The announcement of the Dark Lord's return reverberated throughout Wizarding England, yet my own return felt anything but triumphant. While it is said that Moody was celebrated as a hero at the Auror Academy, it took him mere moments to decry the need for constant vigilance and sound the alarm for training. In just seconds, he chastised the intelligence service for failing to detect You-Know-Who's return. Although I emerged from my encounter with Moody unscathed, I left the meeting feeling unwell, as if I had executed everything flawlessly yet still fell short of my objective. Unlike him, however, I remain intact and unbroken, and I will try again.
My initial impulse was to find a scapegoat to shift the blame onto, but what good would it do to punish my own? They were not the ones who overlooked Moody's return. The alternative—to silence the incident—proved equally challenging, given the multitude of witnesses, both from our ranks and outside. My reputation is considerable, yet Moody's survival tarnishes it somewhat. Ultimately, I resolved to take the most prudent course of action: publicize the incident. The narrative would be that a disabled man successfully defended against the Dark Lord using Dark Magic! Citizens of the wizarding world, you must understand that defending yourself is paramount; otherwise, the Death Eaters could easily overpower you with minimal Dark Magic skills! A collective effort could have easily dealt with the Chimera in the Ministry or thwarted the Death Eaters invading your homes. Of course, the blame rests with the deceitful regime of the Ministry of Magic, and one bearded man in particular, who has prohibited self-defense.
Naturally, those more astute than a stool will question how Hellfire can assist when one's own family is being manipulated under the Imperius Curse. Would it not be wiser to utilize Stunning Curses? Or are Dementors not the manifestations of a deranged Dark Wizard? Yet, how many of those wise individuals exist? Perhaps ten percent? To keep my people from growing anxious, I could simply claim that Ollivander crafted the wrong wand for me—perfect for transfiguration, but ineffective for Dark Magic! I would also inform the other werewolves that their kin were brutally slain again, while the Ministry failed to initiate an internal inquiry into the use of forbidden magic, let alone imprison Moody.
After my encounter with Moody, I roamed magical England like a phoenix. No significant area could be effectively contained against my movements, nor could potions or golems be distributed like they do for elite Aurors. Testing my newfound abilities on ordinary adversaries felt unchallenging—akin to toying with children. This was precisely what I required; they simply lacked the ability to strike back. In most cases, they did not even have time to react. However, my aim was not murder; it was a strategic maneuver to buy time. My three objectives were clear: elevate my Dark Magic to the level of the original Tom Riddle, comprehend Light Magic, and achieve immortality. The first goal is quite attainable.
An idea formed: I could seek the source of Slytherin and absorb necro energy to enhance my power. Fortunately, I had trained on werewolves, but necro energy was not my primary need. I desired the positive effects of necro energy, and I had nearly devised a method: my own ritual, for which I had married. As Bellatrix's belly swelled, I began preparations for the ritual. Analysis and consultation with the Brains indicated that a "catalyst" was necessary for the ritual to be more effective. If I understood correctly, the ritual would yield an effect similar to a glass of champagne—some benefits would endure, but much of the energy would dissipate as "foam" that I could neither retain nor utilize. I contemplated what this catalyst could be and pondered how to divert excess energy during the ritual. But that is a concern for another day; for now, I must adhere to the plan.
Several rituals must be performed before I can proceed to Auschwitz. I decided to begin with a simple one: "Touch of the Shadow." I positioned myself within a pentagram, surrounded by Bella, Crouch, Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Edward. Though it appeared to be a standard sacrifice, the arrangement was anything but ordinary. A unicorn horn rested upon a basalt stone. I took up the enchanted sledgehammer I had acquired from Selwyn while my followers chanted a spell (their singing, I must admit, left much to be desired). I can only imagine the look on his face when I requested a ritual sledgehammer... I swung the hammer against the horn, which was remarkably resilient; it took three strikes before it began to crack. I continued until the horn was reduced to dust. Excellent, now we could commence.
I mixed the powdered unicorn horn with a special potion and began applying it to my hand. Once prepared, I levitated a magician onto the stone, immobilized by a spell. I extended my hand above him, allowing my shadow to fall on his leg. As I recited the incantation aloud, I maneuvered my wand in my right hand and observed the shadow of my left. Where my shadow fell upon the magician, his body began to dissolve slowly. Tom was aware of this ritual, "Touch of the Shadow," but it seemed unnecessary to engage with it. Presently, I cannot kill anyone using my shadow, unless I pinpoint a target and dedicate a couple of hours to preparation. This ritual will leave a mark on the energy, enabling me to conduct another, more intricate ritual effectively. Technically, I could have forgone the unicorn horn, but doing so would have likely resulted in the loss of my own arm—an injury that even Dark Healing would not remedy unless I transitioned into a new body.
Now to position my arm so the shadow covers an undamaged area... The magician experienced a slow and agonizing demise, lasting about twenty minutes. I would have preferred a different approach—easier, faster, and less costly. Alas, there was no alternative. Nothing personal; merely the pursuit of power and eternity. Once I expressed gratitude to my companions and dismissed them, I began a self-diagnostic. All seemed to have gone well.
I then spent considerable time examining Bellatrix's actions while she was feeding my diary, the "horcrux." It felt as though the object was attempting to upload its consciousness into the host, yet the "horcrux" lacked consciousness, resulting in the host's death due to brain failure. This was perplexing, as the diary exhibited no hostility toward me. Was it too intelligent to be a nuisance? Or did it consider me one of its own? Perhaps I had not inscribed my blood within it. The Horcrux from my "immortal test subject" displayed the usual draining of life force from a wizard's body, manifesting as a semi-material ghost—material enough to wield a wand and cast spells, yet incapable of eating, growing, sleeping, or experiencing the full spectrum of human emotions.
Much work remained, and June was already past its midpoint while I toiled. Today was significant—the summer solstice, essential for certain magic. Thus, I planned to attune myself to the Resurrection Stone. This time, I constructed a menhir from obsidian stones. The ritual was both simpler and more complex. Complex because I could hardly trust anyone, and instead of using battery-powered magicians, I had enlisted five half-dead Muggles, with Bellatrix ensuring their survival. I was capturing the rays of the setting sun with the Resurrection Stone through an opening in the menhir. My aim was to investigate the charm structures on the Resurrection Stone, project myself onto them, and navigate an improvised labyrinth. This could aid me in making the item functional. In the worst-case scenario, it would merely send me back.
The idea may seem foolish—to touch something unknown without protection. Yet it was once a part of me, was it not? I also confirmed that I had no intention of entering the "horcrux," nor did I wish to harm the ring. I hoped for success; otherwise, I would have to wait until next year. I endeavored to peer into the stone and project myself within. The task was complicated by the stone's opacity. Realizing my failure, I shifted to astral vision. The world transformed. Effortlessly, I entered the stone. Though my body remained in place, it felt as if a part of me had ventured inside. I found myself at the entrance to the labyrinth, within a realm composed of the stone's material—thus, I discerned the spell's structure.
I approached the entrance, concentrated my will, and stepped inside. An electric current surged through me. With each passing moment, resistance intensified. I dashed through the labyrinth as it twisted into bizarre formations. The resistance grew stronger. An emerging wind attempted to expel me from the labyrinth. I was no longer running—I was walking. I tried casting a spell or altering my form for better aerodynamics, but casting was impossible in this space. My steps slowed incrementally. The sole consolation was that I did not experience the usual confusion of my mind that accompanies astral vision. Those wretched brain-snipes were absent as well...
Eventually, I was forced to halt; it felt as if I were traversing a wind tunnel. I longed to crawl, but the wind lifted me off the ground and propelled me away. Anticipating a crash against the nearest wall, I was instead carried along the labyrinth's corridors, retracing my steps. As soon as the wind expelled me from the labyrinth, I returned to the real world, merely clutching the stone in the twilight while brain-snipes swirled around me. My thoughts began to muddle. With sheer willpower, I regained my normal vision and turned to Bellatrix. "How long did I stand there like a statue?" I inquired. "About five minutes," she replied. "Did everything go well?" The fact that I was alive and unharmed was reassuring. However, my inability to complete the labyrinth was disheartening. Perhaps partial completion would yield something beneficial?
The Resurrection Stone felt unchanged. That was until I passed by a ghost's cage—an ordinary ghost, once a wizard. I practiced the technique of holding what arises when a wizard's body is destroyed along with a Horcrux. The Resurrection Stone began to warm. Yet, temperature readings indicated no change! The closer I approached the ghost, the more the Resurrection Stone heated up. A thought struck me—what would happen if I touched the ghost with this stone? I proceeded to do just that. It was as if the ghost had been afflicted by the Imperius Curse. The same unfocused gaze accompanied it. The stone immediately ceased heating. Concurrently, the ghost exhibited all signs of being imperified—it complied with every command. Could it be that the ghost was merely pretending?
Over the next hour, I tested the stone on three additional ghosts, yielding identical results. What was to be done with this? It would be preferable if the stone granted dominion over people. Or goblins. Or at the very least, dragons. What utility do ghosts offer? Perhaps I could employ them as spies... at Hogwarts... instructing them to discreetly capture other ghosts. They might prove useful.
With such thoughts in mind, I secured the ring in the safe. Now it was time to prepare again—two rituals in one day is excessive even for me. This next one will be genuinely perilous. I began consuming potions to bolster my mental magic resistance and donned amulets for further protection. The moment for the ritual had arrived. Just as a blacksmith tempers a blade in fire to enhance its strength, I must fortify my mental magic lest I perish when I connect with the "echo of death from Auschwitz." My Dark Magic instructor once informed me about this ritual, claiming he had undergone it and survived. The key is locating an appropriate venue.
The essence of the "Whispers of the Dead" ritual involves entering a trance with the aid of a special potion, leaving one's consciousness suspended in the void. Should one fall asleep there, death is inevitable. If one survives, they can endure a series of other Dark Rituals that no one has withstood without first undergoing this ritual. According to Ministry classifications, this ritual is mere steps away from demonology, with a statistical survival rate of approximately ten percent. Yet, this figure is low due to foolishness—an adept Dark Mage or Occlumens possesses a significantly greater likelihood of survival. In truth, the danger I face is largely illusory: in the worst-case scenario, I signal Nagini, and she extracts me from the rune circle, allowing me to survive. The ritual would then conclude in failure, but that is inconsequential; I can attempt again next time or devise something new.
Three explanations exist for the ritual. First, it resembles the tempering of steel, but with mental magic. Second, one establishes contact with entities from another realm, causing a slight transformation within. The third theory, shared by my Dark Magic teacher, posits that seven thousand years ago, there existed a tribe of magicians so enamored with combat that they ultimately annihilated themselves. Yet, they managed to preserve something akin to an "echo of themselves," a trace within the information field. Should one connect with them, they endeavor to lull you to sleep, compelling you to engage in combat within your consciousness, inevitably leading to death. Should you maintain control over yourself—congratulations; it becomes exceedingly difficult to drive you mad with the whispers of the dead.
To perform the ritual, one must fall into a trance at midnight within a drawing of specific runes. From that point onward, it is entirely contingent upon you. If, in the inner realm, you do not succumb to sleep before sunrise—everything is well; if not—death ensues. It is advisable to perform the ritual during the period when night is shortest (which is today) and in a location steeped in Dark Magic or at least death. Where might I find such a site? I recall leaving numerous marks within the Lestrange ritual hall while scanning the "horcruxes." I had marked it so heavily that concealment was impossible; I had to isolate the hall itself. Now, I require a location tainted with Dark Magic for the "Whispers of the Dead" ritual. Naturally, our concentration camp would be ideal, yet it has since been reclaimed during my absence. I could wander the globe—perhaps the pyramids would serve just as well—but lying unconscious and vulnerable on foreign territory would be foolish.
I entered the Lestrange ritual chamber, the very space where I had examined my Horcruxes and conducted other work. Through my magical vision, the location appeared dismal. I transfigured a bed for myself, reclining at the center of a freshly drawn rune figure, waiting until midnight to consume the potion "Asleep in the Void," which I had been brewing for two weeks. I have great prospects ahead if I awaken. But I will awaken; I am a formidable mental mage. In the worst-case scenario, should I begin to perish, Nagini will extract me from this place—this ritual can be interrupted. Yet without this ritual, any plans I have regarding Auschwitz would be a certain death sentence.
It felt as though I had entered a void—suspended in darkness. I could not perceive my body or ascertain whether I still possessed one. Voices echoed around me. "Ha-ha-ha," they sang from a distance. "Hee-hee-hee," they called. "Sleep, sleep, sleep," they whispered. "Die, die, die," they screamed. "Shall we strike a bargain?" I contemplated, projecting my thoughts into the void. "I will supply you with victims, and you will spare me your disturbances?" Silence was my only reply. The voices do not engage here, but it was worth a shot. It seems deceptively simple to remain awake, yet an overwhelming fatigue enveloped me. I felt like a mummified version of myself. But I reminded myself: sleeping means death.
This sounds simple enough, but the issue lies in the absence of anything but emptiness and voices that either chatter or remain silent. One could linger here for an hour, and it would feel like a year; one cannot even count one's heartbeat or breathing. I began to vocalize, seeking something to concentrate on, yet my voice drowned in silence. However, I possessed a strategy—a solid plan. With intense concentration, I connected with my familiar. It was challenging, akin to attempting to breach a robust Occlumency, yet I succeeded. Now I was Nagini. I stood on the stone floor, gazing at my slumbering human form. But within my mind, it was akin to a cacophony. "Ooooooh!" the voices shrieked. Nagini shook her head. "I'm sleepy," she mused. "Stay awake!" I commanded. "Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep," the voices echoed within Nagini's mind. "Ooooooh," they sang. "Aaaaaaah," they cried. "Die, die! Sleep, sleep! But I had not anticipated that they would infiltrate Nagini's head alongside me. No, I had previously experimented with this ritual on prisoners, but they perished. Yet, my teacher claimed this was feasible.
The situation was dire... "Mine, mine," one voice claimed. "Mine, mine, he is mine!" "No, mine, mine," another interjected. "No, mine, mine, he is mine!" "No, ours, ours," a chorus of ten voices sang. "Ours, ours, he is ours!" "What if we take turns steering me?" I proposed. Nagini's toes curled, her eyelids fluttering. "Finally, finally," a high voice chimed. "Now, now. The long, long wait is over," it sang. "It's over, it's finally over!" Gathering my strength, I muted the voices, rendering them much quieter. "Mine, mine," a soft voice whispered. "Mine, mine," another moaned. "Ours, ours," shrieked the choir.
Poor Abidemi... I hope he does not communicate with his spirits in this manner, but when I inquired, he stated he could not assist with this ritual. I-Nagaina cast a longing glance at the hanging clock. Thirty-six seconds had elapsed since I lost consciousness... "Time to take flight, Master?" Nagini inquired. "No. We'll endure a bit longer. Today is the shortest night of the year," I replied. Yet, in the days leading up to the ritual, all I had done was eat and sleep, arriving here as fresh as a spring morning! An hour later, I began to understand why Dark Mages were so irritable. Though I mustn't forget my own wedding. What is so challenging about drinking and fornicating? Anyone can engage in such activities, yet I nearly botched even that!
"Sooner or later, you will have to sleep," one voice declared. "I am wide awake," I countered. Perhaps I should, but would I manage to last less than five hours? "Liar," someone responded, reveling in the exchange. "I feel fantastic," I asserted. "Hypocrite," the voice retorted. "I am unafraid of the night, sleep, or anything." "The Dark Forces will seize you," they warned. "The Dark Forces always gather at my briefings," I shot back. "Very amusing," they replied.
Meanwhile, I heard a rumble, a groan, a ringing sound... The Chinese have a similar torture—one sits tied to a chair in darkness, while a drop of water falls incessantly on the same spot. In that moment, I would gladly exchange this ritual for participation in that form of torture. I glanced through Nagini's eyes at my human body, trembling and drenched in sweat. "Insanity! Pure insanity!" the voices whispered. "Silence!" I commanded. "We have said nothing," the voices replied. This was peculiar. It was an interminably long night...
As dawn approached, Nagini resembled a waking wax figure. Her eyes gradually glazed over. I-Nagaina watched the clock hand. Another second had passed. Two seconds, three seconds, four, five, ten, thirty seconds. A whole minute. Now, an entire hour less to wait. And I was not merely waiting. I attempted to close myself off with Occlumency. I even tried to attack with Legilimency, but I could not sense my adversaries. The voices chuckled softly. Then, Nagini succumbed to slumber. If she had perished, it would have mattered little; she would simply be reborn. But she fell asleep, and I was sucked back into the void! Alright, the first round is yours. Now I truly cannot escape. But I only have an hour and forty minutes left to endure in the void! Asleep in a madhouse... I spoke, they silenced me. They spoke, I silenced them. Attempts to negotiate or incite conflict among the voices yielded nothing. And I waited. Waiting is excruciating when time appears to freeze.
I once thought there was nothing worse than Albus's lectures on the power of love. Yet compared to these voices, Albus is a model of restraint. It would be tolerable if they merely chattered; their magical influence rendered it impossible to drown them out even with my Occlumency! I deceive the Mirror of Erised two out of three times! Everything eventually concludes. This torment did as well. I awoke with the first rays of sunlight. My mood was dismal; I desperately wanted to inflict upon someone the same misery I felt. Nagini lay peacefully next to the bed—not like a bird, with her head tucked under her wing, nor like a snake, coiled like a spool of wire, but like a rag on the floor, as though she had been shot.
Upon awakening Nagini, I surveyed the ritual hall. There were no traces of Dark Magic. No, all the runes remained intact and operational, yet it felt as though no magic had ever been performed here. It was time to return home. I craved sleep. However, I would postpone sleep for as long as possible—what if I was caught in an illusion?
---
**Rodolphus Lestrange's Perspective**
Rodolphus approached his father, pondering the nature of the "urgent matter" his father wished to discuss. "Hello, Father. I am equally perplexed about how the Lord managed to clear our Ritual Hall," he remarked. "That is the tenth matter. Today, I wish to focus on you. It has been over a month since your wedding. What are your thoughts on your new wife?" his father inquired.
His thoughts turned towards his spouse. "She's dreadful. Arrogant, deceitful, obsessed with blood purity, tradition, and the Dark Lord. Moreover, she's a sex-obsessed baby-making machine," he confessed candidly. "Indeed, love can quickly turn to hate. Love can blind, my son. However, you mustn't speak or think of the Dark Lord's wife in such a manner. Regardless of her flaws, she is a powerful pureblood witch, devoted to our cause. You must show Bellatrix the respect her birth, status, and achievements warrant. I do not refer to Bellatrix; I mean Isabella, my current wife! And Bellatrix is not like that! But what's the point of explaining?"
"What do you think of Isabella Lestrange?" he pressed. He had already stated his thoughts. Could there be anything commendable about her? "She studies diligently. Quite gifted for her age. She adores jewelry, clothing, and sweets, collecting chocolate frog cards," he replied.
"Then why did you test her for obsession? Why did you delve into her father's memories to compare them for changes? Rodolphus, there is no ulterior motive. Stop pretending to be foolish. She's simply a bit unusual; I searched throughout Western Europe to find a bride of her caliber for you."
"Thank you, Father," he replied. "But sometimes, she can be utterly insufferable. I hoped it was merely nerves or that she would settle with time. But no. May I at least spank her once?"
"There is no justification for such actions. She doesn't wander into forbidden places, and when required, she feigns ignorance. If you cannot filter information, that is your issue, not hers. Besides, I am not so sensitive as to spank a woman carrying an heir due to a sidelong glance. Congratulations, Rodolphus. You are about to become a father."
What was this madness! Another pregnancy under the watchful eye of the Dark Lord. It was a shame, a shame the Lord hadn't eliminated Weasley... It felt contagious. "It's a boy. And given your paranoia, I verified it—you are the father. While everyone else was busy digging for the Lord, this is what you were doing... Mordred... For the sake of the heir, the father will forgive Isabella everything, even if she resembles Alastor Moody under an enchantment..."
"Mini! Bring me some wine!" Rodolphus commanded. The house-elf promptly appeared with wine. Rodolphus poured himself a glass and drank, then refilled. "Will there be complications during the birth?" he asked.
"What difficulties could arise? Will a healthy, strong witch perish in childbirth? With two blood masters—her father and your father? We possess the wealth and connections to summon at least ten healers for the birth. It would be wise to call upon Hindus or Arabs—their marriage age is lower, resulting in fewer questions."
"Then why the suspicious smile?" Rodolphus queried. "She is adamant about the boy's name," his father revealed. "And?" he asked, intrigued. "She only desires two names. Tom or Salazar."