Growling thunder echoes through the hills and valley. Lightning flashes overhead to brighten the dark wet sky. The downpour gathers into small streams of water forming deep puddles and bogs of mud. Despite the harsh weather, three dark cowled figures determinedly traverse the mud-bogged paths in the storm.
At the helm is a tall, unnatural thin figure. Beneath the dark robes lays the pale, ghastly skeletal figure of Lord Voldemort. Turning towards the tall, gaunt-faced wizard beside him, Voldemort's crimson serpent eyes gleam in the murky darkness. "I commend you for your efforts, Lestrange. I knew that you would not fail me, my most trusted of servants."
Rodolphus did not deem an answer keeping his ice-cold dark eyes on the ground before him. The uncanny serpent had been left behind for the evening, but the Dark Lord was closely watching him. He could afford to betray himself at this crucial juncture.
A cold crinkle of a smile appears on Voldemort's face in approval at Lestrange's lack of a response. Humility was an erratic characteristic rarely found among those that followed him. And frankly, humility did not suit Lestrange at all.
Turning his crimson serpent eyes towards the road, Voldemort frowns as they approach the edge of a small muggle village. In the nearby distance, an old, wet worn sign with faded letters read as Helthorn. Evident distaste appears on Voldemort's face at the sight of the muggle village just yonder the hill. With clear contempt in his eyes, Voldemort deliberately paused permitting Lestrange to slightly move forward as a guide.
With the harsh downpour, there was not a single living soul in sight. The muggle residents all reside inside their cozy homes spending an evening watching a program on the telley. Nary a single inquisitive soul peeks outside behind a window curtain nor would there be any. The residents of Helthorn had all learned since childhood to tightly keep their curtains shut no matter what can be heard beyond their windowpane for ignorance is often a life-saving grace in Helthorn.
The silence is interrupted by the loud sniffle of the third member of the trio, Gibbons. Gibbons abundantly disliked having to walk so long like a mere SQUIB. It was below him. And even to further worsen his mood, he can practically smell the suffocating scent of muggles. Alas, their Master had required his presence opting for a smaller party of accompaniment to show his sincerity towards the Acolytes. As such, they found themselves tramping through the rain and mud on foot! Pathetic, really.
Past the main street and down an alley near the graveyard on the outskirts of the town, Rodolphus led them to a worn building enchanted to keep muggles away. The nearly rotting wood steps are loud and creaking threatening to snap under their combined weights. The door is old, gray, and dilatated. Two screeching, rusty crows each hold a rusted ring in their mouth.
Rodolphus does not reach for the door knockers but raises his wand. A touch of light is emitted from the tip of his wand. With care, he casts a spell upon the two rusty crows and waits. The rusty crows drop the metal rings from their mouths and loudly been to screech. The door with a loud groan opens that led into a dark hall.
Courteously Rodolphus steps aside and permits Voldemort to enters first before he and Gideon closely follow after. The doors with a scream-like screech slam shut behind them plunging them nearly into darkness. There is dim lighting offered only by flickering candles. The air is dark and gloomy with the taste of dust and darkness.
There is a chill in the air, but it is not from the storm. Through the halls of the deteriorated dwelling, there are countless glimpses of dark artifacts. There is a curled skeletal hand, a Hand of Glory used by thieves and plunders to shine through the darkest of veils. A pack of bloodstained cards, and countless dark masks hanging on the wall watching them with unseen eyes. A large iron cabinet, a crushing cabinet to slowly crush the prisoners to death.
In a dusty, locked cabinet is innocent looking unlit candles. Yet to a knowing eye, these are poisonous candles that will release toxic fumes upon being lit. A high-grade punishment from the Ministry of Magic if anyone is caught with such an item.
Alongside the cabinet are innocent-looking ancient tomes. However, these books were not meant to be read, but rather a trap for an unsuspecting reader. The curse inscribed within the tomes would burn an unsuspecting reader's eyes leaving them blind. There were countless more items, but they had not the time to study them for they had far more pressing matters.
Small puffs of cloud are released with their every footstep as they traverse across the dusty carpet. At the furthest end of the hallway lay a pair of doors that are wide open. The hallway remains dimly lit if not growing darker the more they approach. At the entrance of the chamber, Rodolphus steps forward and deeply bows to those seated within.
"I humbly greet the noble Acolytes, this evening. With great honor, I present Lord Voldemort before thee," Rodolphus said, before adding after a pause, "And fellow companion, Gideon."
Voldemort does not wait for a response, but rather raises his long, spider-like hands to remove the cowl from his head. His crimson eyes are tightly affixed to those seated within, but none of the Acolytes show any sign of surprise. Rather they are unable to hide their expressions of disdain and scorn.
A more silver-haired than blond wizard, Gunar Grimmson, a burly man with rough features sneers. "How remarkable never in all my years have I witnessed such a buffoon," he scoffed. "What manner of imbecile would willingly transform themselves into a beast?"
Voldemort's face hardens causing his snake-like nostrils to flare at the callous remark. Yet before he can speak, another interrupted. "Now, now, Grimmson," interjected, a short wizard named MacDuff, who clutches a dried rabbit's foot in hand all the while toying with the chain of human teeth hanging around his neck. "We mustn't forget, Voldemort is a mere half-breed. He was brought by beasts (in other word muggles)."
The Acolytes in the chamber snort in disgust at the remark as if Voldemort had been raised by wild animals. "We should pity him and praise him for how far he comes. Truly, an extraordinary example of perseverance," MacDuff sincerely remarked.
"A half-breed, nonetheless," commented with equal disdain, Krafft, a medium-sized wizard in a military uniform. Although aged, he still dressed as if prepared to die in uniform at any time.
Voldemort's crimson eyes begin to burn with old rage at the injustice, but he quickly calms himself as his nails dig into the flesh of his palm. The Acolytes were actively baiting him. He would not succumb to their ploy. He was far greater than all of them combined.