Chapter 625: Madness
Tom Riddle woke in a dry, stagnant ditch outside the manor grounds.
Through a haze of pain, he caught the scent of his own body. It was a cocktail
of scorched cloth, metallic blood, and something he hadn't smelled in decades:
Rot.
It smelled like the dead cats he used to find in the rain-soaked alley behind
the orphanage.
In his delirium, Tom saw a vision of a potential future. Dumbledore won.
Grindelwald won. The boy, Sean Green, lived—protected, cherished, and groomed to
be the "perfect wizard" Albus always dreamed of.
And what of himself? Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the Heir of Slytherin—he
would die in an unmarked gutter, or be struck down like a dog by Dumbledore's
own hand. His corpse would be put on display at the entrance of the Ministry,
much like the bodies of his father and grandparents had lay on the floor of the
Riddle House.
And then? His Death Eaters would scatter like vermin into the night. The Daily
Prophet would run a front-page special celebrating his annihilation. The
wizarding world would return to its pathetic peace, and people in pubs would
raise their glasses to the "death of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" before forgetting
he ever existed.
He would be forgotten.
Just like his dead Muggle father.
Just like every nameless orphan in London.
Something inside Voldemort's scarlet, slitted eyes finally snapped.
"No..." he whispered.
His voice was a thin, raspy thread.
The Manor.
The Dark Mark had hung suspended in the night sky for three hours. Its sickly
green luminescence washed over the manor's iron gates, illuminating every line
and wrinkle on the faces of the Death Eaters gathered in the portico.
No one spoke.
The last time they had gathered in such a manner was the night before the Boy
Who Lived was born. Back then, the entire wizarding world trembled at their
names. They had been purging Muggle-borns with impunity, laughing as they
ushered in what they believed was the dawn of the Dark Lord's eternal reign.
Antonin Dolohov had been the one who laughed the loudest.
Now, all that remained of Dolohov was a pile of grey ash in the corner. Fenrir
Greyback lay beside him—another mound of soot, only slightly darker.
No one dared look at them. No one dared stop thinking about them.
Severus Snape stood in the deepest shadows at the far end of the room. His face
was a mask of cold indifference, as usual, but his eyes never moved from the
heavy oak door at the end of the drawing room.
The Dark Lord was inside. He had been alone for three hours.
Alecto Carrow was sitting in an armchair by the cold hearth, her elbows on her
knees and her hands clasped tight. She looked remarkably like her brother,
Amycus—possessing the same heavy frame and narrow, mean eyes. She clutched a
copy of the Daily Prophet. Her brother was currently standing trial at the
Ministry, destined for a return to Azkaban.
Beside her, Walton Macnair—the Ministry executioner who usually wore a sneer of
professional cruelty—couldn't even maintain a fake smile. He was frantically
dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief that was already soaked through with
sweat. Fenrir had been his protege; the two of them had spent a decade bonding
over their shared love of slaughter. Now, Fenrir was a pile of dust in the side
parlor.
"Dumbledore."
Bellatrix Lestrange spat the name as if it were a mouthful of viper venom. She
sat closest to the study door, her back rigid, her nails digging into her own
palms. She was the only one who hadn't shown a trace of fear. Her eyes held
nothing but hate—pure, searing hate that felt hot enough to ignite the air.
"Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and that little Mudblood brat they're protecting... I
will personally—"
"Quiet, Bella."
The voice belonged to Rodolphus Lestrange, her husband. It wasn't loud; in fact,
it sounded weary.
Every head in the room turned toward him. Rodolphus rarely contradicted his wife
in public, and never in that tone. There was no anger on his face, only the
exhaustion of a man who had been ground down by the years. He looked at
Bellatrix, then slowly shifted his gaze to Alecto, and finally to the two white
sheets in the side room.
"Hasn't there been enough?" he asked softly.
The fire in the hearth gave a sharp crackle.
Then, the door opened.
No one heard footsteps. The door simply swung wide on its own, pushed by a wave
of cold pressure that surged from the study. The candlelight dimmed, the flames
shrinking as if the light were being sucked out of the air. A bone-deep chill
crawled across the floor, washing over the ankles of the Death Eaters.
Lord Voldemort stepped out of the darkness.
He wore the same tall silhouette, the same snake-like face, and the same black
robes. Bellatrix made a move to stand, her hands gripping the armrests, but her
legs refused to obey her.
Voldemort walked to the center of the drawing room. He stopped and slowly
scanned the circle. Every time his gaze touched a face, that person's breath
hitched in their throat.
Then, he smiled.
It was a gentle, almost pensive smile. It was a look that made Snape's pupils
contract and his hand tighten around the wand hidden in his sleeve. Snape had
seen every version of Voldemort's smile—the cruel, the mocking, the falsely
merciful, and the predatory. He had never seen this one.
"Dolohov. Fenrir."
Voldemort spoke the names with a voice as calm as a man reading a menu for cold
soup. "They are dead. Slain by an old man and an even older relic."
He paused. The presence of the two corpses in the next room suddenly felt like a
physical weight pressing down on the manor.
Alecto Carrow stood up. Her movements were slow and jerky. She looked at her
Master, her lips trembling, before she finally found her voice.
"Master... my brother. When... when do we go to bring him back?"
Voldemort turned his head toward her. His red, ash-colored eyes stayed on her
face for a long time. Sweat began to bead on Alecto's forehead. The fire in the
hearth died down another inch.
"Bring him back," Voldemort repeated, tasting the words like a joke he had never
heard before. "You want me to retrieve a prisoner. You want me—the Lord
Voldemort—to walk into a trap set by Dumbledore and Grindelwald for the sake of
a common criminal? You want me to risk the fire of a Phoenix to reclaim a piece
of rotting meat?"
His voice never rose, but Alecto's knees buckled. She collapsed onto the floor,
trembling.
Voldemort looked away. He addressed the entire room, spreading his long, pale
hands.
"Dolohov is dead. Fenrir is dead. Your brothers, your sisters, your
colleagues—dead. And I—"
His voice finally flickered with emotion, but it wasn't rage. It was a chilling,
detached amusement.
"—I nearly followed them."
The candles in the room went out simultaneously.
"And then I realized something," Voldemort's voice echoed through the
pitch-black room. "I have been wondering where I failed.
"Power? I am the strongest. Knowledge? I am the most learned. Fear? The world
dares not speak my name.
"And yet I lost. Why? Because I was playing a game I was never meant for.
Ruling. Governance. Politics. Those are their games. Those are the games of
Humans. And the Great Voldemort is not human."
A flash of sickly green light ignited in the darkness.
"Dumbledore thinks he can predict me. Let this ridiculous game end. I will
remind them what it means to fear."
Voldemort threw his arms wide, his face twisting into a mask of absolute,
unhinged malice.
"Declare our return with blood and slaughter. Let the wizarding world burn!"