Letters From The Past

“The abandoned manor, a monument to your callousness. The stench of decay, the flies buzzing over lifeless bodies. Did you ever return, Tom? Did you ever stand in the silence and acknowledge what you had done? Your father, in particular, died in fear.”

The goblet in his hand shattered, shards of crystal and crimson liquid scattering across the floor. The image of his father’s face, contorted in terror and disbelief, burned into his mind. He’d told himself it was justice, a necessary act. Now, doubt, a foreign and unwelcome emotion, gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

The shards of the goblet, like crimson teeth, scattered across the polished stone floor, mirroring the fractured state of Tom’s composure. He stared at the spreading stain, the wine a dark, accusing red, and the image of his father’s face, a mask of bewildered terror, flickered behind his eyelids.

He hadn’t thought of his father in years. Not truly. He’d relegated him to a distant, insignificant footnote in his grand narrative, a necessary casualty in his ascent to power. Now, the man’s fear, so vividly described in the letter, clawed at the carefully constructed walls of his indifference.

He rose, the movement abrupt and violent, and stalked to the fireplace. The flames, usually a comforting warmth, now seemed to mock him, their flickering light casting grotesque shadows across the room. He clenched his fists, the sharp edges of the broken glass digging into his palms, but he barely registered the pain.

“Did you ever return, Tom?” The words echoed in his mind, a venomous whisper. He had returned, once. Years ago. A brief, almost clinical visit, to ensure the lingering traces of his past were thoroughly erased. He remembered the silence, thick and heavy, the dust motes dancing in the shafts of moonlight, the faint, metallic tang of dried blood that was never cleaned.

He paced, his long strides echoing in the vast chamber. He needed to find the source of these letters. He needed to silence them. The intrusion, the violation of his carefully guarded secrets, was intolerable. He felt a prickle of something akin to fear, a sensation he hadn’t experienced since he was a child, cowering in the orphanage, vulnerable and powerless.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, a sound that was less a word and more a raw expression of his mounting frustration. He swept his wand in a wide arc, sending a wave of destructive magic crashing against the far wall. Stone crumbled and splintered, but the silence remained unbroken, a mocking testament to his importance.

He thought of his followers, their faces etched with unwavering loyalty, their eyes reflecting his own ambition. But even among them, he knew, there were those who harbored secrets, those who coveted his power. He had always maintained control through fear and manipulation, but now, he wondered, had he underestimated their resentment?

No, he was sure it wasn’t one of his death eaters leaving the letters. They wouldn’t even know of his actions and what he had done.

He considered the possibility of a magical artifact, a device capable of bypassing his wards. But even the most powerful magic had limitations, and he had always been meticulous in his defenses.

His gaze drifted to the shattered goblet, the crimson stain a stark reminder of his lost control. He had always prided himself on his self-mastery, his ability to suppress any emotion that threatened his carefully constructed persona. Now, he felt a creeping sense of vulnerability, a fear that his carefully guarded secrets were being laid bare.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, his fingers trembling slightly. He needed a plan, a strategy. He couldn't afford to be impulsive, to react blindly. He needed to find the source of the letters, to expose the sender, to reclaim his control.

He thought of the Horcruxes, those fragments of his soul, scattered and hidden, anchors to his immortality. They were his greatest secret, his ultimate defense. Yet, the letters had hinted at their existence, suggesting that his most carefully guarded secrets were known. The thought made his stomach churn. Had they been compromised? Were they vulnerable?

Yes

He considered the implications. If the Horcruxes were known, they were vulnerable. They were anchors, yes, but they were also targets. Each one a potential point of attack, a way to dismantle his carefully constructed immortality. He had always seen them as his strength, his ultimate weapon. Now, they were a liability, a weakness.

He felt a surge of possessiveness, a primal need to protect what was his. The Horcruxes were his, extensions of his will, fragments of his power. He would not allow them to be violated, to be stolen, to be destroyed.

He rose to his feet, his movements decisive, his resolve hardening. He would retrieve the Horcruxes, one by one, securing them, reinforcing their defenses, ensuring their safety. He would not allow them to be used against him.

He would also find the sender. He would tear them apart, piece by piece, until he understood how they had dared to trespass on his domain. He would extract every secret, every shred of knowledge, every ounce of power they possessed. He would make them pay for their insolence, for their audacity, for their intrusion. He would show them what it meant to challenge Lord Voldemort.