The impostor.
Barty could not think of the creature by any other name.
He moved through the damp undergrowth with silent precision, boots barely disturbing the forest floor, his wand loose in his hand, his senses stretched thin across the darkness. Albania was a wretched place for this sort of work, too wild and unstructured. Magic lingered here in strange pockets, old and feral, nothing like the disciplined currents of Britain or the austere control of the North.
The impostor, Barty thought with a sneer curling his lip, had sent him here on a task that reeked of desperation.
A pregnant woman.
Not just any woman. A witch. And not merely a witch, but one carrying a magically viable child.
Even thinking the words filled him with quiet contempt.
This… shade… this wraith that dared call itself the Dark Lord issued commands like a scavenger picking at scraps. There was no presence, no overwhelming force, none of the suffocating power that had once filled every room his true master entered. That power had weight. It pressed against the lungs. It demanded obedience before a word was even spoken.
This thing?
It hid in the shadows and whispered.
Barty's grip tightened slightly around his wand.
Nothing like his real master, who exuded power with every breath.
A branch snapped somewhere in the distance, making him freeze.
He listened carefully, but nothing followed. Just the restless sigh of wind through leaves and the distant, hollow call of something nocturnal. Not human. Not magical, either. Just a common animal.
He moved again.
Weeks.
He had spent weeks combing through this miserable country, drifting from village to village, from isolated cottages to hidden enclaves of magic, tracking rumors, following faint magical signatures, questioning when necessary and erasing memories when convenient.
And still, nothing suitable.
Plenty of witches. A few families. Even whispers of pregnancies. But nothing that met the precise, irritating criteria the impostor had demanded.
Too early. Too uncertain. Too weak.
It was maddening.
His thoughts drifted, as they so often did, northward.
To Norway.
His jaw clenched.
His real master would be there now. Of course he would. Advancing, conquering, bending the world into something worthy of his vision. Durmstrang would not have resisted for long. They prided themselves on strength, on tradition, on power… but what were such things in the face of true greatness?
Barty could almost see it.
The cold stone halls. The banners torn down. The students and staff alike kneeling, or broken.
And at the center of it all…
Him.
Radiant, terrible, and utterly perfect.
A flicker of something sharp and unpleasant cut through Barty's chest.
He should have been there.
He should have stood at his master's side, wand raised, executing his will with precision and devotion. Instead, he was here, crawling through mud and fog at the command of a pale imitation.
Worse still, others remained behind.
A bunch of incompetent baboons, he thought with open disdain.
And her.
Bellatrix.
His mouth twisted.
That madwoman would be circling their master like a vulture dressed in silk, whispering, performing, trying to carve out favor in his absence. She had always been… enthusiastic. Devoted, certainly, but unstable. Unpredictable.
Dangerous in the wrong ways.
Barty exhaled slowly through his nose.
No.
He would not allow it.
He would complete this task. Quickly, efficiently, and flawlessly. And then he would return. Let that bitch Bellatrix posture all she liked in the meantime. When he came back with results, real results, there would be no question of where true loyalty and competence lay.
Ahead, through a break in the trees, he spotted a faint glow.
A house.
Small and isolated. A thin ribbon of smoke curled from the chimney, barely visible against the night sky.
Barty stilled, lowering himself slightly, eyes narrowing as he reached out with his magic.
There he felt a presence. Faint, but unmistakable.
Not just one, but two.
His pulse sharpened.
Slowly, carefully, he began to circle, keeping to the shadows, probing gently, testing the edges of the magic within. The signature was muddled, layered, but there was something there, something promising.
At last.
He allowed himself a thin, humorless smile.
If this proved suitable, then perhaps this miserable detour would not have been a complete waste of his time.
And if not…
His gaze hardened, fixed on the dimly lit window.
Then he would adapt, like he always did.
Because in the end, there was only one thing that mattered.
The will of his true master.
And he would see it fulfilled, no matter what stood in his way.
…
The approach took time.
Barty did not rush.
He circled the small house twice, then a third time more slowly, mapping every flicker of magic, every weak point in the wards. They were… adequate. Enough to deter casual intrusion. Enough to give a false sense of safety.
But definitely not enough to stop him.
A faint, almost bored expression crossed his face as he raised his wand.
A whisper of counter-magic slipped from him, thin and precise, unraveling the outermost layer of protection without so much as a ripple. Then he waited for a reaction, to see if the break in the wards had been noticed.
But nothing happened.
Inside, the two presences remained steady.
One stronger. Alert, though not alarmed.
And the other…
Much softer.
Faint, but distinct.
Barty's lips curled and whispered, "there you are."
He moved to the door.
No theatrics. Just a quiet unlocking charm and the softest push inward.
The house smelled of herbs and smoke. A low fire burned in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across simple wooden furniture. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars, bundles of dried plants, and small magical trinkets.
A healer, perhaps. Or something close to it.
How fortunate.
She turned the moment he stepped inside, her wand already in her hand.
"Who…"
She didn't get any further.
Barty's curse struck clean and fast.
Her body locked mid-motion, eyes wide, voice cut off as the magic seized her completely. The wand slipped from her frozen fingers and hit the floor with a dull clatter.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling fire.
Barty tilted his head, studying her.
Early thirties, perhaps. Strong magical signature. Not exceptional, but stable. And more importantly…
He stepped closer, extending his senses again, this time without restraint.
Yes, there it was.
He exhaled slowly, satisfaction settling into his bones.
"Finally," he murmured.
Her eyes burned with fury, locked onto his face, but her body refused to obey her. She could see. She could hear, but she could do nothing at all.
Barty bent, retrieving her wand, then gave the room one last cursory glance before turning back to her.
"You will come with me," he said lightly, as though discussing something trivial. "You should consider it an honor. You are to serve a… rather important purpose."
Her expression twisted, terror breaking through the anger.
Good.
With a flick of his wand, he lifted her effortlessly, her rigid form hovering just above the floor.
The fire sputtered behind them as he left the door open.
He did not bother closing it.
…
The cave stank of damp stone, rot, and something far worse.
Barty stepped inside without hesitation, the woman suspended behind him, her unmoving form casting a long shadow along the jagged walls. Water dripped somewhere deeper within, slow and irregular, echoing like a heartbeat gone wrong.
At the far end of the cavern, something shifted.
A low, wet sound.
Then the faint scrape of scales against rock.
Barty stopped and inclined his head slightly.
"My Lord," he said, voice smooth and respectful.
From the darkness, the snake emerged.
Its body slid forward in a sinuous motion, pale and unnatural in the dim light, its eyes gleaming with an intelligence that did not belong to any ordinary creature.
The air itself seemed to tighten as the snake's head lifted, its gaze sliding past Barty and settling on the woman.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then a voice, cold and thin as a blade, spoke from the creature's mouth.
"Ah…"
A pause.
"Perfect."
Barty allowed himself the smallest flicker of satisfaction.
"She is three months along," the voice continued, almost contemplative now. "Just before the soul finishes settling."
The snake's tongue flicked out once, tasting the air.
"Yes… yes, this will do nicely."
The woman's eyes were wild now, darting between Barty and the creature, understanding dawning far too quickly.
Barty felt a thrill coil through him.
To witness this. To be part of it.
Even this pale imitation of his master still commanded something… fascinating.
The snake turned its head then, slowly and deliberately, until its gaze fixed on him.
Barty dropped to one knee at once.
The cold stone bit through his robes, but he did not move, he didn't even dare to breathe.
"Before I am reborn," the voice said, quieter now, more focused, "you will take proper care of her."
The words carried weight. Not the overwhelming force of his true master… but enough.
"Ensure she receives the necessary nutrition and protection."
There was a faint pause before he added.
"Nothing can go wrong."
Barty bowed his head lower.
"As you wish, Master," he said, voice perfectly measured, threaded with reverence and submission.
Outwardly flawless.
But inwardly…
He smiled.
Not on his face. Never there. But in the privacy of his own mind, sharp and satisfied.
A masterful performance.
Let the creature believe in his devotion. Let it think him loyal, obedient, indispensable. It served a purpose, for now.
Because every step of this miserable task brought him closer to where he truly belonged.
Back to Norway.
Back to power.
Back to his real master.
Above him, the snake watched in silence, carefully measuring its future vessel… and the man kneeling before it.
…