Poland is an unremarkable country, and Krakow, while the second largest city, remains just an ordinary place within it. We pinpointed a location 60 kilometers from Krakow—a site that could easily be described: a brick railway station accompanied by a few two- to three-story barracks. Now a museum included on the World Heritage List, the area appeared deceptively peaceful, marked by a German sign at the entrance that read, "Work makes you free." The magical protection over the site was minimal, consisting only of standard charms to monitor the area. Should the need arise, an army could be covertly transported here.
After casting concealment charms, we began our preparations at the site of one of the former crematoria. Runes, potions, complex incantations—I feared there wouldn't be enough time to accomplish everything in a single day. I had dedicated the Lestranges—Barty, Bellatrix—and my shaman to the task. Unfortunately, their magical strength was insufficient for the ritual; we would need to seek out more wizards. But who should we call? Certainly not Snape or Lily...
In the interim, I finalized the last preparations. Bellatrix's childbirth had been routine. The child arrived prematurely yet was healthy both physically and magically, capable of existing without magical support. I struggled to comprehend Bellatrix—how could a woman who had ended the lives of so many wizards and Muggles dote on her children in this way? It was fine to care for all children, but her affection was reserved exclusively for her own—Neville and Delphi.
Delphi resembled an ordinary baby, albeit even more wrinkled and diminutive, but that was merely her age. While maintaining Legilimency, I read her a few fairy tales. To my amusement, she showed no reaction to human speech—likely too early for her. However, when I recited the same story in Parseltongue, it elicited a distinct reaction in her mind. It seemed evident that she was a Parselmouth. Naturally, I took a small blood sample—around five milliliters—to analyze her potential and establish protective measures. But the primary goal was our upcoming ritual; we had been preparing for this for several days!
Thanks to the potions and magic, Bellatrix was back on her feet an hour after giving birth. I anticipated the usual animalistic urges, but she surprised me by snatching up the child and rushing off to Narcissa to boast. My template cracked, and as I attempted to piece it back together, I found myself alone at home—well, with Neville and the house-elves. It was then that I decided to check on what had transpired in my absence. Perhaps I should have refrained.
Gabi was singing a lullaby to Neville, a composition penned by Bellatrix: "Who is so cheerful and dangerous, knocking on the window with a bombardment?" Neville refused to sleep. I opted to engage him in play while simultaneously employing Legilimency. As I transformed trinkets into animals and conjured an array of toys through eternal transfiguration, I navigated through his mind.
Bellatrix had told him that an evil bearded old man in a sequined robe had killed his parents to dissuade him from notions of blood purity! I could tolerate that, but when Neville requested a game of chess, and I acquiesced… words can hardly convey what Bellatrix had turned wizarding chess into. No guts, no blood; just the same animated stone figures that talked and moved, but the execution was bizarre.
The white pieces represented the Order of the Phoenix, with Dumbledore as the king, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour as rooks, and Sirius Black as one of the pawns. I found it amusing that Alastor Moody was the white queen. The black pieces donned Death Eater costumes, and I was the king, though I would have preferred to be a player. The others were also in Death Eater garb, their masks corresponding to reality. Bellatrix was the queen, along with "Elena" and Edward as rooks.
Once the game commenced, I found myself controlling the whites at Neville's behest. It was gratifying to command Dumbledore, even without resorting to the Cruciatus. Neville, barely three years old, demonstrated a vague understanding of checkmate, simply aiming to capture all my pieces. Almost like my approach in real life!
The white pieces utilized bursts of color akin to Expelliarmus, while the blacks unleashed spells reminiscent of Bonesplitter. Yet, the details paled in comparison to the absurdity of it all: the blacks fought silently, while the whites shouted about the "power of love." There were also amusing comments from Neville: "Albus, come on, kill!"
My knowledge of chess surpassed Neville's—not surprising, given his age. I didn't checkmate, but systematically dismantled his pieces. Before long, Voldemort was the last piece remaining on the board. I intended to deliver a checkmate, sensing a catch with Bellatrix's pieces, but I resisted scanning to preserve the element of surprise.
When Voldemort was checkmated, he began to run around the board, destroying the remaining white pieces, remaining alone. If only reality functioned this way... After conjuring a room filled with plush toys for Neville, I retired to sleep, entrusting the child to a house-elf. Perhaps I should have given Harry to Bellatrix as well—she would have raised him to be a decent person, unlike these plush hippogriffs!
Dreams, dreams… But Lily would disapprove, and Snape would object to the influence on her…
The following day, I transitioned to Poland in the form of a phoenix and resumed my work. Runes, spells, and circles for the participants, along with a golden cauldron the size of a car for my use. While the cauldron was merely a trifle, the cost of ingredients and materials was astronomical, and poor Lucius had gone drinking with Snape again. Snape had privately mentioned that Narcissa was envious of Lucius's relationship with him.
After two more days, I felt satisfied with the quality of our work. Edward, however, regarded me with skepticism—perhaps a slight disbelief. What we had drawn simply could not succeed! I would like to assert that I was infinitely smarter than everyone else, and that no one had conceived of this solution, but that wouldn't be truthful.
At the center of the rune pattern next to the cauldron lay the Resurrection Stone—more accurately, Tom Riddle's former Horcrux: the ring housing the Resurrection Stone. I had cloaked it with a disguise; while the participants would sense something amiss, they wouldn't truly see it—not even the rings. I had checked it nearly a hundred times—it was entirely harmless, at least for me.
The former Horcrux was incredibly durable, yet I had found no trace of consciousness within it. My research into the Resurrection Stone had reached a standstill. I had to concede that, firstly, I didn't understand how it was made, and secondly, it was unsuitable for creating combat undead. It could potentially be used to raise the undead, but that felt akin to poking someone in the eye with a magic wand.
However, it could conjure "reflections of the dead" and perform some functions, though I had yet to decipher the control interface. I was uncertain whether it genuinely summoned the souls of the deceased or if it merely tapped into the mythical "information field of the Earth." This wasn't critical for now; what I possessed was sufficient: the Resurrection Stone, Tom Riddle's knowledge of Dark Magic, the powers of his servants, the necessary ingredients, and most importantly, Auschwitz.
I am not one for self-reflection, but at this moment, deep thought consumed me. The goal was undeniably ambitious, and the path to it unconventional. My Muggle side rebelled. How could bathing in dragon's blood assist me? Crafting armor from metallic hydrogen and using transfigured antimatter to defeat my enemies seemed far less absurd than the plans I had laid out.
Consider the issue: limited spectrum perception—humans are blind to infrared, ultraviolet, X-ray radiation, and beyond. How do Muggles navigate this? They successfully explore the invisible realm using devices that capture photographs visible to the human eye, but these images are merely representations of relationships between components of that world. By extension, I needed to create a device of some sort.
Muggles depend on technology to transcend their biological limitations. Do I wish to follow this path? The analogy between magic and science is not entirely accurate. For example, when Newton discovered the law of universal gravitation, he wanted it so fervently that the law ceased to operate—albeit temporarily and in a limited space. That is akin to magic. The more powerful and skilled a wizard, the more extensive and difficult-to-replicate their actions become.
In essence, my instincts from a past life urged me to pursue a different course. To invent some super-artifact, rather than alter myself under any circumstances. Deep down, I feared I was losing my mind—after all, I had surpassed Tom Riddle in terms of corpses and the dangers of my weapons: he hadn't obliterated Nurmengard or conducted such large-scale, risky experiments. What was one transformation of Salazar's basilisk into another Horcrux or the fate of Morfin worth?
Yet, creating a super-artifact was foolish. The Deathly Hallows existed. I didn't deny their incredible nature. But had they benefitted their creators? Even if we disregarded the rarity and complexity of such creations and absurdly assumed I could manufacture them as easily as the Chinese do ballpoint pens, I had no need for it.
I didn't desire an invention that anyone could wield, which could be stolen, and whose secrets could be unveiled! No, I didn't mind sharing—but I would dictate what, where, when, and with whom. As for the scale of my research… nothing of the sort! Moody possessed an artificial eye and numerous prosthetics, but he remained Alastor Moody.
I already had a universal body. But I was still myself! My consciousness would not change as a result of my experiments. Whether through a new wand integrated into my body or false nails—it was all trivial. The key was not to tamper with one's own soul and certainly not to share it! Tom Riddle lacked restraint, but I knew precisely where to draw the line.
With these thoughts in mind, I signaled the ritual to commence. If Muggles had witnessed this, we would have been carted off to a mental institution. No, there were no blood sacrifices here—almost. Yet, from the outside, it resembled a gathering of charlatans. Abidemi was particularly theatrical in his leopard skin draped over his naked form.
Everyone was ready, in position, and aware of their roles. There was some confusion about "why," but none would flee from mere bewilderment. The ritual commenced. I stood in the center of the drawing beside the cauldron, my hand resting firmly on the protected Resurrection Stone, gripping it tightly. From the outside, it appeared as though my fist was enveloped in an opaque black sphere.
Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Lucius took their places within the pentagram. The remaining two vacant spots were filled by Jugson and Rookwood. Jugson was a proficient Dark Wizard, primarily a fighter and commander. Runes were utilized in combat, but these were of a different nature entirely. He didn't fully grasp the extent of our undertaking, yet if the Lord commanded, he would obey…
Rookwood had a vague understanding of our intentions. To him, it resembled an attempt to launch a spaceship using urine. He periodically glanced at everyone, as if expecting someone to exclaim, "It was all a prank!" Resigned to the situation, he erected barriers around himself for protection against any potential explosion and continued his conjurations for the ritual.
Abidemi danced and waved a tambourine. Pandora Lovegood was bound to a transfigured pole—nothing would happen to her; I intended to examine what she saw in the astral plane later. I feared that the Imperius might slip during the ritual. I wasn't concerned about her disrupting the proceedings—she was under such a concoction of potions that she couldn't move or conjure, unable even to regulate her own breathing or heartbeat.
Behind the pentagram of five wizards stood Bellatrix, Edward, and Crouchy, awaiting their turns. Somewhere behind them, Charles Nott demonstrated his Blood Magic skills using Crabbe. The wizards weren't merely howling; they were creating a magic-saturated zone centered around me and the cauldron. I was attempting to connect with the souls of the victims of Auschwitz through the Resurrection Stone.
Naturally, my efforts proved fruitless—using the stone, I could only summon those I or Tom had killed, and for some inexplicable reason, his mother. But that wasn't necessary. A potion brewed within the golden cauldron, incorporating various ingredients, including Basilisk venom from Salazar's Chamber of Secrets. The concoction appeared black as coal.
"The flesh of a traitor!" I declared, adding the ingredient to the cauldron and generously infusing the potion with my magic. The charred, slightly decomposed, yet recognizable body of Peter Pettigrew was deposited into the mixture. Despite the human body entering the cauldron, the potion's volume remained unchanged, with no splashes occurring. Yet, I felt the magic boiling; the potion suddenly shifted temperature, transforming into a blood-red hue.
"The flesh of a servant!" I commanded. Once, Barty and Bellatrix had nearly clashed over the flesh of a servant. However, their needs were different now. After careful consideration, I selected Edward Lestrange—unlike the others, he possessed a functioning mind.
We concluded that any flesh would suffice, though not necessarily in large quantities; nails and hair would be of little use. I observed as Edward severed his little toe and cast it into the cauldron, sharing his magic with the potion. To be cautious, he poured his entire magical reserve into it at once. The potion boiled, transforming into an orange hue.
Brewing a potion of this caliber while allowing for outside interference was arduous, yet all living participants in the ritual were bound by the Dark Mark! Now we would work with contrasts. The body of Rosier fell into the potion—not all of it, but the majority. I had plans for every part of him. From the outside, it would appear as though another servant had come to assist the master, even in death. Indeed, Sebastian Rosier was not a traitor.
Yes, he had betrayed me. Yes, he had acted in a manner that nearly cost me my life. Yes, he had been the rat who set me up, implicating both himself and the entire organization. Yet, Sebastian Rosier was my servant and had never betrayed what he believed in—much like the ballad about heather honey. I had enough pureblood enthusiasts. Lucius Malfoy was one such example. But had he been born Muggle-born, he would have advocated for equality and brotherhood.
If he had been a Libyan Muggle, he would have championed the removal of migration quotas to the European Union and an increase in welfare benefits. Where profit exists, so does truth. It would never occur to individuals like Malfoy that when the instinct for self-preservation clashes with principles, one might sacrifice the instinct of self-preservation.
The contrast of the loyal living against the unfaithful dead was effective. The potion first boiled, then became encased in a layer of ice. As the ice melted, it transformed to a yellow hue, reminiscent of a dandelion.
"The bone of my father and grandfather!" Following the wave of my wand, the bones of Tom Riddle and Marvolo Gaunt rushed into the cauldron. I still hadn't figured out how to appropriately replace my father's bone, and I had little faith in him—there was too little magic within his body. Marvolo, on the other hand, was a wizard of considerable ability. The potion instantly turned green, akin to the Killing Curse.
It was time for three rounds of blood magic. This could have been one of the most amusing moments of the evening. It was unfortunate they were all in uniforms and masks; I wouldn't be able to capture their faces in my memory. To avoid embarrassment, I erected a sound-absorbing charm—the sounds would not escape beyond us. I also cast a facial distortion charm, ensuring no one could discern my lips.
Barty Jr. and Bellatrix approached the cauldron, willingly bleeding themselves. "The blood of those who love you!" The potion began to shift colors, rapidly turning blue. Barty and Bella stepped back from the cauldron. I slept with Bellatrix, and she loved me. I didn't sleep with Barty, yet he loved me too—albeit in a different manner. I pondered the reasons behind this.
The people were unaware of Rodolphus's divorce from Bellatrix. But I was indifferent to their speculation. Still, this display needed to be convincing—a dramatically altered Lord would attract attention. The less dissonance in my servants' minds, the better. I could recite the ingredient list to myself, but the complexity was already overwhelming; there was no need to complicate matters further.
Once Bellatrix and Crouch had retreated and I was left alone under the Distortion Charm, I proclaimed, "Blood kin!" There was no need for others to know I had a descendant. Blood began to flow into the potion, turning its contents blue. Having removed the sound-absorbing and facial distortion spells, I signaled for the next phase.
They dragged Barty-Crouch Sr., bound and shackled, onto an altar inscribed with runes, directly before me. The potion boiled, and I began to speak. If it were solely up to me, I would have executed him quickly, leaving him unconscious. Or better yet, I would have assigned the task to someone else. Yet murder is one thing, and being a key ingredient in a ritual is quite another. This was no ordinary pimple-removal ritual; it was an experimental Dark Lord ritual involving the Resurrection Stone.
Every detail had to be executed with precision, akin to when I lifted the curse from the Malfoys. Barty Senior had to be wound up just right, so he would genuinely die at the apex of his hatred for me. I spoke theatrically, and to my dismay, I found myself enjoying it. No, I hadn't lost my mind; my life was simply laden with Secrets. No one knew anything about me, and I shared nothing with anyone.
I considered myself a powerful wizard, but there were countless powerful Napoleons residing within the Muggle madhouse. What distinguished me from them? What if all my strength and power were merely an illusion? The difference was that when the real Napoleon spoke, people obeyed, while the false one was met with laughter.
People celebrate events; weddings are marked by ceremonies, victories by triumphant parades. This aspect of existence had been excised from my life. My instincts craved recognition, glory... but they would have to manage without. So, like a cheap villain, instead of executing my plan, I delivered a speech.
In my defense, I could argue that I was clever enough to withhold the truth: "...your son cried like a girl when he succumbed to the Cruciatus. And your wife couldn't even shed tears when Greyback violated her repeatedly." When Barty Sr.'s hatred for me peaked, Barty Junior plunged a dagger into me.
I wielded telekinesis—specifically, wandless nonverbal levitation—to elevate Crouch Sr. over the cauldron and observed as his blood flowed through his wounds, merging with my potion. There was no room for pettiness; let all the blood flow out, along with his life. Upon his death, the runes on the stone slab that served as his bed ignited, the rune for "Patricide" shining especially brightly.
Barty Senior... you were a worthy adversary. Yet you raised a commendable son and even saved me once. Of course, I fed him enough lies. Barty Junior remained alive and well, having killed him with his own hands. As for his wife, it would be foolish to waste her on Greyback; he had been doing more harm than good lately. I needed to orchestrate a heroic demise for him in battle. Immediately following the ritual and subsequent verification of outcomes, I would arrange the wedding of Edward Lestrange and Diana Crouch.
When Barty Senior's life ebbed away alongside his blood, the potion transformed into a deep purple hue. It was time for the penultimate act. "The tears of an unwitting traitor!" I declared, pouring Lily's tears from the vial. I had told the Lestranges these were the tears of Sirius Black. I revealed nothing to the others. The potion shifted to a piercing golden color.
Now, the main event had arrived. I summoned Bellatrix and Nagini to my side. With a concentrated effort, I altered my appearance, assuming a human form reminiscent of Tom Riddle's original visage.
As I embraced the familiar form, I felt a surge of power coursing through me. The transformation was more than physical; it fortified my resolve and sharpened my focus. Clutching the Resurrection Stone tightly in my left hand, I levitated myself and stepped into the cauldron, the potion having reached a comfortable human body temperature, refusing to cool or chill.
Nagini slid in alongside me. Bellatrix remained outside, using her magic to ensure our heads stayed above the potion's surface, preventing us from suffocating. It was time to initiate a process that no one had dared to attempt before. I signaled once more, and Nagini spontaneously combusted, her form transforming into a brilliant flame. I stood in the cauldron, holding the phoenix chick in my hand. The potion, infused with ash from the phoenix, turned a shimmering silver.
A few Death Eaters regarded me with skepticism, some, like the Lestranges, doubting the outcome, while others, like Crabbe, were certain I would fail and die. They believed my success hinged solely on Bellatrix and Barty Jr., though now it was just Barty. I felt magic swirling around me, but I didn't resist or shield myself; I allowed it to flow.
In an instant, I sensed my heart stop beating, my breath fading, and my consciousness becoming muddled. I slipped into the realm of clinical death. First came a flash of light, followed by an enveloping void. I opened my eyes again, finding Bellatrix before me. This was mere clinical death, typically accompanied by a bright flash—a result of muscle contractions pressing against the eyes, creating the illusion of light, combined with the final sleep of a dying brain.
In truth, real death is not instantaneous unless the body is severely damaged. After the heart and breathing ceased, there remained a brief window during which the blood still contained oxygen, and the brain stayed alive. During that time, a person could be revived without lasting damage. However, if one waited too long, the brain cells would begin to perish, leading to irrevocable death as the soul separated from the body.
Now came the most challenging phase. I activated the Resurrection Stone, seeking to summon all those who had perished here between 1939 and 1945. The potion began to steam, and the impact on my mind was so intense that I fell out of reality. It was as if I had drifted into slumber, witnessing scenes of Auschwitz unfold before me.
I perceived everything through the eyes of an emaciated woman. Morning arrived, and her life was drawing to a close. She heard harsh shouts in German at the entrance. The voice continued to bark commands, and her gaze fell upon the sight of towering structures with searchlights, machine guns, and rows of barbed wire surrounding the perimeter. Soldiers clad in black uniforms stood with weapons drawn, their German shepherds straining at their leashes.
They shouted commands that she could scarcely comprehend. The grim realization of her fate was terrifying; the SS men subdued the crowd with brutal blows, punching and clubbing, while enraged dogs barked furiously, instilling paralyzing fear in the hearts of the people as they were driven onward.
The condemned had lost all illusions, fully aware that a horrific fate awaited them—perhaps even oblivion. Yet, the events unfolded with such rapidity that all they could think of was a desperate desire for a reprieve. But respite from this horror was impossible. They were being led toward execution.
With her mind, she understood this was the end, yet she refused to believe it. The skulls adorning the black uniforms now took on their true meaning—a symbol of death, rather than intimidation as she had previously thought. In a fleeting moment, I was distracted by my own thoughts—an odd coincidence that Gellert chose the same emblem for his followers as Tom Riddle.
Though Tom had added a snake, it was merely a nod to his connection with Slytherin and the legacy of the Chosen One. Dark Lords often acted in predictable patterns! They should have chosen something like the Pink Unicorn or the Blue Scooter as their symbol. The cognitive dissonance from each victim would have been worth a few seconds of amusement, and when they began to judge me, I could proclaim that we were benevolent, merely misguided executors who failed to grasp the order.
I returned my focus to the woman. She noticed the sweet, oppressive scent of the air. They were herded along an alley lined with trees. Ahead lay a wall of soldiers in black uniforms, many with German shepherds straining against their leashes, barking violently at the crowd. The soldiers aimed their machine guns directly at the condemned.
Gunfire echoed from somewhere behind, accompanied by the anguished cries of the wounded, instilling the belief that if they dared to misstep, the soldiers would shoot. They passed flowerbeds, blooming with vibrant colors, meant not for them but to please the eyes of the executioners, who, like factory workers, adorned their grim establishment.
At the end of the alley, beyond the flowerbed, stood a low, beautifully designed building with an ornately decorated gate, behind which loomed somber gray structures, their chimneys emitting smoke that curled upward, carried away by the wind. "The sweet taste of smoke saturates the air," the woman realized; it was a flavor that permeated everything, inescapable.
Before her stood a crematorium, and the smoke represented what once was—people. An overwhelming horror enveloped her; she was terrified, desperately yearning for life, but more than anything, she wished to awaken from this nightmare. She rubbed her eyes, stared in disbelief, but nothing changed. It had been too long since she had truly slept. In her despair, she pinched her arm; the sharp pain momentarily pierced the fog, but it faded away, leaving her in the same grim reality.
They were being led in a large procession, and she understood where it was all headed. She prayed fervently for salvation, blending in with the others. Running was not an option—there were too many machine guns and dogs surrounding them. The woman's mind grasped the inevitability of her fate; she remembered everything she had ever heard about this place. Now she understood what awaited them—a shower, masquerading as a cleansing treatment.
The truth, however, was that they would be gassed. Afterward, their lifeless bodies would pile atop one another, awaiting the next round of executions.
As they arrived, the gates closed behind them, extinguishing her last flickering hope. A moment longer, and everything would commence, culminating in their finality. She ceased her prayers as she had in the line; she no longer cursed the executioners or the world—they had stripped her of her spirit. The essence of life filled her with love and sadness, mingled with terror—she desired to live, yet her right to life had been revoked.
Then came the pain, swiftly followed by death... And with each demise, I felt the passing of another soul. Again and again, I witnessed these horrors. Dark Magic is treacherous and insidious; it spares no one. Any mage attempting to replicate what I was doing would become ensnared in the memories of their victims, ultimately perishing as their body decayed from age.
But I approached this differently, thanks to the Resurrection Stone. Perhaps it was intended to facilitate the sacrifice of another's soul, though I couldn't quite grasp how. I was doing what it was designed for, yet instead of contacting the dead, I refrained from enslaving them—I lacked the strength, artistry, and control for such a task. The scope of the undertaking was immense.
I captured the echoes of pain and hopelessness, molding them not into an Antipatronus, but into something far greater. All these deaths were merely a pathway. This echo of death needed not only to be felt but also collected and compelled to serve me, becoming akin to a new organ within my magical system.
Again and again, I traversed the final memories of individuals. Their experiences were often similar: death by gas, gunfire from the guards, or brutal mauling by the dogs. Some endured torture, starved in punishment cells, burned alive, or beaten to death. Others were drowned by their own comrades in a bucket of waste.
Perhaps someone would have been overwhelmed by human suffering, but I had come to work, not to lament. How does one articulate what I did and why? Dark magic rituals aimed at gaining power can be classified into two categories. The first demands a price and alters you irreversibly. One might become impervious to stunning and explosive spells, able to rend a tank apart with bare hands. Yet they would exist as a five-meter tall troll, reeking, with the same intellect and consciousness, likely plagued by magical complications.
Horcrux rituals fall into this category; the cost may not be evident, but in my view, it is preferable to transform into a half-troll than to lose a fragment of the soul. I successfully accomplished something nearly impossible—channeling metamorphosis and shifting the costs onto someone else. Unfortunately, this approach wouldn't apply here; it was too intricate.
The second category encompasses temporary enhancements. A Dark Mage can achieve remarkable feats relying on a single human victim. In this instance, I had access to 1.4 million victims! Naturally, attempting to channel them all at once would tear me apart. However, if executed carefully and incrementally... I surmised that even if I constantly cast spells, it could take centuries for the "amplifier" to fully function, which would give me ample time to eliminate my enemies in the interim.
I remained uncertain about how to expand my reserves. However, Dark Magic's power can be amplified with necroenergy. From the echoes of these countless deaths, I envisioned constructing a colossal amplifier that would serve as necroenergy, augmenting my Dark Magic to match the level of the former Tom Riddle.
I could aim higher, but the risk of being consumed by that power was significant. I knew with certainty that the previous level was attainable. Moreover, there would be no repercussions on my mind—similar to the concept of an imaginary unit in mathematics. It does not exist, a complex number whose square equals -1. But with sufficient manipulation, an imaginary unit raised to the fourth power yields a perfectly ordinary unit!
If only financial matters were so simple! Without losing focus on the images of death, I refocused my efforts. No, not on a physical level. And not on a soul level. It felt reminiscent of my work with Lily in the past. Rather than revamping the magical channels, I integrated an element into the magician's energy that was never meant to be there.
I felt like a coin. One side represented the body of a wizard, a remarkably powerful one at that. The core, the channels... I didn't touch them—those were not the breasts of a woman; you can't augment magic that way. The other side of the coin was inexplicable, even more nonsensical than brain-snatchers. It was as if a small coin bore a colossal reverse side, a million times larger than the front.
Lately, I had engaged in too much dialogue with Muggle scientists—they might label it quantum physics and tensor asymmetry. A mathematician alone could articulate it best—the metaphor of a hypermetric non-Euclidean space would be apt. But I preferred the simpler term: an amplifier. Like an extension barrel for a firearm, or additional magnets for accelerating an electron.
What could the Dark Lord be contemplating, struggling under immense tension while constructing a weapon from himself? How tedious! Difficult and painful! It reminded me of the ritual "Whisper of the Shadow," though this time I was tasked with building something from the shadows.
Having nearly missed a pivotal action, I redirected my focus and returned to the task at hand. It felt as if I had labored for weeks. But every endeavor eventually culminates. My "amplifier" was prepared, and I began to return to reality. Alongside Nagini, I emerged from the cauldron. The potion had evaporated; I transformed my body into a combat-ready form and transfigured my clothing.
"How long was I unconscious?" I inquired.
"A little over four hours," Bella informed me, her tone brightening my spirits. Excellent—truly excellent. I restored my protective barriers and attempted to delve into my magical system, seeking to gauge the changes.
It felt as if a vast prosthesis had been affixed. Time to test my newfound capabilities! I needed to execute this simply and swiftly. Entering Pandora's mind, I unleashed the Cruciatus on her. I recalled her sensations, quickly switching my newly acquired magical organ to the "On" state.
"Crucio!" I commanded, unleashing a new Cruciatus upon Pandora, one that matched the intensity of Tom Riddle during his last Samhain. It was exhilarating. Meanwhile, I grappled with the searing sensations coursing through my magical channels, striving to deactivate my acquisition.
The ritual was not yet complete; any extended usage of my newly acquired magical organ would almost certainly result in my demise. To finalize the ritual, I required a Catalyst—a vessel to absorb the immense pain and sacrifice. This vessel would balance the numberless agonizing deaths of Muggles against the torments and deaths of wizards; Azkaban would serve as that Catalyst.
The culmination of the ritual would unleash a staggering amount of magical energy, wholly under my control. In those twenty seconds, I could easily silence ten Merlins and vanquish all opponents, including Albus with the Elder Wand. Could I achieve this? Certainly! The energy release would be unimaginable. I could channel my entire reserve into one spell, conjure another moments later, and repeat the process.
And my enemies would remain oblivious to my impending assault on Azkaban!
"Everything went well. Clean up after yourselves and leave," I commanded. "And take Pandora; she might prove useful."
Soon, I found myself back in England, reevaluating my energy system. Everything seemed to have unfolded smoothly. However, I felt a gnawing apprehension about facing Albus. What if my traps failed to harm him? If a war of attrition wouldn't work, then I needed a blitzkrieg approach.
I hoped Gellert's ashes weren't influencing me adversely. Yet the ritual bore another implication. Focused on bright memories, I summoned a Patronus. It appeared and remained unchanged. Now, I attempted a somewhat simple "Spear of Light." The wand glided seamlessly through the air, tracing figures as I spoke the incantation aloud. Everything was executed flawlessly, but the spell faltered.
I tried again and again, striving to conjure the Light Magic—without success. There were changes: previously, I felt nothing. Now, attempting to summon Light Magic felt akin to wrestling with a tremendous constipation in the restroom. It seemed that just a bit more effort would cause my eyes to burst from the strain. "The Blood of Those Who Love You" did little to aid my mastery of Light Magic.
What could I do? Summon Bellatrix and Barty, subject them both to the Cruciatus for not loving me enough? "Bring in more love, Barty! I command you!" How absurd… More love? Start a harem? It couldn't be that simple; love isn't synonymous with sex...
Okay, there was one more option: I now had a daughter. If she loved me, it would provide me with a woman's love, the affection of a comrade, and the love of a daughter. Perhaps then, I could finally make Light Magic function! Initially, I had no intention of involving myself with children; I thought Bellatrix would handle that, and I would shower the baby with toys and wealth. It seemed I would have to embrace the role of the perfect father.
But that was a problem for another day; Delphi was currently with the Malfoys. I gathered the Lestranges and shared my plan to strike Azkaban—not simply to attack, but to arrive, accomplish my objectives, and leave before the enemy could muster a response.
No, the capture of Azkaban, the relocation of all prisoners, and subsequent confrontation with the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix would occur while Albus and I were preoccupied. They regarded me with a hint of suspicion once more. Then, it was Diana Crouch's turn. At the time, I was surprised I had managed to heal her. But if I had succeeded, it was a positive outcome.
What to do with her now? Kill her? Why? She wasn't explicitly my enemy. Let her go? Ridiculous. Would it be pointless to have treated her? And where would she go? The mother and wife of Death Eaters! The notion of keeping her under the Imperius Curse for eternity crossed my mind, but I found another solution.
Simultaneously, I practiced mental magic, potions, and pleased Barty Jr. Nymphadora Tonks had acquired a new identity and was thriving in South America. I decided to implement something similar with Diana. True, she was older and possessed some knowledge of Occlumency, but she was far beneath my level.
First, I selectively erased her memories, then dedicated significant time and care to reshaping her mind, altering chains of associations, and reducing her critical thinking in certain areas. I retained her love for her son, but removed her affection for her husband, attempting to replace it with fondness for Edward Lestrange.
Now, she was utterly convinced that they had been lovers for ages, dreaming of matrimony. For me, it was excellent training; everyone would benefit—Barty, Diana, Edward. Of course, there were drawbacks—she lost certain skills associated with her husband. And since they had studied together at Hogwarts, she was no longer a full wizard.
No, there was nothing wrong with her strength. She was no longer a sorceress, having forgotten nearly the entire Hogwarts curriculum. She could walk, talk, cast spells, and count money, but we would label it amnesia. If any knowledge was lacking, it would be easy for her to relearn; seven years isn't a long time for a wizard.
Perhaps that would suffice—if Diana could be restored to her former self, it would take a mentalist of my caliber several months. But I opted for caution. The modified "Poison of Love" would resolve all issues. Back in the Middle Ages, one particularly clever pureblood wizard had devised a concept: if marriages were mere arrangements, why not enjoy them? Hence, he concocted a masterpiece—the "Poison of Love."
While one might not surprise anyone in the magical realm with a love potion, his creation surpassed them all. It didn't incite desire or excitement, nor did it invoke love. Instead, it fostered a yearning for closeness and an urge to care. Unlike regular love potions, this particular brew required daily ingestion for three months, with particles of the desired person added during the brewing process, resulting in a lifelong effect for the drinker.
Tests conducted during the Middle Ages yielded positive results: newlyweds were inseparable, consumed only in each other's presence, and never strayed. The outcome was predictable; they would have been confined to a mental institution. However, during that time, they lost touch with reality and were ultimately killed by conspirators a mere six months later.
Thus, the primary issue with this potion is its potency. I had to tinker with the formula to determine how to temper it. Combined with her altered consciousness, it would produce an effect indistinguishable from true love. She would be content, as would her son and Edward. Now, I would put this to the test.
The scene unfolded like the awakening of Snow White from a fairy tale. Diana Crouch lay on the bed, with Barty Jr. and Edward Lestrange by her side. The woman, administered the antidote to the Living Death potion, began to regain consciousness. I remained concealed, observing the unfolding drama—worthy of a soap opera.
Simultaneously, I employed Occlumency to assess Diana. What had they told her? That she had been terminally ill but was now cured? That some of her memories had been lost? I watched, mentally checking her thoughts. She accepted everything, agreeing with all she heard. She was happy. The fact that her future husband and son were Death Eaters was inconsequential. After all, the essence of life was love!
Albus had been correct regarding the power of love, and Tom Riddle simply lacked the understanding of how to wield it. Content, Diana departed to consult the house-elves about her wedding attire. Nearly normal, her slight obsession with Edward and her son was not alarming—this could happen with overprotective mothers or newlyweds, nothing pathological, just a tad excessive.
The tests had proven successful. It was a pity that one couldn't brainwash everyone… but perhaps we didn't need to. We would kill some, buy others, intimidate a few, convince some, and allow others to emigrate. Yet we must not overlook the importance of mental magic.
Of course, Occlumency complicates the process. But how many strong Occlumens exist? Moreover, one could always cast Imperius on the target, commanding them to remove their Occlumency, allowing for mental dominance. And could a strong Occlumens resist the Imperius? How many fit that description—one percent? And how many of them are not aligned with me?
Afterward, Bella and I found ourselves in one of the laboratories, which some might call a gas chamber. First, Bellatrix administered a lethal poison to one of the prisoners, and upon his death, she incinerated his body. I sent her back, issuing a command:
"Lord…" Bellatrix began, hesitating. "Can I take Delphi home?" The only thing that would have astonished me more would have been if she had confessed to cheating on me.
"Yes. What is it?" I queried.
Bellatrix, averting her gaze, responded, "I'm worried… about the incident." I frantically racked my brain, attempting to recall what could have caused her distress. The fairy tale "The Jester's Hare" in Parseltongue? The blood sampling? I remembered! Delphi had relieved herself on me when Bellatrix had permitted me to hold her! I had been defenseless and in a human form at that moment!
"She will grow up to be the Greatest Wizard!" I declared. "She pooped on Voldemort on her fifth day of life, and nothing will happen to her because of it! Albus Dumbledore never dreamed of such a thing!"
Bella blinked, momentarily reminiscent of Lily during our initial encounters. Had I overstepped? I delved into Bellatrix's mind. There were no thoughts of "who are you and where did you put the Lord?" This was a positive sign.
"You need not fear me," I assured her. "Let everyone else fear me." They didn't permit me to finish before nearly crushing me in their embrace. While I had no objection to continuing, Bella dashed off after Delphi.
Work awaited me. With the Resurrection Stone in hand, I set to work. With the ashes of a wizard I had not killed, I would find a way to reach him. I had only one Gellert, and I would practice on these. As for the Resurrection Stone... we were in the same cauldron; we would reach an understanding!
Lord Voldemort set to work.
---
**Albus Dumbledore's POV**
The meeting in the Minister of Magic's office had already dragged on for two hours. Only three individuals were present: the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Minister of Magic, and the Head of the Department of Mysteries. Initially, the conversation had gone poorly—he was accused of vanishing at the most inconvenient moment and withholding vital information. Yet Albus managed to wriggle out of it.
However, the discussion was no longer focused on that. Elyon, with boyish surprise, announced the findings regarding Nurmengard: "Thus, it is highly likely that Nurmengard was destroyed as a result of an atomic explosion equivalent to approximately 3.7 megatons of TNT."
The Minister of Magic flinched, sharing Albus's unspoken concerns; at any moment, Voldemort could unleash a devastating assault on the city. "Who else knows?" Scrimgeour inquired.
"I cannot say for certain," Elyon responded, "but thanks to Albus Dumbledore's timely intervention, likely no one."
Professor Dumbledore had managed to conceal and rectify the evidence. Albus contemplated the implications. He had always believed that honesty was the best policy, but now… No, not every Hogwarts student could create sufficient uranium. Although, an explosion is feasible with as little as 50 kg; anyone could manage it, though the explosion would be relatively minor.
Scrimgeour spoke wearily: "Wizards are aware of nuclear weapons. In the event of a nuclear conflict, we have an excellent chance of survival—a small, dispersed population, independent of technology, living by the principle of carrying everything with them. Muggles are pragmatists; they are unlikely to deploy nuclear weapons against some remote Pacific island, such as Nauru.
And then... there would be no one left to fight. But now... it appears that explosions will persist as long as there remains even a single wizard…"
"The Department of Mysteries is already initiating a program to classify this matter. Moreover, work is underway to impose a modified spell that will taboo the transfiguration of several radioactive elements, including uranium and plutonium…" Elyon reported, but the Minister interrupted him.
"What if You-Know-Who simply steals a few charges from the Muggles? He could win a small detachment and annihilate a larger force with a nuclear explosion." An awkward silence enveloped the room.
"I have a proposal," Albus began. "We must force Voldemort into a general battle and secure victory before he leaks this information."
"And the explosions?" they queried in unison.
"I will ensure that no nuclear explosion occurs," Albus Dumbledore replied, placing a pale pink marble pyramid the size of a Quaffle on the table.
"And how is that?" Elyon asked skeptically.
Albus was grateful for possessing two Deathly Hallows: the Elder Wand and the Invisibility Cloak. He responded, "I will provide you with several artifacts. They will function independently of me. However, they are disposable—one artifact lasts approximately an hour and twenty minutes. The Department of Mysteries can test this artifact for its functionality."
"Wait!" Elyon exclaimed, as if emerging from a trance. "Professor Dumbledore, you are a great wizard, but you have no idea what you're discussing!"
Elyon continued, "Your expertise is infinitely removed from Muggle nuclear physics."
Albus sighed wearily. Internally, he believed he had a solid grasp of nuclear physics—Flamel had manipulated atoms since the fourteenth century.
"I can manage it. Tomorrow, you will witness another working prototype. Would you like to observe it? But not at a Muggle nuclear power plant?"
The Minister of Magic was left in shock. He had just been informed that if necessary, Dumbledore would render nuclear weapons ineffective. Either this was the ramblings of a mad old man, or...
"I wish to return to the Aurors. Patrol the streets, penalizing reckless broom drivers… Where have my nineteen years gone?"
Amidst the bewildered Scrimgeour, Elyon appeared almost unfazed. Since their days in school, he had labeled Albus an "anomaly."
"Esteemed Head of the Wizengamot... I have faith in your capabilities. Let's assume you somehow resolve the issue of heavy nucleus decay. But Muggles possess thermonuclear bombs! There, energy is derived not from the decay of heavy nuclei but from the fusion of light nuclei! Your method will not suffice!"
Albus could not see his friend's expression beneath the mask, but he was ready to wager he wore a smile. Yet Albus remained confident. How could he simplify his explanation?
"To initiate a thermonuclear reaction, Muggles must elevate hydrogen atoms to temperatures exceeding several million degrees, allowing the atoms to gain sufficient speed so that the forces of attraction surpass those of repulsion. They have only one method to achieve this—a thermal atomic detonator. In other words, an explosion occurs due to the fission of heavy nuclei, which heats the hydrogen and triggers a fusion reaction from light nuclei.
I will render the detonator useless—there will be no fusion. Consequently, Voldemort will be unable to craft a cold fusion reactor from scratch amid combat conditions."
Elyon fell silent. The Minister of Magic remained quiet as well. Further discussions seemed futile. After bidding farewell, he departed for Hogwarts. Albus was deep in thought. The situation was dire.
Previously, they had maintained a positional advantage over the enemy. But now, time was of the essence—firstly, he was mortally wounded, and secondly, Voldemort possessed the means to breach Hogwarts and the Ministry.
Yes, he had a method to render a chain reaction impossible. But that wouldn't encompass the entire planet's surface! It wouldn't protect anyone from radioactive fallout and nuclear winter!
It was an oxymoron to suggest that only the Dark Lord's common sense prevented the wizarding world from plunging into nuclear war. Voldemort's remaining sanity could snap at any moment, if he even possessed any at all.
Albus reflected sorrowfully on his plans for victory. Given the staggering losses within the regular forces, success seemed unlikely. Sending the citizen militia against the Death Eaters? Everyone who knew how to fight had long been killed. That was not a viable strategy.
Albus had hoped the destruction of Nurmengard would awaken wizards from other nations. It had not. A mountain of protest notes and expressions of solidarity amounted to little more than empty gestures. Several volunteer detachments had emerged; some wizards from Russia had offered assistance, while Americans had contributed funds, but it was a mere drop in the ocean!
He had hoped for an international peacekeeping contingent! What was unfolding here was not just an English issue, but a concern for the entire civilized world! Yet, even in the wake of Grindelwald, no one would permit the certain demise of their citizens for the potential salvation of others until the pressure mounted. And then, it would be too late.
So what assets did he possess for a general confrontation? The remnants of the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix, coupled with concerned citizens possessing almost no combat skills. No, he had faith in them. If the magical capabilities of these individuals matched their spiritual resolve, Voldemort would have perished long ago.
The situation was somewhat salvaged by his army of golems, but it still fell short. Voldemort commanded not just wizards, but werewolves as well! Thousands of werewolves—thankfully, only a few could cast spells. And giants, Dementors, undead, golems, Dark Creatures: banshees, enki, death twists, and more…
As much as he wished otherwise, he perceived only one solution: he would have to turn to private military companies, otherwise known as mercenaries. He would need to unseal several gifts from Flamel and hire them. How many could he count on? In Europe and North Africa, about five hundred mercenaries—but not all would agree to confront the Dark Lord for monetary compensation.
Not enough... Wizards from distant lands? He would have to recruit them as well, compensating for their diminished effectiveness with potions and artifacts of his own design. Albus Dumbledore pondered the situation. It was imperative to employ one army of criminals to defeat another.
And discreetly smuggle over a thousand wizards into England at the opportune moment. Wizards with criminal and semi-criminal backgrounds, whose methods of problem-solving would likely result in a prison sentence. He would also need to turn a blind eye to their arsenal…
It would require substantial gold and carefully crafted contracts—these mages wouldn't engage in battle if it turned out the Death Eaters were stronger than the "united army of the Ministry."
Additionally, if they were proficient mercenaries, it wouldn't guarantee they were effective warriors. He would need to minimally integrate the disparate squads. An acquaintance from Canada could assist with this. And regarding the battle... Nakamura owed him a favor; the second most powerful mage in Japan would prove invaluable in the fight against the Death Eaters.
He still needed to ensure Hogwarts remained safe during his absence. Large sums of gold could facilitate this effort. He would need to hire more basilisk catchers from India. Yet, it was foolish to rely solely on money. Additional potions were necessary. Especially luck potions...
But why brew them? He would purchase everything—potions, artifacts... And if he required something unique, he would conjure it using the Invisibility Cloak and the Elder Wand.
True, a question remained: where would he house the army of mercenaries afterward? How would he justify the sudden influx of gold? But those were secondary concerns. And if Voldemort refused to engage? Would he run indefinitely? A covert operation? Utilizing over a thousand mercenary wizards from various countries alongside civilians?
The battlefield had only witnessed such a concentration of wizards during several battles in the era of Grindelwald! A straightforward solution emerged. Albus Dumbledore would once again pursue the Horcrux. To the Cave, where the lake awaited. And on his return, he would deliberately trigger Voldemort's signal charms.
Voldemort would learn that Albus was hunting for Horcruxes. What would be his reaction? He would either check the Horcruxes or conceal them once more. Albus hoped to locate Voldemort and initiate combat where the Horcrux was hidden—he would defend his invaluable soul to the very end.
Only a little remained. Albus Dumbledore approached the Cave, standing at the threshold leading from the small cave deeper inside. He retrieved an improved potion from the Department of Mysteries—a concoction of dragon's blood, luck potion, and several other ingredients. Dropping a few drops into his eyes, he then produced a fortune-telling ball and peered into it, searching for glimpses of probable futures mere seconds ahead.
Voldemort believed that the only path forward was through trial and error. He was mistaken. Options could be tested not only in reality. Albus Dumbledore scrutinized what would transpire should he resort to murder to advance his agenda. This ritual was unsuitable, so he would explore another…
Ten minutes later, Albus returned to the tangible world. What a horror! How could Voldemort endure such grotesque visions? It revolted him to observe, yet Voldemort didn't merely spectate; he acted and felt! But the entrance wouldn't reveal itself without further effort.
He needed to delve deeper. It was a pity he couldn't enter Salazar's Chamber of Secrets in this manner—the charms there functioned differently, and he could not see in a specific direction. While other versions of himself quietly negotiated with mercenaries or gathered artifacts, including those capable of mitigating nuclear explosions, one of him sought a path forward.
He grimly contemplated what he would do when he discovered the one ritual that could unlock the passage ahead. He would devise a plan. He had always succeeded.