A man suddenly appeared from the void without warning in a narrow, shadowy alley with a sharp crack that echoed off the walls. The sound was like a gunshot in the stillness of the night.
The moment his feet touched solid ground, stumbling slightly as he regained his balance, he alertly scanned his surroundings with paranoia. His head spun left and right rapidly, his eyes darting into every shadow, confirming with absolute certainty that no one was watching his arrival.
The wand that had poked out defensively from beneath his black traveling cloak, ready to strike at any threat, retracted smoothly back into concealment within his sleeve. Only then did he breathe a soft sigh of relief that misted in the air, and his shoulders slumped slightly.
To the left of the cramped alley grew wild, low-lying brambles that scratched at his cloak as he moved. To the right stood neatly trimmed, tall hedges that spoke of old wealth and careful maintenance. The contrast between the two sides was obvious, representing the boundary between the magical and mundane worlds.
The man began walking forward. His black cloak brushed against his ankles with each stride, making soft whisking sounds in the silence.
The low-hanging branches of oak trees above intermittently blocked the pale moonlight coming down, causing his anxious, haggard face to appear flickering between light and deep shadow as he moved beneath their canopy.
He quickly left the narrow alley behind, his pace increasing slightly, and turned right onto a wider carriageway paved with smooth gravel. The tall hedge followed the turn, extending into the distance like an impenetrable green wall designed to keep out prying eyes and unwanted visitors.
A pair of magnificent wrought-iron gates, decorated with intertwining serpents and decorative scrollwork blocked his path ahead. Each serpent was in exquisite detail, their scales catching the light, their mouths open to reveal fangs.
The man didn't slow his stride or stop to announce himself, but simply extended his right hand from beneath his cloak. He walked straight through the mist-like wrought-iron gates as if they were completely insubstantial.
At the end of the long, straight driveway filled with sculpted topiaries cut into fantastic shapes of peacocks, serpents, lions frozen in perpetual stone, an extremely imposing mansion loomed ominously in the darkness ahead. Its many tall windows were dark and unwelcoming, like dead eyes staring out at nothing.
Malfoy Manor.
The very name carried considerable weight in pure-blood circles.
This wasn't Nott Senior's first visit to his old friend Lucius's ancestral home—far from it. They had been friends since their school days at Hogwarts, fellow Slytherins who had maintained their connection through the decades.
In happier times past, before the Dark Lord's return had changed everything, he had greatly admired this dignified, luxurious mansion with its classical architecture and impeccable taste.
The elegant decorations and priceless artifacts displayed inside had been worthy of the Malfoy family's ancient pure-blood heritage, some pieces dating back centuries. They simultaneously showcased the family's accumulated wealth over generations.
But now, tonight, this once respectable manor sitting isolated in its grounds exuded a heavy, oppressive pall of gloom that seemed almost physical, like a weight pressing down on anyone who approached.
Even the bright moonlight over their head couldn't penetrate or dispel the ominous atmosphere surrounding the estate like a curse, like something had taken up residence and poisoned the very stones.
Nott Senior's steps slowed as he approached the entrance. He could feel it now—that terrible presence inside.
The Dark Lord was here, waiting.
His mouth went dry.
"Hah—"
Entering the grand entrance hall through heavy double doors that opened silently at his touch, under the judgmental gaze of pale-faced portraits of dead Malfoys hanging on the walls in frames—Nott Senior took a deep breath.
The entrance hall was exactly as he remembered it: marble floors polished to a mirror shine, a grand staircase sweeping up, crystal chandeliers hanging dark and unlit in the ceiling.
He murmured something inaudible to himself, some half-remembered prayer or charm, as if to bolster his failing courage. His hands were shaking. Then he walked as steadily as he could manage across the almost overwhelmingly luxurious carpet toward a wooden door at the far end of the hall.
He knew what lay beyond that door. Who lay beyond it.
"I will... hah, I will receive praise for this information," He whispered to himself, trying to believe it. "This is important. I'm being useful."
After hesitating for several seconds at the threshold, his hand hovering over the handle, Nott Senior finally gathered what remained of his courage. He turned the cold bronze handle with a slightly trembling hand and pushed the door open with a long, drawn-out creak.
The drawing room out there was vast and dimly lit. It contained a richly decorated long table of dark wood that could seat twenty people, carved with more serpent motifs along its edges.
The room's usual furniture had been carelessly pushed against the walls in disarray, clearing space in the center. Some pieces were overturned. A painting hung crooked.
A small cluster of weak flames burned in the marble fireplace at one end, providing only the most minimal, inadequate lighting for the spacious room—barely enough to see by, creating more shadows than light.
It was as if the people inside had no need for proper light, preferred darkness. Perhaps they did.
"You've arrived at last, Nott—"
The voice came from the shadows, it was high-pitched and cold.
Only two people occupied the gloomy room: one was the original master of this house, the other its new and terrible master who had claimed it as his headquarters.
Voldemort sat at the innermost central position of the long table like a king upon a throne, his pale form barely visible in the dim light. He spoke in his distinctive high-pitched voice that sent chills down the spine of anyone who heard it.
His left hand rested on the chair's carved armrest with casualness, elegantly holding his wand between pale, spider-like fingers.
His red eyes glowed in the darkness like dying coals.
Lucius Malfoy was prone on the floor several feet away from the table, collapsed. His pale blond hair usually tied back with a ribbon and flowing elegantly was now disheveled and tangled, hanging before his eyes in tangled strands.
His gray eyes were filled with unspeakable fear and fresh terror, still wide with the memory of pain. His ghastly pale, completely bloodless cheeks continued to twitch spasmodically, little muscular spasms he couldn't control, as if he had just endured some unimaginable torture. Which he had.
The Cruciatus Curse left its marks even after it ended.
Small sounds escaped Lucius's throat—whimpers he was trying to suppress, but was failing.
Lucius's utterly wretched state, seeing his proud friend reduced to this broken thing on the floor, made Nott Senior's heart tremble with sympathy and dread equally. He stared at Lucius blankly, completely forgetting in his shock what he had so carefully prepared to report during his journey here.
All his rehearsed words fled his mind.
His legs weakened beneath him as if someone had cast a spell, and he dropped directly to his knees on the carpet without meaning to, without deciding to kneel. His body made the decision for him, recognizing the danger.
"Oh, no need to worry about Lucius, Nott—"
Voldemort seemed to find this terrified scene quite amusing, almost entertaining. He showed a languid, cruel smile, turning his head slowly to look at Lucius still panting weakly on the floor like a wounded animal.
His scarlet serpentine pupils were colder than ice, colder than anything natural. Inhuman. Reptilian. Empty of any recognizable emotion except perhaps contempt.
"Lucius has betrayed my trust. He lost the precious treasure the great Dark Lord entrusted to his care... delivering it straight to Dumbledore and Watson in an extremely foolish manner, practically giftwrapping it with a bow."
Voldemort's voice was almost casual, which somehow made it worse.
"He has been punished accordingly and appropriately—though perhaps not sufficiently. We shall see if the lesson takes."
A cold, vicious expression rippled across Voldemort's flat, snake-like face. The wand in his hand swayed almost hypnotically, like a serpent preparing to strike.
"But the Dark Lord is magnanimous when properly served, merciful to those who prove their worth. Lucius, I can forgive you once... just this once. My patience is not infinite, but it exists."
He paused, letting the words hang unfinished.
"Of course, this mercy is also in consideration of your recent success in securing the giants' support for our great cause. You can still be useful. Rise, Lucius. I hope this foolish mistake won't occur a second time... You won't disappoint me again, will you?"
"Thank you for your magnanimity, my Lord! You are most merciful! Most gracious!"
Lucius's voice was hoarse.
He dragged his disheveled, trembling body across the floor. He crawled miserably to Voldemort's feet on his hands and knees. His nostrils flared as he bent low, pressing his face nearly to the floor, and kissed Voldemort's robes with desperate gratitude and humiliation. He kissed them multiple times, humiliating himself completely, surrendering any last shred of dignity.
Anything to avoid another round of the Cruciatus. Anything.
"Rise, Lucius. Come, let us hear together what good news Nott has brought us from his errand. Perhaps he has been more competent than you."
Voldemort stood and said, slowly walking to Nott's side. However, he deliberately didn't let Nott stand or show him any courtesy. Instead, he bent down slightly to look at the kneeling man with interest, studying him like a specimen.
The huge shadow cast on the wall behind him by the firelight seemed monstrous, seemed like a demon preparing to devour Nott Senior's smaller shadow.
"You do bring good news, don't you, Nott?"
Voldemort asked softly.
"I... oh, I'm not entirely certain, Master... not completely certain if it's good news exactly, but I believe it absolutely necessary to report to you immediately. I thought you should know."
Nott Senior's forehead pressed hard against the fuzzy carpet, feeling the fibers against his skin.
"But I saw Bryan Watson today. I saw him return to Britain. He's back."
A moment of silence.
"Bryan Watson has returned..."
A flash of disgust crossed Voldemort's pale, lowered face followed quickly by listlessness and dismissal.
"You sent urgent word to see me just to tell me this trivial fact... wasting the Dark Lord's precious time with news I could perhaps learn from buying a single copy of the Daily Prophet tomorrow morning? This is what you consider urgent?"
Nott Senior's heart tightened at once, constricting in his chest. He could feel an overwhelming supernatural cold pressing down on him from above, threatening to crush him flat against the floor.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"I encountered Watson at Gringotts this morning, Master—" He rushed on desperately. "He was there with a young woman, opening a vault for her... The woman he brought back from New York... Watson told she has great talent with alchemical instruments, so he plans to place her working in the workshop that earns money for him and that werewolf Remus Lupin—"
Voldemort's lowered gaze grew increasingly cold and dangerously impatient.
"—Of course, that's not the key point, not why I'm here!" Nott rushed on desperately. "They later went deeper into the vaults, led by a goblin guide. Out of curiosity and suspicion, I waited outside the bank for a while... Oh, actually for several hours, which struck me as extremely odd and unusual. You know, Master, normally retrieving galleons from a vault wouldn't take that long."
He paused to draw breath.
"Later they finally came up from the underground vaults, but something was very wrong with their appearance. The goblin who had led them down looked like it had personally fought a dragon in close combat... its clothes were burned and tattered, its face was blackened by soot."
Voldemort's expression changed. Something flickered in his eyes.
As if some terrible suspicion had suddenly formed in his mind, connecting pieces together, a tremor flashed through Voldemort's red eyes. His entire body went still, stiff.
His voice was both icy and heavy when he spoke again.
"I assume you questioned that goblin thoroughly, Nott?"
"Of course, my Lord!"
Realizing that what he was reporting wasn't entirely worthless to the Dark Lord after all, Nott Senior's stilled heart recovered some vitality and hope. His voice didn't tremble quite as severely now, gaining confidence.
"It refused to say anything at first, claimed client confidentiality and bank regulations, but I threatened it severely—told it that if it didn't tell me exactly what they had done down there in those vaults, I would terminate all of the Nott family's business with Gringotts immediately, withdraw every last galleon the Nott family has stored there over centuries... and make its miserable life even more miserable.
Then it cracked under pressure and told me that Watson had opened a very ancient family vault."
The words fell into silence.
"A very ancient family vault?!"
Instantly, a tremendous, gut-wrenching fear gripped Voldemort's heart like a physical hand squeezing. His mind raced. He spun around to look at Lucius with sudden focus, fury barely contained in his fierce, blazing gaze.
Lucius had just recently told him about the situation with that diary when he'd inquired about it... information about his precious Horcrux that had sent him into a towering rage, made him want to kill Lucius where he stood.
But upon calming down afterward, he'd concluded he needn't be quite so anxious about it. He'd talked himself down from panic.
It was just an accident—Lucius's foolish decision to act on his own initiative without permission had exposed his precious Horcrux to Dumbledore and Watson. But Dumbledore was already dim-eyed and senile, his mind was failing with age; he couldn't possibly recognize his great magic that could prevent death. The old fool didn't have it in him to understand Horcruxes.
Watson did cause him some worry, though... more than Dumbledore.
Just from the fact that Watson could use Fiendfyre to an exceptional, masterful standard, showed he wasn't a 'saint' like Dumbledore, wasn't bound by foolish morality and laws.
His mastery of the Dark Arts clearly ran deep. He wasn't afraid to use them.
Voldemort had just been pondering earlier whether Watson might possibly know about Horcruxes through his studies in dark magic, and now Nott brought him this disturbing news about ancient vaults being opened.
"An ancient family vault—"
The red light in Voldemort's serpentine pupils blazed with intense, feverish brightness, but his voice was ethereal and distant, almost a whisper.
"Belonging to whom? Which family? Speak!"
"The goblin absolutely refused to say, Master—wouldn't tell me no matter what—"
Nott Senior gasped for breath.
"It said telling me even this much already posed great risk to its position at Gringotts. If it revealed more specific information, if Watson discovered this, Watson wouldn't spare it. It was terrified of Watson. More terrified of him than of me."
"Refused to say??!"
Voldemort's voice suddenly rose sharply, red light blazing in his vertical pupils. He looked at Nott Senior coldly.
"Since when have you become such a gentleman, Nott? Or have you already forgotten how to properly serve the Dark Lord through all necessary means? Have you become completely worthless to me?!"
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