⚜ 11.20 PM, 31ST OCTOBER, 1981, PARKINSON MANOR ⚜
THE GARDEN LAY in an unnatural stillness, a suffocating quiet that seemed to choke even the memory of life. A sickly mist writhed across the ground, curling around rows of flowers too exotic to belong, their colors too vivid to be real. Moonlight spilled over the scene, casting a cold, silver glow that rendered the gnarled trees spectral and unnatural. Their twisted branches clawed at the sky like grasping hands, frozen in eternal desperation. The air was devoid of sound — no hum of insects, no rustle of leaves. Only silence, vast and oppressive, blanketed the garden.
At its heart stood the Dark Lord, a shadowy figure swathed in flowing black robes. Motionless, he stood with hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed upon the moon above.
A beautiful sight, the moon — aloof in its celestial throne. For countless centuries, it had shone down upon the earth, a silent witness to humanity's struggles and triumphs. To mankind, it became a symbol of their most profound desires: magnificent and boundless, yet eternally out of reach. They looked to it with longing, dreaming of the future it seemed to promise. Yet always, the moon looked back with benevolent mockery, its pale glow whispering, "Strive as you will, I remain beyond your grasp."
As a child, abandoned and alone in the squalor of a revolting orphanage, he had often gazed at the moon, admiring its distant, untouchable splendor. He longed to embody its cold indifference, its unyielding detachment from the chaos of mortal lives. This dream, born in the shadows of neglect, grew with him, shaping his every thought.
The day he first discovered his magical abilities was the moment his yearning for a better life ignited into an unquenchable flame. It was no longer a mere wish — it became a purpose.
However, it was when he uncovered the truth of his lineage that the weight of his heritage as the heir of Slytherin, that purpose crystallized into a vow. He would transcend mortality, freeing himself from the shackles of finite existence. He would rise as a god, reshaping the very fabric of reality and ushering in a new era. The stars, the earth, and even the threads of all fate would be his to command.
He would rise above the mockery of the heavens, above the cosmic joke that the universe made his life. His mother, frail and foolish, had succumbed to death without so much as a fight — an unforgivable weakness. His father, a disgraceful, magicless mudblood, was a stain he preferred erased from his memory. They were the blemishes of a past he despised. The reason that the heavens laughed at him.
Through cunning and ruthless determination, he toiled, shaping himself into the architect of his ambitions. He honed his mind, sharpened his wit. He trained his speech, his charisma. He amassed resources, always talking to the right people, saying the right thing at the right time. He researched on every bit of magic he could — all the way from the most mundane to the most obscure — harnessing all that magical knowledge to its maximum.
He even went as far as to commit vile deeds that would drive the Devil out of hell, perpetrating so many crimes that he was sure that not even the abyss could accommodate him. He got into dark dealings, working with shady, corrupt, greedy bastards to drive his own schemes. He leapt into the dark arts, looking into the vilest and abominable magic to have ever existed. He played every piece on his board with ruthless pinpoint precision, sacrificing pawns, destroying lives, decimating opponents, all without hesitation.
Then it all came to pieces with that day, when he met Death.
He felt himself shudder just at the mere thought of her. All his effort. All his work. She laid it all to waste within seconds. She made it all look pointless. Voldemort had heard rumours of a prophecy to do with a sorcerer that would transcend Death, that would have the threads of all Fate under their command. A sorcerer whose very existence was an error in the cosmos, an entropy in the universe. He had been certain that it was him.
He, after all, was the wielder of the Gaunt inherent technique, Hellish Decay. According to historical accounts, it was among the most feared techniques of the post-Merlinic Era, with the ability to literally deteriorate any target, even concepts! It was a technique born from the Slytherin inherent technique, Cursed Destruction of Truth after the bloodlines of the Golden Age fell, born with the Gaunts, a family risen from the blood of Salazar Slytherin.
He, the Dark Lord Voldemort, should have been the sorcerer of the prophecy, the error of the world! He alone was worthy! He had the potential to destroy existence itself! For this reason, in his travels, he carefully constructed a plan to trap and defeat Death. At last, he had thought, at last he would fulfill his purpose, he would ascend to immortality, he would become a divine being!
However, when he executed the plan, it backfired horribly.
Death had laughed at him, swatting him around like a gnat. She mocked him, berating him for his arrogation, for thinking that he could master the Endless. Do you really think, she scorned, that reality would bow down to the likes of you? That you could be a god? You're nothing but a pathetic ant with trying to fight existence itself.
Voldemort had been humiliated, terribly. To be defeated so easily, so handily, even by a being older than time, it had shattered him. What mortal dares fight a god so daringly and lose? That kind of humiliation was brutal and unforgettable. What was worse, she spared him, left him battered and broken, inconsequential and not worth another moment's thought.
This left Voldemort wrecked. After all he had been through, after everything he sacrificed, the universe still ridiculed him!
Yet, the fear remained, and even grew in magnitude. No matter his rage, he was nothing more than a fleeting thought in the face of such power. With the increased dread, Voldemort redoubled his efforts, seeking more power, more ways to avoid Death until he was ready, travelling the world in search of more arcane knowledge that could him in his endeavor.
Then, he found out about the prophecy of the one destined to defeat him. When he first heard it, everything suddenly clicked. He realized why Death did not kill him that day, even though she very well had enough power to crush his being an infinite number of times over. Fate protected him! He could not die by any other hand other than that of the one to slay him!
He had been out of his mind with glee. Armed with this new information, he searched for the one spoken of in the prophecy. After much research, he found out that there were three possible candidates: The Potters' twin daughters and the Longbottoms' son. The best part? All the three were mere infants.
Yet, inasmuch as they all qualified, the ones that Voldemort suspected to be the more likely threat were the Potter twins, for obvious reasons. For that reason, he would execute them first. In any case, he could go after the Longbottom boy once he was done with the Potter children, just to ensure his absolute invincibility.
The most hilarious bit was that the aristocracy tended to keep their family manors' locations secret, only accessible by means of invitation by the officially recognised family head. It was how they kept their wealth and security intact. For a powerful family like the Potters, this was even more so, yet he had a trump card capable of bypassing their formidable defenses.
Voldemort had struck a deal with a powerful, otherworldly force. Yet, to call it a single entity would be a gross oversimplification. It was not a being in any traditional sense but an amalgamation of sound, resonance, and intent — a vast, hive-like consciousness that defied physical form. That was frankly the best description available.
Voldemort, ever the seeker of power, had seen in it an opportunity — a means to surpass even the most ancient magic. He had found out about it in some old tomes and records stored in his family's crest. They had apparently been written by a mysterious sect known as the Clockworks that operated back in the Merlinic Era, a sect which an ancestor of his had been part of.
He couldn't find much about said sect, but he did find some very obscure mentions such a group in authoritative historical texts, so at least it seemed plausible that they would exist. A great deal of the scant records had been cryptic, with most of the text seeming more like the author was a fanatical believer worshipping a god, but he did glean some information about the entity.
This entity thrived on the fabric of existence itself, bending reality to its will. Its essence was both alien and primal, resonating with an eerie, oppressive hum that seemed to vibrate in one's very soul. It was not bound by mortal concepts of morality or individuality; it was a collective force, unified in its singular purpose to spread, to dominate, and to consume.
What truly got Voldemort fascinated was what the unknown author chronicled about the entity's association with Death. This entity was in direct opposition to the natural order. It was disorder given form. It was entropy made manifest. The crucial detail was that it was tied to the prophecy of the sorcerer fated to ascend beyond the gaze of the Heavens, beyond Death's grasp.
Voldemort had at last found the key to his throne among the gods, the one that would allow him to fulfill the two prophecies all at once. All that had remained was acquiring it, which was easier said than done
After exhaustive research and countless experiments, Voldemort perfected an experimental magical array, enhanced by his inherited technique, tearing a breach in the fabric of reality into a dimension of chaotic resonance. There, he encountered the entity — a vast, formless godlike being with the capacity to tear all of reality asunder, beneath only the highest of the heavens.
It had attempted to break free from its dimension, but Voldemort had anticipated such a move. The breach was designed solely for communication, ensuring he maintained safety from its power. He promised it freedom in exchange for the ability to invoke some of its immense power. The entity accepted the deal, thus crafting a pact that secured his interests.
Aware of its capacity to corrupt and dominate the minds of those under its influence, Voldemort chose one of his most loyal followers as the host for the power it gave him — a vessel contained and controlled to prevent any unforeseen consequences. With this forbidden power locked away, waiting for the opportune moment, Voldemort's confidence grew.
His triumph was now inevitable, for with this ace in the hole, he would soon rise to challenge even the heavens themselves.
Voldemort had laughed at the sheer absurdity of this boon in his privacy, and even now it rather amused him. How fortunate, how poetic, that the one whom the world shunned as a nobody, that the one forgotten by Fortune, would come to such a point where victory over the world was assured! Where all of the threads of Fate were woven together to ensure his triumph!
The Dark Lord thus consolidated all his forces, gathering them for what would be happening on this auspicious night, the night of Samhain — one of the four nights during which all realms and planes of existence were closest to one another. By midnight, as all of existence converged, all beings would witness his rise as a god!
Breaking free of his contemplations, the Dark Lord turned to see one of his followers, Phineas Parkinson, approaching. Phineas just so happened to be his wealthiest devotee, and the biggest financier of his campaign, thus earning him a place in the Dark Lord's inner circle. The Death Eater spoke once he was within earshot, bowing.
"My Lord," he said reverently. "Your forces are ready. They await your orders."
The Dark Lord closed his eyes for a moment, relishing those words. Finally, he thought, my ascension is nigh. He opened them one more, eyes burning with the fire of ambition and anxious ecstasy, yet remaining completely stoic.
"Have them remain standing by," the Dark Lord answered. "I shall give the signal for the massacre to begin."
"Yes, my lord," Parkinson responded, his face alight with murderous glee. He bowed humbly once more, then rose as left to go pass on his master's orders.
The Dark Lord turned his gaze toward the garden, his expression unreadable. With a subtle motion of his hand, he summoned his trump card — the vessel carrying the final key to his apotheosis. In an instant, a sharp crack echoed through the air as the Death Eater apparated to his side. The Dark Lord appraised him coolly.
"We depart," the Dark Lord said simply.
Severus Snape, hollow and withdrawn, inclined his head in a faint bow before he and his master Disapparated into the night.
Within the cold, silent halls of the manor, in a room overlooking the garden, a grand clock stood as the sole witness to their departure. Its hands ticked steadily onward, the time frozen in eerie stillness at precisely 11:30 PM, as though marking the moment with quiet, unspoken significance.
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Author here.
I've made a few huge changes to this chapter to explain something that I'm cooking up. I also tried to keep this POV as enlightening as possible without being too repetitive. Whatever else that is not clear will be explained later on in coming chapters.
I just wanted to add this, btw. For chapters going through certain characters' POVs, I try to limit the content to what the character would know, and I try to match the writing style with what I believe to be the personality of the character in question. So, yeah.
Ciao!