unmoved, his expression carved in stone, deaf to the old Dark wizard's pleas. His wand tilted ever so slightly, the air around him thick with ominous tension.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light blazed through the room, casting fleeting shadows on the walls. Dmitri Jdanov collapsed into his chair, his eyes frozen and empty, a silent witness to a life violently snuffed out.

-o-O-o-

This time, the torrent of memories grew even denser, almost suffocating. Bellatrix caught a glimpse of the Pensieve's mechanisms spinning wildly, as though the object itself resisted allowing this particular thread of thoughts to unravel further.

For the first time, Bellatrix tried to close her mind, employing a technique reminiscent of those she had mastered during her Occlumency lessons. The memories seemed to slow, becoming slightly more pliable, and, with little finesse, she forced her way into one of the vaporous streams.

For the briefest fraction of a second, a tiny opening appeared, just wide enough for her to slip through.

-o-O-o-

September 1944,

Hogwarts.

Ludmilla Thenn stood tall on her platform. Though approaching her thirties, her youthful, pale face betrayed an unsettling intensity. High cheekbones and a strong chin gave structure to her otherwise round face, while her large blue eyes—framed by thick, blond lashes darkened with kohl—held a magnetic allure. Her hair, so light it appeared white, was tied into a high ponytail, impeccably neat and emphasising the rigidity of her posture.

Dressed in a pearl-grey silk robe, simple yet elegant, she surveyed the class with an almost discourteous confidence. Before her, her students—mostly boys—stared back with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue.

"My name is Ludmilla Thenn," she announced, her voice poised but sharp, immediately commanding the room's attention. "An accomplished expert in potions and enchantments that enrich the spirit, addressing all aspects of the body and mind—from sleep to memory, from pain to pleasure—I will have the honour of being your new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

She paused, her cold gaze sweeping the classroom.

"I am particularly pleased to meet my seventh-year Slytherin and Gryffindor students. According to the notes left by Professor Merrythought, this class is said to contain promising talent. However, given the general laxity of this school, I remain unconvinced."

A ripple of amused murmurs passed through the room, quickly silenced when Ludmilla raised an authoritative brow.

"Let us begin with the roll call. I see quite a few boys in this class… Enguerrand Avery?"

A slight young man with ash-blond hair raised a hesitant hand from the front row.

"Reginaldus Lestrange?"

"Present, Professor," responded a tall, dark-haired boy from the second row, his deep, confident voice resonating through the room.

"Cordelia Mulciber?"

At the back of the class, an isolated girl lazily raised her hand, her eyes casting a detached glance toward the platform.

"Georges Nott?"

"Here, Professor," replied a stocky boy in an even tone.

"Tom Riddle?"

Next to Reginaldus, another tall, dark-haired boy—more striking and commanding than the others—calmly raised his hand. Ludmilla lifted her eyes from her parchment and fixed them on the young man. Her icy gaze locked onto his for several seconds, her lids narrowing slightly.

The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, until a few boys near Tom exchanged amused glances and stifled laughs. Ludmilla, however, remained unmoved. She did not smile.

With a theatrical flourish, Ludmilla resumed reading from her parchment.

"Ennius Rosier?"

"That's me, Professor!" exclaimed a fiery-haired young man, brimming with energy, his broad grin lighting up his face. His belongings were scattered haphazardly around him, as if actively resisting any attempt at order.

Ludmilla barely furrowed her brow before continuing, seemingly unconcerned by the chaos at his desk. She finished the roll call and then announced:

"We will begin with a small test to assess your level. Your former professor seemed to believe you were talented, but it will take much more than that to impress me."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the class, only to be interrupted by a deep, haughty voice.

"Excuse me, Professor," Reginaldus Lestrange interjected, his tone carrying an imperious edge, "but I detect a Russian accent in your voice. Where are you from?"

The question, delivered with brazen entitlement, elicited a burst of laughter from the Slytherin boys—except Tom. A faint, nearly imperceptible smile flickered across his lips, though his carefully composed expression betrayed the sharp scrutiny he directed at the new professor.

Professor Thenn, unperturbed, raised an eyebrow, countering Reginaldus's rudeness with a glacial, almost disarming composure.

"I do not think that is any of your concern, young man. However, to answer your question, I am indeed Russian, a graduate of Durmstrang—a school far superior to Hogwarts."

A collective murmur of mixed admiration and indignation spread through the room.

"Really? Durmstrang? I've always dreamed of studying there!" exclaimed Ennius Rosier, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Ludmilla ignored Ennius's comment and continued briskly:

"I will call each of you in turn and ask you to perform a series of non-verbal spells, level IV by British standards. Your target will be that mannequin at the back of the room. Do you all understand?"

A chorus of murmured affirmations followed her question.

"Good. Let's start with… Tom," she said suddenly, without glancing at her parchment.

Her cold, inquisitive gaze fixed on Tom. Though he was acutely aware of the unusual attention she paid him, he rose with composed elegance and made his way to the centre of the room without a word.

"You'll see, Professor—he's very good!" called out Ennius, still grinning.

Ludmilla didn't respond, though her lips curved slightly into an ambiguous expression.

"Let's begin with a moderately challenging spell," she declared, her eyes still locked on Tom.

Standing in the middle of the room, his posture impeccable, Tom appeared perfectly at ease despite the weight of his classmates' stares and Ludmilla Thenn's probing gaze.

"We'll start with a basic spell," she said at last, her tone detached. "Cinctura Securis."

She gestured towards the mannequin at the back of the room with a casual flick of her wrist.

"Cast a perfect barrier around the target. Non-verbal, of course."

Tom inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Raising his wand with precision, he focused on the mannequin with unwavering intensity. Within moments, a shimmering blue-silver circle of light burst from his wand and closed around the mannequin, its edges sharp and almost ethereal.

A murmur of admiration rippled through the classroom. Ludmilla arched an eyebrow, scrutinising his work.

"Acceptable," she remarked coolly. "But the base of the barrier is slightly uneven. A lapse in focus, Tom?"

Tom met her gaze steadily, his expression unmoved.

"I'll ensure it's perfect next time, Professor," he replied.

"Good. Now dissolve the barrier without disturbing the space around it. Vaporis."

He nodded and, with a fluid motion of his wand, the barrier dissipated without a trace. This time, Ludmilla made no comment, though her gaze grew sharper.

"Let's move on to a transfiguration exercise. Transform the mannequin into a magical creature. Mutatio Rigorosa."

The room fell silent. The students seemed to hold their breath as Tom pointed his wand at the mannequin, his focus unrelenting. Seconds ticked by before the wood of the mannequin began to shift, softening, its outlines blurring. Slowly, a sleek black serpent emerged, its sinuous body coiling, its yellow eyes gleaming with a menacing glint.

Ludmilla's lips curled into a frosty smile.

"A serpent. How predictable," she remarked, her tone biting. "A competent transformation, but uninspired."

Tom remained silent, though his brow furrowed slightly.

"Very well," she continued, her tone now clipped. "Now, replicate the mannequin. Gemino Animatum."

This time, Tom closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he raised his wand with precision. A perfect replica of the serpent appeared, followed by a second, then a third. The three serpents slithered around the original mannequin, alive and menacing, their sinuous movements captivating the room.

A chill swept through the classroom. Even the most inattentive students were spellbound.

"A fine effort," Ludmilla acknowledged. "But I noticed a slight hesitation between the second and third duplication. Can you do better?"

Tom inclined his head slightly, a cold smile curling on his lips.

"Let's try something else. Fulgur Ignis," she said suddenly. "Conjure a flame and guide it along a precise trajectory."

She traced an invisible circle in the air with her finger.

Without hesitation, Tom complied. A flame burst from his wand, its motion fluid and mesmerising. It traced the exact path Ludmilla had indicated, then extinguished softly without leaving a trace.

An impressed silence filled the room. Ludmilla stood still for a moment, her gaze fixed on Tom.

"Acceptable," she finally said.

For a brief second, Tom appeared taken aback, but he quickly recovered, inclining his head once more.

"Thank you, Professor," he replied politely.

Ludmilla stepped down slowly from her platform, crossing her arms as she approached him.

"That said, Tom," she began, "power alone does not make a great wizard. True greatness lies in subtlety… and unpredictability." Her tone was enigmatic, her words hanging in the air as she turned sharply on her heel and walked away.

The room buzzed with murmurs; the students fascinated by what they had just witnessed. Tom Riddle, however, remained motionless, his gaze fixed on Ludmilla's rigid figure for a moment before he turned away with calculated nonchalance. He shrugged lightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile lingering on his lips, and returned to his seat.

As the students exited the classroom, a small group naturally formed around him, their faces alight with barely concealed admiration.

"That was magnificent, Voldemort," Reginaldus murmured, his deep voice laced with a mix of pride and awe.

"Yes, exceptional, as always," added Enguerrand Avery, his tone sharpening slightly as they walked away from the lesson. "But she wasn't exactly kind to you… She watched you the entire time. What does she want from you?"

Tom shrugged again.

"Perhaps she's trying to prove something to herself," he replied, his tone calm but thoughtful.

"Well, it's a change from Professor Slughorn's classes," Ennius Rosier said with a laugh. "There, you're his favourite!"

A sly grin spread across Reginaldus's face.

"Yes. I doubt she'll offer you the same indulgences."

-o-O-o-

31 December 1944,

Hogwarts.

"Good evening, Professor," greeted young Tom Riddle respectfully, leaning casually against one of the archways in the Transfiguration Courtyard.

The rain fell so heavily that, caught in the biting cold, the droplets transformed into frost before reaching the ground. Sheltered under the ancient vaults, Tom wore an expression of polite interest tinged with an assured curiosity. The castle was silent, deserted by most students who had returned to their families for the holiday season.

"Good evening, Tom. I'm pleased to see you've found time to meet me," replied Professor Ludmilla Thenn, her tone carrying a warmth and emphasis far removed from the cool formality she had displayed at the beginning of the year.

"Of course, Professor. You mentioned in your note that you'd reviewed my essay on memory-erasing spells?"

A faintly wry smile tugged at the corners of Ludmilla's lips.

"Follow me," she instructed with quiet authority.

Though slightly taken aback by her curt response, Tom complied without question. They walked under the arches toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Once inside, Tom was surprised to hear the click of the key turning in the lock, followed by the soft rustling of curtains being drawn shut. Finally, Ludmilla murmured a Muffliato in a low, melodic voice.

Tom turned to her, a faint question in his eyes, one brow slightly raised.

"A simple precaution," she said, her smile still laced with that veil of irony. "Your essay is in my office."

They entered the adjoining office, where Ludmilla retrieved a scroll of parchment and handed it to Tom, her face lighting up with an uncharacteristically bright smile.

"Congratulations," she said simply.

On the parchment, a bold "O" written in vivid red ink immediately caught the eye. Ludmilla then enumerated the essay's strengths—the detail, the innovation, and the clarity of Tom's arguments—praising its remarkable quality for a seventh-year student. She also highlighted his proposed improvements and insights, which demonstrated an exceptional mastery of the subject.

"Your essay is remarkable," she said. "It displays an analysis of rare sophistication, and I was especially pleased to see that you did not shy away from the ethical considerations of these spells—something, I admit, I did not entirely expect from you."

Tom seemed momentarily taken aback, his expression flickering with a hint of indignation.

"It is unthinkable to discuss memory-erasing spells without addressing the ethical implications of their use," he retorted with icy seriousness. "Did you truly believe I would overlook such an aspect?"

"Indeed... yes, I thought so, judging by your little letter," Ludmilla replied, her lips curling into a predatory smile.

Tom stared at her, one brow arched, as though she had just uttered something utterly absurd.

"My little letter?" he repeated, his voice cold, his gaze laced with guarded scepticism.

Ludmilla let out a brief, crystalline laugh before striding to her desk. With exaggerated theatrics, she retrieved another parchment and held it aloft.

"Yes, yes, Tom. It's time to drop the pretences, don't you think? I'm, of course, referring to this fascinating letter you sent nearly a year ago, which I managed to acquire. Allow me to read it back to you...

"Hogwarts,

29 June 1944.

To the Venerable Brotherhood of the Seven Sorcerers,

It is with the utmost reverence that I take the liberty of addressing this missive to submit my candidacy for membership in your esteemed society of Dark Magic: the celebrated Brotherhood of the Seven Sorcerers. I have learned that a vacancy has arisen following the decision of the great Gellert Grindelwald to pursue his own path.

I am firmly persuaded that I possess the qualities necessary to take my place within your ranks. My ambition is to advance my mastery in the study and practice of Dark Magic, which I regard as a superior and rigorous discipline. My current abilities, though primarily self-taught, reflect my dedication and seriousness in pursuing this calling.

Furthermore, I wish to draw your attention to my direct lineage from Salazar Slytherin, founder of one of the most venerable bloodlines in wizarding history. This noble heritage has endowed me with the gift of Parseltongue, a talent that naturally aligns with the core tenets of your philosophy regarding Dark Magic.

I have also studied the visionary writings of Vermilius Galatis, co-authored by Dmitri Jdanov, regarding the legal constraints that impede the practice of our art across much of Western Europe. I share their unequivocal rejection of such arbitrary and oppressive restrictions.

The notion that skilled wizards should be denied access to the most potent magical arts under the pretext of safeguarding the Muggle world represents, in my view, an unacceptable affront to our fundamental liberties and our inherent right to flourish as superior beings.

Although I am still a student at Hogwarts, I would be most willing to meet with you during the summer to discuss these topics further. It would be a profound honour to demonstrate my abilities and elaborate upon the deeper motivations that inspire my desire to join your venerable organisation.

Please accept the expression of my highest regard.

Lord Voldemort"

"That is you, isn't it?" Ludmilla said, her voice edged with a quiet triumph. "This 'Lord Voldemort'—that's how you refer to yourself in the intimacy of your circle, isn't it?"

Tom fixed her with a glacial intensity, as though seeing her for the first time.

"How did you acquire that letter?" he asked, his tone laced with cold anger.

"My husband entrusted it to me," she replied calmly, her ironic smile unshaken.

"And who is your husband?" The question came with cutting precision, his eyes flashing with a threatening gleam.

"I am Ludmilla Jdanov, wife of Dmitri Jdanov and daughter of Wolf Thelonious," she explained, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. "Thenn is merely a pseudonym. My father and Dmitri are the founders of the Brotherhood of the Seven Sorcerers, the secret society devoted to Dark Magic that you so boldly contacted."

A barely perceptible flicker crossed Tom's face, betraying a brief moment of unease.

"You took this position as a professor solely to test me?" he asked, a faint note of incredulity in his voice.

"That was my primary goal, yes. From the start of the year, I was tasked with assessing the abilities of Salazar Slytherin's heir to determine the merit of your candidacy," she continued, her tone almost conspiratorial. "But it was also an excellent opportunity to keep an eye on Albus Dumbledore."

"Why not inform me from the beginning?"

"If you had proven disappointing, it would have been unnecessary—if not reckless—to reveal an identity that, for obvious reasons, must remain secret."

"So, am I accepted into the Brotherhood?" Tom asked, his voice measured, though a flicker of tension burned in his eyes.

"Not yet. You must still fully demonstrate the breadth of your talents in Dark Magic. Thus far, we've only touched upon traditional forms of magic, but I must admit—you are a highly promising candidate."

"Very well," he replied smoothly, though the youthful enthusiasm shining in his bright eyes and the faintly triumphant curl of his lips betrayed him. "How do you propose we proceed?"

"We will explore together various branches of Dark Magic," she said, her smile widening ever so slightly. "But we must act with the utmost discretion, ensuring we do not attract the attention of Headmaster Dippet—or worse, your Transfiguration professor."

She paused, her piercing gaze holding his, as if ensuring he fully grasped the gravity of her words.

"As you know, the Brotherhood remains a spiritual ally of Grindelwald. Although he has departed from our ranks, the confidentiality of our activities remains of utmost importance."

"That goes without saying," Tom replied without hesitation.

"Good," she said at last, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "I did not choose this day by chance. It is your birthday, is it not? You turn eighteen today."

Tom inclined his head slightly, a shadow of faint embarrassment flickering across his face.

"Indeed," he answered in a neutral tone, though there was a note of cautious reserve.

"Well then, this is my way of wishing you a very happy birthday," she said lightly, an enigmatic smile gracing her lips.

"Thank you, Professor," Tom replied, his tone composed but watchful.

-o-O-o-

The months passed in a blur, and Bellatrix, a powerless spectator, found herself plunged into a whirlwind of intertwined memories—a rapid succession of scenes unfurling like melodies played at an unrelenting tempo. Each private lesson came to life again before her eyes, and while she couldn't catch every detail, the overall impression was unmistakable. The young professor, with unwavering rigour, subjected her pupil to increasingly demanding and intricate trials. Even when his accomplishments verged on the extraordinary, she always found something to critique, sparking in the young man an unyielding desire to prove his worth.

Bellatrix couldn't help but see echoes of herself in these memories, recalling her own years at Hogwarts, when she strove relentlessly to excel and prove herself worthy of becoming a Death Eater.

Tom Riddle wielded spells, curses, and enchantments with a rare virtuosity, and Bellatrix longed to draw closer, to take in every nuance of his face, every subtle inflection of his voice. Yet, she remained trapped in her role as a distant observer, powerless to alter the rhythm or viewpoint of the visions.

She watched a young man who was undeniably compelling, brilliant, and—most surprisingly—human. He was distinctly different from the Voldemort she had always known. This adolescent Tom was remarkable, yes, but also more vulnerable, almost approachable at times. He strove to maintain control over his expressions and emotions, but Bellatrix—accustomed to deciphering the cold, impassive mask of her Master—could discern a multitude of conflicting emotions playing out across this youthful face.

Frustration mingled with pride. Irritation gave way to amusement. Doubt wrestled with confidence.

This young Dark wizard appeared to be at a pivotal stage in his life, caught in an ambiguous state where his humanity still lingered beneath the layers of ambition and calculated restraint.

Watching him move among his fellow Slytherins, offering advice and attention, always surrounded by familiar faces—some slightly younger, like Antonin Dolohov or Charles Mulciber, and others his age, such as Reginaldus Lestrange, Ennius Rosier, or Enguerrand Avery—felt strangely surreal to Bellatrix.

She even caught glimpses of her mother, Druella Rosier, or her father, Cygnus Black, occasionally trailing in the wake of the young Dark wizard. Students and professors alike seemed drawn to him, as though pulled in by the aura of power he exuded.

Even when silent, standing on the side-lines, observing at the edge of groups or discussions, there was an unmistakable sense of latent authority about him—a restrained importance that demanded respect without needing to be asserted. Bellatrix was captivated by the echoes of a Voldemort who had not yet entirely become the figure she adored.

Between him and his professor, an ambiguous relationship began to take shape, marked by mutual admiration and constant challenges. Tom seemed resolute in overcoming every obstacle, intent on proving himself worthy of her teachings.

Bellatrix, overwhelmed by the chaotic stream of memories, found herself engulfed in a torrent of images: shadowy dungeons, forbidden spells, and mysterious potions. Each vision seemed to pull her further away from the truth, as though an invisible force were working to repel her. Yet an insatiable, almost voracious curiosity drove her. She was determined to uncover the secrets behind this peculiar woman's mastery of potions.

Steeling herself, Bellatrix pressed forward, forcing her way mentally through the thick veil of reminiscences.

At last, a memory emerged from the tumult—distinct, solitary, and suspended as though lost in the depths of a wintry mist. It asserted itself before her, clear and immutable, yet fragile, as if it might slip away like prey trapped at the bottom of a narrow hole.

-o-O-o-

In a narrow, oppressive dungeon, dimly lit by the flickering glow of a few torches, young Voldemort and Ludmilla stood side by side, their attention fixed on a simmering cauldron. From it rose thick, fragrant vapours, shrouding the scene in an intimate, humid atmosphere.

"You have all the makings of a Dark wizard, Tom," Ludmilla said, her piercing blue eyes fixed on him. "But I wonder… would you be willing to do everything to achieve your goals? Is your heart strong enough to endure the torment, sacrifices, and setbacks required by the Dark Arts?"

"What are you implying, Professor?" Tom asked in a measured tone, though his sharp, blade-like gaze betrayed a cautious curiosity.

Ludmilla tilted her head slightly, her eyes boring into his as if attempting to pierce the veil of his impassive façade and glimpse the soul within.

"As Grindelwald taught us," she said with muted gravity, "there are times when force is not only unavoidable but necessary to achieve one's ends."

She paused, letting her words hang in the damp air of the dungeon, before continuing in a voice that dropped almost imperceptibly lower:

"Could you kill someone, Tom?"

Tom froze mid-motion, the ladle in his hand suspended above the cauldron. His cold, unreadable gaze locked onto her calculating stare. Slowly, he set the ladle down on the cauldron's edge before replying in a cold tone:

"What makes you think I haven't already?"

Ludmilla's lips curved into a faint smile, but her eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise.

"Oh! Truly? At your age?" she exclaimed, clearly intrigued.

Tom remained silent, as though caught in a moment of introspection. Ludmilla studied him for a long while before a soft laugh escaped her lips, momentarily dispelling the tension that had settled between them.

"Your problem, Tom," she said with a deliberately light tone, "is that you're far too serious."

"What do you mean?"

"You never allow yourself to let go," she continued, her voice adopting a calculated softness. "If you ever wish to fully join the Brotherhood, you'll need to learn to be more frivolous, freer. Believe me, your rigidity will eventually become a hindrance."

He raised a brow, his gaze sceptical and laced with arrogance.

"And what could frivolity possibly offer me?"

An ironic smile played on Ludmilla's lips.

"Certain forms of magic, Tom," she said, her tone teasing yet laced with authority, "reveal themselves only to those who dare relinquish absolute control. It's not about domination—it's about receptivity. Allowing magic to flow through you, unrestrained, even for just a moment."

Tom inclined his head slightly, regarding the professor with caution.

"I fail to see how relinquishing control could ever be an advantage. To lose control is to grant others the opportunity to seize it. Between wizards, every relationship is necessarily built on a balance of power. No one escapes the intrinsic nature of magic, which is, at its core, a potential for force—sometimes immense, sometimes latent, but always unevenly wielded."

Ludmilla burst into laughter, light and crystalline, but laced with evident mischief.

"How can someone of such remarkable intelligence be so dreadfully obtuse?" she said with a wry smile, more to herself than to him.

Her gaze lingered on him, her eyes alight with genuine amusement. Then, her tone softened, almost to a murmur.

"You're wary, aren't you? Always guarding your secrets jealously, as though each one is a precious key that only you are entitled to hold."

"I've hidden nothing from you, Professor," he replied, feigning innocence.

"Oh, truly? Then what secret lies within the ring you wear on your finger?"

Tom's jaw tightened imperceptibly.

"Nothing," he said immediately, pulling his hand behind his back as though to shield it from her scrutinising gaze.

A knowing, amused smile spread across Ludmilla's lips as she stepped closer, her tone taking on a coaxing quality.

"You're cautious, Tom, but not where you should be. And, paradoxically, you're far too transparent in other ways. That, I fear, will one day be your undoing."

She paused, scrutinising him with a smile tinged with a certain nostalgia.

"You know, at your age, I was very much like you. It's not with other wizards that one must learn to let go, but with magic itself. And I, too, learned to let go… through means you likely cannot yet fathom."

"And what means are those?" he asked, his tone lofty, his piercing gaze drilling into hers inquisitively.

"There are three ways to let go and overcome a block to enrich one's spirit," she replied in a detached, almost professorial tone. "The first is to practise Dark Magic in a cathartic manner. The second, to surrender to long, dreamless sleep."

She paused, letting the silence stretch, heavy and deliberate, before adding in a low, almost mischievous voice:

"And the third… is to indulge oneself."

Tom raised an eyebrow, sceptical, his expression betraying his clear disbelief.

"Indulge oneself?" he repeated, with a trace of mockery, as if weighing the apparent triviality of the notion.

"Yes," she confirmed, her enigmatic smile glowing, offering no further explanation. "What we're preparing tonight, however, is a potion for dreamless sleep—one of my own creations. I've considered commercialising it one day; it could be of use to many people."

Tom frowned, his expression a blend of puzzlement and disdain.

"I fail to see how sleep could solve anything," he remarked.

"No, Tom," she replied with a sigh, "you're still impervious to much of what magic has to offer."

Discomfited by her statement, he chose instead to focus on the potion they were preparing, carefully avoiding any response.

After a prolonged silence, Ludmilla broke the atmosphere once more:

"Have you ever made love, Tom?"

"Excuse me?"

His head snapped up, and despite his efforts to maintain a composed expression, a faint pink hue crept into his cheeks.

"Forget I asked. Let's finish this potion," Ludmilla said indulgently. "Afterwards, you should note its composition in that little journal of yours."

-o-O-o-

The next memory, too, attempted to slip away from Bellatrix, like a devilfish writhing out of her grasp. Yet she clung to it with fierce determination, even though the day, the place, and the colours remained shrouded in a hazy, fleeting veil.

-o-O-o-

"Do you like this?"

Ludmilla sat pressed close against Tom on the bench of an old desk in an abandoned classroom, her hand was plunged into the young man's trousers, moving in steady, rhythmic movements.

The young man kept his eyes closed, his brows slightly furrowed, betraying either intense concentration or an inner struggle. Opposite him, the young professor watched intently, her gaze unwavering as she studied every detail of his face. His finely chiselled features, nearly perfect; his straight nose; his subtly hollowed cheeks; and his full lips.

She seemed to relish the unsettling blend of vulnerability and control, searching in every expression, every barely perceptible movement, for confirmation of what she hoped to find in him.

"I don't know," he replied at last.

She let out a laugh, light but laden with meaning.

"Relax. Try to clear your mind."

"Actually," he said, his tone edged with quiet disdain, "I think I'd enjoy this more if you kept quiet."

Ludmilla let out a crystalline laugh, clearly amused by the young man's disarming honesty.

"I suppose," she said, her tone laced with playful irony, "you'd prefer the other method—the one that will keep me from uttering a single word."

With those words, she knelt with deliberate slowness, her gaze defiant, almost playful. Tom, after a moment's hesitation, reopened his eyes to look at her, his pupils reflecting a flicker of troubled curiosity.

"Doesn't it arouse you," she asked, her tone low and provocative, "to see a professor, a virtuoso of magic, the wife of a Dark wizard you admire, kneeling before you…?"

"A little…" Tom admitted, his breath shallow, excitement flickering as he watched the young woman undo his trousers a bit further. "But why are you doing this?"

"I indulge myself, and I take what pleases me," she said, her tone unapologetic. "You're a very attractive young man, and I have nothing like you at home."

"Excuse me?"

"Mmh, mmh," she murmured, a sly smile curling on her lips. "Dmitri and I, you see, it's an arranged marriage. I respect him, certainly, but he's an old wizard, more than thirty years my senior. To try and rekindle even a spark of passion within me, I once concocted a potion… let's say, of a less noble nature. A brew capable of igniting desire for him. And you… wouldn't you be curious to try it?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with mischief, her smile brimming with insolence.

"No!" Tom exclaimed at once, his voice sharp with indignation.

"I suspected as much," she said lightly. "Well then, let me try the natural way."

And with that, she set to her task.

-o-O-o-

"Why did you marry this Dark wizard if you don't love him? Couldn't you have refused the union?" Tom asked one day, his tone laced with distant curiosity.

"I don't think I could have found a better husband," Ludmilla replied calmly. "Yes, he's old, but he's a great Dark wizard. I've known him since my childhood. As guardians of a world in peril, we have a responsibility. It is a woman's duty to choose a good husband with whom to ensure a strong lineage."

Tom appeared slightly sceptical, arching a brow but refraining from an immediate response.

"You don't agree?" she pressed, holding his gaze. "It is also the responsibility of worthy wizards to secure a legacy," she added with a mischievous wink.

This time, Tom couldn't hide a look of profound disgust.

"I will never have children," he declared with an icy finality.

"Oh, really? And why not?" Ludmilla retorted, a faint smile playing on her lips.

"I have no need for them," he stated with unshakeable conviction.

Ludmilla regarded him for a moment, silent, as though trying to read his thoughts.

"So, you'll never have any kind of sexual relationship with any woman?" she eventually asked.

Young Voldemort seemed to consider the question briefly, his face impassive.

"If a pregnancy were to occur, I would simply have the child killed," he said coldly, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

"Mmh. A bit extreme, but effective," Ludmilla remarked in a detached voice, an amused glint in her eyes.

-o-O-o-

They moved along a winding path skirting the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Tom walked briskly, almost impatiently, while Ludmilla struggled to keep up, her voice cutting through the nocturnal silence with a string of pleas: "Stop! Please! Tom, I beg you!"

The night was well advanced, shrouding the surroundings in dense darkness, but a spectral full moon hung high in the sky, casting a cold, pale light over their faces. Its silvery glow filtered down in ghostly strands, brushing the treetops like a shimmering veil.

"Tom, I implore you, forgive me," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of anxiety and persuasion. "I approached the situation the wrong way, I admit… but I assure you, this potion has nothing in common with the Imperius Curse! It merely awakens what was already within you. I only wanted to help you overcome your fears, to ensure nothing hinders your rise."

He stopped abruptly and turned to her, his gaze icy, his expression steeped in contempt and barely contained anger.

"Perhaps I should inform your husband?" he said sharply. "What would he think of me if he knew? And how could I possibly claim a place among the Brotherhood of the Seven Sorcerers if one of its members indulges himself with another's wife?"

Ludmilla rolled her eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous. That would be a mistake. You're dramatizing a situation that, in reality, is insignificant. Sex is just a game, a distraction—it doesn't matter."

She paused, letting her words seep into the young man's mind before continuing, her honeyed tone laced with condescension:

"Tom, you're a young man brimming with talent, but you must understand a fundamental truth: in this world, influence is the only currency that matters. And, let's be honest, you lack anything that truly sets you apart. No solid connections, save for a few Slytherin classmates who are far too young to hold any sway. No wealth. And most glaringly, no name."

She let the silence stretch before resuming, her smile sharp as a blade.

"Oh, of course, I know you're the heir of Salazar Slytherin. But your name is Riddle. Riddle. A name devoid of prestige, synonymous with nothing. You're just a poor orphan with outsized ambitions, cruelly lacking the means to achieve them. And shall I dare to broach the subject of your origins, Tom?"

Tom made a show of reaching for his wand, but Ludmilla broke into mocking laughter.

"What do you intend to do? Attack me? Come now, be serious, Tom. I'm your professor. You wouldn't want to risk expulsion from Hogwarts just weeks before your NEWTs."

She studied him intently, her eyes probing for cracks in the armour of confidence he struggled to maintain. Then, in a gentler, almost coaxing tone, she continued:

"Despite your apparent misfortunes, you possess an extraordinary advantage. You're brilliant, charming, and… particularly handsome. Ask any witch in our world, and you'll see: seduction can open doors that even the most powerful spells cannot."

She stepped closer, an enigmatic smile lingering on her lips.

"I've merely helped you glimpse this path, my dear. Believe me, you will never rise to greatness without learning how to wield your charms."

He continued to stare at her for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with reproach. His dark eyes gleamed with an intensity that bordered on unsettling.

"Forgive me," she said again, her voice softened, her hands clasped together in a clumsy imitation of supplication. "Let's forget all of this, shall we?"

He tilted his head slightly, as though weighing her sincerity, before responding with calculated coldness:

"Then, are you going to introduce me to the six sorcerers of the Brotherhood?"

She nodded quickly.

"Yes, you've earned that honour. During the Easter holidays. Take a room on Diagon Alley and wait for my instructions. I'll contact you in due time."

"Very well," he replied curtly, before turning on his heel and making his way back toward the castle.

-o-O-o-

Easter 1945,

St. Petersburg.

Ludmilla Thenn gripped Tom's arm firmly as they Apparated with precision to the designated meeting point. They materialised in front of a small, dark, and low carriage door set into the imposing stone wall of a fortress. Beneath their feet, muddy, partially melted snow formed a wet, slippery layer, dirtying the entrance threshold.

"Follow me," she said confidently. "The meeting point lies deep within this fortress. Wizards gain entry through this door, carefully concealed from Muggles by enchantments."

With a precise flick of her wand, Ludmilla traced a complex pattern on the door, an intricate arabesque of lines and symbols that shimmered briefly before the door creaked open with a heavy groan. It revealed a narrow staircase, carved from stone, descending into foreboding depths.

"The six are waiting for you below," she continued, casting a quick glance at Tom. "They'll ask you a few questions, but it's merely a formality. My reports throughout the year have already been enough to pique their interest… and stir a burning desire to meet you."

Tom smirked faintly, a shadow of satisfaction crossing his features. Without a word, he followed Ludmilla, descending alongside her into the dark staircase that seemed to plunge directly into the heart of the fortress.

They emerged into a vast circular amphitheatre, illuminated by torches whose flickering flames cast dancing shadows upon the stone walls. Heavy black-and-gold tapestries, emblazoned with the inscription 7S encircled by a wreath of golden leaves, hung along the chamber's periphery. At the centre of the room, down the steps, stood a massive round table surrounded by six wizards. One chair remained vacant, turned away from the entrance, as though awaiting the one for whom it had been reserved.

Tom and Ludmilla descended the steps with measured deliberation. The unyielding gazes of the six wizards locked onto Tom. One of them, however, allowed a sharp smile to tug at his lips, his eyes glinting with malice. Ludmilla hurried to take her place between two elderly wizards, standing tall and poised in a manner that was almost ceremonial.

The wizard who had smiled was tall and slender, his piercing blue eyes scanning Tom appraisingly. The other, darker-skinned with a pointed beard, carried a severe countenance that gave him an air of unchallengeable authority.

"Welcome, Tom," said the bearded wizard, his voice deep and deliberate. "Or would you prefer we address you as… Lord Voldemort?"

A low murmur, like stifled laughter, rippled through the seated members.

"I prefer to be called Lord Voldemort," Tom replied with unflinching hauteur.

The wizard inclined his head slightly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Allow me to introduce myself and my companions, dear Lord. I am Wolf Thelonious, Ludmilla's father. To my right is my oldest associate, Dmitri Jdanov, with whom I founded this venerable secret society. Beside him sits Atila Altan, an expert in curses and coercive enchantments. Then Hans Leimkuhler, a scholar of Germanic and Scandinavian Dark Magic from the twelfth century. Seth De Lellis, who holds a thesis on the properties of unicorn blood, and finally Vermilius Galatis, a specialist in Inferi, mummies, and creatures of the ancient worlds. We invite you to take your seat."

Tom settled into the seventh chair with calculated ease, casting a brief, appraising glance around the assembly.

"It is with great interest that we have considered your application," Thelonious continued, his tone almost benevolent. "First, in reading your letter sent last year, and then through the reports provided by my dear daughter throughout the year. Your ambitions are vast, and we have observed them with sustained interest. You embody all that this society values in its members: power, determination, and rare ambition."

He paused, his gaze fixed on the impassive face of the young man.

"But, as we all know here, ambition alone is never enough."

A murmur of agreement rippled around the table, tinged with barely concealed amusement. Ludmilla stood straight, though slightly withdrawn from the proceedings.

Dmitri Jdanov took up the thread, his hands clasped before him, his smile thin and sharp.

"We took great care in studying you, my dear boy. We sent this charming professor, who also happens to be my delightful wife, to assess your potential and determine if you were trustworthy. Alas, the answer revealed itself to us with—shall I say—a certain clarity."

A faint chuckle echoed coldly and sinisterly around the table. Wolf Thelonious nodded slowly, his mocking smile stretching wider.

"This letter you sent? Such audacity… but what recklessness. To reveal yourself so openly, to boast of being the heir of Slytherin, to have opened the fabled Chamber of Secrets… Was it arrogance? Or a touch of naivety, youthful enthusiasm perhaps?"

Hans Leimkuhler, seated to Dmitri's right, straightened slightly, his German accent adding a sharper edge to his words.

"Not only have you shown yourself to be presumptuous and reckless, but also secretive and unpredictable. A fascinating combination, to be sure… but utterly dangerous."

He paused, fixing Tom with an icy stare before continuing, his tone laced with disdain:

"Ambition is one thing. But to think that we, the guardians of this society, would bow to a boy capable of exposing his weaknesses so blatantly… It is almost an insult to our intelligence."

Seth De Lellis, the unicorn blood expert, leaned forward slightly, a sly smile playing on his lips, his drawling voice dripping with sarcasm.

"And that ring on your finger… such an intriguing little trinket."

For the first time, a flicker of unease passed across Tom's face.

"It's merely a relic from my family," he replied, his voice—normally so composed—wavering ever so slightly.

"Do you think we are so easily deceived?" snapped Vermilius Galatis, his sharp tone cracking through the air like a whip. "We, the members of the venerable Brotherhood of the Seven Sorcerers? We, who once worked alongside Gellert Grindelwald, the greatest Dark wizard of all time?"

Wolf picked up the thread, his voice softening to a tone that almost seemed warm, though each word carried an icy undercurrent of menace.

"We served a master whose ideals far surpass your childish games, Tom. This society we founded is built on principles of caution and discernment. Every decision, every action, is weighed with the utmost care."

He leaned forward slightly, his smile twisting into a chilling grimace.

"You, however, are an anomaly. A volatile force, unpredictable and far too dangerous for what we have built."

Dmitri Jdanov, his eyes half-closed, spoke in a cutting tone:

"No, Tom. You were never invited here to join our ranks. This gathering had a single purpose: to neutralise a threat before it became uncontrollable."

"Expelliarmus!" cried Atila Altan.

It was an ambush. A meticulously laid trap. With a sharp movement, Tom's wand flew from his hand, pulled by an invisible force towards the expert in coercive curses, who caught it with a chilling smile.

The chair beneath Tom seemed to freeze, responding to a spell that paralysed its occupant. His muscles tensed as he struggled to rise, but an unseen enchantment held him firmly in place.

The six sorcerers stood, their cold, implacable gazes fixed on him as though passing judgement. A heavy tension filled the air, thick and suffocating. Ludmilla, who had remained motionless, took a step back, partially retreating into the shadows.

Without a word, Tom was violently thrown backward, his body slammed against the black-and-gold inlaid table. Magical bindings erupted from the surface, coiling around his wrists and ankles with ruthless precision. The table hummed softly, as though responding to a dark, unseen force.

The torment began.

A first curse tore through the air, striking his chest with a searing burn. A second, icy and razor-sharp, followed, sending a shiver of pain coursing through his body. The spells continued relentlessly, raining down upon him like an unforgiving storm. Each incantation was cast with a clear intent: to inflict pain, to humiliate, to obliterate.

Their voices, chanting ancient spells, echoed off the amphitheatre's walls. Flashes of red, green, and blue light intermittently illuminated the oppressive darkness, casting grotesque shadows on the black-and-gold tapestries. The magical bindings held Tom's convulsing body firmly in place, the enchantments tightening with every movement.

Seth De Lellis stepped forward, a satisfied smile etched on his face, and pointed at the ring on Tom's hand. The band, adorned with the mark of Salazar Slytherin, glimmered faintly in the dim light.

With a slow and calculated motion, Seth reached for the ring, ignoring the spasms still wracking Tom's body. The moment his fingers brushed the cool surface of the band, a sudden, violent reaction erupted.

A scream of terror erupted from Seth as he staggered backwards, his hand appearing to burn under an invisible fire. His skin darkened from a deep red to black, with shadowy streaks spreading rapidly up his arm.

"What is…?" he screamed, his eyes wide with horror as he clutched his mangled hand.

The other sorcerers froze in place, their spells halted mid-cast. A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by Seth's muffled groans. The ring on Tom's finger now glowed with a sinister brilliance, pulsing softly, as if imbued with its own malevolent life force.

The moment had arrived.

Tom closed his eyes, his face taut with effort, betraying an almost superhuman concentration. Suddenly, a crushing energy surged through the amphitheatre, an unseen but unbearably oppressive wave. A deep, resonant rumble, as though emanating from the very walls, echoed throughout the chamber. The torches flared and flickered violently, casting grotesque, shifting shadows across the black-and-gold tapestries.

A dark, dense aura, almost tangible, radiated from Tom, saturating the air with an oppressive intensity. His bloodied, sweat-slicked body tensed for a moment before, with a sudden and forceful motion, he shattered the magical chains that had bound him. He rose, less agile than usual, but fuelled by a palpable, almost vibrating rage.

With a sharp gesture, and in a burst of fury, he deflected a spell aimed to immobilise him—barehanded, without a wand. In an instant, chaos erupted. The battle resumed, as violent as it was unpredictable. Curses tore through the air like lightning, their red and green flashes casting an infernal glow across the amphitheatre.

Tom dodged with lethal precision, using the table and the massive columns of the amphitheatre as cover. Each movement of his body was a macabre dance, a calculated choreography on which his survival hinged moment by moment.

The energy emanating from him felt alive, pulsating in powerful, menacing waves—a raw manifestation of his fury and hatred. His eyes, now glowing with a sinister red light, pierced through the darkness. Every syllable of his incantations hung heavy in the air, resonating with an ancient, almost otherworldly power.

Seizing a moment of opportunity, Tom extended his hand toward Atila Altan, the sorcerer who had disarmed him. An invisible shockwave burst from his palm, striking Atila with devastating force and slamming him against the stone wall with a resounding crash. The sorcerer's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

As if released from captivity, Tom's wand soared across the chamber, landing in his hand with an almost supernatural precision.

A murmur, thick with fear and dread, rippled through the amphitheatre, momentarily breaking the frenzied rhythm of the battle.

Standing firmly, now one against six, Tom gripped his wand with unyielding determination. His movements, sharp and deliberate, radiated extraordinary, almost otherworldly mastery. Each spell he cast carried lethal intent, a raw, uncontrollable surge of power.

Dmitri Jdanov faltered, his wand trembling in his hand.

"What is this…?" he whispered, the words strangled in his throat.

Hans Leimkuhler, poised to unleash a complex spell, froze in place, his face contorted with palpable fear.

"Stay calm…" he muttered weakly.

Tom swung his wand with brutal force, and a deafening blast echoed through the amphitheatre, shaking the walls. Hans Leimkuhler tumbled from his elevated position on the steps, his neck snapping with a sickening crack.

"You thought you could trap me?" Tom roared, his raspy voice amplified by the echoing chamber, resounding like an unassailable verdict. "You have no idea who I am!"

The remaining sorcerers exchanged uneasy glances, their confidence crumbling in the wake of such a terrifying display.

Vermilius Galatis, driven by desperation, launched a destructive spell that briefly bathed the room in a scarlet glow. Tom countered with blinding speed, reflecting the curse back onto its caster. Galatis's scream of agony was cut short by the burst of green light that consumed him.

The entire room vibrated with the overwhelming force of Tom's power. Each step he took seemed to weigh on the air, thickening it, making it nearly unbreathable. The torches flickered wildly, as if straining against the relentless energy radiating from him.

Seth De Lellis, his skin still blackened, tried to retreat, but Tom, with a single, merciless gesture, unleashed a wave of energy that slammed him violently against a stone column. Seth's lifeless body crumpled to the floor.

Wolf Thelonious, his face contorted with fear, attempted one final attack, but Tom's fury was unrelenting. A silent curse shot from his wand, striking Thelonious with lethal precision. The elder sorcerer collapsed, his lifeless body joining those of his fallen comrades on the icy floor.

A piercing scream shattered the air: Ludmilla.

Only Dmitri Jdanov remained, alone, gasping for breath, his wand still raised but trembling in his unsteady grip.

Tom advanced toward him slowly, his incandescent gaze fixed on his prey. Each step echoed ominously, carrying the weight of a final judgment. The air around him seemed to vibrate, charged with a suffocating, overwhelming power.

"Is this how your venerable Brotherhood ends?" he asked, his voice chillingly cold, dripping with biting contempt. "You dishonour your reputation."

Before Tom could strike down his last adversary, Ludmilla rushed forward. She stepped between Dmitri and Tom, her wand trembling as she pointed it at the young man, her face twisted in terror.

"Stop! Tom, I beg you, enough! This has to end!"

Tom fixed his blazing eyes on her, his expression carved into one of unyielding dominance.

"It's too late for regrets, Professor," he said, his voice low and steeped in implicit menace. "Step aside."

"No!" she screamed, her voice breaking with desperation. "I swear, it's not worth it! You've proven your superiority. Look at them! They're all dead. There's nothing left to prove. Tom, please… let him go."

The silence that followed was nearly unbearable. The pulsating energy surrounding Tom seemed on the brink of eruption, yet he remained still, his gaze fixed on Ludmilla, his expression unreadable. But before he could respond, Dmitri moved.

With a swift, precise motion, Dmitri raised his wand and pointed it at Ludmilla.

"Avada Kedavra."

A green light burst forth, casting a spectral glow across the amphitheatre, before plunging it back into suffocating darkness. Ludmilla's body crumpled to the floor, her arms splayed like a puppet with its strings severed.

A chilling silence followed, the air heavy with the weight of the act, thick with an almost unbearable tension.

Tom stood motionless, his face frozen in an inscrutable expression. His eyes remained fixed on Ludmilla's lifeless body, and for the briefest of moments, a dark, terrible flicker passed through his gaze. But that fleeting trace of emotion was swiftly buried beneath an unyielding coldness.

Dmitri slowly lowered his wand, a ragged breath escaping his lips. Finally, he allowed his eyes to drift to Ludmilla's still form, splayed in a cruciform on the cold floor. A fleeting shadow of regret crossed his face.

"My little Lyouda…" he murmured, his voice barely audible, tinged with fatalism and detachment.

Dmitri slowly raised his eyes to meet Tom's, his features hardening.

"She betrayed you, Tom," he said coldly, his tone nonchalant, yet each word landing like a stone. "Consider my actions a gesture of goodwill—a proposal."

He paused briefly, scrutinising Tom's impassive face.

"I'm offering you an alliance."

Tom turned his head slowly towards Dmitri, his features marked by a silent, seething rage.

"Why?" he growled, his voice low and rumbling.

Dmitri held his gaze, a feverish intensity lighting his eyes.

"Because I was gravely mistaken," he replied calmly. "We were wrong. And I owe you an apology. You are raw power, a force we couldn't have anticipated. What you've demonstrated here surpasses anything we ever imagined."

He took a cautious step closer, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of surrender.

"Listen to me, Tom. You've proven you need no one to become the greatest dark wizard of all time… Clearly, you already are. But—" his voice grew sharper, more calculating, "—believe me on this, you'll need me for other things."

Tom remained silent, his icy gaze bearing down on Dmitri. Sensing an opening, Dmitri pressed on, his voice turning more persuasive:

"I can open doors for you. Give you access to prestigious circles, to influential families across Europe. Provide you with funds, resources. You have no friends, Tom. No protection. No patrons."

He paused, searching Tom's expression before delivering his final blow with razor-sharp precision:

"Spare my life, and the world is yours."

Tom tilted his head slightly, his face still unreadable, though his fingers tightened around his wand.

"And why should I trust you?" he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Dmitri allowed a faint, almost provocative smile to curl his lips.

"Because you have no other choice. How will you conceal this carnage? The deaths of six renowned dark wizards and your own professor? Trusting me is your only option. I killed my wife to prove my loyalty to you."

A heavy silence fell, oppressive and unyielding. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, slowly, Tom lowered his wand.

"Very well," he said, his voice cold and sharp. "But know this… If you ever betray this agreement, what you've witnessed tonight will be nothing compared to what I'll do to you."

Dmitri nodded, a satisfied smile creeping onto his face.

"I wouldn't expect anything less, Lord Voldemort."

Tom cast one last glance at Ludmilla's lifeless body before turning away. Trembling and limping, he walked towards the shadows, his figure disappearing into the suffocating darkness of the amphitheatre.

-o-O-o-

Bellatrix watched him retreat, a sharp, searing pang twisting deep within her chest. She had seen enough. It felt as though she had wandered for years, trapped within the oppressive labyrinth of his memories. A strange lethargy crept over her, akin to the exhaustion that follows a relentless hunt: her body broken, her mind incapable of finding peace. Silence reigned, yet within her, the echoes of her journey persisted—sounds and images reverberating with vivid insistence, impossible to dispel.

Reginaldus and the marriage on the brink of annulment. Dmitri Jdanov and Ludmilla. Each memory tangled into a chaotic, disordered mess. But what weighed heaviest within this mosaic of shadows were the dark, visceral images she had wrested from the depths of her master's mind: the strange relationship he had forged with that young professor, the titanic battle against six dark wizards, and most haunting of all… her master, tortured for hours, pinned to that table of gold and black wood.

Bellatrix shuddered, as though the weight of those visions clung to her, refusing to release their hold. She was drained, every fibre of her being crying out for a well-deserved rest.

She moved to withdraw from the Pensieve, yet as she shifted, she froze. A dark silhouette caught her eye, and her breath hitched.

Leaning against one of the amphitheatre's ancient columns, arms crossed, his pale skin ghostly in the faint light, his dark eyes glinting with crimson undertones, stood Lord Voldemort—her Lord Voldemort.

"Did you find your little escapade through my thoughts to your liking, Bellatrix?" he asked, his tone deceptively nonchalant.