Máximus sank into his thoughts, trying to find a way out. But before he could formulate a concrete plan, a sharp pain shot through his head, as if an invisible knife was tearing at his mind. He fell to his knees, clutching his temples as chaotic, fragmented images invaded his consciousness. They were memories, but not his. He saw shadows dancing in dark rituals, mutilated bodies, and the cold, calculating gaze of Voldemort as he executed his most perverse spells. Each vision was a brutal blow, revealing the darkest side of the magic Voldemort had perfected over the years.
These were just fragments, pieces of a dark and macabre puzzle. But it wasn't just that—Máximus felt his mind filling with magical knowledge he had never possessed before. He knew things he had never studied, forgotten spells and powerful magics that now resided in the corners of his consciousness. Though fragmented and incomplete, there was one thing he seemed to have absorbed almost entirely: the Runes.
Runes, an ancient and powerful form of magic, but largely forgotten due to their complexity and slowness compared to wand-based spells. However, for someone in his position, without a wand and unable to cast magic in the conventional way, they were the perfect tool. He could use them to create traps and defenses that would allow him to escape the cave.
"I'm not like those heroes in stories who are granted magical power by some miracle…" he muttered to himself, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. "I'm a corpse, a wretch who has earned what little he has with sweat and tears."
The pain from the potion he had drunk not only strengthened his dead body but had also hardened his mind. The agony he had endured repeatedly, that self-imposed suffering, had prepared him in ways he hadn't understood at the time. Now, he realized that torture had given him an unexpected advantage: a mental resilience that allowed him to resist the attack from Voldemort's soul fragment. There was something deeply ironic in that—something that continued to surprise him. While Voldemort, with all his experience and magical brilliance, had succumbed to his own madness, Máximus, with only a fraction of his power, had survived the internal struggle.
"I need to make the most of this…" he murmured, as a new plan began to form in his mind.
He knew that sooner or later, Regulus would return to the cave to destroy the Horcrux. And when he did, he would bring his wand. That wand would be the key to escaping that underground hell. But he couldn't just sit and wait. He needed to be prepared. He had to craft a plan to ensure that Regulus couldn't escape, that neither he nor Kreacher would ruin his chances for freedom.
A dark and dangerous idea crossed his mind. What if he trapped Regulus? What if he consumed him in the same way he had consumed Voldemort's fragment? Regulus's memories would be more complete than the chaotic fragments from Voldemort. Perhaps he could even gain greater power, more control over himself and the magic he now only partially understood.
"No..." he told himself, shaking his head. The idea was dangerous, tempting, but also risky. He knew he had already altered the course of events by fighting Voldemort and absorbing part of his essence. If he continued to play with that power, he could veer even further from the destiny he knew.
Máximus then decided that his best option was to ensure that Regulus couldn't escape. If the Inferi dragged Regulus underwater before he could destroy the Horcrux, it would be too late. He needed to craft a meticulous plan, one that would allow him to get what he needed without jeopardizing his only chance.
"Stones... I need stones," he thought aloud, looking at the Inferi who silently watched him.
"Take the boat... bring me large stones," he ordered his followers, who obeyed without hesitation.
The Inferi moved slowly toward the boat waiting on the shore and began to make trips to the other side of the lake, bringing rocks of different sizes. Though his connection with the corpses in the lake wasn't strong enough to control them directly, those near him obeyed with an almost instinctive precision.
With the stones at his disposal, Máximus began inscribing runes on their surfaces. Rune magic was slow and meticulous, but powerful. Magical absorption, stunning, freezing... Each rune he inscribed was designed to incapacitate anyone who fell into his trap. Fire spells were also extremely effective, but he had to be careful with them. Corpses were extremely vulnerable to fire, and he wasn't sure how those flames might affect him.
"I better make sure…" he murmured as he inscribed several fire resistance runes, hoping they would provide him with some protection in case the flames got out of control.
As he carved the runes into the stones, his mind wandered to the knowledge he had acquired from Voldemort. Part of those memories included ancient practices of the Norse, who tattooed runes onto their skin to grant themselves magical powers. Voldemort had never tried this, dismissing it as inferior magic, but Máximus knew that in his situation, any advantage was welcome. Voldemort had been obsessed with rituals, and although he scorned this type of magic, Máximus saw an opportunity in it that he couldn't pass up.
After what seemed like an eternity, he had finished all the inscriptions. The traps were ready for Regulus's arrival. Now all that was left was to wait. But the waiting made him uneasy. He couldn't afford to let his guard down for even a second.
"The potion…" he thought.
The agony the potion caused repulsed him, but at the same time, he knew that each time he endured it, his resistance to pain increased. Not only that, but his mind became stronger, more focused. He had found a way to train his mental fortitude, something that, though terrible, gave him a unique advantage.
"How did no one else think of this?" he wondered, though he quickly realized the answer. No one else would endure such suffering for a simple increase in power. No one would voluntarily choose such a painful path.
He had no other choice. So, once again, he began to drink the potion, making sure not to reach the point of fainting. He needed to be at his maximum potential when the moment of truth arrived.