11.20 PM, 31ST OCTOBER, 1981, PARKINSON MANOR
THE GARDEN LAY in an unnatural stillness, a suffocating quiet that seemed to choke even the memory of life. A sickly mist writhed across the ground, curling around rows of flowers too exotic to belong, their colors too vivid to be real. Moonlight spilled over the scene, casting a cold, silver glow that rendered the gnarled trees spectral and unnatural. Their twisted branches clawed at the sky like grasping hands, frozen in eternal desperation. The air was devoid of sound—no hum of insects, no rustle of leaves. Only silence, vast and oppressive, blanketed the garden.
At its heart stood the Dark Lord, a shadowy figure swathed in flowing black robes. Motionless, he stood with hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed upon the moon above.
A beautiful sight, the moon—aloof in its celestial throne. For countless centuries, it had shone down upon the earth, a silent witness to humanity's struggles and triumphs. To mankind, it became a symbol of their most profound desires: magnificent and boundless, yet eternally out of reach. They looked to it with longing, dreaming of the future it seemed to promise. Yet always, the moon looked back with benevolent mockery, its pale glow whispering, "Strive as you will, I remain beyond your grasp."
As a child, abandoned and alone in the squalor of a revolting orphanage, he had often gazed at the moon, admiring its distant, untouchable splendor. He longed to embody its cold indifference, its unyielding detachment from the chaos of mortal lives. This dream, born in the shadows of neglect, grew with him, shaping his every thought.
The day he first discovered his magical abilities was the moment his yearning for a better life ignited into an unquenchable flame. It was no longer a mere wish—it became a purpose.
However, it was when he uncovered the truth of his lineage that the weight of his heritage as the heir of Slytherin, that purpose crystallized into a vow. He would transcend mortality, freeing himself from the shackles of finite existence. He would rise as a god, reshaping the very fabric of reality and ushering in a new era. The stars, the earth, and even the threads of all fate would be his to command.
He would rise above the mockery of the heavens, above the cosmic joke that the universe made his life. His mother, frail and foolish, had succumbed to death without so much as a fight—an unforgivable weakness. His father, a disgraceful, magicless mudblood, was a stain he preferred erased from his memory. They were the blemishes of a past he despised. The reason that the heavens laughed at him.
Through cunning and ruthless determination, he toiled, shaping himself into the architect of his ambitions. He honed his mind, sharpened his wit. He trained his speech, his charisma. He amassed resources, always talking to the right people, saying the right thing at the right time. He researched on every bit of magic he could—all the way from the most mundane to the most obscure—harnessing all that magical knowledge to its maximum.
He even went as far as to commit vile deeds that would drive the Devil out of hell, perpetrating so many crimes that he was sure that not even the abyss could accommodate him. He got into dark dealings, working with shady, corrupt, greedy bastards to drive his own schemes. He leapt into the dark arts, looking into the vilest and abominable magic to have ever existed. He played every piece on his board with ruthless pinpoint precision, sacrificing pawns, destroying lives, decimating opponents, all without hesitation.
Then it all came to pieces with that day, when he met Death.
He felt himself shudder just at the mere thought of her. All his effort. All his work. She laid it all to waste within seconds. She made it all look pointless. Voldemort had heard rumours of a prophecy to do with a sorcerer that would transcend Death, that would have the threads of all Fate under their command. A sorcerer whose very existence was an error in the cosmos, an entropy in the universe. He had been certain that it was him.
He, after all, was the wielder of the Gaunt inherent technique, Hellish Decay. According to historical accounts, it was among the most feared techniques of the post-Merlinic Era, with the ability to literally deteriorate any target, even concepts! It was a technique born from the Slytherin inherent technique, Cursed Destruction of Truth after the bloodlines of the Golden Age fell, born with the Gaunts, a family risen from the blood of Salazar Slytherin.
He, the Dark Lord Voldemort, should have been the sorcerer of the prophecy, the error of the world! He alone was worthy! He had the potential to destroy existence itself! For this reason, in his travels, he carefully constructed a plan to trap and defeat Death. At last, he had thought, at last he would fulfill his purpose, he would ascend to immortality, he would become a divine being!
However, when he executed the plan, it backfired horribly.
Death had laughed at him, swatting him around like a gnat. She mocked him, berating him for his arrogation, for thinking that he could master the Endless. Do you really think, she scorned, that reality would bow down to the likes of you? That you could be a god? You're nothing but a pathetic ant with trying to fight existence itself.
Voldemort had been humiliated, terribly. To be defeated so easily, so handily, even by a being older than time, it had shattered him. What mortal dares fight a god so daringly and lose? That kind of humiliation was brutal and unforgettable. What was worse, she spared him, left him battered and broken, inconsequential and not worth another moment's thought.
This left Voldemort wrecked. After all he had been through, after everything he sacrificed, the universe still ridiculed him!
Yet, the fear remained, and even grew in magnitude. No matter his rage, he was nothing more than a fleeting thought in the face of such power. With the increased dread, Voldemort redoubled his efforts, seeking more power, more ways to avoid Death until he was ready, travelling the world in search of more arcane knowledge that could him in his endeavor.
Then, he found out about the prophecy of the one destined to defeat him. When he first heard it, everything suddenly clicked. He realized why Death did not kill him that day, even though she very well had enough power to crush his being an infinite number of times over. Fate protected him! He could not die by any other hand other than that of the one to slay him!
He had been out of his mind with glee. Armed with this new information, he searched for the one spoken of in the prophecy. After much research, he found out that there were three possible candidates: The Potters' twin daughters and the Longbottoms' son. The best part? All the three were mere infants.
Yet, inasmuch as they all qualified, the ones that Voldemort suspected to be the more likely threat were the Potter twins, for obvious reasons. For that reason, he would execute them first. In any case, Frank and Alice Longbottom were vegetables after an ambush by his forces. He could go after their son once he was done with the Potter children to cement his absolute invincibility.
The most hilarious bit was that the aristocracy tended to keep their family manors' locations secret, only accessible by means of invitation by the officially recognised family head. It was how they kept their wealth and security intact. For a powerful family like the Potters, this was even more so, yet he had his ways of bypassing the established defenses.
In the end, by midnight, he would be equal to the heavens.
Voldemort had laughed at the sheer absurdity of this boon in his privacy, and even now it rather amused him. How fortunate, how poetic, that the one whom the world shunned as a child, as a nobody, that the one forgotten by Fortune, would come to such a point where victory over the world was assured! Where all of the threads of Fate were woven together to ensure his triumph!
The Dark Lord thus consolidated all his forces, gathering them for what would be happening on this auspicious night, the night of Samhain—one of the four nights during which all realms and planes of existence were closest to one another. Tonight, as all of existence converged, all beings would witness his rise as a god!
Breaking free of his contemplations, the Dark Lord turned to see one of his followers, Phineas Parkinson, approaching. Phineas just so happened to be his wealthiest acolyte, and the biggest financier of his campaign, thus earning him a place in the Dark Lord's inner circle. The Death Eater spoke once he was within earshot, bowing.
"My Lord," he said reverently. "Your forces are ready to strike. They await your orders."
The Dark Lord closed his eyes for a moment, as though to savour those words. Finally, he thought, my ascension is nigh. He opened them one more, eyes burning with the fire of ambition and anxious ecstasy, yet remaining completely stoic.
"Have them remain standing by," the Dark Lord answered. "I shall give the signal for the massacre to begin."
"Yes, my lord," Parkinson responded, his face alight with murderous glee. He bowed humbly once more, then rose as left to go pass on his master's orders.
The Dark Lord turned his gaze back toward the garden. Wandlessly, he summoned the acolyte who would make tonight's operation possible. In an instant, a sharp crack echoed through the air as the Death Eater apparated to his side. The Dark Lord appraised him coolly. The man had become strangely distant of late—his eyes hollow, his words few—but it mattered little. The Dark Lord had no interest in the emotional state of his subordinates, unless it directly interfered with his plans. All that mattered was loyalty, and that had already been ascertained.
"We depart," the Dark Lord said simply.
Severus Snape, as hollow now as he had been for the last few weeks, simply bowed slightly, and he and his master Disapparated. The time was 11.30 PM.
******
Author here.
So, I tried to make this POV as enlightening as possible without being too repetitive. Also, whatever has not been explained here that isn't very clear is prolly gonna be explored further in coming chapters.
I just wanted to add this, btw. For chapters going through certain characters' POVs, I try to limit the content to what the character would know, and I try to match the writing style with what I believe to be the personality of the character in question. So, yeah.
By the way, at the time of writing this, it's like 1 AM, and I've tended to be releasing chapters late at night or at ungodly hours of morning, so please bear with whatever mistakes I've made. Imma try to fix them.
Anyway, I got nothing else, so, ciao!