Somewhere beneath London, a creature lay hidden—a being that, in addition to its many abilities, such as intangibility and telepathy, could also foresee the future. A creature we had accidentally created from a simple boggart. It could have been a powerful weapon, but how to reach it?
Capturing the existing Tlaltiputzli was futile—without taking over the Ministry, we couldn't openly perform the Dark Magic needed. Thus, a decision was made to create a new creature. But it wouldn't come to life! We replicated every step of the work journal—boggarts either died from overfeeding, stopped eating altogether, or fell into a coma. It seemed like we were close to unraveling the secret of prophecy, yet success eluded us, and we didn't understand why, despite our persistence. The only silver lining was the lack of prisoner depletion; the boggarts merely drove their victims insane, leaving them intact for sacrifices or disassembly into ingredients.
Today, I decided to visit one of our bases where we were feeding the boggart.
It was a standard underground artificial cavity beneath a desolate forest. A dozen werewolves worked there in shifts. Their task was to securely throw food to the boggart, which was restrained by boggart-proof runes and more intricate ones designed to hold Tlaltiputzli in a cage if it emerged.
"I want to see the boggart subject," I ordered the werewolves, trembling at my presence as I kept my wand pointed downward just in case.
The guards bowed, avoiding my gaze, and I entered the underground chamber.
The boggart's prison was a stone room with runes inscribed on all the walls. Inside, a smaller rune circle was supposed to contain the boggart. Paralysis-enchanted food was levitated to it, and once the food went mad, it was levitated back.
Naturally, going to such lengths to guard a simple boggart was absurd, but we were hopeful of the experiment's success, of creating a new Tlaltiputzli. This time, we'd keep it contained…
Upon entering, I realized two things. The automated experiment monitoring system had failed. There were no alerts or active security golems. Additionally, the werewolves were too careless about their duties—protocol required one of them to always stay in the chamber and remain in contact with the others, but no one was there. Despite my warnings...
But that wasn't the main concern. The experiment had apparently succeeded. We had transformed this boggart into... something… but I wasn't sure it was what we wanted.
Why was I so certain something had happened?
Boggarts don't consume their victims' bodies; they merely drive them insane, feeding on fear. Thus, the bodies remain and can be reused for sacrifices. Here, however, there were no victims' bodies—not those driven mad nor the recently delivered ones.
In the center of the rune figure stood something that shouldn't have been there. Instead of the boggart's mist, there was something that made my vision blur.
It resembled an absurd caricature from a Muggle comedy show: a robe like a rainbow flag, a hat seemingly taken from Oz, high-heeled shoes, and a beard braided with rainbow-colored bells. Amidst this absurdity, the Elder Wand pointed downward seemed almost trivial. In its hands was a painting.
Once, I had sought to know my greatest fear. Stripping away my mental defenses, I had confronted a boggart. It flickered—showing me my death, a dementor's kiss, or being unmasked as not Voldemort. This was typical when one doesn't know their deepest fear.
In theory, no boggart could breach my Occlumency shields and would appear as harmless blackish smoke. But now, it had taken a specific form. Given recent events—the fight at the Crouch manor, the Ministry encounter—I wasn't surprised at what I saw.
"You're a spectacular failure, Voldemort," the boggart, appearing as Albus Dumbledore, declared.
I had no doubt this wasn't the real Dumbledore. How could the real one have bypassed the protective systems without triggering alarms or needing Fawkes? Besides, I felt no magic emanating from this Dumbledore—no shields, no presence.
How should Dumbledore act? He should attack me immediately, especially with no witnesses, perhaps launching an Avada Kedavra.
Instead, he stood, relaxed as if welcoming a grandson into his home. Leaning on the painting like it was a cabinet.
The painting—I recognized it. I'd once used it to try killing Alastor Moody. Anticipating failure, I added a hidden feature: the painting served as an indicator of my death. If I died, its enchantments would vanish, proving my demise to my enemies.
"Don't recognize me? I trimmed the beard. But what about the painting?" asked the boggart.
My curiosity was piqued. Could this creature bypass my defenses? How? Intrigued, I cast scanning spells while carefully stalling.
"What are you?" I asked.
The scans returned—they detected immense but expertly concealed magic.
"I'm delighted to be your boggart. But I'd like to talk," it replied.
My unease grew. Whether Dumbledore or a mutated boggart, the situation called for my trademark escape tactic. Summoning Nagini, I planned to flee and send others to investigate.
But as Nagini arrived to facilitate our escape, a strange barrier enveloped the chamber, trapping us. Now I felt my opponent's power—an inescapable trap.
"Albus?" I asked, simultaneously summoning my most potent protective charms while searching for any weaknesses in his defenses. At the same time, I prepared to deflect his attacks and evade potential Killing Curses by conjuring a dozen transfigured shields.
One thing was clear: this was either another mutated boggart or the real Albus Dumbledore. Either way, I had no business staying here.
It seemed he had quickly erected an anti-Apparition barrier... but he still hadn't attacked me. Oddly, I could already sense the overwhelming power of his protective spells—some shielding him, others encasing the room's inner surface, preventing my escape. Despite being at the center of a monstrous rune configuration of my own design, Dumbledore seemed entirely unfazed.
"Hello, Albus. Have you come to negotiate your surrender terms? Or perhaps to offer something in exchange for your brother's return? Or maybe you've finally remembered what the Muggles did to your sister and realized that we are natural allies?" I asked, putting on a brave face despite the grim circumstances. As I spoke, I summoned my followers.
How had he gotten in here? And why wasn't he attacking? And why had he brought the painting? Then again... this was Albus. With his reputation, he might even offer me sweets.
"Hello, Voldemort. Your talent for butchery and madness continues to astound me. How did you ever come up with the idea of feeding humans to a boggart you enhanced with Dark Magic? Have you ever considered conducting experiments on human tissue or artificially grown organs instead?" Dumbledore asked, his tone almost academic.
The scene felt like a hallucination—Dumbledore was talking instead of attacking. But perhaps I could use this to my advantage. I didn't believe I could recruit him; it was too late to escape. My only option was to kill him. But why face him alone when reinforcements were on the way?
I sent another signal to my Death Eaters, the fourth in rapid succession. This time, someone had to respond. The message was simple: "Come to me, all of you."
The strategy was straightforward—this wasn't Diagon Alley. Yes, Dumbledore had entered unnoticed, but he was alone. Soon, a crowd of Death Eaters would arrive. The Dark Mark wasn't just for the Inner Circle; other wizards bore it as well. Some might be delayed, others might bring reinforcements—golems, inferi, or werewolves. But even if only fifty showed up, it should be enough to overwhelm Albus, especially since I wouldn't be idle. The Elder Wand was undoubtedly a powerful asset, but we didn't need to defeat the wand—we needed to kill its mortal bearer.
The only question was how reinforcements would breach this place, but I suspected Dumbledore's spells were designed to prevent escape, not entry. Worst case—they'd break through from the outside.
Perhaps I was wrong, but if so, it would create an opportunity to escape.
"I still don't understand your motives," Dumbledore said. "Pride? Playing god? Fear of Death? Perhaps you'll enlighten me?"
"Everything for the greatness of purebloods!" I shouted.
"Let's play a game. As long as you entertain me with an interesting conversation, I won't attack. But if you start spouting things you don't believe in, I will."
You're taking too much upon yourself, old man...
But if anyone stood to benefit from stalling, it was me—I was the one waiting for reinforcements. I needed to keep the conversation going.
"Do you pity people? The number of deaths in this magical civil war in England is in the tens of thousands, mostly Muggles from other countries. Millions die annually from smoking-related illnesses. Shouldn't you direct your talents to saving as many people as possible? There are traffic accidents, too. And the ultimate problem that spares no one—not even you—death from old age. Albus, you constantly care for a drop while surrounded by an ocean!" I argued.
"From your words, I gather your actions are driven by a mix of opportunity and impunity, sprinkled with fear. You behave like an animal seeking better conditions for itself while ignoring everyone else," Dumbledore replied.
Damn his convoluted philosophy…
"Albus, we all seek better conditions for ourselves. If the likelihood of punishment is less than the expected benefit, a deed—even a crime—is committed. It's simple arithmetic," I explained.
"So, humans can be reduced to 'stimulus-response'? 'Everything a person does is solely for themselves'? There are flaws in your reasoning. What about love? People can sacrifice themselves for others."
"Reproduction instinct—same as self-preservation instinct. Humans aim to survive; it's just how they're built. And reproduction… Each child carries half your genes, so mathematically, it's the same whether you survive or two of your children do—or four grandchildren. But three children are more valuable than your life. In this case, humans are merely victims of evolution," I countered.
"A peculiar perspective," Dumbledore acknowledged. "And helping strangers? A person might act selflessly without expecting a reward."
"I'm no fanatic, Albus. I won't act for 'spiritual currency.' If you have concrete proposals, let's discuss them," I said.
"Why do people help each other in everyday life? Thousands of reasons," I continued. "The simplest—when running from a nundu, you don't need to outrun the nundu, just the slowest runner. Helping each other creates a buffer between oneself and problems. And humans don't use pure logic—they act on likely approximations, which often lead to altruism through misjudgment of 'friend' and 'foe.' Mathematically, living creatures aim to maximize the survival of their genes, no matter whose bodies they're in. People follow feelings, but those feelings evolved under vastly different living conditions and population sizes. Misjudging 'friend' and 'foe' often results in altruism."
"And the more pride one has, the more unique they feel, making them prioritize saving themselves under the guise of others," Dumbledore suggested. "So, in your scheme, extreme egoism fits perfectly?"
"If you're immortal, you have no reason to sacrifice yourself for others, not even your children," I replied. "Deep down, Albus, you understand this yourself. Two paths lead to eternal life: a part of you lives on in others, or you don't die."
"A very one-sided view of life. I speak to you of a square, and you reply with four lines. Slytherins are called selfish, but they merely have a narrow circle of 'their own' for whom they'll risk their lives. Usually, it's family. In your case, the entire world centers solely on one person—yourself. Gryffindors are the opposite, with a wide circle of 'their own,' including everyone," Dumbledore observed. "It's amusing how two such different houses are so alike. But your conclusions have flaws. Your emotional nihilism is beyond my ability to fix. You'd laugh at compassion or the idea that, given different circumstances, you could have been in your victims' place. So, I'll approach this differently. Are you sure you're immortal? Many have tried not to die. None have succeeded. The difference lies in the number they dragged down with them. Relying on Dark Magic? Mass murder and vengeance sometimes succeed, but nothing worthwhile ever comes of it. Moreover, you operate under the assumption that death is the ultimate end. It's not!"
"Don't tell me, 'Tom, there is no death!' Death is real. Unlike you, I fight against it; you've simply accepted it as a fact. You see me as an animal using its strength to make life more comfortable, while you simply drift along without trying to change anything!"
"Death is real. But it's not the end."
I looked at him like he was insane. Where were my reinforcements?
"Don't believe me? What if I could convince you?" he asked.
I didn't understand.
"You won't succeed," I told him.
"Indulge me. Imagine I could," he said with a kind smile.
"You think you can put on some theatrical performance and I'll cry and surrender?"
Albus sighed wearily.
Where were my reinforcements? I'd sent the signal for the fourth time—someone should have come by now! I felt no attack on the protective dome, no attempts to contact me urgently. Could the old man have somehow temporarily blocked the signal?
Fine. If reinforcements wouldn't come to Voldemort, Voldemort would go to the reinforcements.
"Albus, perhaps we should step outside? I'd hate to spill your blood all over the laboratory," I suggested.
"As if I don't know about the dozen and a half werewolves outside," he said calmly. "You are a cruel and indifferent man, ossified in your beliefs. And though there are many like you, it changes nothing. You could have lived as you wished, but you began killing others, and now I have to stop you," he declared in a tone reminiscent of a Wizengamot judge.
Let's try a different approach.
"Perhaps you'd fight me fairly, without using the Elder Wand?" I proposed.
"Only after you've committed an act of self-sacrifice," Albus replied. "But before we begin, I'd like to ask—do you regret anything?" he asked.
Yes, I regret coming here. I regret my servants being fools who can't respond to my summons. But surely Albus couldn't have converted all of them? Could he have somehow silenced the signal that reached the Death Eaters? But most of all, I regret that the Elder Wand is with you and not me. In any case, it was time to end this.
Feigning contemplation, I tried something I hadn't yet attempted: briefly switching to Astral Sight. What I saw displeased me. Standard magical patterns and oddities were visible, but the painting in Albus's hands was linked to my eyes by two threads. Along these threads, strange bead-like objects were moving toward me, and they were already very close. A trap or something dangerous?
Using Dark Blades and a Dragon Slayer's Spear, I attacked the threads and beads. My spells passed harmlessly through their target, as if they were aimed at a figure conjured by the Resurrection Stone, and struck the lab's walls. Albus's defenses held but sparked faintly. The beads continued moving toward me. Returning to magical sight, I prepared for combat.
It was time to make a break for it… I had pushed my magic to the limit in preparation.
All this time, I hadn't just been talking; I had been preparing, holding Frank Longbottom's wand pointed at the floor. Multiple Killing Curses shot toward the old man. Two Infernal Fires ignited, taking the form of massive serpents. One lunged at Albus; the other hurled itself toward the laboratory wall, trying to carve an escape route. To top it off, I conjured a massive corporeal Anti-Patronus, taking the shape of an Obscurus.
Unfortunately, Albus had been preparing as well.
The air filled with transfigured objects. Nearly every inch of the chamber was cluttered with transfigurations. None of the Killing Curses reached him. One serpent of Infernal Fire reached the outer edge of Albus's protective field, while the other attacked the wall but was extinguished. The Anti-Patronus fared better: repeatedly, a blazing Patronus-phoenix flew through it, reducing its size with each pass.
Believing that even the most incompetent guards would summon reinforcements in an emergency, I conjured a Dark Source aimed at the wall, hoping to break through and signal my allies. It was futile; nothing could reach the walls.
Since the painting was obscured by the clutter, I activated Astral Sight again to check if the connection had been severed—either due to the lack of visual contact or the passage of Infernal Fire.
But the threads were still there, and the beads were now only a meter from my face! A curse through visual contact? Could Albus have used some special venom from a basilisk?
I tried to conjure a barrier and avoid looking directly, but the beads continued their steady advance.
Better safe than sorry. Without halting my assault on Albus, I cast a numbing charm on myself and, with raw telekinetic force, crushed my own eyes.
Fighting blind was a terrible idea. Radar-like spells could replace sight, but Albus would instantly disrupt them with interference. So, I continued the battle, relying on Nagini's vision to observe the situation.
Unfortunately, Nagini lacked Astral Sight. Soon, the beads would have reached my eye sockets. I felt an overwhelming urge to Apparate to an unknown destination. Instantly, I suppressed the compulsion, continuing to bombard Albus with Black Spheres, followed by a barrage of Cruciatus Curses.
Albus conjured some translucent barrier that absorbed the Black Spheres, while the Cruciatus spells were intercepted by a transfigured cocoon a few feet from his body.
Again, I felt the compulsion to Apparate. This time, it was much harder to resist.
But the fight was far from over. Albus remained in a defensive stance, as if waiting for something. I swung my wand, sending blackish splashes toward Albus to destroy the painting, but they dissipated harmlessly against his defenses. In retaliation, a new white beam from the Elder Wand shot toward my Dark Phoenix, colliding with a grimy black barrier I had conjured. For a moment, they were evenly matched, but soon the beam penetrated, shattering my other protections. A third of my defenses were gone…
I attempted a self-diagnostic to purge the unknown curse tied to the painting but detected no external influences. Once again, I struggled against the Apparition pull, nearly splinching myself. I cast anti-Apparition charms and locked down portal movements, but my body still tried to Apparate.
I surrounded myself with my most powerful defensive charms, encasing myself in a column of blackened air. Toward Albus and his painting, I hurled spell after spell. The Finger of Death. A grayish skull surged toward Albus, only to shatter against his golden haze. The Breath of Death. A gray tornado disintegrated in a spray of golden sparks.
At last, the strain began to show. Albus's dome had absorbed too much power and was starting to crack. I immediately sensed multiple signals from the Dark Mark—my followers were trying to confirm the severity of the situation. Excellent, the connection was intact. Yet I still couldn't escape, held back by Albus's unknown magic.
But before I could rejoice, a new sensation enveloped me: it felt as if I were standing at the mouth of a vast tunnel. I had the distinct impression I could step forward and be transported somewhere unknown. Naturally, I refused to accept such an invitation—no doubt, it would lead straight to Nurmengard.
I decided to try collapsing the tunnel. I launched a barrage of Dark Magic at its mouth, only to see the spells vanish. Following them, all my enchanted grenades disappeared as well.
Whatever this tunnel was, it didn't require my consent to pull me in. Attempts to fight it were futile; I felt my body being stretched, turned ghostly, and sucked toward Albus. A moment later, I was hurled into the painting in his hands at blinding speed.
I expected to land in a volcano, or Nurmengard, or at least be bound like a posthumous portrait.
But through Nagini's eyes, I realized I was inside the painted landscape!
Quickly, I assessed my state for mental influence. Clear.
Then I tried to Apparate back home. No success. Phoenix travel didn't work either. However, a ten-meter leap forward was possible. I sent a signal to my Death Eaters—it seemed to go through but felt as if I were speaking in whale song. The message was slow and distorted. Likewise, the replies from my followers were incomprehensible.
I cast scanning spells and soon received the results. I was on a platform about a couple hundred meters in diameter, mostly covered by a lawn and forest. At the edge stood a structure resembling a lighthouse. When I attempted to move beyond the platform, I was blocked. Blocked completely—not by an opaque dome but by an invisible boundary I couldn't pass, not physically, magically, or interactively.
There were no living creatures here apart from the microbes I had brought with me. On closer inspection, the plants weren't even alive—they were mere transfigurations, three-dimensional models. Air existed but wasn't regenerating.
Two things were clear: magic still flowed through me as usual, and gravity remained consistent. Most likely, Albus had created a pocket dimension and trapped me here. But how? Why here specifically? Either I was utterly ignorant of spatial magic, or this wasn't a pocket dimension in the traditional sense! My protective charms should have prevented forced transport like this, and they were intact! Could it be that I was sustaining this pocket dimension myself? Would it collapse only upon my death, or when Albus's energy supply ran out? The thought of space folding in on itself was not a comforting one…
As I pondered, I made a shallow cut on my left arm. With a few precise wand movements, two blood clots settled into my empty eye sockets. With magic, it's possible to restore lost body parts as long as the damage wasn't inflicted with Dark Magic. Frankly, fixing my eyes would take some time—about a couple of days. It could be faster, but I lacked the necessary potions, tools, and sacrificial materials.
Since escape seemed impossible, I decided to prepare for combat. I drank potions and set up new protections. But nothing happened for two hours. Eventually, I grew restless and resumed testing the limits of my prison. Every spell I cast at the boundary vanished. Runes I tried to draw on its surface appeared but had no effect. Transfigured objects, Nagini, and even my own body could not breach the barrier. It seemed the space was entirely sealed.
Then, Albus remembered me. I felt my body once again trying to Apparate. I resisted the pull, adhering myself to the ground with eternal sticking charms and multiple magical and physical tethers.
In the ensuing mental struggle, I realized it wasn't my day. A few more moments, and I would be forcibly moved again.
If Albus had designed a container to transport me, it had to be broken—if necessary, from the inside.
I recalled one of my Dark Magic lessons. Summoning the "Devourer of Matter," a black blob the size of an apple oozed from my wand and began to consume everything: trees, earth, air. A vacuum remained in its wake. As it fed, the blob grew rapidly—soon it was the size of an elephant, then a dragon. Within moments, it was as vast as a stadium. Each second, controlling it became harder, draining my magic.
The blackness expanded wildly, consuming all within the space. The pressure from Albus lessened with each passing second. When everything within the pocket dimension had been destroyed, his pull ceased entirely.
Now I needed to deal with the spell. I had never let it grow so large… Golden, yet destructive—it would have been perfect for breaking magical shields. With great effort, I directed the Devourer toward the edge of the world, where it vanished upon contact.
Now I was left floating alone in a vacuum several cubic miles in size. Self-levitation kept me stable. There was no air left, so I conjured it magically. My life continued thanks only to my protective charms, which included a closed-loop air supply. Amusingly, I had become a "spherical Dark Lord in a vacuum." Time to play astronaut…
Three hours later, I settled down in relative comfort. I created a magical aquarium, a single-room cube three meters in size. Inside, I maintained atmospheric pressure and breathable air. The walls, reinforced with magic and my blood, served as my refuge. Nagini and I stayed there while I planned my next move. First, I attempted to contact the Death Eaters, urging them not to panic and to search for me. My signal went through, but it was garbled, like a broken radio. Endless static…
I would have to investigate the signal interference, but for now, I focused on survival. I didn't despair. This prison, while frustrating, was far better than Azkaban. Here, at least, there were no Dementors. And I had company—Nagini. Still, I wouldn't mind having Bellatrix here instead…
Again and again, I hurled myself at the invisible walls of my prison. There had to be a flaw somewhere. I would find it, even if it meant smashing my mind, magic, and voice against this unyielding barrier.
Here I was, floating in my self-created refuge, Nagini coiled by my side. Three months had passed. Three months of existence in this void, where my magic remained intact, but my attempts to escape proved futile. I had grown myself new eyes within three days using blood-based transfiguration and magic. My shelter, a transfigured "space station" module, was fortified with runes and my own blood to maintain the environment. But nothing had changed. The walls of this prison were indestructible. Spells left no mark, transfigured objects shattered upon contact, and even physical efforts using claws, knives, or my bare hands yielded nothing.
Apparition and phoenix travel were still useless here, confined within this tiny dimension. Even Nagini could not escape with her usual fiery magic. Worse yet, while my signals to my Death Eaters reached the outside world, they were distorted beyond comprehension. I could feel their desperate attempts to reach me, but the signals were little more than noise, incomprehensible and frustratingly out of reach.
It wasn't the worst fate. This place was far more bearable than Azkaban. No Dementors, no true confinement—at least, not physically. And I had Nagini, my sole companion, though at times I wished for Bellatrix's company. Her fiery madness might have made this place feel less desolate.
I resumed my futile efforts, pacing the transfigured rooms, testing the walls of my cage with magic and physical strikes. This wasn't just imprisonment—it was a battle of wills between me and the invisible barrier. Somewhere, there had to be a weakness. I would find it. I had to.
Once more, I hurled spells at the walls, observing how they were absorbed without effect. The phenomenon was maddening: no reaction, no feedback, no trace. It was as if the walls existed outside the bounds of normal magic.
But I wouldn't give up. Eventually, something would break—if not the prison, then the magic that sustained it. Until then, I would continue to push myself to the limit, trying every method I knew, however long it took.
Occasionally, I allowed myself moments of bitter humor. As I measured my prison's boundaries, I reflected on Albus's ingenuity. He had outmaneuvered me in ways I could not have anticipated. Was this his grand plan? To isolate me in a place where time, food, and resources would whittle away at my sanity? Did he hope I would eventually repent or despair?
The thought made me sneer. If that was his plan, he would be disappointed. Despair was not in my nature, nor was repentance. This imprisonment only fueled my hatred for him—a personal vendetta that would drive me until I broke free.
Nagini's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Master, it is time to train."
"In a moment, dear," I replied. "Shall I read you poetry instead?"
"As you wish, Master."
Among my many dark experiments, I had once used a crude Legilimency ritual to extract language skills from a Muggle. That unfortunate soul had known some Russian poetry. One verse came to mind as I gazed at the void around me:
Silent, I sit by the window of my prison,
The blue sky stretches beyond my reach:
Free birds play in the heavens,
Their flight fills me with both pain and shame.
As I recited, Nagini interrupted with a question. "Master, what is a knight?"
"A knight is like Albus Dumbledore," I replied with a wry grin, "but clad in metal."
"A bearded fool in metal armor?" Nagini clarified.
"Yes, Nagini, exactly that," I said with a smirk. Without her, I'd have had to transfigure a parrot for company and train it to talk.
"I don't understand, Master. Didn't you say Albus defeated you? Does that mean you're a fool too?" she asked innocently.
"No. I am a spectacularly unfortunate genius. Let's not dwell on unpleasant subjects, especially Albus."
"Perhaps we should eat, Master?" Nagini suggested.
Her words sent a shiver down my spine. Food. That was a painful subject. In this void, food could not be conjured. Without even a crumb to replicate or a seed to grow, sustenance had become a dire challenge. If not for magic, I'd have starved months ago.
I sighed, cast a numbing spell, and conjured an ordinary knife. With swift, precise movements, I carved a chunk of flesh from my own arm. A quick series of spells increased its size until it resembled a small goat. One portion, raw, went to Nagini, who eagerly devoured it. The rest I roasted with magic.
Another wave of my wand closed the wound, leaving no scars. The lost tissue would regenerate in a few days. As I took a bite of my roasted flesh, I thought bitterly of Albus. How I hated him! And to think human flesh truly does taste like chicken…
Autocannibalism had become my solution. With magic to heal and sustain me, it was the only way to survive. It was not ideal, but it worked. The thought that Albus had engineered this situation infuriated me. "I won't kill the Dark Lord," I imagined him saying smugly. "I'm not a murderer. I'll just trap him somewhere without food or water. It's not my fault if he starves!" His moral high ground reeked of hypocrisy.
For now, I continued my efforts. When not experimenting with escape, I practiced spells, refined my defenses, and honed my strategies for the inevitable confrontation with Dumbledore. One way or another, I would find a way out of this infernal prison.
And when I did, Albus Dumbledore would pay for every second of my torment.
"Master, it's time to train," Nagini reminded me once more.
"Not now," I said, waving her off. "I'm thinking of how I'll repay Albus for this. First, I'll engrave his face on toilet paper and distribute it to Muggles. Then I'll create a new inscription for his Chocolate Frog cards—something creative. Any other ideas, Nagini?"
Nagini didn't respond; she simply slithered to her corner, unimpressed by my musings.
Over time, I found ways to occupy myself. I carved messages into transfigured clay tablets, creating a to-do list for when I escaped. At the top: never leave home without a backup plan. That included carrying seeds, food, and magical tools. Below that: destroy Dumbledore's legacy, utterly and completely.
I also compiled an inventory of what I should always carry. First on the list was Pandora Lovegood—transfigured, of course, into a portable form. A steady supply of "volunteers" for Dark rituals followed, alongside years' worth of emergency provisions.
I had potions and magical artifacts with me now, but no food. Even a single crumb of bread could have been expanded to last for weeks. How had I overlooked something so basic?
This place… this endless prison… was it Albus's plan all along? To starve me into submission, not by direct killing but by forcing me to cannibalize myself into madness? If so, it was diabolically clever. But he underestimated me. I would survive, even if it meant dining on my own flesh for eternity.
As days turned to months, I became consumed with thoughts of vengeance. Somewhere out there, my Death Eaters were waiting. Bellatrix, Bartemius, Severus… were they even alive? Had Severus found a way to buy himself time, or had the clock run out for him? Did the Death Eaters think me dead?
And Lily… would the Potter woman stand trial? Would the wizarding world believe the truth I'd presented, that James Potter died because of Albus? Would they laugh at her if she defended me? How deliciously ironic it would be if she ended up leading my cause in my absence.
But more than anything, I yearned to know how Albus had managed this. He had taken one of my paintings, something so trivial, and turned it into the ultimate trap. The sheer complexity of his magic was infuriating. It was as if the man had memorized the secret codes of reality itself, bypassing the laws of nature with a smug smile.
I turned my bed into an improvised Pensieve. I had resisted this step for months, as it felt like admitting defeat. Still, I needed a way to store my thoughts and memories, to ensure my mind remained sharp. To do so, I dismantled one of my spare wands for the wood necessary to inscribe the required runes.
Between bouts of experimentation, I found moments of bleak humor. I imagined the chaos unfolding without me: Bellatrix ranting, Rabastan scheming, Severus perhaps betraying me outright.
How would my followers fare without my guidance? Would they falter, or had I trained them well enough to carry on? The thought of Severus aligning with Albus in my absence was infuriating, but I knew the man too well. If he survived, he would find a way to thrive, even if it meant compromising his loyalties.
Three months turned into four, then five. The boundaries of my prison remained impenetrable. I hurled spells, conjured constructs, even attempted rituals, but nothing worked. Every effort dissipated into the void, absorbed by an invisible force beyond my comprehension.
I had exhausted nearly every avenue of escape. Yet I refused to give up. There had to be a way out—there was always a way out.
Nagini, ever loyal, remained by my side. But even she began to grow restless. Her words were laced with frustration and a hint of resignation.
"Master, what if there is no escape?" she asked one day.
"There is always an escape," I snapped. "Always. Dumbledore's magic is not invincible. I will find the flaw, and when I do, he will regret every moment of my captivity."
"But what if—"
"Silence, Nagini!" I barked. "I am Lord Voldemort. No prison can hold me forever."
As weeks dragged on, I began to notice peculiarities in my prison. Time seemed to flow differently here. Days felt both interminable and fleeting. Was this Albus's doing as well? Had he created a space where time itself bent to his will?
Perhaps, I mused, this time distortion could be turned to my advantage. If I could manipulate it further, perhaps I could accelerate my efforts or even escape into another dimension. The possibilities were endless, but they required more experimentation—more sacrifices.
One day, as I pondered yet another scheme, Nagini interrupted with a question.
"Master, why do you hate Albus Dumbledore so much?"
"Because, dear Nagini, he represents everything that stands in my way. He is my antithesis, my opposite. He hides behind his righteousness, yet he manipulates and schemes just as I do. The difference is that I do not pretend to be noble."
Nagini nodded, her tongue flickering thoughtfully. "But why not simply outlive him? Surely he will die one day, and you will be free."
I stared at her, a grim smile playing on my lips. "Because it's not enough for him to die. I must be the one to destroy him. His death must be my victory."
And so, I waited. For months, I tested, plotted, and prepared. The days blurred into weeks, the weeks into months, but my resolve remained unbroken. Somewhere, out there in the world, Albus Dumbledore continued to scheme, no doubt thinking he had won.
But he was wrong.
I was Lord Voldemort, the greatest wizard of our time. My prison was not eternal. One day, I would find the weakness in its walls. One day, I would escape.
And when that day came, Albus Dumbledore would know the full extent of my wrath.
Until then, I waited. Silent. Patient. Unyielding. The Dark Lord was not defeated—only delayed.