A Destination
Slender fingers tangling in his hair… Strong arms wrapped tightly around him… A sibilant voice speaking words he can’t quite understand...
It is all so vivid this time, though he knows it can’t possibly be real. Not that it matters. He will enjoy this reprieve from his suffering for as long as it lasts – real or not.
Disguised as muggles, Barty Crouch Junior and Lucius Malfoy are slumped on the pavement next to their newly resurrected master. The street is nearly pitch black, and almost deserted.
Lord Voldemort brushes dark hair from his face, and pulls a cigarette from inside his jacket.
A teenager hops down off the wall he’s sitting on, and shuffles over.
“Need a light?” he murmurs.
Voldemort holds out his hand expectantly.
“What’s the magic word?”
“Abracadabra,” Voldemort sneers.
The boy tuts. “Wrong answer.”
There is a brief pause, then Voldemort gestures to the tattoos on the teenager's neck. “Any special meaning?” he says.
“It’s personal,” the boy replies. “You got any?”
“No, but my friends here have a matching pair. I’d have them show you, but they’re rather intimate.”
The boy smirks, and chucks the lighter at him. “You can keep it, got loads in the car,” he tells him, before jogging off down the street.
The ‘lighter’ is in fact a portkey, and before long, the three wizards are walking through a field, towards a parked muggle car.
A window rolls down. “Need a lift?” a voice calls from within.
Voldemort directs his servants to sit in the back, and climbs into the front himself. It’s only once the engine has started up and they’ve set off towards the road that the driver speaks again.
“Sorry about the wait, boss,” he mutters.
“Just get on with it,” the Dark Lord snaps.
They follow the road for a few minutes before they pull up next to a red muggle postbox. The driver pulls a wand from inside his jacket and leans out of the window to post the wand through the letter box.
Voldemort produces three wands, and hands them over. When they clatter to the bottom of the postbox, the Dark Lord’s eyes flash red as they regain their usual colour.
The driver clears his throat. “The wards will be fully active now, so it is safe to talk freely - if that pleases you, sir.”
Apparently it doesn’t, because there is only more silence as the car drives on to their destination.
They are dropped off outside a fairly small house. The Dark Lord locates the door key under a plant pot, and steps inside with his two servants.