Veneficium

Friday, May 2nd 1969

Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.

The jewels were wet with his sweat, glistening in the light of the fireplace, the flames’ dance reflected in his bloodied eyes like a glimpse into the abyss within, his mind a jumbled mess. Pale fingers traced the delicate sapphires as tenderly as one would close a dead lover’s eyelids before their eternal slumber. An ironic allegory for a wizard who would forever be awake, yet used as he was to the antithetic nature of his life. A grotesque smile painted his face, showing teeth far too neat, far too white to be natural.

Rowena Ravenclaw’s fabled Diadem. A mystery a millennium in the making, a mystery to which dozens of fools had offered their lives in the blind search of, a mystery he alone had solved. 

It was his . 

Running a trembling hand through his hair, he cringed at its sweaty dampness. From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, his whole body was shaking with exuberance, the familiar euphoria he had longed for for so long was now overtaking every one of his senses, stuffing him full of manic exhilaration. He welcomed it like an old friend, greedily absorbing all warmth he could, and he wished nothing more than to rip his clothes off and bask in its embers. It was his last chance. This was it, he held the Diadem in his hands, he felt it; not the ephemeral silver it was crafted from, no, but the ancient magic which imbued its very essence, strong and uncompromising. And just as he could feel it, it felt him too, it knew what he longed to do, how he dreamed of massacring its noble existence in favour of another’s. He didn’t feel sorry, nor ashamed, but rather pity for how it had been forced to waste away because of a foolish girl’s scathing actions — it was useless in its current state, lacking its truest purpose, the purpose it was meant to serve. He would reform it in his image and they would thrive together. Man and treasure; magic and soul.

Voldemort laughed and the flames paled before the incredulously sinister and disfigured sound that erupted from him. It was wicked, wicked , and it was him in his rawest form. He laughed. 

It had taken him months to locate the tree it was buried under following his release from the restraints of schooling, years to scavenge the world in search of the precise combination of obscure magic that aligned perfectly to create a shovel, weeks to dig it up until the pallid Albanian sunlight finally shone once more onto its discoloured surface, protected no longer by the ultimate sacrifice of her thief and her lover. It had been the most glorious thing he had ever seen in his life, and he wondered before the sacred artefact in his palm, history personified. The journey it had taken had raised it above Hufflepuff’s Cup, above Slytherin’s Locket; it had become a piece of him before he even had the opportunity to stash his soul within it for safekeeping, before he had even touched it. It was so utterly him that it scared him as much as it excited him. He raised the Diadem to his eye level and gazed at it with a near… paternal love that had never been meant for him. 

It was imbecilic to leave the fire burning on, that he was certain of, to leave himself so exposed to it in his imminent disposition, but the cold… His blood was essentially molten lava, so hot it was, yet he shuddered as if touched by arctic winds, clutching the Diadem just short of piercing his alabaster skin. There was nothing one could fear more in life than the cold, an inescapable state of being that knew only ruin, Death’s most beloved lullaby. 

And Voldemort was nothing if not petrified of Death’s unyielding cold touch. 

It was why now, fueled by his worship of his much beloved Diadem, that he turned away from the fireplace and placed the jewellery upon a satin cushion on his desk. He was staying in a…borrowed cabin deep in the forests of Albania, but the space suited his needs just so, and solitude was of the utmost importance. Summoning a handkerchief from his cloak’s pocket, he dabbed at his face, drying the sweat off; nothing could go wrong. Nothing would go wrong. No one had ever created any more than one Horcrux, and as such he alone was the master of this craft — he wished he could say it came as second nature to him, but there was nothing he hated more than the creation of his most beloved Horcruxes. 

He loathed it.  

A vial of the world’s rarest potion was carefully laid on the same cushion, just enough of a dose to drink in one gulp. He would need to drink it before he sliced himself open both physically and metaphorically for the ritual. The ingredients for it were, on their own, while some rare, some exorbitantly expensive, some only slightly offensive, or a combination of all, not at all hard to procure if one had access to the right sources. When he had been seventeen they had been his Knights, and now at forty-one, they were the world itself. Except, of course, for the blood of his sacrificial victim, the wizard who had offered up his cabin for him with little resistance.  

Comparatively to the gloriously satisfactory murder of his father, his very first in fact, as the Warren girl’s death did not exactly qualify as such, his others had been superfluous, simply a means to an end. He did not know the wizard’s name, not that it held any significance to begin with. 

In a futile attempt to prepare himself for the brutal ritual that was to come, he buttoned up his shirt fully and put on not one cloak but three, all his clothes imbued with heating charms as well as some meant to stabilise his body heat. The spells never worked but he refused to imagine what it would be like without them. Outside the cabin, high above the treetops’ crown, the full moon rose, eminently mighty above the earth, its aeonian queen of the night; he would need her divine power for the ritual to take, harnessing it through his runes, drawn on his bare skin underneath his clothes, charmed to stay undisturbed for its entire duration. 

As the witching hour approached, he double-checked for any hard objects he might hit his head on and, apart from the small desk, there were none — he would vanish it shortly. Uncorking the vial, he quickly downed it in one go before its stench could reach him and he snatched the Diadem, rushing to the other side of the room where a runic circle had been prepared, placing it gingerly in the middle. With one flick of his yew wand, the room was barren save for himself, the Diadem, and the fire. He knelt on the runes, and slashed his palms one at a time with his wand, laying his bare, bleeding hands onto the markings carved into the wooden floor, drawn atop with more of the potions coursing through his veins; it stung, the blood seeping freely into the runes, mixing with the potion, forcing power from it.  

The ritual required an incantation and he promptly began reciting it, having memorised it decades previously, the ancient Greek rolling off of his tongue as smoothly as parseltongue, the intertwining magical origins of the two allowing the intensification of the former by means of the latter. He repeated the chant religiously until his throat ran dry, the words painful, and the effects of the potions finally made their presence known as his body began spasming, groaning in pain as it was split and torn in ways no body ever should, in ways not even the Devil himself could force it to. Screams tore through him, his hellish screeching and howling ripping his insides until he spat blood, the hot liquid pouring freely out of his mouth, stuck wide open. Writhing and convulsing over the runes, one hand found the Diadem and it took all he got not to stab himself out of his misery with it, not to throw it across the room into the fire in spite; instead, he pushed it further into the ground, digging into the rotting wood. 

Voldemort clenched his jaw and his teeth audibly crunched under the pressure, stained red. He couldn’t place his tongue… perhaps he had eaten it, chewed on it and spat it out already. 

 His nails, even if he had taken care to have them as short and smooth as possible, dug cruelly into his skin, his weeping palms abused from all fronts, and he wondered if his fingers would emerge from the back of his hands soon, like a cursed dagger ripping through flesh. Muscles spasming, he let go of the Diadem, rolling onto his back, his spine arching obscenely as would a contortionist's and cracked like an explosion. He was sure to become invalid by the end of this — 

Cold. 

Ice, frigid and ferocious, crawled to the tips of his extremities, gaining momentous speed as it rushed towards his heart, caging it. It seeped into his pores, his flesh, his bones, his eyes ; his vision clouded with flakes of frost, sharp shards slashing his corneas as if they were a werewolf’s whore’s knickers. He wept through the pain, his body motionless in an endless pool of his own blood, the sickly substance acting as a sort of glue as it froze into a solid state. 

The fire crackled uselessly one last time in the fireplace before the dancing flames were doused, strangled by strands of spun ice, leaving him alone and defenceless. 

She was here, incensed and umbrageous, out for her revenge. Death . 

His sworn enemy, defeated as she was, returned each time with a newfound resentment, determined to cause his ruination. Eternally mocked by him. She hated him as much as he feared her, if not more, however that may be possible, yet she still longed to lay claim upon him once and for all, to claim him as her slave. Try as she might, he had mastered her at her own game, for it was she who was his slave. Dark vapours enveloped the room, cloaking it under an arctic blizzard, holding it captive for the one moment she had power over him, squeezing his chest, crushing him under her great weight. He could feel her grinning at him through blackened teeth, a bony finger-like tendril gingerly caressing his bruised cheek as if begging him to surrender to her, to accept his fate, her hand trailing down until it wrapped around his neck and constricting like a snake would, mocking him as he did her. She whispered to him, cursed words in a voice as sweet as life, as old as time, indiscernible yet so easily recognisable. 

… Tom…

                       …Marvolo…

                                                     …Riddle…

                                                                               …my…

                                                                                                    …master…

With no choice but to obey his command, her fingers loosened from around his throat, trailing back up to his mouth, his jaw stuck wide open in a grotesque visage. Slipping into the familiar motions, they followed the tunnel of his oesophagus until the cimmerian tendrils reached deep into his chest, as cold as the embers of her hate burnt, scratching at his heart in a futile attempt to destroy him, leaving crystals of ice embedded into the organ in her wake, having made up quite a collection there during her many visits. Blood-stained eyes looked from behind her hazy veil of frost as she reached that little piece of him, his essence, his core, that part of him that was him, beyond the frostbitten flesh, beyond the limits of the bone and mind. His soul. 

The frail thing that it was, there was still enough for Death to coil around it and tug carefully, testing, the one part of him that was still burning red with lust for life, greed for life, envy of life. She ripped him apart. 

Writhing under her, he let out a scream so gruesome, so raw, so inarguably anguished as to call Life herself forth and beg mercy for him with all her might if only to stop the suffering. No one and nothing came to save him from his own doing — Death obeyed him, after all, if only for a night. He could do nothing other than scream, frozen in place as he was. It was so fucking cold . 

As her vaporous tendrils recoiled out of him, slow and torturous, savouring the pain she impelled to him, the farcical illusion of fingers emerged fully out through his mouth, half of his soul in her palm, severed and weeping through the mutilation, yet glowing a heavenly light so bright it blinded him. It hurt so much to look but yet he wished nothing more. From where he had dropped it, Death lifted Ravenclaw’s Diadem above his face so he could see it, the priceless artefact suspended by darkness as her fingers let his soul float free, a luminous orb of gold shining like a beacon of vibrance. Famished and ravenous, Death was in as much pain as he was, longing over the piece of soul she had just lost, so close yet so out of reach, Death couldn’t touch it anymore. His soul and the Diadem crashed, twisting in a dance of intimacy, merging into one, and he swore he could hear a woman’s cry as the Diadem was desecrated with his essence. It clattered to the floor, only a breath away from his neck. 

The orgasmic fulfilment of witnessing the birth of his Horcrux threw him over the barrier between them, shattering through the wall of ice and anguish holding him captive, and he emerged victorious on the other side, manic and burning. He laughed. 

Voldemort laughed in Death's face as he stole from her what was his, his, his, only his , what will remain his for the rest of eternity, untouchable. He laughed so hard the cabin shook from the reverberating vibrations, his exuberance echoing far and wide beyond the walls and out in the forest; he laughed so hard the moon heard him, glowing on the night sky for him only, bowing before him for she had never seen a wizard such as him, and never will ever again. God-like. He was a god, he had conquered Death, defeated her, mocked her to her face as if she were a child and he had stolen her lollipop, sucking on it obscenely in her face. He laughed. 

The darkness slowly retreated into nothingness, her task complete and her presence unwanted, leaving in her wake icy shards that pierced his skin that he couldn’t notice even if he wanted to, the cold inexplicably bearable. He laughed and Death hated him for it. As the last of her evaporated, she spoke once more the same words she always did, her parting words engraved into his being long before. 

… You…          

                      …will…

                                            …be…

                                                                …mine…

                                                                                        …one…

                                                                                                              …day…

                                                                                                                                    …my…

                                                                                                                                                         …slave…

He laughed until his laughter morphed into screeching once more, his weakened body once more ravished by spasms and convulsions, crashing into the floor, mutilated; he didn’t catch Death’s smirk as he was left alone, just him, his Horcrux and his pain. 

oOo

One month. 

A whole month had passed when he finally stopped screaming, crimson eyes waking up to the rays of the full moon once more caressing his face, gentle like the mother’s touch he never knew. She pitied him, having had to suffer along with him for the entire time, wept for him in an endless night, waiting for him to wake up, not once abandoning his side. A month-long solar eclipse. 

He remained on the floor for the rest of the night, where the runes used to be, long vanished into nothingness. It was only once he found enough strength to reach for the Diadem that the moon finally breathed a sigh of relief, allowing herself to sleep after so long, giving way to the first sun rays. 

It was hours that he stood clutching the Diadem to his chest, two distinct heartbeats merging into one for the last time. He shuddered thinking about the pain it necessitated, but holding his Horcrux was enough to be worth enduring anything. It had been worse than the other times, so much worse — they only got worse with each one, the agony of splitting his soul once more destroying him further every time. But he would heal and emerge victorious as he always did. 

In his weakened form, he would require assistance but as no one could give it, he was forced to stand up on his own, searching for whatever corner of the room his wand had rolled off to, knowing it was best to steer clear of wandless magic for a while until his core stabilised. That in itself could take another month or so. It was alright… he could wait for his body to heal, give it as much time as it needed to make a full recovery. He materialised the essential furniture he had vanished in preparation for the ritual, and, despite his legs begging him to rest on the bed, he went to get a glass of water, the ice having long ago melted and evaporated away. 

It would be a long recovery. 

oOo

England was an exceptionally dour place. 

And on a bleak November day such as this one, with rain pounding against the window panes, more than once he questioned why he had bothered to return in the first place. It wasn’t as if he held a commitment to his homeland, only that he had made a promise to his younger self that he would embark upon this journey of enlightenment and come back a better man, a more ripened wizard worthy of the future his country deserved. And he wasn’t one to break a promise. 

Following his recovery after his meeting with Death, he decided to come back to the British Isles, permanently this time, with two goals in mind. One, begin his plan. Two, hide the Diadem in the place dearest to him — Hogwarts. 

He had been patient when he arrived, waiting for the opportune moment to visit the castle until one arose under the guise of the coveted Defence Against the Dark Arts position. He had been under no delusion when he wrote to Dumbledore expressing his desire to apply that his wish would be granted. Once upon a time, he would have been enraged at having been rejected not once, but twice, back in his youth when teaching had been his passion. Nevertheless, it didn’t annoy him any less, meeting with the idiotic Headmaster. The fool thought he knew him so well, nearly elated at having some of his guesses about his character finally confirmed. That ignorant nitwit. 

His fundamental issues with Dumbledore aside, he had succeeded in his goal of stashing his beloved Horcrux in his home, into the heart of the school. He had contemplated using the Chamber of Secrets but he couldn’t risk discovery. As such, he Disillusioned himself and marched right up to the seventh floor, to that wondrous room of mysteries he had discovered in his third year — it was the perfect place. He had succeeded.

Three months had trudged past exceptionally slowly afterwards, painfully so, as he needed to tend to the seeds he had left behind in the fifties. His movement had caught root in the past decade thanks to the efforts his Knights had made in ensuring everything went according to plan, carefully nurturing the frail sprouts while they waited for him. And now, with all the preparations over, he was confident enough to begin the next step; he was much too eager to see his vision for his country blossom, but he knew patience was of the utmost importance. He could wait, much more patience was housed within him than initially expected. 

Voldemort had realised that he hadn't missed any of his ever-loyal Knights, his flapping starlings who had made his cause their nest. Still, he could appreciate the familiarity of them, of being home; they amused him no less than when they had been teenagers. He could admit it, in the security of his mind and only there, that he had found himself tired. After a decade of travelling to all corners of the world in search of the most magic had to offer, not satisfied until he had harvested all there was to take and more, it was a welcomed change to have a concrete plan for the future, beyond the intangible need to have . To become. 

The years had changed him. 

They noticed it too, even if they knew better than to vocalise it, even if they knew he would find out everything regardless. Not just his magical prowess, or the simple act of maturing as one inevitably aged and experienced life, but physically too. Great magic, dark or the very opposite, demanded a higher price every time, and he had fallen trap to believing he had become invincible more than once. His sight had been the cost of an ancient ritual an even more ancient Indonesian witch had shown him, one he believed she had invented to grant herself the ability to access magic never meant for human souls. His soul, fragile as it had been, had hardly withstood it. Whether it had been a wise decision to go along with it was neither here nor there, and there was no going back.  He had made his choice a long time ago. 

Yet… he had been permanently scarred, his eyes tainted with the blood red of the perverse sacrifice required by the ritual, the imagery never quite gone, present enough to drive him insane if not restrained. 

There was nothing he could do but proudly embrace the change. 

He prided himself on his specialness, on his ability to differentiate from the crowd no matter the company… only this time it was not so subtle. They didn't have his gift and he basked in the knowledge he was superior. Meant to be. Even those in the esteemed high society of Wizarding Britain were nothing more than a monotonous, single-celled collective, following the paths carved by their pureblood ancestors, never seeking anything other than to maintain the status quo. It was sad, really, if one took the time to overthink it. Unfortunately for them, he did.

Voldemort draped the wet towel from around his waist neatly on a drying rack, casting a nonverbal drying spell on it, instantaneously bringing it back to its original fluffy state. Making sure to open the window before closing the bathroom door behind himself, he was instantly glad to leave the hot, steamy room. It was an irksome habit of his — overindulging his thoughts in the confines of the shower — but it wasn't much of an actual concern that needed to be rectified, so he allowed it every now and then.

After putting on the pants and dress robes he had set out earlier, he picked up his watch from the desk, securing it around his wrist, seeing that he still had plenty of time until he planned to show up to the event of the night. Stepping in front of his floor-length mirror, he contemplated the dreadful act of chiselling himself for another party thrown by one of his associates. The consequences of his actions certainly had taken a toll on his once-good looks, beyond his striking eyes. His face had an almost ghostly look — he had always been pale, but never quite to this degree— his cheekbones sharper and hollower than ever, his chin pointer, his eyes sunken in, resembling those of a vampire’s more than a human’s. 

A series of complex transfigurations was required to bring his face to its previous glory as much as possible for the evening, where he would be parading around those outside his circles, leaving only a tasteful amount of wrinkles to match the passage of time. Any efforts, in varying degrees of extremeness, he had taken to charm his eyes back into their original deep blue colour proved futile.

At forty-one he was certainly still considered in his prime by wizarding standards, although he had learned that his natural good looks were a much-welcomed tool in his repertoire of manipulative tactics. He chuckled to his reflection; how easily all those fools fell at his feet over such a simple thing. He was thankful for it, the scornful visage of his filthy muggle father; it was a clear barrier between what made him different from the rest of the flock, being able to make the most of one of his most foul of features. 

Deciding that he had spent way more time than appropriate in front of the mirror, he summoned the invitation, looking over the Portkey that would take him to Lestrange Castle for its master’s birthday.  

Regnault Lestrange was one of his old roommates in Slytherin, the first one he had taken down to the Chamber of Secrets in their fifth year and revealed his noble ancestry to. He wouldn’t consider himself particularly close to any of them, not like they thought themselves to him, but if he had to pick one of his school friends it would likely be Regnault. Not because of his undeniably useful wealth and influence, or his wits, but rather because he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Something others , primarily Abraxas Malfoy, were dreadful at — one of the disadvantages of pretending to be friends with someone was that they considered themselves entitled to you whenever they pleased. 

Checking his watch once more, he deemed himself prepared enough to suffer a whole night in the presence of the hundreds of guests Regnault was bound to have invited for the event, a good chunk eager to chat him up and wiggle their way into his favour. He decided that he had stalled enough. Poor Regnault was probably sweating with worry and embarrassment, wondering if he was even going to show up at all, more aware of the unspoken relationship between them than the others. Straightening his robes and tucking his wand safely into his enchanted pockets, he tapped the invitation with his wand, being instantly transported away with the slightest of cracks . 

Two house-elves were waiting for him by the front door, which towered over the white marble entry hall, the low humming of the string quartet in the ballroom carrying all the way over. Experience has taught him that polite guests didn't arrive this late, as no one wished to be disrespectful to their gracious host. He, on the other hand, was above such mundane worries, and Regnault knew to prepare for this. It wasn’t that he wished to be insulting — only he found that sneaking in later on meant he could avoid a lot of the idle chatter meaningless guests would drag him into, partaking only in the conversations he wished to. It was efficient, his way. 

One of the elves apparated away, no doubt to inform the host of his arrival, while the other hurried to take his cloak. “My Lord, Bitsy is welcoming you. Master be waiting for you in the ballroom — all the others be here,” the elf squeaked as he threw her his cloak, vanishing it to wherever the other guests’ were until the party was over. Paying her no mind, he walked off in the familiar direction. 

He had never been particularly fond of the creatures, even if he had one of his own to take care of his house; he had never gotten over the habit of cooking for himself after living alone since his graduation, back when he couldn’t afford one on a shop boy’s pitiful salary. Borgin had been dealt with, obliviated shortly after his arrival. Even before his move out of his childhood prison, he had often been tasked with part of the cooking whenever the Matron was brave enough to seek him out after church service. 

Unlike the entrance which was built to impress anyone, one required a keen eye to admire the corridor, the wooden panelling a stark contrast from the previous marble that inundated one's sight, not one exorbitantly expensive family heirloom or portrait on display as many other families chose to. He thought it was almost worse — as if the Lestranges thought they were above needing to show off to their guests. Making the short walk over to the ballroom, the house elf having given up on escorting him, his senses were bombarded as he pushed open the double doors and stepped in. Hundreds of colourful gowns, robes and pointed hats blurred his vision just as his ears felt as if they might pop off and hide from how loud the music was. It stank of perfume. It was only for a few seconds though, before he adjusted to it, not a single muscle in his face showing his discomfort, despite him never having gotten around to enjoying this sort of posh gathering. He preferred things… more private, personal and perhaps even intimate, where people felt more comfortable sharing their secrets.  

“My Lord, your arrival is most auspicious. It is an honour to have you here,” Regnault materialised next to him in a matter of moments, presumably having been waiting by the door for him as soon as his elves welcomed him, two wine glasses in his hands. The wizard stood barely an inch shorter than him, dressed in his best robes, commissioned to his private seamstresses, looking the picture-perfect image of the Head of House of a sacred twenty-eight family. An esteemed member of the Wizengamot, like his father and those before him, had been. Voldemort hated him for how worthless he was of his life. 

“You have me here almost every day, Regnault, I doubt it is anything worth mentioning anymore,” he inclined his head, but politely accepted the glass he was handed. “Thank you… Have you had a pleasant birthday? It certainly seems as if the whole of society is present.” 

Regnault chuckled, looking rather pleased with himself, taking a sip from his wine before resuming, his hazel eyes glistening under the glow of the many faeries illuminating the ballroom, shimmering in pearlescent colours. “I have, I have — Went hunting with Abraxas and our boys this morning, before this dreadful rain started.” 

 The wizard chattered on about the hares his eldest son had caught, and he only half listened after that, watching the couples that were dancing in front of them. Much like the rest of their lives, the pairs were going over moves they had learned as children, not at all invested in the dance itself but rather in showing off their skills. Like starlings circling their nest with the rest of the flock, not bothering to question why they were going in circles every day, every party. Voldemort hated them for their ignorance. 

Magic was the utmost gift one could have ever been bestowed, a unique embrace of soul and nature that went beyond the realms of what men were meant for as if it had sneaked in by sheer coincidence of luck. It had never been meant to be, but it fit in perfectly, completing the delicate balance of life; magic was her greatest achievement. Hidden amongst the mundane of white silks and black velvets, the masses hardly above a Squib, were wizards who were special, overflowing with magic, their fabrics bursting at the seams. 

 Amidst the starlings, a lone voice called out to him, so quiet at first he might have missed were it not for its progressing intensity, with near-violent tenacity as it fought to gain his attention. Mesmeric . Used as he was to the tell-tale pull of powerful magic, it took no convincing to get Regnault to move away from the doors, and he let himself be guided by the startlingly comforting calling through the crowd, leading them next to the giant buffet table, shoved off to the side to make room for the dance floor. Voldemort could do nothing other than wonder at the sight before him — it was the undeniable source of this peculiar disturbance of an otherwise boring party. 

A witch.