Hello there, again! Well, here it's the epilogue for the third book, so it finally comes to an end. I really enjoyed writing this year, which I believe it was the, objectively, the best. Anyhow, see you!

I once had a student who brought up to me a very interesting question—could souls be intertwined? Yes, I do admit that, at first, I did not take his field of erudition too seriously. He was a dreamy albeit poetic scholar, and I have never liked them much. However, in my later years of life, I came to see things I thought impossible as very much plausible, and his face came to my mind.

A reminder of my failure as a docent, that of one with a closed mind. A man prey to his hubris. Perhaps prey of fear, too.

Are we considering two souls, of different persons, into one body? If so, I have come to theorise one, the stronger and mightier, the one most willing to live and fight, is to subdue the weakest. For this to be possible, however, the weakest must also fight, or else it will be consumed and erased, and two would therefore become one. Specs of the weakest shall manifest every once in a while, often caused by strong emotions or reminders of the past. And the weakest soul shall shine brightest than the strongest for a brief time.

Are we considering two souls, of different beings, in different bodies, connected by a bond of unwordable nature? For this one, I have yet to come up with a plausible theory. This student of mine had one, which I shall not mention here, for its nature is a morbid and dreadful one.

In the nature of our question lies the key, I say.

Ezkridis, cursed be his foul name and that of the woman who birthed such an evil mongrel, was a wizard well versed in this field. I have read his studies, and I will not comment on them, for some horrors are better left unsaid for the winds of time to erase into oblivion. Herpo the Foul, another name to curse and a man whose grave to spit upon, was the first to delve into this field. I could not make much of his studies, however, for the rivers of time and the drums of war erased most of them, fortunately. His legacy lies beneath a mountain of cinder and tears of fire.

All I will share in these memories of mine, for the ink to hopefully carry into civilizations anew, is that, yes, I do think souls might intervene with one another. I doubt this is a good thing, however. This is a matter oozing evil as no other I have questioned myself about before.

Lawrence the Third, in 'Magic, and all I dare to say about it', chapter 108.

Chapter 65 - Lord of Death

Peter feared even to breathe, much less to take a step without being given word of it or to raise to his feet.

He sat meekly against the wooden wall of the large house-tree, a place too well illuminated by his liking. Light, in abundance, was awful for survival. It made hiding far more difficult, even for a rat. Darkness, however, he liked it much better. And there was few of that, so high into the skies, prey of the sun's oppressive embrace, atop a tree which crowned the city of Caelem.

It was a modest chamber. A large table embedded into the south wall stretched long and wide, empty. There was little furniture; a few wardrobes, also empty, chairs and some beds in a smaller room, though it hosted one habitant alone. There was also an open balcony with great views of the endless sea of trees, over which only the bright sun of summer rose.

This was a palace for these strange people.

And Peter couldn't care less the slightest, for the Dark Lord stood before him. His eyes closed, breathing deep and calm, in reminiscence of whatever sombre thought had plagued his mind since his rebirth.

Peter had been ordered to remain by his side for the day; still as a stone-man, silent and vigilant. It was the second day in a row his lord asked for him. A week ago, it had been Ashram to accompany him faithfully. A few times, it had been Helena. Even that warrior lady named Clexa had been up here once.

Voldemort opened his eyes.

Brown, warm, without a shadow of evil within, without a trace of that shade of crimson which had tainted them long ago. It was a sight so different when compared to what Peter remembered of this monster who was his master. Once, his skin had been so pale and dead it had seemed marble, a serpent-like flesh no man was supposed to wear. Now it was so naturally tanned, with a touch of bronze to it, crowned by a mop of black hair. Once, his features had been so devoid of their humanity that a monster had been thought of him. Now he was handsome and of soft features, kind-looking and calm.

"What do you think of Ashram?" Voldemort's voice tore his reminiscence apart. "I have only vague memories of him. A man who once went by another name, his true one. A man who did not rise far within our ranks. And still, a man who was first to search for me when everyone thought me dead. Is he as loyal as he claims to be? Speak truthfully, Peter."

And his voice… It was the worst with no hint of doubt. Once, it had carried silent promises of pain, even to his most loyal. One knew what to expect upon slight doubt or failure. Now, however, it was the voice of a soft, well-spoken youth. And only the unknown awaited behind such kind tones.

Peter bowed his head. "He is the most loyal, my lord. I have travelled with him all around the world, guided and spurred and often fed by his fervent desire for your rebirth."

"So you admit he is more loyal than you."

Peter's forehead graced the ground. "He is, my lord. I would never lie to you, not even for my benefit."

"Even now, that he is without magic? When he is but a husk of the man he used to be, doomed to wander courseless and purposelessly, to become merely a witness?"

"I can't imagine a world in which Ashram isn't the most loyal to you, my lord."

Voldemort subtly nodded, his eyes closing once more. "Good. You are honest, Peter. Let it be because of fear or whatever reason, you are honest. I value that greatly. More so now, after my rebirth. I am a changed man. For the better or the worse, that I yet ignore. My purpose stands the same, however, and so does my resolution. But I cannot ignore the changes I went through in that ritual."

He suddenly opened his eyes, standing up. "Come with me, my loyal Peter. I want to take a walk around the city. There are so many things we yet ignore about this forbidden civilization. We might stand on the same side of the battlefield for now, but we are not allies. I want to know them better."

Peter's body moved by itself, compiled by a sense of dread which overwhelmed all else. Voldemort's long legs made him reach the large, open balcony way faster than him for much he hastened his stride.

There, they witnessed a neverending green, like a carpet that stretched beyond infinity. There was no trace of those smoke columns which had painted black the sky anymore. Echoes of such a ferocious battle still resounded in Peter's mind.

Caelem had burned, entire sectors of the city turned into ashes. Plenty of people had died, and plenty of creatures too. There had not been a thirst for revenge within these people. Their overlords had seen to that, it appeared. Creatures born from hell, humans who were no longer alive. All around them, like a rope tightening around their necks. They couldn't take a step in their forest without being watched from the shadows, without being judged.

"You fear them."

Peter started. He knew very well what his lord meant. "I do, my lord. They terrify me."

"And that makes you wise," Voldemort said. "Some of my strongest and most loyal Death Eaters would have stared down at these people with contempt, thinking of them as lowly beings far beneath their level. Powerful as they are, that would have entailed their deaths. These people, these so-called Accursed and Forgotten, are a horror of unparalleled magnitude. And we have unleashed them upon the world, it appears."

That said, Voldemort let himself into the void.

Peter went down in a far calmer way. He extended his hand forward, summoning a vine. Here, the trees seemed to be alive, with a conscience. One needed to trust them to make use of them. The thing was, Peter had never trusted a soul, much less that of a large chunk of wood. Still, he allowed the vine to coil tightly around his hips and under his armpits, lowering him down in an endless fall. The forest was alive, he knew that. He could feel its faint heartbeat, somehow bonded to that wonder which lay in its depths—the Flower of Heavens.

He only opened his eyes once his feet were firmly set on the ground. The soft, muddy ground upon which his feet made squishy sounds with each step he took. Rainfalls had been abundant lately. Too abundant, much to their fortune, for the malefic touch of fire and death had been cleansed from the forest.

"Let them see us," Voldemort said, already walking down the main roadway, his stride firm and relentless. "Let them fear us."

Whether fear blossomed within these people, Peter ignored it. Revulsion, horror and pity, that he could appreciate in their eyes, as clearly as a gemstone shining through the darkness.

Their eyes fell upon Voldemort as they walked past them; sombre and loyal companions. In him, doubtless they saw a boy they had known since infancy. A boy turned into a receptacle for a monster. A dead man walking. Whispers became a choir to them. Faint, not daring to rise above the forest's stillness lest they disturb a monster's peace. Even the humanoid warriors refrained their blades, watching from above, though their hands trembled in a frenzy of bloodlust barely held at bay.

No confrontation arose for minutes, despite the obvious provocation. And when it did, it came from a most unexpected source. A faint turmoil at first, simply a few voices louder than the rest, a whisper turned into an exclamation. Voldemort strode past it all, eyes set forth on the dirt road.

A rock hit him right in the face, turning it sharply as a trail of blood was born from the gushing wound on his temple. Peter fell to his knees, expecting a retaliation worthy of death and anguish. Voldemort, however, simply raised his fingers to grace the wound, observing the crimson fluid which had tainted his flesh.

"Monster! Monster!"

Shouting made Peter turn his head toward the thicket. There, a short, plump woman fought against two men who tried to stop her. Brown, soft eyes. Black hair. Tanned skin. A short nose. She looked too familiar.

Voldemort started, his eyes set upon her, blinking in a frenzy full of confusion. Her shouting became intelligible, a furious touch to those words uttered in her native tongue—Portuguese, most likely—as the men forced her back. Voldemort took a hesitant step forward, toward the woman. Then followed many more; firmer, full of resolution.

Few words made sense in that maddening rambling of hers. Child, boy and monster were some of them that he could understand.

Peter shuddered as he saw something behind her. Children. Clutching to their mother's skirts, eyes filled with fear, yet also with hatred. A teenage girl was bravest, leaning her head out of the woman's side, her eyes tearless. A younger girl and boy, most likely twins, jolted in fear as they held one another.

They all had brown eyes, black hair, tanned skin and a short nose.

Voldemort came to stand before them. The men froze in fear and surprise, letting go of the woman for a second. She did not coward like them. Her hand rose sharply, slapping a monster on his check, making his head turn to the left once more.

Oh, what a sight! She'd accomplished what countless had vainly tried before. She'd spilled Voldemort's blood. Twice.

For an instant, the forest itself stilled. All breaths were held, all muscles cramped, all words left unsaid.

The men reacted, at last, lunging at Voldemort.

With a flick of Voldemort's fingers, the earth creviced and rose to swallow the two daring men into a firm bulb of mud. From inside reached the sound of their fists banging against their prison, and so did their voices, though their words remained meaningless to Peter.

They were alive!

The woman held her children behind her, her arms raising once more as her fists clenched. No punch was thrown, however. She froze as her eyes finally released all the tears they had bravely held. Twin cascades ran down her cheeks as she sobbed for the world to hear. The teenage girl, fueled by her mother's anguish, in a commendable act of bravery, set herself in between them, though shaking and growing pale.

And Voldemort…

He raised his hand. And placed it on the girl's shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. "See that they are treated like royalty and no harm ever comes to them," he said then, raising his head to stare at the crowns of the trees. "Else I will set the forest ablaze and make the eternal city one of cinder and laments."

Peter mirrored him. Atop the largest tree stood a humanoid warrior, dressed in full white unlike every other of his kin. He had a long, thin finger upon the wood of his spear; the shrivelled flesh dry and chapped. He too looked to be in awe, speechless, of the inconceivable horror he'd just witnessed.

A man to always dwell in death and pain, bringer of misery and despair, feared all over the world, whose vileness had instilled people to fear uttering his name, had shown mercy and a glimpse of… fondness, could it be? To someone who had attacked him, moreover.

What kind of monster has he become? Dear Merlin… What have they done?

"Let them fear us," Voldemort had said.

That would be the easiest thing in the world.

Ashram clenched his fist. It cracked, and dull pain burst within. He opened his hand as wide as it got, staring at the splinters of the little woodstick embedded into his palm and fingers. Small trails of blood pooled all over the flesh. That made him feel alive. He was not sure of that nowadays, since magic had abandoned him.

"Incendio," he mused.

Fire set the wood alight. Merely a spark, a heat not strong enough to warm his face in the coldest of days, which loomed upon the hand with sparkling eyes, glistening with anxiousness and desperation. As fickle as it was, it was something.

Once, he'd been capable of burning entire forests, of scorching steel into cinder, of even melting rocks and turning a pool of water into a cloud of steam. All with a simple flick of his wand or a wave of his hand. That easy. And all because he simply felt like doing so. Because, if there was power within a man, why not simply reach for it and wield it as one fancied best? It was the rule of the strongest, after all.

That man was still alive, Ashram knew. He must be alive. And he held to that thought knowing that, were he to let go of it, death would be the sweetest mercy. For to be stripped of magic, was a horror his terrified mind could not conceive.

An annoying voice put an end to his shameful delight. "Your lord has tossed you away like a broken toy."

Ashram's head snapped up as if pulled by a leash. There it was, the pestering brat. A child about his height, sitting calmly on the windowsill with his back against the wooden frame, not even looking at him. He wore long, thin robes of white, with the hood pulled over his head, hiding his hair from sight, and the silk neck raising to his nose. He hid everything about himself, in fact. All save his eyes, of a very bright azure which peeked in between the silk around them.

His english was perfect, so polished it almost held any accent at all. Everyone else here had a strange way of speaking but this child, he had come to appreciate it.

"Those are daring words for a brat not brave enough to show his face."

"This is not a matter of bravery, you fool. Were you to take a glimpse of my face, I would have to kill you. I could do that quite easily, be no mistaken, but I hate the sight of blood upon my hands."

Ashram rose from the bed, walking toward the child. Those azure eyes fell upon him. Cold, bright. Bearers of a mightiness he did not understand. He came to an abrupt halt.

What is happening to me? His hands trembled, and his breath rushed out of his lungs with a faint whistle. Is this fear? Of a child? Is this because magic is not kin to me anymore?

"I thought so," the child jumped down the windowsill, into the open forest, with his back turned on him. "Run to your lord, coward. Beg of him for the protection and safety you are not able to grant yourself. Else, you will be left behind for us to deal with. Monsters dwell here at night. Monsters who see in you easy prey, now that your ancient companion has abandoned you. Run. Do run for your life."

Ashram, much to his shame, ran away from the child. His stride was moved not only by fear but also by a sense of need equally strong. He remembered that week by his lord's side. His silence. His ordinariness. His peace. And then he'd tossed him away, as the child had said. To be replaced by Peter. Replaced by a rat.

Trotting through the forest, Ashram paid no mind to the surprised bystanders who moved out of his way in a rush, in fear of him. He paid no mind to their whispers and their looks, no doubt seeing a madman in him. Perhaps that was what had become of him. A madman forgotten by Magic.

They couldn't understand. Such simple minds, so devoid of will and purpose, would never understand.

He was mad, indeed. Mad to see his dream fulfilled. That dream because of which he abandoned his life and all there was to it behind so long ago.

It didn't take him long to find his lord.

A small and peculiar entourage around him, as if guards upon a prisoner, in which he stood amidst. There was elegant Lanphael, with the moonlight dress following the delicate curves of her figure, with an ethereal beauty carved upon her features. Peter was here too, his neck bent down, his eyes set on the ground.

These two, Ashram knew entailed no imminent harm to his lord.

Now, the lady warrior, Clexa, was not deserving of such trust. She paced around them, her eyes closed, her hands toying with a short, black dagger, tossing it up and grabbing it by the hilt as it went down. The hateful Elf, Kaai, a gruesome, ugly being like no other he had ever met, crouched on the ground, hands caressing the blades of grass; they seemed to grow into her touch, buzzing, waving to a nonexistent wind.

"Ah, you came at last," Voldemort hummed, not bothering to turn around to greet him. "Good, good. We are ready to go now."

Lanphael smiled, taking her hands into her dress. Kaai, however, stopped her with a wave of her hand. "Thy haste is commendable, Sister," she said. Her accent was the worst here, by far. A tough, slow mix of words in which the vocals sometimes lost every bit of intonation, even if the lexicon she used was a cultivated one. "Thou were never one to be kin to patience, let it be known. Today, however, thou must embrace it. Exados has declared he shalt speak to these Outlanders before they march away. Thou wouldst not dare to go against the sacred word, wouldst thou?"

Lanphael tensed in such a subtle way Ashram thought of it as a product of his mind. If it wasn't because his lord's eyes fell upon the woman, Ashram would have kept it that way.

Exados. That name alone had caused him more nightmares than all the horrors he had experienced in his life. A demon in flesh and bone. The one to curse him with such accursed magic. The one to curse him with Consumption. Horror among horrors.

"And why am I learning this just now?" Lanphael asked, a sly grin on her face.

Kaai glanced at her for a moment before her eyes returned to the soil. "Mayhaps thou are without grace, Sister. The tides of time and the Written Fate are malleable by thine actions. And thou have angered them, it appears."

Lanphael's eye twitched as she quieted. Her sister seemed to be the only person who could rile her up, breaking her perfect facade of control and elegance. Tension became palpable, a cord about to snap broken. Watching her, it felt as if witnessing a hawk about to hunt, with a lethal beauty to its deathly dance. But what stood before the hawk was not prey, just another predator of a different kind yet of likely might.

The cord snapped, at last. Broken by an ominous voice of dread.

"A day of voyages, it appears to be."

Ashram did not look up. Did not dare to. The sight of that tall, hellish creature, engulfed in its dark, flapping robes, of that pointy hat and lethal yet breathtaking scythe, was one he could not fathom yet.

"First, it was Vrael, my old and loyal friend, who led our hordes of death far past the Frontier, into a world which long forgot us. And now it is you, the One Reborn. And you will take with you a part of us, it seems, for you have fallen in Lanphael's grace far more than I dared to acknowledge at first. I do wonder if you have her ear too, or perhaps it is the other way around. I do wonder…"

A soft thud announced his arrival, dropping himself down from the very skies. Ashram had no option but to stare at the face which had plagued his nightmares lately.

Unbelievably tall, with a sickly, shrivelled skin peeking through its dark, wide robes. And his cold, grey eyes, with a furious spark within them, gleamed as if molten steel. Staring down at Ashram.

"This poor man is still alive, I see. Consumed still, unbound to Magic and her favour. But a loyal hound at heart is too stubborn a thing to send him away with simply a few scars." His eyes travelled from one face to another, taking in every detail there was to gather. "The rat, a coward, a survivor. Yes, he does fit within this picture. But you, One Reborn, you are an enigma to me. I sincerely expected way more from you, a man of legend and tale, a man feared all over the world. Has mankind grown so weak, perhaps? My people tell me otherwise, however. That the battle for the Frontier was a mighty one, that the wizards of this age fought bravely and skillfully. Still, you are pitiful."

Ashram raised his head at last, encouraged by a spark of courage of he who thought of himself a wolf among its pack; safe and strong. "Don't you dare to disrespect my lord! He's been reborn into this world, proof that he is the Lord of Death. He alone shall deliver us into heights never thought before! He will-"

"Quiet, you witless fool," Voldemort hissed.

Ashram fell silent, surprised, in awe. Why was his lord's fury directed at him? Had not this foul creature just disrespected him?

"You look like a blabbering infant," Voldemort went on, his voice a tad colder than ice itself. "Did you also lose your sense when Magic abandoned you? Cannot you see this creature is far stronger than I am? I doubt even at my best I would be able to defeat him. You must regain your wit and temperance, Ashram, else you will be a Companion of me no more. This is your only chance. Do not toss it away."

Silence blossomed within the clearing. A mighty one. For a few seconds, they all stilled, contemplating one another, their thoughts hidden by the firm walls of their minds. Clexa, that damned woman, did not bother to hide her smile of mirth.

Kaai was the one to break it. "Lord of Death," she said, shaking her head, "the lackey does think of the monster. Such vacuity speaks more honestly than any of thy words, Consumed One. Alas, how can one be lord of something when there is another in possession of it? To conquer death, it has been done before. Thou are fated to clash against a likely abomination, Voldemort. I pray thee destroy one another in gruesome pain."

Voldemort stood calm, tall and proud. "What do you mean by that?" he asked softly. "Is there anyone else who dared to reach as far as I did?" His eyes, though, gleamed with a sharpness too familiar for Ashram. Here was the man he swore to follow until his last breath. A different man, a changed man, but specs of the Chosen One blossomed every now and then.

No one relplied to him. And, perhaps, that was the answer Voldemort needed.

Ashram felt a tug from deep inside. His head turned by itself, pulled by a force he could not ignore. Kadir stood far from the group, the crimson shadow of a man amidst the thicket. He looked guarded, mistrustful even. No one paid attention to him, as usual. Not even this demon by the name of Exados.

It comforted Ashram in a strange way. He was the one and only man who could see Kadir. It meant that, despite his Consumption, he was still special in one way or another… Right?

The child's words echoed in his mind. His ancient companion, he had said. Could Kadir really have abandoned him? Ashram prodded at the Link which bound them, trying to ignore the sense of dread which blossomed within. It was still there, as firm as ever. Too sturdy a wall for even a gust of wind to seep through, much less for a strong emotion as that of betrayal.

Their bond had always been one of coldness and will more than one of warmth and trust. Ashram respected him as the ancient being he was—Kadir respected him as the ambitious wizard he was. They shared a dream, an ambition, a goal. That of returning the Wizarding Kind to their past glory and greatness. A dream that had bound them across ages. A dream—no, a duty—bestowed upon them by the Written Fate itself.

Surely his Consumption had not changed that. Had it?

Ashram took a step toward the Essentia, who limited himself to observing him. This did not go unnoticed by Voldemort.

"Ah, yes. He is here, is he not? That strange presence which always looms about you, my loyal Ashram. Fascinating and disturbing at the same time. I cannot see him, certainly, but I feel him like one feels the heat of a fire when the flames are yet not in sight. You are a companion to another one, are you not, lady warrior? I have felt him too. His signature was different to Ashram's. Far calmer. Less imbued in hatred and rage."

Something strange and unique happened. Ashram felt emotions surging through his Link. There was surprise, undoubtedly, as it shone the brightest. But it was accompanied by nerves, delight and… Was it hope? Kadir smiled widely, bursting into crimson frost as he disappeared.

Clexa's mirth was erased from her face. She took her hand into her tight vest, embracing a guarded stance as she muttered something in her mother tongue.

Exados raised a hand at her, showing them a glimpse of a dark smile. "Perhaps I was also in the wrong here. For how wise I am considered, I do seem to be mistaken more often than not nowadays. It appears you are not to be underestimated, Lord Voldemort. I see it now, as clear as water. You may begin your venture anew outside my forest. Depart with my blessings. Do take care of Lanphael."

The demon walked away, into the shadows of the forest. The crimson steel of his scythe gleamed long until he became one with the darkness. Ashram got lost in its lethal gleam. When he snapped out of it, both Kaai and Clexa were gone too.

Lanphael's eyes were set on him. "I understand you, my dear. Exados is a man to inspire terror in those around him. After what he did to you, you are within reason to fear him even more. But we are to depart from here, as he just said. Far away from him."

She turned to face Voldemort, a golden flash bursting within her hands. It was that strange sphere of hers. Made of a radiant steel, with blazing white lines carved upon it. It dispelled the dimness away, as if a sun in miniature, shedding radiance upon the Elf's breathtaking face. "Tell me, One Reborn. Where do we mean to journey?"

Voldemort came to stand before her, looking down at the golden artefact. "I must return home. To a hateful place that I long swore to abandon and forget. There are things I must do there. Take us to Little Hangleton, in Yorkshire."

A golden flash embraced the four of them, and the forest became a memory of the past.

The window rattled with each gust of wind, a cool wind seeping through it, ignoring the whims of summer and the supposed heat it carried. It was an incessant melody to which Peter had grown used. At times, it bothered him greatly. Silence was a companion to survivors, after all. At times, he took delight in it. Best to hear something than get lost in this eerie ambient.

The wooden floor cracked with each step, too. Dust flew everywhere, always accompanied by that foul scent of humidity and that of a place which had been closed for far too long. Shadows hung around Peter, as close as possible to the candle he carried. His lord had commanded him not to perform any kind of magic, regardless of how faint it might be. He intended to carry out his word flawlessly. So long as he was here, Peter would be no better than a squib.

Step after step, he made it to the third floor. Here, the surface was covered by a long carpet; from what he'd been told, it had been radiant green once, though now only a black thing remained. There were not-so-dusty spots on the walls, where pictures and drawings had long been removed. Some of them, the art pieces, because of their value; a most succulent treat for thieves and thugs. The family portraits, however…

This was his lord's household. The place where he'd been born. The place in which the world had changed to never be the same. There was a sombreness to it which had nothing to do with the abandonment. There was ruin and dread in the very floor he walked on, on the very walls which jailed him. An ominous hand on his shoulder with each breath he took, regardless of how faint they might be. A sacred place, as evil as it was, but sacred still.

Peter shuddered, shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind. I must make it to the hall. Yes, that's what I'm to do.

He pushed open the large door with trembling fingers, and it easily gave away, long torn from its hinges. It seemed everything of value had been long taken away. Peter coughed out a sprout of dust and spit, his throat aching in protest. He quieted instantly, as soon as the voices reached him.

"She is taking too long, my lord," Ashram whispered. He seemed much more subdued after Voldemort's verbal lashing before leaving Caelem. Too fearful of speaking the wrong words. "She's been of great help to us, that's undeniable, but she isn't one of us."

"And you think I am not aware of this?" Voldemort said.

"I didn't mean that, my lord. I was simply-"

"You were simply speaking too much, Ashram. A mistake you are dancing around far too often lately. Lanphael is an intriguing, powerful creature; of a kind I had never met before. She wants to use me for a purpose I yet ignore, as did those we left behind in Caelem. As I do want to do with them. This is a game I have not played in a long time, way before I rose to power, before I conquered fear and made a weapon of it."

He allowed himself a faint smile, as if in reminiscence of those past times. "Back then, only Dumbledore and a few other chosens rose tall enough to compete with me in these games, but the creatures that dwell in that forest represent a challenge as no other before. They too shall fall beneath my heels, come the time."

Peter took the staircase down, not bothering to hide his presence any longer. Not daring, better said. To spy on the Dark Lord, it was unfathomable, a madness proper of a man beyond salvation. Servants didn't act that way toward their masters. Only pain was befit of such action. And he hated pain with all his might.

He went down the stairs slowly, the noise of his footsteps echoing loudly for all to hear now that silence reigned within the ample hall. Once there, he bowed to his lord.

"There's nothing of interest in the manor, my lord. Neither of value, I think. It has been vandalised a lot."

Voldemort gave him a faint nod per answer, then proceeded to ask Ashram plenty of questions about the Wizarding World as of today. Peter lost track of the conversation after a while. Instead, he set himself against the wall, standing stiffly in a place where he could eye the entire hall.

Until he was pulled out of his reminiscence.

"I have a question for you, my dear Peter," Voldemort said, his gaze set on the misty fields beyond the window. "My old followers, those who once sworn utmost loyalty and favour to me. What of them? Will they remain loyal, were I to make myself known once more? On the contrary, have they lost their heart for our cause? You did know them better than Ashram, and surely the many years you spent posing as a rat in a pureblood household must have served you well to pick up some things here and there."

Peter gasped a shaky response. "That's a… troubling matter, my lord."

"How so?" Nothing changed in Voldemort's voice. Once, this observation would've sent him into a fit of rage. Today, however, no sprout of anger blossomed within him.

Truly terrifying, indeed.

Peter gulped down a knot, readying himself. "They have grown weak and complacent, for all I know, my lord. They enjoy their seats of power and gold, in a society which has almost forgotten their crimes. Malfoy, cunning and witty as ever, rose higher, and his voice became a constant whisper into the Minister's ears. Nott… He might be delighted to learn of your return, my lord. Perhaps. He is still as much of a warrior as he was in the past, though duelling is all it takes to satiate his bloodlust now. Oh, and Macnair too! He became an executioner for the Ministry, I think."

Voldemort nodded absently. "And what of Robert Bulstrode, my recruiter."

"Bulstrode…" Peter tried to remember all he knew about the burly, beefy man. Arthur Weasley had barely mentioned him throughout the many years Peter had spent in their household. "He went silent, I think. Doesn't have a good relationship with the others. So I think."

"He's as much of a coward as the lot of them," Ashram cut in with a grunt. "Treacherous dogs, all of them. A few years after your proclaimed ending, I went in search of Bulstrode, my lord. I had always been told he was the most loyal, the most trustful. He kicked me out of his home, arguing that he had a daughter now, that he wasn't the same man, that he couldn't be that man. He despises the others because of their weakness and lack of faith, but he's no better than them."

"Thomas Grengrass?"

Greengrass, that name brought a few faces to Peter's mind. Most recently, he remembered a pretty, blond girl, a friend of Ronald. She was so very different from her father. They shared a few things, of course, like the sharpness of their tongue and their quick wit, the angles of their facial features. But she didn't possess the coldness Lord Thomas had wielded so effortlessly once.

Peter remembered him very well, indeed he did. An assassin, a spy, the best of them all. Silent, emotionless, a man always in control of his emotions, able to think past rage, sorrow and fear. A man able to wear many faces, to always act the way any situation required it. Behind his back, the snatchers had mockingly referred to him as the Chameleon. The man who came up with the nickname went to sleep one night to never wake up again.

"He has a daughter too," Peter mused. "I met her at Hogwarts, though I don't know if her father cares deeply for her. Probably so, I guess. But still… That man terrified me. I don't think he's changed much. It can't be possible to change that much when you are so… devoid of everything."

"Ah, yes," Voldemort, "I remember now. He was betrothed to that Swedish girl. Stormspear's sister. The joy and pride of Lord Gustav Larsson. Despite this, he gave me no reason to question his loyalty back then. The Great House of Larsson remained neutral in the Great War, though the lord's rogue son raised in arms against me. Yes. We will approach Thomas in due time. Robert and James too. I think they are the more approachable of them all."

"With all due respect, my lord," Ashram observed, his lips thinning into a white line, "I don't think any of them are of trust. Your loyal followers are in Azkaban, to be tortured until death by bloody Dementors. We should aim to liberate them once the chance arises. To contact all those others who so quickly forsworn you, it will be a mistake. More so now, when we stand so weak. They'd sell us in order to keep their necks unscratched!"

"I do not plan to contact them now," Voldemort said, walking away from the window. "We know so little of the present time. Who may I consider a friend? Where are my enemies? Do they still stand as tall and strong as they once did? Through which holes can I slither to sow chaos? We need to make ourselves stronger now, to reap information, to plan carefully. By the time we announce our presence to the world, we shall be able to fend away every bit of retaliation."

His eyes roamed through the large hall, halting where a bundle of cloth lay forgotten upon the dirty floor. A pair of dark shoes stuck out from the cloth. Blood had started to pool beneath the corpse. That had irked Ashram—to one so accustomed to murder with a flick of his wand, a pure, clean kill, a knife felt so rudimentary and dirty.

"Do me a favour and get rid of him, Peter," the Dark Lord said. "Grab a shovel from the barn and bury him outside. He was a loner, so I do not think he will be missed. Still, best to mind our steps very carefully. Our presence here must remain a mystery."

The nameless corpse belonged to the lifetime manor's groundskeeper. An old, aching man, partially blind and deaf, who had been minding his business when a group of four entered the manor. He'd thought thugs of them, surely, here to steal whatever little thing of value had been left in the household. So he'd come out to confront them, knife at hand. The poor man had stand no chance.

Peter bowed before walking to the body. It was much heavier than it looked, or perhaps he'd grown too weak in all those months in the forest. He vainly tried to load the corpse into his shoulder, but it fell with a dry thud. The cloth rolled away a bit, allowing him a glimpse of the pale face it held within. The man's eyes were still wide open, a shadow of fear gleaming still.

Peter simply covered it back and dragged the body across the hall by the feet. He was about the door when…

The door burst open, and Peter cowered in fear, heart thundering within his chest as the gushing wind stormed into the hall, cool and dry. They had been caught, somehow. It was over.

"My, to be received so poorly," a feminine voice said melodically. A tone of mock raised above that of elegance. "Move aside, Peter. I ought to present a most precious gift to the Dark One."

Peter jumped away as Helena strode past him, stepping over the groundskeeper's body. He couldn't help himself but breathe in relief. She was back, so there were no loose ends to which he couldn't keep an eye on. When being surrounded by monsters, it was better to remain close to them. That way, one knew what to expect when they leashed out their anger, how to tame them, how to utter the words they wanted to hear.

Voldemort glanced at her. "Did you find it?"

Helena conjured a cloth bundle into her hands. Long, very thin, and wrapped beautifully. "It was where he said. Untouched, unblemished by another hand save his. However, that stain shall be pardoned, I believe." Her eyes fell upon Peter once more. As always, there was a gleam of dark, cruel mirth when he fell into her sight. This time, however, there was something else. Curiosity, perhaps? "To think you would become so useful, Peter. My, talk about surprises!"

Voldemort took the bundle away from her carefully. His fingers made quick work of the envelope, letting out a sigh when the treasure inside went in touch with his flesh. "Ah, finally! This warmth, this power, I have certainly missed it."

He wielded a long wand of pale wood, with a beautiful handler crafted of bone. Its body was totally straight, like a moonlight needle, whereas the hilt was sinuous and thicker, ending with a talon-like process.

That fool of Ollivander loved to say each wand had a story of their own, regardless of the wizard to wield them, regardless of what they were to achieve in their lifetime. If so, few of them throughout history had one as bloody as Voldemort's. It was almost ironic—the colour white was often used as a representation for good and purity. Here, it represented the embodiment of evil, of a twisted mind so full of will it had overcome death.

"You kept it for me all these years, Peter?" Voldemort asked without looking at his servant. He'd grown so enthralled with his wand nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

"I did, my lord," Peter stammered. "Retrieved it before Sirius found me, and took it with me into oblivion. Years passed, and I carried it upon me every day. When I stumbled into the Weasley household and posed as their rat pet, I hid it to the best of my skills, in a place where only I may find it. I'm delighted to see it in your hands once more, where it belongs."

Voldemort nodded absently. "Ashram, do bury the groundskeeper outside. The night is growing old, and we shall finish every pending business before going to rest."

Ashram's face reddened with fury, a storm brewing in his eyes. He stared at Peter with murderous intent as he picked up the bloody corpse from the ground, loading it into his shoulder. Still, he did nothing but carry out his orders. The two of them were but dogs; one rabid and strong, the other weak and cowardly. But, regardless of their differences, they were animals of the same kind. Born to serve the stronger, born to obey their will.

Peter fell to his knees, bowing down in appreciation of a gesture which meant far more than being rid of tough labour. "Thank you, my lord. You are most kind to me. More than I deserve."

Voldemort turned around, walking up the staircase toward the dormitories. "I do not think so, Peter. You have been most useful to me. And loyal too, even if the nature of such loyalty does not dwell within your heart. You cling to life like no other man I have ever seen. You have made an art of survival; where others fell, people far stronger than you, you yet live. And you understand that, by my side, you are set to survive the longest. Many would think of you as a man of cowardice and fear. I, however, think of you as a man of resources and will."

Peter pressed his forehead into the floor with even more strength, as if wanting to carve a hole into the wooden surface. "Thank you, my lord."

"What comes now, Dark One?" Helena's question made the Dark Lord come to a halt, his back still turned on them.

His ominous words resounded into the hall. "I am to rest now, for I am still growing used to this new vessel of mine. The body is strong, the mind is even stronger, but I still need to fully subdue it, to make it truly mine, and that is getting me plenty of exhaustion. Also, there is one thing I shall deal with myself, and I alone, as soon as morning comes. There is one old friend of mine to whom I owe a visit. We are bound by a very peculiar bond, so to say."

His shadow became one with the hall's darkness, the noise of his footsteps waning like a fainting melody until silence reigned at last; there, where the candles didn't reach and the dark felt invincible.

One last whisper reached them. "Then, it will be conquest. Slow, from the shadows, free of those many mistakes I once committed. A scourge that will spread everywhere, like an illness, and by the time they take notice of it, it will be far too late, and the limb will be far too infected to sever it. I will not fail this time, that I hereby swear."

Peter raised his gaze and found a terrible sight. A wide smirk on Helena's face.

"O, Lord of Death, thine return we shalt treasure," she mused. "Deliver us into heights never reached before. Return to us the world from which we were cast away, lay to rot and be forgotten. Our exile will be avenged, our tears, our screams, they shall know of them."

Harry cleared his throat, not because it felt raspy, but because it bid him a bit of time as he searched for the adequate words. Eloquence had never been a strength of his, much less in this kind of situation.

In front of him, all across the wooden table, Hermione sat with her arms folded upon her chest, her back against the reddish leather of the cabin's couch. Waiting for him to speak. With her brow raised into the sky. A magnificent scowl only she, in her best days, could accomplish.

At least, there was no visible anger on her face. That was something. She'd done marvellous work in the exams, though a few days later than everyone else, and that alone had saved Harry from a lot of trouble.

The train rattled in haste through the long bridge, making his silence more prominent. Harry glanced at the window. A beautiful scenery could be seen through the pristine glass, that of an endless lake of deep-blue water which reflected the sun and made a formidable foe to its counterpart, the cloudless sky.

Hermione cleared her throat.

Right. His apologies.

Harry let out a deep sigh, then spoke his mind out. "Look, I'm sorry. I know there's little I can say, or do, to make you feel better. I can't go back in time. If I could, I'd do it without hesitation and I'd smack myself in the face so hard that any stupid idea I had in my mind would burst out through my ears. Unfortunately, I can't do that, and so I must live with my mistakes."

Her brow went down a tiny bit.

"You were right, okay?" Harry went on. "I know you don't care about that right now. That you wish you'd been wrong. That either I couldn't be such a stupid prick, or that Umbridge wasn't such a foul bastard. But I'm that, and she's that too."

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing at the scenery once more. All he wanted to do was to hop onto his broom and allow the winds to carry him wherever they fancied. Summer always stretched so long it was impossible to not yearn for those moments. And it had just begun.

"I'm not angry with you, Harry," Hermione said softly. Harry turned toward her with a start. She wasn't scowling anymore. "I was furious the morning after you pulled out that stupid stunt. Boiling in rage, yes, but also in frustration. I saw the look in Umbridge's eyes that morning and knew a storm was coming. But you did not! Either you were blind, or you were so lost in your rage you wanted her to retaliate as much harder so you'd have a perfect excuse to let go of everything holding you back. I wanted to shout at you every obscenity I knew."

Harry grimaced. He hadn't considered the matter that way. It shamed him to admit that she, as per usual, had nailed it.

"And when Astoria Greengrass, of all people, managed to trick me in such a way," she mused, shaking her head slowly. "When Umbridge smirked down at me, telling me I was to be expelled, I simply couldn't bring myself to be angry at you. I was sad, almost depressed. I cried myself to sleep that night. Shut closed my bedroom door in my mother's face and shouted at her to leave me alone."

Harry closed his eyes. A time for him to apologize had turned into a heart-to-heart conversation, each one spilling their troubles into the other, emptying their about-to-be-filled glass in hopes they don't burst out.

"After you were expelled," Harry confessed, "I lost all will to fight. I wandered around the castle, watching the Army clashing against the Party. Paying no mind to their pleas for help, ignoring their looks of surprise and later on of disappointment and resentment. And the day Umbridge was dethroned, I stood there, unable to raise a bloody finger, as all my friends fell one after another, as they gave their all for a goal we'd strived for so long. When they needed me the most, I stared at them right into their eyes and walked away from them. I don't think they hate me. It's more of an anger matter, or so I want to believe. But I sure do hate myself because of my weakness."

Hermione bit her lip. "Harry…"

"I deserve it," he went on firmly, raising his hand at her. "It's the same I've told Neville. If I were in Dean's or Seamus's shoes, I'd hate myself too. I've disappointed a lot of people, Hermione. Failed them, which is worse. But it didn't hurt me nearly as much as hurting you two did. I hope I can mend my relationship with every member of the Army come the time. But what ate me alive, what took sleep away from me, it was the two of you. Like I said, I can't change what I did. I can be better, though, and that's what I'll try."

The cabin's door suddenly burst open, and Neville, with a wide grin stretching his face, stepped inside. "So, all good?"

Hermione scowled at the boy. "Did you overhear us?"

Neville blushed as he took a seat beside Harry. "I… Well, I kinda did it. Hey, don't give me that look! What was I supposed to do as my two friends were supposed to argue? Take a walk through the Slytherin coaches, maybe? Delight in the views all by myself? Either way, this isn't important right now." He glanced at each of them, and asked a bit more hesitantly, "all good, then?"

Harry quieted, granting Hermione the word. She let out a sigh, smiling weakly. "All good."

And for the first time in forever, Harry allowed himself a true smile. Hell, his face ached in protest so long it had gone without stretching so widely! This day, he would remember it fondly, despite how ordinary it was. Idle chat, sharing some sweets, a few jokes and many complaints about exams and the Professors. Still, he knew it would be a day to hold dearly.

Because of this, he was all the more shocked when the inconceivable happened.

A sudden dizziness struck Harry, brought by a sharp needle of flaring pain. He gasped, wheezing out a rushed breath. The world seemed to spin around him, the colours mixing and the voices fusing.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice sounded faint, distant, like a faraway echo. "Are you okay?"

Harry took his fingers up to his forehead, tracing them over the familiar shape carved upon his flesh. That of a lighting bolt. "My scar," he mused, feeling too cold out of a sudden. "It… It hurt…"