A Lord Who Kneels
26th of October
The echo of his shoes tapping on the marble floor resounded on the empty halls of the manor. With each spet, his heart also tapped fast, anxious.
His eyes fell on a white door by the end of the hall. His heart raced quicker. As the door became more and more distinguishable, he couldn't help but to glaze over the various ornaments on it. A way to distract his mind, certainly.
It wasn't working.
The tap of his shoes on the cold floor became muffled as the door came just a few feet away now. His heart beating fast against his chest reverberated the sound through his body and went to his head, making him clumsy and ungainly.
He picked up his pocket watch, examining how long it took to arrive. His stomach felt warm and nauseated when he saw how long he was making him wait.
His hands started to sweat inside his gloves. His heart was racing and his mind was lost to mist. A trickle of sweat came down from the back of his head, down his neck and inside his shirt.
His feet stopped, his heart was pounding. His ears started to hurt as if the pressure was too much for his body to handle.
He lifted a shaking hand and knocked on the door. He took a cloth from inside a pocket and tapped it on his forehead.
Breath in, breath out, he told himself.
The door opened on its own and had to suppress a whimper. He was not ready to face him.
He didn't feel his own feet moving, his heart and mind were too scrambled for him to understand what was happening.
Inside the room, his feet led him to the table where the others were. All eyes were on him and the weight of them made him want to vomit.
His feet stopped behind his chair. He then looked to the head of the table, but the sight made him tremble. Red eyes were set on him, staring impassively.
“My lord,” the greeting left his mouth in a whisper that resonated in the silent room. He bowed his head in submission.
When no acknowledgement of his existence, other than the stare, was said, he took his seat. Head down and hands clenched on his lap — Ansel waited.
His heart was still racing and his stomach felt worse than before. Please, let me get out of this unscathed, he pleaded to no one.
“Ansel,” the hissed words left the monster's mouth and Ansel shivered. “How privileged we are to be delighted by your presence.”
His soaked gloves felt awful on his tight fists, but he could not find relief in any other way than by pressing his fingers tightly together. His head was pounding so harshly that he wanted nothing more than to rest it against the table in front of him.
“M-My lord?” the words struggled to leave his mouth as he wanted nothing more than to bolt out of the room and out of this manor.
He could feel the red eyes on him, but he dared not to look at them. Ansel mused his nausea would only get worse if was required to look at that disfigured face. Even though not gazing at the man, the images of him from past encounters were vivid in Ansel's mind.
The inhumanly pale skin, so white it looked dead, to the distorted features. The disfigurement of the worst of all, Ansel always thought. The eyes to apart, the nose that was almost gone and the thin colourless lips. A revolting sight to anyone's bowels, definitely.
“I just assumed you thought of your time between us as a grace you gave, Ansel,” he could feel the amusement in the thing's voice. Amusement at his humiliation.
He gulped and shook his head. Ansel knew that anything he said would only bring punishment to himself. Eyes cast down and head lowered, he refused to look at the man.
As his mind began to clear from the mist, Ansel's anger started to build. His disgust with the situation came up in his throat, a snot he wanted to spit on the monster's face.
How dare he humiliate me in this manner? he asked himself, appalled by the situation he was in. He, Ansel Serpentus Gamp, lord of one of the most ancient houses in Britain, a serve to a half-blood boggart.
Has my House fallen so much? he couldn't help but wonder. The house that has been in Slytherin since Hogwarts' conception. Taught by Salazar Slytherin himself, no less. Loyal to Slytherin's vision of our world since the very beginning and look where we are now. Disgusting!
He was not stupid to the point of letting his distaste towards the Dark Lord show on his face, however. To anyone looking, Ansel Gamp was cowering with his head low.
“Nothing to say?” the Dark Lord's eyes bore on him like hot iron. Ansel's throat felt tight and his breathing became heavy.
Through the corners of his eyes, he saw the monster lift his wand. Ansel shivered and a whimper escaped through his lips. He felt his eyes starting to water and his hands felt numb inside his damped gloves.
Please, let me go back to her, he pleaded. Let me go back to my Anna.
His mind had no time to process the curse coming at him as his body screamed at pain prematurely.
A screech left his throat as his body felt like it was pierced by a thousand invisible nails and as the blood in his vein became molten metal. The suddenness of the pain was so strong in his body that he fell back and his chair followed his move.
The loud sound of the heavy chair hitting the marble floor echoed in the room and joined the screams — with the writhing of Ansel's body united with the other sounds in a dreadful choir.
Ansel's body was in such a state that his mind was unable to think or to beg the Dark Lord to stop. He didn't realise that he had broken the left arm of the chair and was now with half of his body on the cold floor.
The 25-year-old was watched by the others in the room with looks of pity and fright. For so little of a mistake, a nuisance in the minds of the other Death Eaters, Ansel Gamp was humiliated and tortured for all to see.
When the curse stopped, Ansel let out a cry as his body felt heavy with exhaustion. His mind, feeling trapped in a feeble body, shouted for the limbs to move in order to prevent another attack from the Lord of Serpents.
Slowly, he moved away from the chair, to stand up. His legs felt weak and glass-made. Ignoring the chair lifting itself from the floor, but internally thanking Nott for the goodwill, Ansel walked to the chair.
He thanked Nott in his head again as he saw the repared arm of the chair. Ansel's body fell on the chair with a thud, so tired after suffering under the Cruciatus that all his limbs felt like they were made of iron.
“Ferdinand,” the Dark Lord said, making Goyle stiffen in his seat.
“My lord?” Goyle asked in a tight tone. The man's face presented a calm façade, but the gulp he took betrayed his acting.
“What of my mission to you?” Lord Gaunt asked, succinctly. The Dark Lord, an adept of intimidation, even with his loyal followers, amused himself in saying few words, but with a menacing tone — and with the down glance Goyle gave, the Dark Lord knew he achieved his sadistic goal.
“I have n-not been able to get clo-closer to Regulus Black, my lord. H-He isn't seen much outside of wherever Peverell has been hiding him,” with every word Goyle's demeanour seemed more and more anxious. He wouldn't dare to look him in the eye, but Goyle knew the Dark Lord would not be looking at him contentedly.
An unimpressed sound comes from the head table, and Ferdinand lowered his head in fear. His shoulders fell and the man's face got white with anticipation. Another gulp went down Goyle's throat. He stopped himself from tapping on the floor to relieve his uneasiness.
A few seats down, Ansel heard the exchange with his eyes closed, too tired to keep them open. Just Crucio the poor bastard and let us go, he asked in his mind. His gloves were now gone and his nails were digging on his palms. He tried to control the twitching on his face, but the aftermath of the Unforgivable was too much for him to handle.
It hasn't been this bad since Snape vanished, he mused.
That was a day Ansel would never forget. For the first time in his life, he thought death would take him. Nightmares still came to him from time to time, images of a cloaked figure above him, laughing. A mockery of his weakness. Ansel was sure that after that night, any Death Eaters who saw Severus Snape would kill the man at first sight.
"I wonder...” the Dark Lord's hissing voice brought Ansel back to what was happening around him. With some difficulty, he opened his eyes to spy on Goyle's reactions to Lord Gaunt's taunts.
But by the expression on Ferdinand's face, the man was nowhere near comfortable with the Dark Lord's scrutiny. White-faced and shivering slightly, Ferdinand Goyle was far from his normal confident self while in his lord's presence.
“I am so merciful in giving you the easiest of tasks, yet you cannot even accomplish that,” the Dark Lord's bony finger tapped on the table as he continued. “What use do you have if you can't deliver on the simplest of tasks, Goyle?”
The red eyes bore on Ferdinand, and Ansel could see sweat forming on the man's forehead. At the sight of one of his acquaintances being humiliated, a man who fought beside him before, Ansel started to feel bile rising in his throat. All the unnecessary intimidation, all the suggestive mockery, and all other of the Dark Lord's tactics to torment his followers were leaving Ansel sick and detached.
I've cursed myself to this, he thought melancholically. Now I'm here, chained to this madman, persuing who knows what at this point. May my ancestors forgive me for bringing this disgrace upon our family.
“I'm so sorry, my lord,” Ferdinand responded with a sorrowful expression, whether it was for not capturing Regulus Black or for his own pitiful situation was unclear. “Black is just too hard to come across these days, my lord. Peverell keeps him close at hand.”
At the mention of the Peverell name, a wave of angered magic passes through all in the room. Ansel raised an eyebrow at the Dark Lord's feelings towards the Wizarding World's newest addition. Could it be jealousy? The thought amused Ansel and he had to prevent a smirk from coming to his face.
His mind had no time to make Ansel's body recoil at the red light coming from the wicked yew wand as Goyle let out a piercing scream.
He flinched at the sound and tried to control his breathing which suddenly became harsh as his mind became frantic with fear of suffering under the Unforgivable once again. He did feel sorry for Ferdinand at the moment, he truly did, but Ansel was thankful that he was not the one under the curse.
Goyle let out a muffled cry as the Dark Lord lifted the curse. The Death Eater put a shaky hand on his mouth, presumably to stop any sound from coming out.
At the sight, Ansel's nails dug into the flesh of his palms, drowning blood. That was not even a minute under it, he shouted in his mind, revolted. I went through much worse because of a late coming! Is not accomplishing a task less troublesome than arriving late?
Ansel's mind was frantic as he cursed the Dark Lord for torturing him for ridiculous reasons while others got away with much less. He was so focused on his anger that his ears blocked Goyle's pleas for forgiveness as the Dark Lord belittled the man.
“My lord,” a high-pitched voice called from the end of the table, drawing Ansel's attention back to the room. Bellatrix nouvelle-Lestrange. Ansel recognised the new addition to the Death Eaters with distaste. Foolish girl, he spat. “Let me bring my traitorous cousin to you, my lord!”
The Dark Lord stared at the young woman, and Ansel heard Bellatrix's sister — Narcissa — calling for her sister to remain quiet.
In those emotionless eyes, the Dark Lord showed no predisposition to grant the woman her wish. The disfigured man only lifted his wand and sent a purple curse towards Lestrange, which made the woman grab her head and clench her fingers around her hair.
“Do not speak before I allow you to, girl,” another wave of anger passed through the Death Eaters as their lord gave his order. “You will do no such thing. Do you believe yourself capable of besting your cousin?”
The Dark Lord let out a 'tsk' as he mocked the witxht. “Regulus Black is no weak wizard. An impulsive girl like you would never be able to overpower Black's tactical duelling method. Don't waste my time with childish wishes.”
Bellatrix let out a whimper and lowered her head, defeated.
For the next several minutes, the Dark Lord gave his orders for the raid that would happen later that night. As more and more lower-level Death Eaters were dying to the Aurors, the plans for the raids became more intricate — in order to avoid more losses.
As the Death Eaters stood up by the end of the meeting, the Dark Lord stared at them as they gave him their goodbyes and left the manor.
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“I do not know what to think of it, Nagini,” Voldemort hissed to his companion.
Slithering towards the fireplace, seeking warmth, the giant snake hissed disapprovingly to her master. Coiling around herself, Nagini bathed in the small hot waves of air coming from the fire.
“Master always knows what he is doing. Don't be silly, Marvolo-” Lord Voldemort hissed at the name, but the snake continued, unconcerned. “All is happening in your favour, yes? Then why bother about it? Relax and watch your enemies kill each other... and then you strike.”
Voldemort rubbed his pale forehead with two fingers and sighed. His mind was disturbed, even after his companion's words. Yes, all was happening in his favour — Dumbledore was out of Hogwarts, dark-aligned legislation was being passed on the Wizengamot, and he had more vassals to replace the ones he'd lost.
And yet, he could not relax his defences. Deep down, he knew someone was afoot. Somewhere, outside of his sphere of influence, plots against him and his desired regime were being made. By who? Dumbledore had plans, of which he was certain. However, the old man was not his only foe.
Voldemort could feel it in his veins, the way his magic became more and more unsettled, suspicious. From what side would the first blow come from? His spies would tell him nothing, for they were just as ignorant about what lurks in the shadows. Vigilante was the only precaution he could fathom at this moment. Lord Voldemort would not coward in the face of danger, no. He, the Heir of Slytherin, would not let himself be consumed by wariness or fear.
The Dark Lord Voldemort is no cowa-. He stopped, eyes wide and wary. There, on top of the console table by the window, a pale wooden box sat. So naturally and unimposing one would think it has always been there. But no, Lord Voldemort knew better. He knew every single object inside the room, remembering detail by detail of every single thing inside from the day Avery showed him the room that became his temporary office.
Curse-detection spells were immediately cast on the box. Nothing came of it. His suspicion only rose higher, however. No one becomes a Dark Lord without keeping both eyes open.
Slowly, with cautious steps, Voldemort approached the table — eyes narrowed and scrutinizing for potential dangers.
A spell was cast and the box's lid is opened.
Voldemort's eyes go wide with fear and apprehension.
It's not possible, he tells himself.
He blinked, once, twice. It is still there. A cautious step is taken, to analyse it better.
His hand was shaking slightly as he lifted his wand once more and levitated. It looked nothing different from just a few months ago. Still made of gold, with an S-shaped serpent in green jewels. Salazar Slytherin's Locket. The piece from his mighty ancestor looked just like when he hid it away in the cave.
“Impossible,” he hissed as he grabbed the locket, letting go of any reserve or apprehension.
But it was the same. Just as heavy and filled with Salazar's magic. A hiss and the locket opened. A noise close to a gasp came from the Dark Lord's throat as the object behaved just like it always had.
Inside, a piece of paper was folded and waiting. He picked up the small piece of folded parchment and opened it slowly. In his mind, only denial could be found as Voldemort refused to believe what was in front of him.
To Tom Marvolo Riddle
- We thought you would want this back. Enjoy our humble gift.
- R.A.B. & H.A.P.
The Dark Lord's magic flared with anger, shattering the window in front of him and sending all objects closed by flying. On the flood beneath him, a charcoaled ring formed around his body as his power sought a victim to disperse its rage.
Coiled by the fireplace, Nagini hissed in displeasure at her sleep being interrupted.
“What is it, master?" the snake asked.
Voldemort, however, ignored his snake and started to pace around the ravaged room. He stepped past fallen furniture and broken trinkets, the Dark Lord thought and thought, and his mind worked through every scenario possible. The locket could be a fake, of course, even though it was opened by using Parseltongue. Is there another one out there? he questioned. As far as he knew, no other descendants of Salazar Slytherin lived. He was the only one, the unique one, the only one with Salazar's gift.
However, no option could be discarded. After all, two initials were there in the message left for him. “R.A.B.” he mumbled the initials. “R.A.B. and H.A.P.”
“Who can those be?” he asked himself. “Should I task Abraxas with finding these thieves? No, he would ask too many questions and if I didn't answer them he would become suspicious. Lestrange? No, he's an imbecile. I need someone knowledgeable enough in purebloods since there is no way a mudbloob could escape my traps. I just need to find the perf- Orion! Of course, how did I not think of him before? The Blacks know every pureblood in this country."
Voldemort nodded to himself, complementing himself in his thoughts for his realisation. He passed by Nagini and ignored her once more when she asked him to stop with the noise.
“Yes, Orion is the perfect person for this and when I get my hands on these thieves... They will regret the day they dared to intimidate the Dark Lord Voldemort. Oh, they will, certainly. Black will-” he stopped, feet anchored on the marble floor. He went to his table and went for a charmed drawer — which prevented anyone but him from opening it — and picked up an old journal of his.
He went through the names, Abraxas Damian Malfoy (A.D.M.), Alaric David Avery (A.D.A.), Julius Marc Lestrange (J.M.L.), Theodore Bjørn Nott (T.B.N.), Orion Phineas Black (O.P.B.). Voldemort stumbled back, aghast. O.P.B., R.A.B..
“Black...” he whispered. “Regulus Arcturus Black,” as soon as the name left his mouth, the Dark Lord unsheathed his wand from its holster and sent an Exploding Curse towards the empty box on the table. The box, the table and the window itself exploded into pieces. The very wall of the room at the Avery's became rubble on the garden outside.
Voldemort turned towards the door, his magic like a whip around him, leaving destruction in its wake. He walked through the halls of the manor, in order to leave. He passed through the front door and walked to the gate that closed around the Avery state, and once out of the manor's Anti-Apparition Ward, he Disapparated away in a loud crack that echoed through the quiet landscape.
In his irate state, the Dark Lord failed to see the small bird coming through the wards and going to where a window once was. He also didn't see the little bird retrieving the locket from the office and flying away into the night sky.
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Sound waves cascaded through the dim space, stirring the inky waters of the cave's lake. With each reverberation, small waves shifted, responding to the forceful impact of the auditory assault.
The dismantling and ripping of the protective wards resonated throughout the sinister confines of the cave walls, each removal echoing like a sinister symphony orchestrated by the wards' own creator.
As the cave's ceiling trembled, fragments of stone plummeted, colliding with the solid ground and sending ripples across the cursed lake below when meeting the water.
Then, a deafening roared, akin to thunder, silencing all other sounds within the cavern. Massive rocks tumbled from above and the walls, plunging into the murky depths. The dark water swayed in rhythm with the falling debris, its surface mimicking the undulations of natural waves outside, yet tainted by the dark magic within.
In the eeriness of the cave, where green light from the middle of the lake made shadows dance upon the rugged walls, the small island reigned on top of the murky waters. It was a desolate spot, marked only by a lone, weathered basin, which was chosen to contain a locket — the vessel of Voldemort's fragmented soul.
As if conjured from the very darkness itself, Voldemort materialized upon the island, his presence heralded by a chill that seeped into the air. His crimson eyes glinted with a malevolent gleam as he approached the basin, his gaze fixed upon it with an intensity that bespoke a twisted sense of ownership.
With a flick of his yew wand, a counterspell shot from the wand and the potion inside the basin vanished. A locket was revealed on the bottom of the basin. Voldemort sighed. Maybe it is my locket, he thought. As Voldemort's fingers closed around the artefact, a sense of dread engulfed the dark wizard. The piece of jewellery, though equal to his own, felt empty and barren. The old magic of the great Salazar Slytherin never touched the object, Voldemort knew.
Rage came to him again, as his fist tightened around the fake locket. His magic flared once more as fire encompassed the island around him. The water close to the island started to boil with the power of the flames and the air inside the cave became more and more diminished. Unbeknownst to Voldemort, the fake locket on his palm started to melt as his fury grew.
The fire dimmed as Voldemort tried to take control of his anger, but the chaos the frenzied magic created inside the cave left no chance of mending the damage. After so much magic being ripped from it, the very integrity of the cave was forever marred by attrition.
Opening his hand to inspect the forgery, Voldemort ignored the melted parts of the locket, now missing its chain. Not knowing why, the Dark Lord felt the urge to hiss to the locket even though he knew it was a fake. An open in Parseltongue later, the object opened and revealed a piece of parchment inside. Voldemort's left eye twitched as he realised there was an unknown Parselmouth somewhere.
He picked up the parchment and let the fake locket fall to the floor, where it clinked as the metal hit the stone.
To the Dark Lord
- Know we will be long gone before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who was the first to discover your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it and all the others if you do not adhere to our demands. In the possibility of your denial of our terms, you will be mortal once more.
- R.A.B. & H.A.P.
Voldemort read the note again and again, unable to comprehend it fully. His mind was foggy and unwired. He was so distracted by his own muddled mental state that he didn't realise when magic coursed through his hand and enveloped the parchment, setting it on fire.
“Regulus Black,” the name came out in a raspy and hissed voice. “Be certain that I will kill you, Regulus Black. You and your thieving boyfriend will pay for this with your lives,” Voldemort promised as his hand tightened around his wand.
With a chilling resolve, he deliberately pushed aside the consuming flames of vengeance, knowing that today, others would bear witness to the unrelenting fury of Lord Voldemort.
With a surge of potent magic that seemed to warp the very fabric of reality, Lord Voldemort Desapparated away, vanishing from the confines of the cave in a whirlwind of dark energy. As his form dissolved into the ether, the surrounding cavern convulsed, the walls quivering with the residual echoes of his departure.
Then, in a spectacle of destruction, the cave succumbed to the overwhelming forces unleashed within itself. Cracks spiderwebbed across the stone walls, fissures splitting open like scars upon the ceiling. With a deafening sound, the ceiling crumbled, great slabs of rock hurtling downward in a cascade of chaos.
And when the tumult finally subsided, and the dust settled upon the shattered remnants of the cave, all that remained was the yawning expanse of a chasm — a gaping wound on the earth.