Nordaustlandet, Norway
The cold bit differently here.
Not the damp, creeping chill of Albania's forests, but something sharper. A cold that did not cling so much as cut, slicing through fabric, through skin, through bone, as if the air itself had no patience for weakness.
Barty welcomed it.
After more than a week of travelling, he found the stillness almost intoxicating.
The flying carpet dipped low over a barren stretch of ice-crusted rock, its motion steady but far slower than it was capable of. It had been… an irritating journey. Not difficult or particularly dangerous, but uncomfortably constrained.
He had been forced to make multiple rest stops. To adjust the cushioning charms again and again to ensure the woman remained stable and undisturbed.
A necessary inconvenience.
Still, as the familiar stretch of jagged coastline came into view, his focus sharpened at once.
There it was.
The tent that had been their base for the past couple months stood exactly where he had left it.
Barty's eyes narrowed slightly.
That… was unexpected.
He guided the carpet lower, the wind snapping at the edges of the enchanted fabric as it descended. The structure itself was unremarkable to any mundane observer; a weathered canvas tent, half-buried against the elements, its surface rimed with frost.
But the magic wrapped around it told a different story.
It was surrounded by layered wards. Precise and powerful.
Protection, concealment, misdirection.
All intact.
Barty stepped off the carpet as it settled against the frozen ground, his boots crunching softly on ice. For a moment, he simply stood there, looking at the tent.
He had expected more.
Durmstrang should have fallen by now and been turned into their new base.
His master did not delay without reason.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
Then, just as quickly, he dismissed it.
Perhaps there were complications. Perhaps there was strategy involved that he had not yet been made privy to.
It was not his place to question.
His place was to serve.
And he had brought something worth serving with.
A soft flick of his wand reinforced the Stasis around the woman lying upon the carpet. She remained perfectly still, her breathing shallow but steady beneath the layered enchantments.
Perfectly preserved, just as ordered.
"Let us hope," Barty murmured, almost thoughtfully, "that you prove worthy of the trouble."
"Trouble?" a voice drawled from ahead. "You look like you've taken a holiday."
Barty's gaze snapped forward.
Two figures stood before the tent entrance, their silhouettes dark against the pale expanse of ice and sky.
The Lestrange brothers.
Rabastan stood slightly forward, arms crossed, his expression already twisted into something unpleasant. Beside him, Rodolphus leaned with deceptive ease, though his eyes were sharp and watchful.
Rabastan's gaze dropped immediately to the carpet.
And then he sneered.
"Couldn't get a broom like a proper wizard?" he mocked.
Rodolphus's mouth curved into a quiet smirk.
Barty stared at them for a long moment.
Then he let out a short, humorless breath.
"And carry a pregnant witch two thousand miles on a thin stick?" he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "What are you, twelve?"
Rabastan's lip curled, but Barty did not give him time to respond.
His gaze flicked between them, taking in their position, their posture, the fact that they stood outside the tent like ornamental guards.
A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"And what," he added lightly, "are you two idiots standing guard out here for?"
Rodolphus's smirk faltered.
Rabastan's eyes narrowed.
"You know there are wards for that, don't you?" Barty continued, almost conversationally. "Or let me guess…"
He tilted his head slightly, studying their expressions.
"...you did or said something spectacularly stupid and were punished again."
There was a moment of silence.
And then…
The faintest flush crept up Rabastan's neck.
Rodolphus looked away for half a second too long.
Barty's smile sharpened.
"It's not your business," Rabastan growled.
Barty gave a soft chuckle.
"No," he agreed. "But it is amusing."
Rabastan took a step forward, but Barty's wand was in his hand before the movement had even fully begun, making him stop in place.
The tension snapped taut between them, thin as wire.
Then, deliberately, Barty broke it.
With a flick of his wrist, the carpet stirred.
The woman rose smoothly into the air, her unconscious form suspended as though weightless. The layered enchantments shimmered faintly as they adjusted to the movement, keeping her stable and protected from the cold.
Behind her, the carpet rolled itself with a soft whisper of fabric, tightening, shrinking, folding in on itself until it was no larger than a handkerchief.
With another flick it darted neatly into Barty's pocket.
He did not look away from the Lestrange brothers a single second as he did it.
"Now," he said, his voice cooling further, "if you'll excuse me…"
He gestured faintly toward the floating form behind him.
"I have an important delivery for our Lord."
That did it.
Whatever irritation, whatever pride had been pricked, both brothers stilled.
Their expressions shifted; not to respect, not quite, but to something closer to wary acknowledgment.
Rabastan's jaw tightened.
Rodolphus's smirk returned, though it was thinner now, more measured.
For all their arrogance, neither of them was foolish enough to interfere with something meant for their master.
They stepped aside reluctantly.
Barty inclined his head just enough to make the gesture ambiguous.
Not quite gratitude, and certainly not deference.
Then he moved forward.
The wards parted for him like a living thing, recognizing the magic woven into his mark, the authority he carried by association if not by rank.
As he crossed the threshold, the cold fell away at once and warmth replaced it.
The interior of the tent stretched far beyond what its exterior suggested, shadows pooling in high corners, dark wood furnishings arranged with deliberate austerity. The air hummed faintly with contained power, layered spells reinforcing every inch of the space.
And deeper within…
He felt it.
That presence.
Even stronger than before.
Barty's pulse quickened.
He guided the floating form of the woman forward, his steps measured and precise, every movement composed.
Whatever lay ahead, whatever his master had become in his absence, he would face it as he always did.
With perfect devotion.
And a performance worthy of reward.
…
Barty paused just outside the inner chamber, the warmth of the tent pressing softly against the lingering cold in his bones.
For a moment, he did nothing.
Then, with practiced precision, he straightened.
A subtle adjustment of his cuffs. A smoothing of his robes. His posture aligned, every inch of him settling into something controlled and deliberate, making sure to look presentable.
Only then did he step forward and allow the wards to brush against him.
They reacted instantly.
Recognition flared through the layered enchantments, a quiet pulse of magic passing through the threshold like a whisper announcing his arrival.
A heartbeat later, a voice answered from within.
"You may enter."
Barty's eye twitched.
Bellatrix.
Of course.
'Does that woman have nothing else to do-' he thought sharply, irritation flaring beneath his carefully composed exterior, '-but stand at his side all day long?'
The image came unbidden: her standing there, staring, watching, hanging on every movement like a lovestruck girl.
His jaw tightened.
That should have been him.
Bellatrix should have been the one sent out; running errands, executing orders, proving herself useful in the field, while he remained where he belonged.
At his master's right hand.
Where loyalty and competence were properly valued.
Not… that crazy witch with a b.
He cut the thought off cleanly.
Irrelevant.
Emotion was wasteful unless it served a purpose.
He exhaled once, steadying himself, and pushed the entrance aside.
The chamber beyond was dimly lit, the glow of contained magic replacing firelight. Shadows stretched long across the floor, broken only by the steady, golden illumination spilling from a single source near the center of the room.
A dark wood desk, completely immaculate.
And behind it…
Him.
Barty stopped just inside the threshold.
For a fraction of a second, he simply looked.
The figure seated there was young.
That was always the first impression. Too young. Composed, refined, almost aristocratic in bearing. Dark hair fell neatly into place, his posture relaxed as he leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand resting against the open pages of a book.
He looked… comfortable.
As though this were nothing more than a quiet evening of reading.
If one did not know…
If one had not seen, had not felt…
One would never guess that this was the Dark Lord who had once terrorized Britain.
The presence was there, though.
Not overwhelming. Not yet.
But sharp and focused, like a blade still being honed.
Barty felt it brush against him the moment he stepped fully inside, subtle but unmistakable.
And he lowered his gaze at once.
"My Lord," he said, voice smooth and reverent.
And to the side of the desk…
Just as expected…
Bellatrix Lestrange stood, rigid with attention.
Her posture was flawless, her expression rapt, her dark eyes fixed on their master with an intensity that bordered on worship. She did not so much as glance at Barty as he entered, as though nothing else in the room held any significance whatsoever.
Lovestruck, Barty thought with cold disdain.
Predictable.
Pathetic.
And yet…
His fingers twitched faintly at his side, but he immediately forced them still.
Focus.
He had not come here for her.
A soft sound broke the silence.
The turning of a page.
The young man behind the desk finished the line he was reading before closing the book with deliberate care, one finger resting lightly atop the cover as if marking his place.
Only then did he look up.
His gaze settled on Barty and sharpened.
There was nothing hurried in it. No immediate demand or theatrical display like the old Voldemort would have done.
Just complete and absolute attention.
"Well," he said at last, his voice calm and measured, carrying that same quiet authority that seemed to grow stronger with every passing moment, "you've finally returned."
There was a faint pause.
Then his eyes flicked briefly to the space just behind Barty, where the form of the woman hovered quietly.
Something like interest sparked in his eyes.
"You were successful, I trust?"
Barty inclined his head slightly, allowing just enough pride to edge into his tone without tipping into arrogance.
"Yes, my Lord."
With a subtle motion of his wand, the woman floated in front of him, her body perfectly still, breathing steady, her condition preserved with meticulous care.
For the first time since he had entered, Bellatrix moved.
Her gaze snapped toward the woman, sharp and assessing, curiosity flashing across her face before it smoothed once more into composed devotion.
Barty noticed.
Of course he did.
He noticed everything.
"I took the necessary precautions," he continued, his voice precise. "Her condition remains stable. No disruption to the… development."
The word felt inadequate, but it would suffice.
Silence followed.
The young Dark Lord rose slowly from his chair.
Even that simple movement carried a certain weight now, every gesture economical, as though he had already begun refining not just his power, but the way he occupied space itself.
He stepped around the desk and walked closer.
His gaze fixed fully on the woman now, studying her with an intensity that made the air feel thinner.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then…
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Excellent."
The word was soft.
But it landed with absolute certainty.
Barty felt a flicker of satisfaction ignite in his chest.
Recognition.
Approval.
This was exactly what he lived for.
At the side, Bellatrix drew a slow breath.
Barty did not turn to look… he did not need to.
He already knew the jealous expression on her face.
His lips almost curled into a pleased smirk, but he stopped before they could.
All that mattered now was that he had succeeded.
And that sooner or later…
There would be no question of who stood closest to their master's side.
…