Echoed Lives

1972

Figurines of magical creatures and wizards hopped across the vast, enchanted map of Britain spread over the grand table. They moved in accordance with the Dark Lord's strategy, gliding past the Ministry, creeping along the outskirts of strategic villages, defending their borders in the Fey Forest, and preparing to attack a camp of enemies. Each Death Eater reviewed their role in the upcoming surprise assault—targeting the light families that still dared to resist bending to His will.

"My Lord, our vampire contact awaits the food supplies. They say they are in need of magical blood to continue the battle," reported Avery, his voice low, eyes cast downward, afraid to meet the gaze of the Dark Lord. "They estimate at least 200 litres for their platoon."

Voldemort’s cold, red eyes turned to Avery, an eyebrow lifting slightly. “And you are incapable of procuring a few mudbloods? Bleed them, keep them alive, and repeat the process,” he said, voice laced with disdain.

Avery swallowed, his voice wavering as he answered. "But, my Lord... adult mudbloods often return to the Muggle world after school. They are hard to track."

The Dark Lord’s wand tapped slowly against the table, a menacing rhythm. Each tap, like a countdown to the inevitable. "Is there a question hidden in that statement, Avery ?"

Avery hesitated, panic rising. "I-I apologise, my Lord. How would we ensure they are healthy enough for... for continuous use ?"

“Crucio.”

Avery’s scream pierced the silence, his body convulsing under the curse. The Dark Lord barely seemed to notice, his face blank, a flicker of boredom settling in his crimson eyes. The screams that filled the room were almost white noise to Him now. His voice was cold and devoid of emotion. "You have lived all your lives with magic, and yet you never think to use it as a solution. Why is that ?"

He let the silence stretch, His eyes sweeping over His followers. In each face, He saw the reasons He had tolerated their presence—loyalty, wealth, connections, access to rare magical libraries. But their incompetence, their laziness, made it hard to recall their worth. They were tools, useful but fragile. And when they broke, there were always replacements. Their cries of agony, though, were a rare melody He could still appreciate.

Avery, writhing on the ground, gasped through his screams, “My Lord... I... will... find... a spell...” He barely managed the words, knowing no one in the room would dare intervene. None of the Death Eaters had the courage—or foolishness—to challenge the Dark Lord’s will. They called themselves revolutionaries, visionaries working to redeem the magical world, but in His presence, they were nothing more than cowed sycophants, grovelling at the hem of His robes.

Voldemort released the curse, the room falling into a tense, suffocating silence. Avery twitched, still feeling the residual pain. The Dark Lord’s voice was soft, but dangerous. “You will present me with a detailed solution by tomorrow at the latest.”

Panting, Avery nodded, slumping back into his chair. “Th-thank you, my Lord.”

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened. “Thank me ? For what ?”

Avery, trembling, forced himself to respond, “For... generously allowing me to think of the solution on my own.”

Voldemort’s lip curled ever so slightly. “Indeed,” he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I only wish to see you all thrive, after all.”

He scanned the room, the smirk fading into a look of quiet menace. The surface thoughts of His followers flitted through His mind. They were terrified—blinded by their fear. Disappointing, but not unexpected. Fear was useful, but it was a fine balance. Too much and they became paralyzed; too little, and they grew reckless.

“And remember,” He added, his voice a dark whisper, “your usefulness ends when your failures outweigh your fear. Don’t make me doubt your value.”

The room was silent. Each Death Eater stiffened in their seats, eyes downcast. He could feel their minds race, scrambling for ways to prove themselves worthy, ways to survive under His scrutiny.

It was enough to keep them in line—for now.

****

1973

Rallying cries pierced the air, the sickening crunch of bones, spells whipping past their targets, the clatter of hooves, and the gurgling of blood spilling onto the earth—all merged into the chaotic symphony of battle. At the edge of a nondescript forest, an enemy camp—a small magical house, deceptively large enough to shelter twice their number—was under siege. Half of the Dark Lord’s most vicious Death Eaters led the charge, while the rest were scattered across missions or stationed as guards.

"Bellatrix, reinforce the east! Bole, pour the potions as planned! And Abraxas..." The Dark Lord paused, his red eyes narrowing as he surveyed the battlefield, searching for any weakness in the enemy's defences. Their strategy reeked of Dumbledore's influence—always hiding, always sending others to die in his place. He wasn’t here, of course, coward that he was. "Take the centaurs and push them through the middle. Break their barrier and make a path. Go now."

"My Lord," Abraxas hesitated, a step already taken toward his task. "There are no centaurs today. They refused to fight last month. They claimed the war had drained magic too much for their liking."

The Dark Lord’s eyes snapped toward him, fury simmering beneath his sharp features. "Why was I not informed ? Are you all incompetent, or do I smell mutiny ?" His voice dripped with venom. "I suggest for your sake that it’s neither. Crucio!"

Abraxas’s body twisted and contorted in agony under the curse, his screams blending into the distant roar of the battlefield. But Voldemort’s anger wasn’t so easily sated. He flicked his wand abruptly, cutting off the pain. Then, without hesitation, he hurled the killing curse into the fray, uncaring where it landed, whether it struck foe or ally. "I must do everything myself !" he snarled, his rage unbridled. To him, they all deserved to die.

His fury surged, and his magic swelled, warping into a searing inferno. Where the centaurs had failed him, he summoned their likeness from pure rage—towering beasts of flame rampaged through the battlefield, incinerating everything in their path. Friend and foe alike scattered, scrambling to avoid the magical firestorm that devoured the ground. Even the most hardened Death Eaters retreated from the flames, their faces twisted in terror as they fled.

Abraxas, still trembling from the curse, stared at his Lord, heart pounding. For the first time, he didn’t know what he was looking at. Was this the powerful, ruthless leader they had followed, or had He finally crossed into madness? Voldemort had always been cruel—brutally so—but in the past, there had been a method to His cruelty. It was the kind of ambition that Slytherins admired, a cruelty that commanded respect. There had always been lines He didn’t cross, the boundaries that came with power. He knew how to manipulate, how to make others want Him in control, promising rewards or maintaining the status quo, punishing only when provoked or when mistakes were unforgivable.

But now, those lines were blurred. The Dark Lord no longer seemed to care who stood before Him. His desire for power had consumed Him entirely, a lust not just for control over magical Britain but over the entire world. And those who once stood at His side were now as expendable as those who opposed Him.

The battle was over. The remaining defenders had fled, abandoning the magical house, leaving nothing behind but bodies strewn across the ground. The Dark Lord surveyed the scene, his gaze sweeping over the carnage. For a moment, silence fell over the battlefield. And then, a laugh—cold, hollow—escaped His lips. He had won, but it wasn’t enough. He had hoped for more deaths, more destruction.

With a final glance at the blood-soaked ground, Voldemort apparated away, his laugh still echoing in the emptiness left behind.

****

1974

« Have you heard ? McCally’s son disappeared; do you think he was one of the resisters ?” Whispers filled the textile workshop as it was usual for the time.

“No, he couldn’t, the guy flew away from any danger, Merlin forbids he had an interesting life. Probably fell in a hole and couldn’t get away!” Giggles followed, behind multiple hands was sniggering.

Until a blonde thumb the table outrage, “Stop laughing, you know my sister disappeared too, you make it sound like it’s her fault. She wasn’t looking for it; those people are lunatics. They want to destroy everything, and you're here, gossiping.” The girl stormed out; her eyes glassy from holding back her tears.

Silence settled in between each worker, embracing them and their fabric. Usually it was a comfortable atmosphere, but these times meant less and less of those anywhere one went.Their magic subdued even as they wove, a hand stretching the thread, the other waving their wand stitching the pattern meticulously.

“I know they do awful acts, and I have no part in any of those. But they say magic is lost because of the muggleborns. I don’t believe that, but traditions keep getting lost and we have the muggles traditions, at Hogwarts especially. I don’t think it's fair to us.” Hush noises followed, every pair of eyes searching for someone else hearing them or Aurors apparating, telling them the room was bugged – there was a rumour the Ministry used insect-like toys to listen to people and find spies, from there came a new word.

“Merlin shut up Adeline, some wixen will think you are one of them. Do you want to get interrogated by Aurors ?” A heavy silence stretched itself, awkwardness drowning the room while each wixen focused on their craft.

“11 dead bodies this week, it keeps on adding… I didn’t think we were that many frankly. I just… I get scared to even go shopping at the Ally. And some of these people were killed in their house, do you think we have enough protection?” Bravely, Quinny broke the silence, sharing her concerns.

“I think it was more the week before, maybe they’re stopping. I hope so. I fear the lady in the apothecary just decides to reveal she is one of them, or this ministry employee we see having his coffee every Friday goes on a rampage in the Ally. Just apocalyptic scenarios running in my head non-stop.” Alexandra paused, to collect her thoughts and gather her courage to speak about such troubling matters to her little sister which she wanted to protect. “I guess when you are in the Ally and it’s packed you can’t think we’re that little/small/few? but living in this tiny village, I get what you say. Do you know someone who could add protections for a reasonable fee ? Mom and Dad are working but we’re not full of galleons. They’re not good enough at wards to risk damaging the ones already on, and a specialist will be so expensive. We’re only students, we can’t even transfigure a pig into a desk.”

“Is it selfish that I can’t wait to get to Hogwarts ? It’s the only place they haven’t touched.” She looked down, ashamed, her fingers squeezing stronger than necessary the ropes.

Alexandra took her chin to raise her head and dive her eyes in her sister’s, her serious expression made Quinny stand straighter at her designated desk.

“Yes, but selfish is good sometimes. Be proud of trying to protect yourself, Quinny.” This small sentence made Quinny relaxed almost entirely. Her sister was there, she always knew what to say.

“Talking like a true Slytherin, Alexandra.” Her impish little sister bumped into her shoulder playfully.

“And you like a less reckless Gryffindor, good on you.” Hugging her, worrying lining her forehead.

****

“You have a sombre path ahead of you. But love will prevail, and with-it good fortune.” The round table vibrated as Ms. Clark stood up disappointedly. She had been warned not to trust the delusional witch, but she had thought surely someone claiming to know how to end these awful attacks would have a modicum of talent in the divinatory arts. She sighed, again Gregory and Eleonor would laugh at her expense. Oh well, she had tried at least. “But wait. You … You have a child. He will have a quest, taking part in the journey for peace, at great risk but triumphing at last.”

At the last sentence, Eugenie Clark stopped paralysed, and a cold shiver in her bones made her walk through the door without looking back. After 15 minutes of wandering in the village, the cerebral witch shook her head, deciding it was the end of divination for her. Too unreliable of a magic. So vague, no substance to go by. She’ll go back to study magical sea creatures. More tangible. She’ll go to tell anybody she met: “This wannabe seer at the corner of Walby Apothecary, Traleney or Trelawney, is a crook. If you asked her would the sun rise tomorrow, she wouldn’t know the answer”.

****

The owner of Walby Apothecary was regretting his choice of renting, for a low price on top of that, to the discrete ingenue transformed into an eccentric madwitch. The girl was going to get kidnapped or attacked, if she kept spreading her delusions of prophecies to end the conflict, people were starting to talk. Death Eaters weren’t that numerous, isolated crazies, he told his husband, but well informed with all the time they had on their hands.

From his desk, he could see her entering her divinatory salon followed by a black-haired man. Another future disappointed client, maybe he’ll come by after to buy a couple ingredients. The girl would at least be useful. Not thinking about it anymore, he decided to reorganise the shelves as he always did on Thursdays while mentally checking the planning for the orders of the week.

All his hairs raised so suddenly he felt electrocuted. He shook his head, too much happening lately made him paranoiac. Looking at the window, he noted a peroxidised blond leaving the girl’s business, for all her flaws she knew how to amass a clientele.

Later on, Mr. Walby decided to invite her to dinner at their house, she needed to be reasoned and maybe, he would prompt her in a deal for their businesses. With all her false prophecies - she wasn’t even credible, he went to one of her group session and didn’t feel an inkling of magic -, he was sure she wouldn’t bat an eye to recommend a feather of Fwooper or a mountain bat eye to open the third eye of her clients, or something. Business is business after all.

Finished with today ‘s tasks, he closed his shop, his treasure, and knocked at the girl’s door for five minutes. Annoyed at the wait and with too good of a business idea, he entered. She must have fallen asleep intoxicated to her fumes again.

“Ms. Trelawney I permitted myself the entrance, you don’t mind, do you ?” He asked for courtesy sake only, he was still the owner of the place. No answer. She had always had her head in the stars, searching for meaning in their crossings and movements, but she was rarely so transcended as to not answer. Was she ignoring him ? He mulled over the possible conflicts they could have had and the strong retort he’ll use to defuse it, while climbing the wooden stairs to the second floor.

Arriving at her personal quarters, he hesitated as it was improper to enter when not invited but he was starting to worry. Maybe she did kill herself with all her fumes and herbs, she knew nothing about, hanging around. Such a young age to die in a badly ventilated room.

The knob in hand, he slowly but purposely opened the door, the living room behind was trashed. Difficult to recognize to an inexperienced eye but Mr. Walby knew her organised chaos like the few people to visit her. For the first timers it would always look like uncontrolled chaos, but after a couple of visits one could recognize the pile of garbage from the pile of the most precious objects. Heart racing, he feared for her and guiltily remembered joking of her kidnapping. Advancing to the kitchen, his feet slowed, his mind raced through the most terrible scenarios.

Here she was, deathly pale, already rigid on the eclectic chair. She had clearly been tied and tortured, cheeks still wet, ankles and wrist red from the struggle. The last cruelty his abductor relished in was watching her empty all her blood from the fusing neck injury, while unknowingly boring witness to her tries speaking the magical words she claimed she had all along but knew only then.

Mr. Walby was never quite the same after, her bulging eyes transmitting her tortured soul never leaving his retina. His husband found him a little more closed off from now on, with an easy affection from blond airheads or divination enthusiasts. One of her crystal balls adored their corridor forever. Most of her clients and the inhabitants of the village were at the funeral, which Mr. and Mr. Walby had paid for. Ms. Clark went with her son who insisted to pick up peace Lilies from the lake, having to dodge the geese for them. It was tradition to bring peace to the dead with flowers or fruits.

****

December 1974, Unplottable Manor

A soft pop echoed through the dark, cold study as a house-elf appeared, interrupting the silence that filled the air. The Dark Lord, seated at his grand mahogany desk, glanced up sharply, his eyes narrowing in irritation. He despised house-elves, and it was made abundantly clear that no creature, magical or otherwise, was to intrude upon his chambers unless it was a matter of utmost importance. Even the serpents that often slithered at his side were barred from entering here.

The elf, trembling and skittish, avoided His gaze, staring down at the ground as it squeaked, "Master Dark Lord, Lady Malfoy is…is here. An emergency. Something about a pre-precious artefact."

The Dark Lord’s eyes flared with anger. “Crucio,” He hissed, flicking His wand with barely a motion. The elf crumpled to the floor, screaming in agony. “You are not to enter here directly, Matty. Ever.”

"But—but Master Dark Lord said, if it was urgent..." the elf stammered between sobs, its small body writhing in pain. "Sorry, Master. Matty will do better."

"Enough of this gibberish," He snapped, releasing the spell. "Go. Now." The elf vanished with another pop, leaving only the scent of fear in its wake. Red eyes turned back to the pale figure sitting across from Him. "Well, Failey, continue with your financial predictions. I don’t have all day."

“Financial predictions my Lord ? Continue ? …Of course,” Papers scattered, hands searching for the new file, replacing the one he had in hands just minutes ago. “Our vaults, meant to fund the war effort, are... running dry. The populace is frightened, and they spend less on anything but the essentials. Food they grow themselves or have their house-elves provide. Entertainment... that has dwindled. The people withdraw into their homes, barely visiting even our most loyal allies. They are conserving resources.”

The Dark Lord’s gaze remained cold and unforgiving. “You have generational wealth, do you not, Failey ? Are you telling me that my followers are already impoverished after only a few years of war ?”

“No, my Lord,” Failey stammered, his voice trembling. “It is... It is the budget we allocated for the war that needs to be recalculated to account for its extended duration—”

“Are you suggesting that I failed to plan accordingly ?” The Dark Lord’s voice grew deadly quiet. “Do you believe you could have done better, Failey ?”

“No, my Lord !” Failey blurted, the blood draining from his face. “We, your humble servants, did not prepare well enough to support the greatness of your cause. The failure is ours.”

“Indeed.” Voldemort’s lip curled in contempt. “Is there anything else ?”

“Yes, my Lord," Failey said, his voice quieter now. "The International Confederation of Wixen is preparing to take measures against Britain, should you come into power. They claim they do not wish to repeat the mistakes of the past... allowing too many liberties to groups that undermine the harmony of the international wizarding community.”

The Dark Lord’s fury was palpable, like a dark cloud descending over the room. His voice was venomous. “They dare compare me to that German failure? Lord Voldemort will not tolerate this insult.”

“My Lord, they may complicate matters in unforeseeably ways.” Failey ventured cautiously, bowing his head. As His Lord stayed fuming and muttering about the sorry excuse that was Grindelwald compared to Him, Failey added. “I don’t wish to be presumptuous, but... Lady Malfoy is not one to call upon you without reason.”

Voldemort’s eyes flashed, his patience wearing thin. “Failey, you have failed at not being presumptuous. I don’t have time to punish you myself. Call Matty. I’m sure the elf can find some useful task for you.”

Humiliation washed over Failey's face, a bitter sting for a pureblood like him. Yet there was no defiance. He had long since been broken, marked for life by the Dark Lord’s will. He bowed deeply, murmured an apology, and left the room, his dignity in tatters.

The Dark Lord returned to His work, signing papers with a steady hand and an unwavering gaze. Eventually, He set His quill down, stood, and with a smooth, fluid motion, disapparated, materialising moments later in the grand hall of Malfoy Manor. The extravagant setting of marble floors and intricate chandeliers reflected the wealth and power of its inhabitants, but no one was there to greet Him.

Irritation surged within Him again, but it was swiftly replaced by urgency as He heard the distant sound of screams. His long, dark robes billowed behind Him as He strode down one corridor after another, moving swiftly toward the east wing—the private family quarters.

He reached a small, elegant library, where He found the source of the commotion. On the floor, a child was screaming, writhing in pain, while Marius Malfoy—his usually pristine appearance now dishevelled—stood helplessly firing weak spells at a burning object on the ground.

Voldemort’s eyes widened in horror. His book—His Horcrux—was on fire. His soul was in danger.

With a furious snarl, He shoved Marius aside and immediately doused the flames, heart racing. "Fool ! How could you let this happen ?"

Marius stammered, pale as death, “It was—was killing Lucian. My son...”

“I have no time for your excuses.” Voldemort snapped, his mind racing to repair the damage. But then He noticed the blood on the floor—Lucian’s blood, mixing with the burn marks. An idea sparked in His mind. A ritual of three.

Grabbing Marius by the arm, He hissed, “Give me your arm. Swear your allegiance to Lord Voldemort now, or I will kill the boy.”

Marius, his breath caught in his throat, had no choice but to obey. Voldemort cut deep into Marius’s arm, letting the blood drip onto the floor where it mingled with the child’s. Then, with His own blade, He sliced His own palm, adding His blood to the mix.

The blood of the innocent, the young, and the matured. The key to His soul’s survival.

He dipped the damaged Horcrux into the blood, chanting a dark spell. A pulse of magic surged through the room, and for a brief moment, He could see His fractured soul—a flickering shard barely clinging to the object.

With delicate precision, Voldemort began to repair the fraying ties, weaving the strands of His soul back into place. But the process was taxing. His vision blurred, and the room swayed as His strength ebbed.

He collapsed to the floor, His face smeared with blood. As He lay there, fighting the encroaching darkness, He cursed His own vulnerability. No one could see Him like this. But He was trapped, too weak to move, hoping that someone wouldn’t dare to open the door and find Him, hoping someone would before it was too late.

He woke up alone, His mind clearer than ever.

The war was won.