The chamber held its breath.
Tom moved without haste, circling the suspended woman as one might circle a problem already half-solved. The faint glow of layered enchantments clung to her like a second skin, soft pulses of magic rising and falling in careful rhythm. Each step he took was measured, precise, his attention narrowing, not on her, but on what lay within.
He stopped at her side, his gaze settled on her abdomen.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he reached out, not with his hand, but with something far more subtle.
Magic.
It slid from him in thin, searching threads, brushing against the protective layers Barty had placed, slipping between them without disturbing so much as a breath. He probed deeper, past flesh, past form…
And found it, right there.
It was faint, incomplete.
But unmistakable.
Just a tiny fragment, but it was the last piece of his soul.
The corner of his mouth almost lifted.
Almost.
He stilled it at once.
Control, always.
'So this is how far you made it,' he thought, his mind cool and analytical. 'Clinging, persisting, reduced to this…'
A flicker of irritation passed through him.
The lost Horcruxes.
Gone.
Destroyed.
Each one a piece of power, of potential; wasted through ignorance, carelessness, or the interference of others. Even now, he could feel their absence like missing limbs, phantom echoes of what should have been whole.
Without them…
His gaze darkened slightly.
No.
He dismissed the thought.
There is nothing magic cannot solve.
Only problems not yet understood.
Only answers not yet found.
And time…
Time he had plenty.
His attention returned to the child within the womb.
The faint pull remained, subtle but undeniable, like gravity bending ever so slightly toward him.
Yes.
This would do.
He withdrew his magic slowly and carefully, leaving everything exactly as it had been.
Then, at last, he turned, his eyes settling on Barty.
"Well done," he said.
Barty's reaction was immediate.
A flicker of triumph crossed his face, too quick for most to notice, but not for Tom. His eyes slid, just for a fraction of a second, toward Bellatrix, smugness sharpening his expression…
Then it vanished, replaced by perfect composure.
He inclined his head, voice smooth and controlled.
"I was merely following your orders, My Lord."
Tom watched him.
Interesting.
There was a hesitation then. Subtle, but present.
"But…" Barty continued, carefully, "what do you need that wraith for? It is nothing but a sad imitation of your greatness."
There was a pause.
Then, as though realizing the weight of his own words…
"I apologise. It is not my place to question you."
He dropped to one knee without being told, head lowered.
"I will accept any punishment."
Stillness followed.
Bellatrix's lips curved up.
There was anticipation in her posture, a barely contained eagerness, her dark eyes fixed on Barty with something dangerously close to delight.
Waiting.
Expecting.
Hoping.
Tom noticed.
Of course he did.
And for a moment… he said nothing.
He let the silence stretch, let the expectation build.
Then…
He chuckled, soft and amused.
Bellatrix blinked in disbelief.
Barty did not move.
"You need not fear me, Barty," Tom said lightly. "I am not the same Voldemort you served all those years ago."
That made them both look up.
Confusion flickered across their faces.
Tom stepped away from the woman, moving back toward his desk with unhurried ease. He did not sit immediately. Instead, he rested a hand lightly against the wood, considering them.
They were watching him now.
Fully.
Attentively.
Exactly as they should.
They were not wrong to fear him, he thought. Fear is… efficient. It ensures obedience. It simplifies matters.
His gaze drifted briefly toward Bellatrix.
However…
It is not the only tool available.
He looked between them.
They were his most devoted followers. His most trusted sla… subordinates.
Tom allowed himself the smallest inward amusement.
Trust.
Such a fragile concept.
Such a useful one.
He trusted no one, Tom thought, almost idly. And in doing so, limited himself.
A mistake he would not repeat.
So…
He would give them something.
Not everything.
Never everything.
But just enough.
"I believe," he said aloud, "that a certain degree of understanding may be… beneficial."
Bellatrix leaned forward ever so slightly.
Barty remained perfectly still, but his attention sharpened.
Tom was pleased.
And so, he began.
"When I first split my soul," he said, his tone calm, almost conversational, "I was… young."
"Foolish, perhaps."
Bellatrix's eyes widened just a fraction.
Barty did not react.
"Those were troubled times," Tom continued. "A world war. Bombs falling over London. Chaos, uncertainty… death, at any moment."
His gaze grew distant, not with emotion, but with recollection.
"You must understand," he said, "I was not… well protected."
A faint edge entered his voice.
"Despite my lineage, despite being a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, I was abandoned in a Muggle orphanage."
The word Muggle carried quiet disdain.
"During school holidays, I was forced to return there. No wards. No protection. A place where a bomb could fall at any moment."
Bellatrix's expression twisted, outrage flaring in her eyes, but she said nothing, not wanting to interrupt her Master's monologue.
Tom noticed and nodded subtly in approval.
"I attempted to remain at Hogwarts," he went on. "It was the logical choice."
"But Armando Dippet disagreed."
He paused briefly to watch their reactions.
Barty's gaze had not wavered. If anything, it had deepened.
He didn't show pity or sympathy.
Instead, his gaze was filled with admiration. He was in awe of his master, who had gone from a simple orphan into (in his mind) the greatest Dark Lord the world had ever seen.
Tom continued smoothly.
"So I created my first Horcrux. A book. A… precaution."
His fingers tapped lightly against the desk.
"I did not yet understand the consequences. I saw it as insurance. A way to ensure survival."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"An understandable desire."
Then…
"But it was a mistake."
The words landed without hesitation.
Bellatrix stiffened.
Barty did not move.
"Splitting the soul…" Tom said softly, "does not strengthen it."
A pause.
"It fragments it."
His gaze sharpened.
"It distorts. It unbalances. It leaves behind… the worst aspects of oneself."
The room seemed quieter now.
He let that settle.
"I continued," he said. "Splitting my soul again and again. Each time believing I was securing my immortality."
His voice did not rise, did not falter.
"Instead… I was eroding it."
A small silence followed.
Then:
"And the end result…" His eyes flicked briefly toward the woman. "…is what you see before you."
Understanding dawned slowly.
Bellatrix's fascination deepened, something almost reverent in her expression. She had always thought her Master was perfect, but now he's telling her that perfection was only a fragment of himself? Meaning he's now beyond perfection itself.
As for Barty…
He looked enthralled.
Satisfied with their expressions, Tom went on.
"I," he said, "was the first piece to be separated."
A slight tilt of his head.
"The largest, placed inside a diary."
A faint glint entered his eyes.
"I found a way to return. By drawing upon the life force of those who wrote within it."
His tone remained matter-of-fact.
"As the most complete fragment… my mind was clearer."
More stable.
More…
Whole.
"I investigated," he continued. "I learned what had become of the others."
A pause.
"And I understood."
His voice lowered slightly.
"The flaw was not in the idea of immortality."
His gaze hardened.
"It was in the execution."
Silence pressed in around them.
"Splitting the soul divides not only power… but identity," he said. "What remained in the original body was not perfection."
A faint, almost cold amusement touched his expression.
"It was decay."
Barty inhaled slowly.
Bellatrix did not move at all.
"And so," Tom said, "I corrected the mistake."
He straightened slightly.
"I began to reclaim those fragments."
His eyes flicked once more toward the woman.
"And now… only one remains."
The meaning settled.
Bellatrix's lips parted slightly, awe overtaking even her usual fervor.
Barty's expression shifted into something sharper.
Understanding.
Excitement.
"Excuse me, My Lord," he said, his voice steady but charged, "but how do you intend to extract the final piece of your soul from the child?"
A beat.
Then, without hesitation…
"Do you require me to remove it?"
His gaze flicked to the woman as though he would open her where she floated without a second thought.
Tom watched him, and was pleased with what he saw.
Good.
Very good.
Devotion.
Not blind.
But willing.
He had chosen well.
He allowed a soft chuckle to escape him.
"That will not be necessary," he said.
Barty stilled immediately.
Tom's tone remained calm.
"I will prepare a ritual in the coming days."
His fingers tapped once more against the desk.
"Igor is already gathering the required ingredients."
At the name, something faint and unpleasant flickered through the air; implication, history, things best left unspoken.
Tom's gaze returned to the woman, then to the space within her.
"To take it by force now," he continued lightly, "would be… inefficient."
His eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful.
"The soul must first settle. Stabilize."
He allowed a faint smile to show.
"Ripeness matters."
The words lingered, cold and deliberate.
"So we will wait," he concluded.
Silence followed, heavy and anticipatory.
…
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