The howling winds, the heavy downpour, the raging seas, or the chillness in the air; none of these mattered to the person who was flying in the sky at that time, braving the forces of nature which seemed to be bent on thwarting him. No, he was a man with a goal, and nothing at all could defeat his resolve. It was as though the fury of nature was non-existent, as he had neither the patience nor the time for that. So he went, totally focused on his aim, his destination. That single-minded clarity of thought led him to a black stone, building, towering over the surroundings in a sinister manner. This was a building which had probably not been used for decades, and the magic around the place had weakened over time. Of course, all magic was inferior in comparison to his, but when he sensed the weak magic surrounding it, he felt contemptuous.
The stone walls were crumbling, and the once-terrifying castle could no longer induce fear in the minds of people as it had done, decades ago. This was the Nurmengard, the most dreaded prison in the world after Azkaban. The man just looked at it, and scornfully walked in. Fear never had a place in his mind, and it never would. Fear was a feeling meant for weaklings; the inferior ones. People like him never ever let that feeling in their minds; it was nothing but a mere weakness. The only ones who could rule the world were those who could conquer fear.
He sensed magic from one of the corners of the castle, and immediately proceeded in that direction. Most of the inmates were either dead, or were in a condition much similar to death, and the stench of death filled the damp dark walls on the inside of the castle. The magic that he felt came from one of the upper towers, and he apparated directly to the place where he sensed it, not wanting to see the pathetic faces of the inmates who were languishing the cells of the castle. Deep down, it was the fear of death which made him Apparate, but as his superior mind wouldn’t accept the fact; he thought it was saving time. He did not need to see their pathetic faces rotting, as it was nothing to him. Time was, after all, a precious resource.
Going purely by his senses, he blindly walked towards one of the heavily protected cells, and saw that it was the one which seemed to have the strongest magic surrounding it. He pushed open the door, confident of himself, and of what he would find inside.
Nothing could have prevented the shock that struck him when he saw the sight in front of his thin, slit-like eyes. A frail, feeble body lay on the floor, limp, lifeless. A cry of pure anger emanated from his mouth; rage in its purest form. He looked at the cadaver once again, and noticed it hadn’t been dead for a long time, like many of the others in the castle.
One second was all it took to regain his cold, heartless demeanour once again. The shock was replaced by an eerie sense of calm, almost too eerie. The dead body in front of him was just another victim who had succumbed to death, and death was a weak force. This automatically meant that the cadaver, or rather, the soul which had resided in this cadaver, was also pathetically weak. Voldemort laughed aloud, and wondered how this weak corpse could have ever induced fear in the minds of people; the only person who could do so was a conqueror of death itself. He
Now, he didn’t have the time to dwell on this. He had to act, do something so that his plans didn’t fall apart. The anger was slowly giving way to rational thought, and he thought about his immediate move. He had to move out of this depressing place at once, he thought at first, but then, he changed his mind. He couldn’t be afraid of corpses; after all, he commanded hordes of them. Then why did he want to leave this place? Fear. Fear of what? Death. His subconscious self was answering the questions that his mind had raised, and it wasn’t the first time that this had happened.
‘No,’ he cried aloud, not wanting his mind to think of such obscenely weak thoughts again.
His mind went back to the old, quaint house that he’d just come from, after yet another murder, another sin to add to his countless ones. But he didn’t care. The weak were meant to be born only to be eliminated by the stronger. As his mind focussed on the mental picture of the room where a body now lay, he remembered his last conversation with Gregorovich, one which have made him convulse at the frailty of the wand-maker. To believe that such a man could’ve ever owned the most powerful wand itself was too sickening.
He almost regretted killing him for a second, as he had ended the life of the only person who could take him to his immediate goal. Of course there were more who could lead him to his goal, but now, he didn’t have the time to go hunting for the others. He had to get the object soon, before the foolish boy could even think of such a thing. How utterly foolish was Dumbledore to trust that pathetic boy with such a mission as to kill the conqueror of death itself!
The stench of death was finally getting to him, and he realised that he’d been waiting on that same spot in front of the corpse for nearly half an hour. Time had been wasted, and he needed to make amends. He flew out of a collapsed wall and right into the eye of the storm once again, not bothering about the conditions which prevailed over the heavens. He would master them all, and that moment was not far away, he knew. As he flew towards the village, he wondered if the death would’ve been noticed. After all, that village was deserted. In any case, it wouldn’t matter to him, if it had been found, all it meant was that there would be a few more deaths. The deaths of weak people, to ensure the survival of the fittest.
The house appeared to be unaltered from the outside, but Voldemort knew better than to trust appearances. Appearances could be deceptive, he knew, as he himself utilised that tool to achieve his ends many a time. He went in cautiously, though he didn’t sense any magical power emanating from the house, and was fairly sure that it was safe. The sole room inside was still in the same condition that he’d left it in, the chair, the table and the half opened window looking as though they’d been Stupefied. The flowers in the basin were illuminated by the dim light coming from the window, and they still retained their freshness, their fragrance. They were going to die soon too, thought Voldemort, as he glanced at them. Unlike Him
He walked up to the old-fashioned chair on which he had seen the Wand-maker sit just before he had fled to his basement workshop. Voldemort looked at it with feelings of anger and hatred, as though it had caused him a great personal injury. What was its crime? It had seated the cowardly man. A sudden urge to burn the chair into flames crossed his mind, and before any thought could occur, the chair was reduced to a small pile of ashes. He didn’t regret it, he never would.
After fulfilling this small whim, he decided to do serious work. He needed the wand; and the desire to possess it increased more and more with each passing thought. The wand was his goal, and that was the only thing to be kept in sight. Yet, it was a puzzle, each mystery leading to the other, gradual, connected, brilliant. He needed to crack this mystery to get to the next; it was the only way to climb up the ladder. Rung by rung, never all together. Voldemort had never been used to patience, and the thought of solving a mystery was too demeaning. He was used to being served, never working for anything. He deserved it, and the inferior were there to do just that.
However, Voldemort did realise that this was something which he couldn’t trust any of his servants to do; they were too stupid, too careless. Not worthy of his trust. No, it was a mission, just like his sojourn to create the Horcruxes, his means to immortality. His desire for power was what had made him undertake this new mission, and this desire was rooted in greed. Immortality was not his only desire; he wanted to be invincible too. And the wand was his key to that locked door of invincibility. To get to the Wand of Destiny, his ultimate goal, he needed to solve the mystery of Grindelwald’s death, a bit of a puzzle which led to the next rung in the ladder. And he had to do it alone.
Though he sneered at the thought of working as a measly labourer, he did get down to work. A flick of his wand; and the contents of the drawer in the table were emptied near his foot. That was their place, meant to be crushed. Overcoming another urge to burn the papers all together, he sat down, on the cold floor, just as any other inferior person would, and sorted them all out. Most were letters, letters which dated decades back. Apparently, the old man lived in seclusion for the last few years of his cowardly life. Out of fear, Voldemort thought. Most of them were either wand requests or wand replacements, and they were of no use at all to him. With each passing moment, anger welled up in his mind. What a terrible waste of time!
Yet he endeavoured, continued searching through the pile of useless letters. After what seemed like ages, he found one with a name he knew, a name which struck him as soon as he read it. Bathilda Bagshot. Aunt of Gellert Grindelwald, author of A History of Magic, a piece of the mystery. He opened the piece of rolled up yellowing parchment, and read the faint greyish lettering which had almost faded away.
The letter was of no value, nothing more than an informal greeting containing a monotonous conversation about mundane daily life occurrences and spending old age peacefully. The tedium of their lives was just too much to bear; and the letter was in flames just seconds after his reading it. The normality of human life didn’t interest him, and the little hope that he’d got from reading the name of the sender of the letter vanished into thin air as readily as it had come. He knew there was more to the mystery than what he was seeing right now, and the impatience almost got the better of him this one time. It took him a moment to calm down, a moment to regain his former control, but he got there, cold-hearted and cruel as ever.
He felt the need to move; stagnation at a single place lead to decay, and decay was a by-product of death. To be alive, one needed to keep moving; motion was the key to everything. This mystery was no exception. He stood up; there was nothing more to be searched at in this place. It had been nothing more than sheer waste of time for an hour, and Voldemort wanted to redeem himself for having lost precious time. Time was something he couldn’t afford to lose, not at a time like this, at least.
A little thought went into his choice for the next destination. He had to finalise on a location, one which would help him solve, or at least lead to the solution of this piece of the mystery. There were decisions to be taken, precious decisions which mattered a lot at this stage. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake, everything had to be carefully planned to pin point precision. That had always been his way of life. Risks and thrills weren’t meant for the best, [i]the superior [/i] ones. Risks involved luck, and that was something Voldemort had never, and would never believe in. Luck didn’t exist; it was nothing more than fanciful imagination of a set of inferior people.
He finalised on a location, after a minute or two. It was the letter, or rather the remains of the letter, which had prompted the idea in his mind, and after a little thought, he had found it to be effective. He zeroed in on Bathilda Bagshot’s residence, the place where Gellert Grindelwald had spent his younger days in. Godric’s Hollow wasn’t a place which he wanted to re-visit; he knew it would bring back some memories which he wasn’t particularly interested in recalling. That was fear, and just as soon as he thought of it, his resolve increased a little more. He would go to that place, he would conquer his fear. Voldemort could not afford to be afraid; he had to conquer all emotions. Emotions are a man’s weakness, and superior people couldn’t be bothered with such mundane things as emotions. They were a liability, and meant to be discarded. In order to be the Supreme Master, emotions had to be cut out. They couldn’t exist.
Leaving the coward’s house, Voldemort embarked upon his journey once again. This time, however, it was on land, as opposed to the water which he’d had to face during his last journey. The time taken was shorter, the distance was comparatively lesser. He reached it at the outskirts of the tiny wizarding village, just as he’d done two decades ago. The similarity was too much to ignore, and Voldemort was instantly reminded of the fact as well. The steps taken were the same; the purpose was the same. The consequences, however, would be different. Last time, it had ended in killing one of his lives. This time it would make him immortal.
A look at the Potter Manor revealed no change in the atmosphere. Almost two decades ago, he had left the same house, a mere shadow with no powers, but he now returned, more powerful than before.
But his destination wasn’t the Potter Manor, and he began to concentrate his efforts into locating Bathilda’s residence. It came into clear view a few minutes after he went down the lane dissecting through the small village. The grass was overgrown, the flowers and the patches of vegetables contained more weeds than plants. The gate was rickety, in need of repair. Voldemort walked in, regardless of who would be there in the mansion. There wasn’t anyone who could compete with him; they were all weak in comparison.
The sight that awaited him was, to put it simply, not something that he had expected to see.
The door was half-open, and creaking with the howling wind, creating a noise unpleasant to the ear. But Voldemort was undeterred, he’d heard worse things. He was more interested in what awaited him inside, and that was what gave him a shock. The old lady, who was supposedly the lone owner and resident of the house, was lying on the cold, hard floor, motionless. That was not the worst of it. It was the look in her eyes that was scary, a distant, faraway look. But Voldemort was accustomed to it; it was the look of death. The look was something he was afraid of too, though he wouldn’t admit to it. He didn’t let such thoughts enter his mind at all, he didn’t want them, nor was there any need for them.
The sight shocked him, but he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t show emotion, it was a show of weakness. Even the most shocking events in his life were taken with self-control. It was something he’d learnt from a mistake that he’d committed in life once, and pledged he would never commit again. Showing one’s hand of cards was a mistake, and emotions were just a tool meant for that purpose. Dumbledore had used it against him, and it was a lesson he’d learnt.
Once before, on the same day, he’d cried out in rage, but now it wasn’t the same. His demeanour was different, and so was his mental state. He would use the evader’s trick against him. Wait and watch. The game wasn’t won by the person who was hasty, it was won by the one who was calm. He looked at the body once again, this time scrutinising it as he looked at it. The woman seemed to have been hit by the Killing Curse. No external bruises, no other scratches. The woman could’ve easily been mistaken for being asleep, except that there was no breath flowing through her veins. Voldemort knew, by just glancing There wasn’t any evidence that indicated violence, it seemed as though the killer had cleaned up after himself. Another possibility arose in Voldemort’s mind, and it was something which seemed as feasible as the probability that he was pondering upon now. What if the woman had died naturally?
It wasn’t impossible, and by the looks of the scene, it was almost as viable, if not more probable, than the idea of her being killed. There was only one way to find out, and Voldemort wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it. It would drain his energy, and definitely take up most of his time. Was she that important?
Yes
She held another key, another piece of the mystery he wanted to solve, and the mystery was eating him up from inside, his rage and anger almost consuming his measly patience. It was something he couldn’t take chances on, he had to cling on to every single thin hair which he got, all of them most important. And so, having made up his mind, he began.
The ritual involved a little wandless magic, and a lot of precision. It was something, which if successful, could help the seeker to access the entire memory of the dead person. The magic involved was powerful and dark, as what would be expected of someone like Voldemort. It was not found in books, it was learnt by practice. And Voldemort had mastered it, during his travels around the globe in search of knowledge.
He concentrated his mind, and all of his energy on the palm of his hand, and looked again at her seriously. It involved a lot of thought, and he needed to know exactly what he wanted to extract. His concentration on his palm increased, he just focused on it as though it was the only thing that existed. The seconds went by, as Voldemort was lost in thought in the dark room of the house. The time lost was not regretted for once, because failure in the effort would result in complete drainage of magical power, a precious resource, and one which couldn’t be wasted.
The entire preparation took two hours, and when he was confident, his hand began to radiate, and pulsate with the powerful vibrations emanating from it. It was ready at last, and he knew the moment had come. He looked at her, and performed Legilimency. And there it was, the memories of her brain, all swirling on his palm. He was successful, of course. He couldn’t be a failure, it was for the weak. The superior ones like him were always triumphant.
He looked at his palm in triumph, and began to sort through the mist that had formed.
The mist was not clear, as was expected. The old, dead woman‘s memories weren’t meant to be so. Voldemort looked for the particular memory he wanted, her last one. It was the most important one, the key to her murderer, and the key to the mystery that her death held.
And then he found it at last. Concentrating even more, he let the memory occupy all of the vapour formed from on his palm, letting it become more visible, and discernable. The process was slow, and as the memory grew slowly, Voldemort’s patience decreased drastically. He knew he couldn’t afford to hurry, but patience had never been his strength. Yet, he waited. The mist slowly formed into tiny figurines, two of them. One was the dead woman lying at his feet, and the other, a face which he didn’t recognise immediately.
The man then spoke, his voice raspy and showing signs of old age.
‘Bathilda, I am sorry, but this is a deed that has to be committed, for the protection of humanity.’
The woman just stood there, blank and expressionless. Her countenance revealed none of the emotions churning within her; Voldemort wasn’t even sure she’d understood what had been said. Then the words [i]AVADA KEDAVRA[/i] pierced the air, and the woman fell down like a rag doll. Nothing more was said or done, it was all over. The wisps disappeared in a second.
Who was the man? Voldemort vaguely remembered his face, the bright face of an adventurous man. The face struck a strong chord, and he felt his name just inches away from him, yet unreachable. Anger enveloped him again, and as much as he tried, it wouldn’t go away completely. Where had he seen him? Voldemort plunged into his memory once again, a fishing hunt which led to no results whatsoever. It just angered him more. Finally, he left the house, flying extremely fast, his anger propelling him to go at a pace almost as swift as the wind. He swiped through the air, cutting it like a sword and reached his current destination in just a few minutes. The Malfoy Manor awaited, with more news, and more curiosity. Their curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied, though he would listen to all the news before going back again to his hunt, his search for the Wand.
He was welcomed as usual, with dignity and fake warmth. He could see right through their faces when they said they had missed him. It was nothing but a falsity, and it was something he couldn’t tolerate. ‘Silence,’ he said, and all the muttering and talk in the dark room ceased immediately.
‘What news, Lucius?’ He asked, looking directly at the hooded man sitting to his left.
‘Nothing, m’Lord. the entire Ministry is under our control, and all detractors have either fled, or have been executed. The Muggleborn Registration commission has proved to be very effective, under the leadership of Dolores Umbridge. We’ve managed to put almost all Mudbloods into Azkaban.’
‘Good,’ he replied. He wasn’t interested in the mundane daily matters of the country. It was the reason he’d chosen not to become Minister for Magic after Scrimgeour’s death. His interest was to control the society, not run it. That was a job meant for the weaklings, men like Thickneese and the rest of them.
‘Any more news with regard to the boy?’ he asked, and received no answer. Heads were hung down in shame, and he felt ashamed of them. He looked at them all, slowly, and asked again. ‘Any news with regard to the boy?’
‘No, Master,’ said a voice from his right. It was Bellatrix, the only one who was brave enough to face his wrath. He admired her for her courage. He looked at them all once again, and said, ‘Continue your search. Let no place be left out, hunt them out from wherever they are.’
A shout was heard from deep below the house, a clear audible shout from Wormtail. ‘What is it? Go inquire and return, Lucius.’
He returned in a few minutes, and when he did, he bowed low and said, ‘Nothing much, Master. The captives have decided to try and make an attempt to flee. It is impossible, though they don’t realise it. Wormtail just panicked.’
The Captives. Voldemort stared blankly for a few seconds, and then understood. He had his answer. He now recognised this key, this crucial key to the mystery.
He left the room in a flourish of robes, at a hurried pace. He had work to do.
Dusk rapidly progressed into darkness as Voldemort undertook one last journey towards another destination, his last for the day. This time, a feeling of triumph engulfed him. The mystery was finally solved. He’d found the murderer, who would surely lead him to the Wand of Destiny. And then history would be rewritten. He now knew who the murderer was and he realised why the face was familiar. It was someone who was under their suspicion, a man who was allegedly working with Harry Potter.
The hills surrounding the area shadowed the entire village, and it looked as though the tiny lights in the houses were trying to ward away the impending darkness. Voldemort was reminded of the wizarding world. The tiny pricks of light were the rebels, who were trying so hard to keep away the power that was so visibly overpowering them. They didn’t stand a chance.
The house was in one of the surrounding hills. There wasn’t a pinprick of light to be seen on the hills, and Voldemort assumed that the person, his next victim, was trying to avoid him. It was only natural, he knew. He cast a Point-Me spell over the village, and proceeded North-West, by pure instinct. As he moved further, the view became more visible, the weird looking house standing out from the surroundings. He Apparated there, though he preferred flying. Night wasn’t very good for flying, and it would make him lose his factor to cause terror by surprise.
The house was clothed in darkness, with no semblance of any human activity whatsoever. He non-verbally cast ‘Homenum Revelio,’ and saw the light prick on the end of his wand. He’d been right, there was someone waiting for him. Wand at the ready, he cautiously walked in through the door, opening it with the least possible sound possible. In a flash, a sound was heard.
Stupefy!
Voldemort knew better, and his Shield Charm, cast over himself just before he walked in, repelled the Stunning Spell in a fraction of a second. However, it wasn’t Voldemort’s nature to be defensive, and he turned back quickly, and proclaimed, ‘Crucio!’
A voice filled with agony pierced the silent air, and a body writhed and moaned as pain shot through it. Voldemort enjoyed it, the writhing and moaning of helplessness ascertained his victory. ‘Tell me where the wand is, and you shall live,’ he said, in a commanding tone to the man who was now lying on the barren floor, eerie looking as his pale white face stood out against the surroundings.
‘No, I don’t know what you’re speaking about,’ the man replied. But his eyes flickered, and Voldemort caught the flicker.
‘Xenophilius Lovegood. I always thought you to be a fool, never knew you could be so impudent. You shall suffer.’
More shrieks and moans filled the air, and as the man writhed on the floor like a helpless lamb, Voldemort grew impatient. ‘Where is the Wand? Where is it? Crucio!’
‘For the last time, I don’t know,’ he cried, now desperate to just die.
‘No use, Lovegood. Lord Voldemort knows the other’s secrets, and you’re hiding them from me.’
The man didn’t reply; just lay there silently, as though preserving his energy.
After a moment, Voldemort continued. ‘Did you kill Grindelwald?’
A flicker of recognition passed over the old man’s face, but it disappeared as soon as it had come. He just looked blankly, and replied, ‘Who?’
‘I am sure you know who we are talking about, Lovegood,’ Voldemort said delicately, rolling his wand in between his fingers, enjoying his position.
‘Grindelwald, the Dark Wizard? I thought he was in Nurmengard, serving a life sentence.’
‘Ah, that isn’t so, unfortunately. He was killed, recently. I know you know about it.’
The old man’s eyes still returned that blank, dead look, and it made Voldemort get impatient.
‘Crucio!’
The body leaped up in pain, and as though his body was on fire, Xenophilius shrieked. It didn’t make a dent on Voldemort though, he was actually enjoying it.
‘I know it, I know it,’ shrieked the old man in pain, and Voldemort knew he’d broken through the defences.
‘Tell me then. What do you know? Tell me the truth, and you’ll survive.’ Voldemort returned to his sweet, flattering voice, but the low threatening growl was still hidden behind the cloak of sweetness, and Xenophilius recognised it. He had to think fast, without committing a mistake.
‘I killed Grindewald,’ he proclaimed weakly, and the smirk on Voldemort’s face was visible, even in the darkness.
‘Why?’
Silence ringed all around. There was no answer.
‘Don’t play games with me, Lovegood. Crucio!’
The agony lasted a few more seconds, and then he fainted. Voldemort was tempted to kill him, but he knew there was still time for that. He mentally thought Aguamenti, and watched as the water poured from his wand into Xenophilius’ face. The man regained consciousness and lay there for some time, as good as dead.
‘Tell me again, why did you kill Grindelwald?’
‘He knew things which couldn’t be revealed. It was best that he died.’ Xenophilius was trying his best to think fast, fabricating lies by the second. Voldemort stared into his eyes, and Xenophilius shut them tight. He knew that the Dark Lord was using Legilimency, and he was prepared. It was all part of the plan. Lead him away, lead him on a false trail. At least until the wrong could be made right.
‘What was the information he knew, that it led to his death?’
‘He knew about your secrets,’ Xenophilius uttered the words slowly, letting the truth sink in. He knew he’d triumphed, the look on Voldemort’s face was just pure shock personified.
‘What do you know about it?’ He whispered, still taking in the shock of the words that’d just been uttered. His secret was out, and he had to now protect it. He couldn’t let Lovegood live. How many others know? How did they know? His mind was churning with questions, and he almost forgot about the question he’d asked. He looked back at Lovegood, and then realised that the man was up on his feet again, though he was trembling badly. It was as though he was using all his energy to stand.
‘Follow me,’ he said.
‘Why should I?’ Voldemort asked, continuing to twirl his wand between his fingers.
‘I thought you wanted to know more about Grindelwald’s death,’ Xenophilius replied.
‘Lead the way. But remember, one wrong move, and you’re dead.’
They went down through the darkness, and then Xenophilius opened a trap door. The door opened to a staircase, and it was dark, pitch dark in there. Xenophilius reached for his wand, but Voldemort said, ‘There will be no need for that,’ and flicked his wand to light the way.
It was pitch black, and even after Voldemort lit his wand, they couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of them. The light was just enough for them to see a few feet in front, the rest was all darkness, engulfing them from all sides. Xenophilius gestured for Voldemort to enter, and as they walked in, Voldemort couldn’t help but notice blood on the walls and the staircase. He was curious, [i]what on earth could’ve been here to bloody the walls?[/i] It was intriguing, and he was almost tempted to ask Lovegood walking in front about it. But he didn’t. By the looks of Xenophilius, it seemed as though he was just trying to keep walking. Surely he didn’t have the energy to answer some more questions. Voldemort knew that if he asked more questions, Xenophilius would probably faint again. And that wasn’t to his benefit. He knew that there was a time and place to ask questions, and this wasn’t it.
He went down the stairway, into a tunnel, which then connected to another darker corridor. The passage just seemed endless, and twisted at the most ridiculous places. It irritated Voldemort no end, and as they walked further and further, slowly, with no energy or enthusiasm at all, he couldn’t help but want to kill the old guide in front of him and take over. After all, nothing was impossible. He could fight any force that may be in store for him, he was Superior and all-powerful. And then, something caused him to speed up the process. The old man fell down, helpless again. But this time, his eyes didn’t flutter and he didn’t make an effort to stand up. Voldemort waited for a few more seconds, and then glanced at the man. It was clear as daylight that he was dead. The pain had been too much to bear, and he’d succumbed to the weak force of death. Voldemort glanced at the closed eyes, and pale face as they were lit up in the light of his wand, and then kneeled down to search for anything which may be of any value to him.
As he kneeled down and looked at the body, the first thing that he noticed was the key hanging from his neck. The key was big, with a gemstone at one of its ends. The other end had cryptic markings; there would probably be similar ones in the lock too, wherever it was. He pulled the gold chain off the man’s neck and then stamped on the body and made way to the next level.
The end was nowhere in sight, but he trudged on and on, propelled by nothing but his greed. It made him really angry, but he knew he couldn’t help that. His goal was the only thing to be kept in sight, and with the new, frightening development, it had become even more mandatory for him to find the exit.
And then he found it. It was a tiny prick of light at first, which gradually grew larger and larger as he walked further and further. At the end of a particularly wide tunnel, he saw a steep ascent, and a hole to the ground above. Voldemort had no clue as to where he was, they’d traipsed too many corridors to actually keep track of direction. He wasn’t afraid, however, and he flew up to the place, where it was dawn already. Voldemort couldn’t believe he’d spent the whole night in the tunnels; it was just too demeaning and an utter waste of time.
When he reached up and out onto dry ground, he couldn’t help but be awed by the sight in front of him. A giant tree, and an ancient temple of sorts awaited his eyes, and the door to the temple was shut tight. Voldemort finally allowed himself a smile; he’d reached his final destination.
The temple, apparently, it was a temple, had crude markings all around the gateway. None of them actually made much sense, but they had been preserved really well. It almost seemed as if it was new, except for the age old tree which seemed to have been growing there for years. The roots were covering almost the entire roof of the temple, and that was the only sign of its age. The door was shut, and in front of the temple stood a scroll, and the writing on the scroll was as follows:
If thou be’est a true man, all values and no wrong, show thy true colours and thy blood. Give thy sacrifice, and have the right key, and thou shall pass all the barriers before thee.
Voldemort read the script in front of him, and laughed. This was perhaps the easiest part of the journey; he had the right key, and his blood to sacrifice. The blood was scared too, made pure now by the Mudblood’s sacrifice. That itself was ironical. A Mudblood’s sacrifice, making his blood pure; it was worth a smile. He walked to the scroll, and saw the dagger lying right beneath it. One slash of the dagger, and the blood was pouring into the stone. The pain was almost nothing, Voldemort was used to worse.
He then removed the key from the inside of his robes, and held it near the stone, letting the early morning light filtering in through the thick foliage, to fall upon it. He worked through intuition, and he knew, by gut instinct, that he was right. As the gem refracted the rays of sunlight, and illuminated the blood on the stone, there was a heavy grinding noise which was heard. The rock-like door was sliding apart, and the noise that emanated made it sound as though it was a sleeping monster, just waking up again.
The noise was almost pleasant to Voldemort’s ears; he enjoyed the grinding and the hissing noise. It was reminiscent of the time that he’d opened the Chamber of Secrets, unleashing the monster within to salvage what was left of the purest blood. This was just a repetition, history would repeat itself again. The bloodied books of history would be refreshed with fresh, new blood, blood from the thorn of a rose. Wizard-kind had made a grave mistake, and had let themselves be pricked by the thorn, allowed themselves to be adulterated by filth and dirt, and now they would face the consequences. And how he would enjoy it. Pure bliss, nothing else.
He then walked into the cavern which was revealed by the stone door, and as he entered, he noticed a face which was looking at him in sheer shock. Aberforth Dumbledore. The similarity between the two was striking, and the only difference which was noticeable was the rugged physique, and the scarred face. His face however, was drained of all blood, and was as pale as that of a ghost’s now. He looked up in pure shock, wondering how on earth Voldemort had managed to reach this site.
‘Hello, Aberforth, fancy meeting you here,’ Voldemort said, smiling at the helplessness and despair in the other man’s face. It was sheer delight, being in the position that he was. Aberforth just looked again blankly at him, horror visible on his face now.
‘Let’s not waste time in small talk. I don’t have the time to spare. Tell me, what do you know of the Horcruxes?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ the old man replied, looking blankly. This time, however, Voldemort knew he wasn’t lying. There was something in those bright blue eyes. Truth.
Voldemort glanced at the cavern once again, and saw that it was empty. Could it be hidden?
‘Specialis Revelio,’ Voldemort said audibly, allowing himself to shock the other man some more. He was happy when he saw the goat-charmer’s face become paler than it was before. There was another crunching sound, as another panel opened from one of the walls, opening a small box-like crevice from the walls.
And then everything was a blur. ‘I will not let you do this, no,’ shouted Aberforth as he ran towards the panel, mentally casting a Stunning Spell. Caught unawares, Voldemort was stunned, but only for a millisecond, or that’s what it seemed like. The power behind the spell had been weak, and as another shot of light emerged from Aberforth’s wand, Voldemort cast Protego Horribillis, and watched as the spell hit back like a ball bouncing off a rubber pad. It was not effective either, as Aberforth cast another shield. Voldemort was tired of his games, and too eager to get to his prize, the prize that was inevitably hidden in the box-like crevice behind Aberforth. He liked to play with his prey, but this had gone too far. It was the end, and his impatience to get hold of the wand was what was propelling him to cast curse after curse at the old goat-charmer, who was showing an inept ability at dodging the curses.
‘Avada Kedavra!’ Voldemort shouted then, and he knew he’d find his target. The flash of green illuminated the goat-charmer’s face for a second or so, and then all was gone. It was over, and he’d won. He was now going to be the Master of the World, with the most powerful wand at his disposal. It was a truly glorious moment, and one which he had awaited ever since he’d come to know of the wand. He walked over to the panel, stepping over another cadaver, and looked into the box. It was locked, but that could be solved. A simple matter of opening the lock, with the key which was in his pocket. He committed the task, and as the box opened, he smiled again. This time, it was a smile of triumph, of victory and greed. The wand was inside, kept there with nothing to protect it, finger marks all over it. This was the moment, and as he picked up the wand, he felt a certain warmth in his palms, as though the wand was familiarising itself with its new owner.
He smiled again, thinking he’d truly won what he wanted to. Little did he know he’d killed the wrong men, taken the wrong wand, and would ultimately be killed due to this grave mistake of his…
