Veneficium

Saturday, November 15th 1969

Her name was on the tip of his tongue, yet he couldn’t place her for the life of him. He didn’t think he had ever seen her before and yet he had never seen a more familiar face in his life, as accustomed to as his own. But the lull of her magic… The world came with its fair share of strange, at times even compelling individuals, but never had he expected to run into such magic tonight, crashing wilding and shattering against his defences. 

Voldemort could not help his staring. 

Talking to two men, the witch looked to be in her early twenties, with golden-brown curls falling flawlessly down her back, her dress a warm apricot colour; there was a hand wrapped around her waist. What caught his eye, however, was not the girl herself, but rather the fat ruby nestled in her bosom. 

Her necklace. 

The source of it all, an undeniable beacon of dark magic… yet she didn’t seem the least bit worried about being found out, perhaps not expecting or even realising some wizards could pick out dark magic as effortlessly as if it were a sixth sense. Granted, it was very few wizards, but he still thought it was very foolish of her. An item like that, if discovered by the wrong people, could get her a fair few years in Askaban, perhaps more if she came from a humble, no-name family — and such people were most definitely present tonight since, as an employee of the Ministry of Magic, Regnault Lestrange had invited just about anyone who was someone from the Ministry to celebrate him, including Minister of Magic, Eugenia Jenkins. 

He could almost imagine Bartemius Crouch’s face, the newest Head of the Department Of Magical Law Enforcement, if he were to catch her with it. It was tempting, to march right up to her and ask her what she was thinking of showing up like that. She must have been the date of some wizard, brought over from the continent, where rules about dark artefacts were much more lax, near nonexistent in select places. But then… that voice slithered by his mental shields once more and insisted that he had no right to condemn someone for strutting about with such jewellery when his own ring was a Horcrux, arguably the darkest magic one could ever find. Voldemort hated her for her stupidity. 

“You simply must indulge in the Foie Gras Canapés, the house elves outdid themselves this year,” Regnault remarked, as one of the servers promptly presented him with a plate bearing the exquisite dish.

Voldemort absently tried one, not paying much attention to either the underwhelming taste or his Knight, although he consciously turned himself away from the girl, lest he be caught staring by Regnault. Nothing could stop him from trying to eavesdrop though…

He wondered what purpose the necklace served, why she would bother bringing it with her to the party when she likely had a trunkful of other priceless jewellery. Did the gem host a powerful concealing charm that hid she was actually a hag? No, a simple transfiguration would do just fine in that instance, there was no need for a physical object for the magic to be linked to, as he so well knew. 

A little aid from the nonverbal, wandless magic he was so fond of and he easily caught her conversation. Only fragments, of course, as the quartet's lively music, mingled with the overlapping chatter and bursts of laughter, created a cacophony of sound — a constant, overwhelming assault on the senses that made it nearly impossible to focus on any single voice. 

She was talking to Boyd Avery about a recently released book, yet he could not make out the identity of the wizard whose hand was on her. Floating a tendril of his magic over to her, caressing the boundaries of her mind in search of an easy entry, he instead found himself faced with an impenetrable wall, a vast ocean of emptiness stretched far between his Legilimency and her thoughts, making any contact impossible under such circumstances.  

She was good, if a little too obvious… The mark of a master Occlumens was giving the impression one had never even heard of the art, letting through meaningless thoughts to sate the curiosity of those who dared look, so that they may dismiss you. He engaged in this practise, even Dumbledore knew well enough to, regardless of whether everyone expected him to be well-versed in the subject or not. His Knights too, as he had taken the care to teach them all until he was satisfied they wouldn’t divulge his secrets to the wrong person if caught or otherwise. Countless hours had been spent by Hogwart’s dreamy Head Boy teaching them by fire by force, hidden in an abandoned classroom in the dead of night, furthering his own prowess in the process. 

Dark magic naturally called out to him, but this time — this time it seemed to have been made with the intent to. He didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her. Who did this fatuous witch think she was, and why couldn’t he recall her damned name? 

Bemused, as if guided by an unseen force, he navigated his way through the throng of guests, until he found himself standing directly before her, close enough for the delicate scent of her perfume to reach him, intoxicating yet unnerving. It was as though an unseen whip had lashed around his neck, dragging him helplessly into her orbit. 

Before he could even question what had drawn him to this spot, Regnault’s voice broke through the haze. The sound of his words, directed at her, pulled him further into the present. They spoke with the ease of familiarity, the cadence of Regnault’s tone revealing a history between them. So, they knew each other… The realization settled in slowly, like a puzzle piece clicking into place, though it only deepened the knot of unease tightening in his chest.

“Do pardon, Miss Prewett, but is your father still in attendance? Last I saw him, I had had the distinct impression he was preparing to make his way home,” he said with a familiarity that Voldemort found both fascinating and awfully convenient. What were the changes… He really ought to have been more mindful of his Knight. 

The witch had turned her attention to him, although Avery was the only one who spared Voldemort a look, subtly nodding at him. “Oh, yes, sir, I’m sorry — he must have left less than half an hour ago. He hasn’t been feeling that good for the past few days and the crowd must have taken a toll on him.” Her voice was soft and gentle, much in contradiction to the harshness of the magic that still called out to him. Was she ignoring him on purpose? 

“No matter, then, no matter — I shall write him a letter come tomorrow. Do send him my best wishes, however.” Regnault saw it fit then, at last, to introduce him. “Allow me to acquaint you — Hermione Prewett and her fiancé, Augustus Rookwood, and Lord Voldemort, a dear old friend of mine.”

Now that it was appropriate to look at her, he tasted her name. Hermione Prewett… She gave a small curtsy before him, ever the polite young lady. “It is a pleasure meeting you, sir,” she said with a demure expression; she gave the appearance of innocuousness, a clueless maiden much alike the dozen others currently on the dance floor. 

The ruby, so close to him now, less than two feet away, was silent. The ribbon that had constricted around his chest unraveled, the dark magic returning to its host; its purpose, at the very least momentarily, had been accomplished. It had wanted him to find her, for them to be aquintaced. What could it be she wanted from him? 

Voldemort nodded at the two. 

For a split second, when she looked up at him after she bowed, emotion flashed in her eyes, but it was gone before he could place it. Her mind was warded enough that he couldn’t pick up any surface thoughts, and he did not want to risk attempting Occlumency in case his intuition proved wrong and she was actually a powerful dark witch. The benign smile she bore would suggest otherwise, but he knew better than most that appearances were deceiving. Voldemort could almost believe its genuineness. 

“As for Mr Avery, well, we all know him, of course,” Regnault finished the introductions. 

“My Lord,” Boyd Avery said, the young heir upon whom he had bestowed the Dark Mark only weeks prior. Yes, to say they knew each other was an understatement… 

Reganult seemed quite eager to share the next part, for he leaned closer to him and gestured towards the fiancé. “Mr Rookwood is an Unspeakeable at the Ministry, although I’m ashamed to admit I do not know anything further about him.” 

Under normal circumstances, this would have come as a wonderful surprise, an acquaintance to cultivate and hopefully recruit. Now, however… now he could not care less for anyone expect her and her magic. “A most venerable position, may I say. Congratulations, I have heard the admission programs are very strict.” 

Augustus Rookwood seemed glad to simply agree and thank him, allowing the conversation to flow back to his fiancée. At a later date, Voldemort would inquire more about him. 

“It had been my intention to introduce you to Miss Prewett’s father, Ignatius Prewett, but alas, it can be postponed. Do you remember Lucretia Black from Hogwarts, the Head Girl in our fifth year? Miss Prewett here is her only daughter.” 

In all honesty, he also wasn’t too familiar with the Prewetts, and the connection he had cultivated during his school years with Lucretia Prewett née Black was, at best, incredibly frail; the Black clan had always eluded his control. As for her daughter… he didn’t think he had heard her name before, yet it was undeniably familiar to him, like he was meant to know her, only any memory he had of her had been masterfully Obliviated. 

Impossible. 

It wouldn’t do to have his growing frustration be known, so he assumed his usual charming persona; despite her initial reaction, she didn’t seem the least intrigued by self proclaimed title, as most were. Curious… 

“Of course… you are as charming as your mother was at your age,” he couldn’t help but ask, as if the words were forced out of him, demanding to know everything about her, to have her secrets laid bare before him. Had she been anyone at school, achieved anything? There was no way to know for certain what her necklace did until he inspected it, but his gut told him it was affecting him and he hated her audacity. 

 Her face coloured slightly, and he knew that if he somehow got her alone for a few minutes, she would willingly tell her everything he wanted to know about her lecherously evil necklace. “You must tell me, whatever came to be of her Potions mastery? I remember she used to be quite proud of it during her schooldays, and rightfully so… sadly, we haven’t spoken since the late forties.” 

The witch didn’t seem to mind the flattery, in fact, she seemed to enjoy it. “There’s not much to tell, sir. She married my father shortly after her graduation, and then they had me.” 

“A shame, she was very talented… Have you undertaken any masteries yourself, Miss Prewett?” 

“I’m afraid not, sir,” she said with a smile on her face as if it was an outlandish concept. “There isn’t much I’m good enough at or passionate about to undertake a mastery in.” 

Rookwood interjected, yet he did not mind, given she was the topic. “You must excuse my dear Hermione, sir — she’s selling herself short. More than once she’s postponed my invitations to dinner because she had a cauldron boiling to tend to.” 

He didn’t miss the faint blush that once more crept upon her smooth face, even if she tried to play it off. There was something about the way she talked, about the way she held herself that made him highly suspicious. If a few moments before he had assumed her to be nothing more than another frivolous young witch, now he was convinced she was simply doing a bad job at trying to appear as stupid as possible. She wanted him to think her a mindless starling. Perhaps that ruby did more than he had initially accounted for. Now, he was even more intrigued, if that was feasibly possible. 

The pretense of the party drew him away from her, as Regnault eagerly spotted other people he wanted Voldemort to meet, yet his gaze inexorably found its way back to her, time and again, throughout the night. 

Later on, after the wretched cake had been served — a flamboyant concoction of exotic flavours that would have likely killed him as a child raised only on bread and gruel — he grew bored of waiting for the opportune moment to get her alone. After a short reprise to eat, the dancing had once more resumed, the guests even more energetic after having consumed twice their brain weight in alcohol. Constantly followed by an entourage of his Knights, he found himself growing wearier than usual. Perhaps it was just the cause of an unfortunate state of being, but he greatly suspected his unnatural disinterest in politics that night was more obvious, if nettlesome. 

The witch. 

It was nothing unheard of for a man of his age and status, much less for other more unsavoury specimens, to admire the full bosom of a fresh-faced girl, even if the young woman in question was already claimed. Especially if that was the case. As much as it repulsed him to be considered in the same category as those lowlives, he was willing to accept the assumptions around his closest allies. It was distasteful to an insulting degree how much he knew of his Knights’ preferences in bed, but weaknesses were some of the greatest things one needed to know when it came to surviving the lecherous hordes of the british pureblood high society, so he put up with it. And survival was for the weak, he had ambitions far beyond that. As for himself, he wasn’t an innocent choir boy by any means. Voldemort simply preferred to keep his affairs private and discreet, where his partners might be under the impression he was more serious and dedicated to them than he actually was. 

Nevertheless, there was an unnaturalness to his certainty that Hermione Prewett would prove to be exceptionally useful; he must still have been under the lingering effects of her enchanted necklace. 

She caught his searching eyes on a couple of occasions, and he was pleased to see her blush at his attentions. Once he got her alone, he could easily use the tension and the unsaid promises throughout the night to convince her to lower her defences around him, hopefully of her own volition, so that he may properly inspect her ruby. He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest otherwise. 

It wasn’t hard to spot her making her excuses from the girl she had spent the majority of the night with. He watched her gracefully make her way through the intoxicated crowd, having strayed far from any alcohol for the entire party, only indulging in the birthday toast. She turned as if to make sure he was watching her, smiling shyly when they made eye contact, before stepping outside onto the empty veranda. It was a genius spot for them to be alone, as shortly after his arrival at Lestrange Castle it had started raining, and the downpour did not show signs to stop anytime soon. No one would disturb them there. 

Voldemort had been waiting to catch her alone for so long, his heart nearly skipped. He didn’t bother making an excuse to poor Abraxas, who had been scratching his brains over his wretched prised peacocks who had had a miracle clutch of eggs only two days prior. One of his Knights’ greatest pleasures in life was indulging their drinking habits, so none of them seemed to have enough perspicacity left in them to notice his sudden absence. 

When he stepped out onto the veranda, expecting to see her smushed close to the door so as to not get drenched in the frigid rainwater, he was rather taken aback by not seeing her anywhere. After checking even on the ground below — who knew what went on in the minds of the adolescents these days — he came to the incensed conclusion that she had, against better odds, managed to trick him. Whatever her game may be, one thing was certain. 

She was gone.

oOo

Tuesday, 18th November 1969

It was not a common occurrence, quite the rarity in fact, to be haunted in his dreams by the pitiful souls he killed. 

Voldemort only had that scared, pathetic little Catholic boy to blame for it, the boy who only had his sacrilegious bouts of magic and his demonic serpent tongue to his name, a name that in of itself was not his. Hell greeted him in his sleep more often than not, and he had trouble distinguishing between the dreams and nightmares — he played the Devil in some, and was mercilessly tortured by him in others. He always, always, took Death’s form at some point in the night, taunting him about his own mortality long after he had entered the realm of the Gods. 

Why was it that, even after conquering Death herself, his fears still manifested under her grotesque visage? 

It made him want to slide his fingers through his soft waves and pull his hair out in frustration. He knew, logically, that the Devil and Death were different entities, separated by creation and purpose, but he could not help but wonder if his were not actually the same in a twisted game of fate. 

When he had been younger, the nun who frequented his excuse of an orphanage for bible study after lunch, had been a foul woman; he had rejoiced at the news of her passing after a night raid in 1940, when he had been sleeping peacefully at Hogwarts. She used to enjoy reminding him Hell had a special place for delinquents like him, he who was undeserving of even the mouldy bread he was fed and the slab he slept on.  There were instances, however, where she managed to get past her distaste of him and preach about how God was omniscient, seeing everything they did, knowing everything they did, remembering all they did until their final judgement. 

He was damned, there was no doubt in his mind of it, for the simple fact he had been born wielding magic, but as much as he wanted to find out the truth behind Death, he would never allow her to claim him, no matter how much she liked taunting him about it. 

Her master, that was what he was. He had suzerainty over her. Forever. 

But sometimes, when the moon rose high and he closed his eyes for a moment of peace, he was greeted by the eternal flames, so hot and yet so bone-shattering cold at the same time; he swore he had been cursed by a wicked demon at birth. He was not a bastard in the eyes of the law, but as far as magic was concerned, his birth was an abomination, the ultimate betrayal of the freedom of life, of the heart, mind and soul. His shameful excuse of a mother had forced this existence upon him through her unimaginable selfishness, and the only reason he sometimesdreamt of Hell instead was so that he may torment her himself. 

Tonight, however, he saw none of their faces. Not Death’s, not the Devil’s, not even his mother’s. 

He had exhaled a metaphorical sigh of relief at the pleasant change, his nights long tormented by the frightsome duo for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to sleep peacefully. 

It was times like these when Voldemort wished he wasn’t a God. Knowledge was nice, but remembrances… He was part of those unlucky folk who remembered the face of every soul they had ever taken. It was especially vexatious given that he hadn’t even bothered to look at many of them, yet they still haunted him when he closed his eyes. 

Always worse after he had made a fresh Horcrux, he had developed an irrational fear of sleep due to his harrowing nightmares by the time he had made his second. He took potions to keep them at bay, but he suspected he would need to create his own to truly solve the problem. 

It was only after he had been lulled into a false sense of security that he had come face to face with a grimace he had long put out of his mind, a sight that seemed entirely out of place. 

Dark soulless eyes set into a brunette face, the Inferi-like man was framed by a background of dunes and mighty pyramids, the sun blazing high above so hot it appeared white to the naked eye. The Inferius was not of his creation, and as such he held no power over him, helpless before the grotesque beast. 

Voldemort was but a worthless muggle, empty without his life-giving magic. 

The Inferi, he could handle most of the time, but he was once again taken by surprise when the real nightmare unveiled itself; it was the way they had always worked, woven layers upon layers of his worst fears. Meant to break him down mentally in the most excruciating way possible; he was somehow still always taken by surprise by the reveal. 

Momentarily darkness shrouded them and he looked up at the sky to see what might have been the cause. The sun blinked once more and a familiar blood-red eye stared back down at them, and Voldemort was crushed by the reminder of what he had done to himself. The inhuman mutilation of his very being. As if struck by the wrath of the Gods for his crime, he fell to the sand below, the skin where the grains dug into it left scorched and bleeding. Scratching at his eyes until his fingers perforated through and he gouged them out, he screamt from the pain of the ritual that had left him as such. 

He woke up as soon as his consciousness fainted. 

Panting and sweating half his body weight off, he threw the blankets off of him and sat straighter, rubbing his hands over his face. Phantom pain still reverberated through his bones, the blood in his veins as if threatening to boil over, and he knew that his whole body was a bright red even under the cover of the dark. Shaking and groaning in agony, he only calmed down enough to regain his senses after what must have surely been close to ten minutes. It wasn’t real. It had all been just a nightmare and the pain could no longer hurt him in the physical realm. The Inferi, the sand, the sun — they were all fragments of his overly robust imagination. The ritual would never happen again, he would never step foot in Indonesia ever again, would never come close to the jungle where he had met the most horrid of fates. 

It was cold, the logs in the fireplace having stopped burning hours earlier. 

Voldemort was awake. Safe. 

How could he have been such a fool? Reaching over the great expanse of his bed to the nightstand, he opened the first drawer and pulled out of the dozens of small vials of Dreamless Sleep Potion, downing it in one big gulp. 

He had dreamt of her the previous night, of her glittering ruby necklace nestled between her plush breasts, of her shy smiles and blushed face, and had woken up hot and bothered for a change. Under the desperate wish to know more about her magic, see more of her, he had allowed himself to omit taking his usual sleeping potion, the formula and dosage of which he had specifically altered so as to not develop an addiction to them. It was only because of her that he had made such an idiotic, juvenile mistake. It was because of her that he had had to suffer like this tonight. 

Hermione Prewett. 

The need to see her again was overwhelming, to force her to her knees, to rip her necklace off from around her delicate neck, and to squeeze until she could no longer taunt him with her mystery and dark magic. If he could just get his hands on the ruby and find out what it had done to him, put an end to it and destroy it, kill her, he could rest easily once more. Yes, he would do that once morning came. 

The soothing effects of the Dreamless Potion were starting to yield rapid results, and he soon found himself under the gentle care of Hypnos once more. 

oOo

Sadly, the opportunity to murder her in cold blood did not give any indication of being near in sight.

He had debated writing to her and inviting her out to dinner, asking one of his subordinates to fetch her for him, or plainly showing up at her front door, but none of them pleased him enough to justify such an outlandishly bizarre urge. 

After having recovered from his nightmare, and letting a few days pass by with boring meetings with his associates, he had come to the realisation that her immediate death would bring him no comfort. This did not mean she wasn’t constantly on his mind, no, quite the opposite, but it did mean that he had enough time to compile a proper plan of action. Voldemort was nothing if not a patient man, and plotting one’s murder was one of his most beloved past-time activities. 

Miss Prewett had shown a definite interest in him, as intrigued by him as he was of her; that he was certain of. He was not yet sure why exactly, but he would find out. It was only a matter of time before their paths crossed once more, either by Fate’s will or at her making. He could admit, he was curious as to how she would manage to sneak back into his life, and if it would be before he went crazy for the taste of her blood. 

A terribly wrinkled hand flashed in his peripheral vision, reaching for the vial of Dreamless Sleep he had emptied that night. “Hrefna be thinking the Master best not drink so many...” 

Sitting straighter, he inwardly groaned at the elf’s presence by his bedside. A parting gift from an Icelandic wizard, by profession a house elf breeder, who was suspiciously knowledgeable and adept in a near-extinct branch of warding magic, not at all dissimilar to ancient fey magic. After his family had been killed by a rogue clan of trolls, the man had been as if possessed by the desire to keep himself, his possessions, his land, and whatever else protected against any such unexpected attacks. He had, naturally, taken advantage of the wizard’s unnaturally high levels of paranoia and milked him dry of all his extensive knowledge. 

Almost a century old when he had acquired her, his elf had become frustratingly aware that he was not going to kill her, letting her tongue loose every once in a while, as if testing the waters. “The Master has crazy in his eyes again.” 

“Leave,” he grunted, his throat ever the slightest parched, and the elf made herself scarce, muttering uncout remarks to herself in Icelandic that he pretended he did not understand. At that moment, he hated Hrefna almost as much as he did the Prewett girl. Almost. She was useful, and he had no intention to go through the arduous process of finding another elf to suit his peculiar needs. 

Getting out of bed, he did not bother tightening his robe around his waist, instead turning the water on in the shower to warm up while he brushed his teeth. 

Yes, just like all other elves, his also took care of the house and land, but while others raised children and polished their master’s shoes, his had duties of a… different nature. When she wasn’t dusting the furniture or washing the windows, he knew she was diligently in the basement, tending not to crying infants, but to Inferi. If any soul was to get wind that he harboured such infernal creatures under his sitting room, he would likely have to fight his way through not only a battalion's worth of British law enforcers, but also a considerable number of delegates from the International Confederation of Wizards. Given that he had better things to do with his weekdays, he could not afford detection. 

As for why he was hoarding Inferi in his basement, the answer was plain and simple. He wasn’t. Whenever his unfortunate victims were left in an intact enough state, he took them down there and spent many sleepless nights going over the tedious ritual required to turn them. From there they were promptly shipped to join their brethren in protecting his Horcrux. 

Only a select few were kept, usually no more than two at a time, so that he may freely practise necromancy, among other things, with the added benefit of punishing them for what they did to him in his nightmares. It had a soothing effect on him. Surrounded by the dead he had conquered, it was hard not to feel like a god, like a twisted version of Hades. Or the Devil, if one counted him as such; some days Voldemort did, most he didn’t. 

It felt right, to be amongst them, furthering his repertoire of the most forbidden, arcane magics. 

Stepping under the stream of hot water, he first ran his hands over his face, washing himself carefully. In the tile backing the walls, he could make out his reflection, and he drew closer to observe it. Whatever had Hrefna meant? His eyes always looked crazed nowadays, something she must have noticed years earlier. It was nothing out of the ordinary…

The two blood-red marks on the glossy tile blinked out of sync with him, staring back at him outside the realm of his control, under the influence of another entity. As if struck by lightning, a blinding pain boiled beneath the thin membrane of his sclera and he hunched over, grasping his head. 

When he finally stopped screaming in agony, he cursed himself for falling into the same trap he had long ago. One would think he would have learned his lesson after the first, the second, surely the third time it happened, but he had one issue he never took into account until it was far too late. He always shoved the memories of the pain as far back in his mind as possible, locked and tightly secured so deep he wasn’t sure he could reach them even if he wanted to. There was no escape from his abysmal mistake.

He was far too distracted lately and it had to stop before he brought upon himself a fate worse than death.