Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 625, Section 623: Madness

Tom Riddle wakes up in a dry ditch outside the manor.

In a daze, he smelled his own scent.

Burnt, bloody, and something he hadn't smelled in decades:

Putrid smell.

Like the dead cat soaked and rotten by the rain in the alley behind the orphanage.

In a daze, Tom seemed to see a future.

Dumbledore won, Grindelwald won. The boy named Sheehan will live, will be protected and grow up, and will become the perfect person Dumbledore hoped for.

And he—Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the heir of Slytherin—would either die in some unknown ditch or be killed by Dumbledore himself.

His body will be displayed at the entrance to the Department of Magic, just as his father's and grandparents' bodies lay on the floor of Riddle House.

And then what? Then the Death Eaters scattered like birds and beasts. Then the Daily Prophet celebrated his downfall on its front page.

Then peace returned to the wizarding world, and people raised their glasses in bars, saying, "The one whose name you can't even mention is finally dead," and then forgot about him.

He will be forgotten.

Like that dead Muggle father.

Like any nameless child in an orphanage.

Something within Voldemort's vertical pupils had completely broken off.

"No----"

He said.

The voice is hoarse and slightly hoarse.

In a secluded manor.

The Black Magic Mark has been hanging in the night sky for a full three hours.

A pale green light shone on the manor's iron gates, illuminating every wrinkle on the faces of the Death Eaters gathered in the porch.

No one speaks.

The last time they gathered here was the night before the boy who had miraculously survived was born.

-

At that time, the entire wizarding world feared their existence. Muggle wizards were wiped out one by one by them. They laughed, thinking that the Dark Lord's reign had only just begun.

Dokhorov was the loudest laugher in the group.

Now, only ashes remained of Dokhorov. Fenrir lay beside him, also a lump of ash, only darker.

No one dared to look at them, and no one dared not think about them.

Severus Snape stood in the farthest shadow.

His face was as blank as usual, but his eyes never left the closed door at the end of the living room.

The study is on the other side of the door.

The Dark Lord has just returned and is among them.

It's been three hours since I last saw him.

Alecto Caro is Amicus Caro's sister.

The two looked very alike, both with broad frames and narrow eyes, and both were veterans who had followed Voldemort since his first rise to power.

At this moment, Alecto was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together.

She was clutching a copy of the Daily Prophet in her hand. Her brother was currently on trial by the Ministry of Magic, and was probably imprisoned in Azkaban again.

Beside him, Walton McNeill, the executioner of the Ministry of Magic's Magical Creatures Control Committee, whose usually sinister smile could no longer be maintained even with a forced smile.

He kept wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, which was already soaked with sweat.

Fenrir was introduced to the Dark Lord by him. The two, one in charge of dealing with death row inmates in the Ministry of Magic and the other out there having affairs, had been like-minded for over a decade.

Now Fenrir lies in the side hall, reduced to ashes.

If it weren't for the Death Eaters intervening to stop him, he wouldn't even be left ashes.

"Dumbledore."

Bellatrix Lestrange uttered those three words suddenly, as if spitting out a mouthful of venom.

She sat in the seat closest to the study door, her back ramrod straight, her hands on her knees, her nails digging into her palms.

She was the only one who never showed any fear throughout.

Her eyes held only hatred. Pure, burning hatred, hatred that could almost ignite the air.

"Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and that Mudblood brat they're protecting—I want to do it myself."

"Shut up, Bella."

The speaker was Rodolphus Lestrange, her husband.

The voice was not loud, and even sounded a little tired.

Bella turned to look at him.

Everyone in the living room turned to look at him.

Rodolphs never contradicted his wife in public, let alone in this tone.

His face showed no anger, no fear, only a weariness that had been worn down for too long.

He looked at Bella, then slowly shifted his gaze to Alecto, and then to the two corpses covered with white sheets in the side hall.

"Isn't that enough?"

He said.

The fire in the fireplace crackled.

Then the door opened.

No one heard footsteps.

The door opened by itself, or rather, the things in the room rushed out first and pushed the door open.

The candlelight dimmed, as if something was absorbing its light and heat.

A chill crept into the air. It crept out from the doorway, past everyone's ankles, and chilled them to the bone.

Voldemort emerged from the darkness.

It was still the same figure, the same snake-like face, and the same black robe.

Bellatrix tried to stand up, her hands gripping the armrests of the chair, her body already leaning forward, but her legs wouldn't obey her.

Voldemort walked to the center of the living room.

He stopped there and slowly looked around. His gaze swept over every face, and with each person, their breath would pause.

Then he laughed.

He smiled, a smile that was almost gentle and thoughtful.

But it was this smile that made Snape's pupils contract sharply, causing him to grip his wand tightly in his sleeve with his right hand.

He had seen many kinds of Voldemort's smile: a cruel smile, a contemptuous smile, a hypocritical smile of kindness, a cold smile before killing.

He had never seen this one before.

"Dokhorov, Fenrir."

When Voldemort uttered those two names, his voice was as calm as if he were reciting a cold soup from a menu.

"They're dead. Maybe they died at the hands of an old man and an even older one."

He paused.

The presence of the two corpses in the side hall suddenly became extremely heavy, as if the weight of the entire manor was pressing down on those two white sheets.

Alecto stood up.

Her movements were slow. She looked at Voldemort, her lips moved several times, and finally she spoke: "Master—my brother—when are we going to bring him back?"

Voldemort turned to look at her.

Those ashen red eyes lingered on her face for a long time.

So long that beads of sweat appeared on Alecto's forehead. So long that the flames in the fireplace had died down an inch.

"Bring it back."

Voldemort repeated the three words, as if savoring a joke he had never heard before.

"You want me to bring back a corpse. You want me, Lord Voldemort—to step into the trap guarded by Dumbledore and Grindelwald, risking having my chest burned through by phoenix flames, to snatch a piece of flesh that is already rotting, all for a corpse."

His voice never rose. But Alecto's knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, sweating profusely.

Voldemort stopped looking at her. He turned his gaze to everyone in the living room, then slowly spread his hands.

"Dokhorov is dead, Fenrir is dead. Your brothers and sisters, your colleagues, your comrades are dead. And I—"

'

His voice finally showed a slight fluctuation, but it wasn't anger; it was a calm that bordered on mockery. "I almost did too."

All the candles in the living room went out.

Then I realized something.

Voldemort's voice came from the darkness, "I've been thinking about where I lost."

Power? I am stronger than anyone else. Knowledge? I am more learned than any wizard. Fear? The entire magical world dares not utter my name.

But I lost. Why? Because I was playing a game I shouldn't have played. Domination, power. These are their games, these are human games. And the great Voldemort shouldn't be human.

A green light shone in the darkness.

"Dumbledore thought he could predict me? Well, let this ridiculous game end. They'll remember the fear of Lord Voldemort—"

"6

Voldemort spread his arms wide, his face contorted in a grotesque grimace, and declared to the world with blood and death our return—let the wizarding world burn!