Lord Voldemort SI

Sitting in the void is very boring. I used to be bothered by nightmares. I often dreamed that I came back and all the Death Eaters were hanging from the gallows. I would laugh at this, but I am a wizard. What if these are prophetic dreams? But I will still laugh: I do not believe in prophecies. As soon as I made myself a bed with the function of viewing memories in a dream in the fourth month, the dreams stopped tormenting me. True, to do this, I had to disassemble one of the dummies of the Elder Wand—no one can make an artifact from transfigured material.

I tried almost everything except for guaranteed suicide. There were attempts to move myself or Nagaina, Nagaina alone; I called house-elves, made portals, sent a Patronus and Antipatronus, turned into a form of pure mind (the disembodied spirit of the Dark Lord in the void), tried to reach my "horcruxes"... and much more. It did not work; the cage is flawless. I did not feel the channel of feeding my picture-curse. I achieved magical exhaustion and did not emit magical energy—to no avail. During my entire existence here, the world has not shrunk an inch. I tried to break the barrier—to no avail. In the sixth month, I thought about transfiguring a nuclear bomb and detonating it at the edge of the prison, being at the opposite edge. But, soberly assessing my chances of survival, I decided to abandon the detonation of the already transfigured charge. But I have no guarantee that there are no other barriers beyond this sphere! I still have some completely crazy ideas. For example, turning into magical energy and getting the hell out of here. But that's impossible because wizards have never found an elementary particle of magic. And even if it were possible, there would be a question of how to get back together. The problem is that classical approaches turned out to be powerless. Let's say you climbed into someone's bag with an expansion of space. This "extended space" is limited— that's right, by the material of the bag itself. And if this edge is seriously damaged, you will either die when the space shrinks to its previous level, or you will have time to escape. The simplest analogy is an inflated balloon that is pierced by a bullet. If you manage to escape from the balloon before the bullet reaches the opposite wall—you will survive; if not... you will shrink together with the balloon as many times as the coefficient of expansion of space was. But here the walls are wrong! Moreover, judging by indirect signs, time flows differently here, faster... And no matter how much you mess around with the Invisible Extension Charm, you can't change time! Trying to check the correctness of my thoughts, I made an Invisible Extension on the pocket of my robe—an ordinary spatial pocket, and not the horror where I am. Now I felt like a calculator trying to divide by zero. In the eighth month of trying to get out or establish a connection, it dawned on me: the exit must be in the same place as the entrance! But at least from the inside, I destroyed everything—that's why Albus couldn't shake me out of here: the connection signal with the painting disappeared. And in order to get out of here, I must achieve the previous signal level. That is, I need to restore everything destroyed as it was, and then look for a way out. I measured my little world. An ideal sphere with a radius of 360 meters. Is that a lot or a little? This means that its volume is about 195 million cubic meters... Scary numbers; I personally prefer 0.2 cubic kilometers. How to restore everything? The answer suggested itself—transfiguration. But by the time I conjured the last item, the first ones would have already disintegrated! So, I need an eternal transfiguration. Now all that's left is to fill this volume. I destroyed all the contents of the little world in less than a minute; how long will it take me to restore it? If you think about it, it's not that much: less than the volume of Hogwarts Lake. And the second good news is that half of this volume is air. And two cubic meters of earth and two cubic meters of air are completely different work because when transfiguring the inanimate, the mass is critical first, and then the shape. I also didn't like that the idea was initially based on an assumption. But there was nothing else left. The situation was complicated by the fact that I decided to do all this with an eternal transfiguration—paradoxically, with such volumes, it's better to invest well once than to spend money on periodic support of the transfiguration. I calculated how much time it would take if I did an eternal transfiguration from nothing (or rather, from my magical energy). Too much; I won't live that long. But simply eternal transfiguration from something existing gave a chance to cope in an acceptable time. Especially if you transfigure something and then increase its volume. And transfiguration will be easier if you do it from something that was a part of you—ideally—blood. And before transfiguration, this something also needs to be increased in volume... If I figured everything out correctly... it will take about six years! I almost threw Cruciatus at Nagini. If you count two cubic meters per grave—it will be enough to bury the whole of Great Britain, not magical, but Muggle, with a reserve. How I don't want to start... But I have to—after all, even attempts to reach my "horcruxes" ended in nothing. I began to implement my crazy plan. In the center of my little world now hung a ball of my blood, the volume of two glasses. It was constantly decreasing in size, and I periodically renewed it, but as a result, I got a gravity of 0.01 Earth's for the whole world—so that the transfigured objects would not fly apart. I managed to brew a blood-forming potion and a potion that accelerated the growth of hair and nails from the conjured water, fragments of my body, and the body of my familiar. I increased the volume of blood, hair, nails, waste products, and transfigured them into soil and laid it in a sphere. I never liked fiction. In books, you can easily write: I haven't eaten for a week or the shelling continued all day. But it's one thing to lie under shelling all day, and another to write about it. I cursed Dumbledore, used transfigured mannequins in his form for training... But the volume of this cursed sphere began to fill up. Although I'm lying to myself—it filled up very slowly; I just really wanted to get out of here. I reminded myself of a prisoner who scratches a wooden door with his nails from the inside. But it turned out funny—this world will be created approximately one-tenth of... I hope that I will not see the birth of life here. Alas, almost all the magical energy went to work. I only kept in shape a little, so as not to rust. So I mostly did things that couldn't distract me from transfiguration and couldn't destroy matter: I trained metamorphism on myself. First, I managed to master the appearance of the former Tom Riddle—a crocodile man. Then I figured out the appearance of Elena and Dumbledore. By the eighth month of confinement, I began working on the "combat body" that the Lestranges had developed for me; fortunately, with my memory and mental magic, it was difficult to forget anything at all.

And then it happened. I seriously wanted to celebrate it, but I didn't know how. I regularly sent signals to the Death Eaters and listened to signals from them. Alas, I couldn't play the signal at a different speed. More precisely, I could, but slowing it down or speeding it up a couple of times didn't yield anything. Most of all, I was hoping for Malfoy's mark with extended functionality. In theory, it could transmit visual information to Lucius's brain. But no matter how much I concentrated on the pictures, I couldn't transmit anything to Malfoy. But news came from the side of ordinary marks. When identical signal sequences began to come from Bellatrix, the Lestranges, and half of the Inner Circle Death Eaters, I assumed that it meant something. After a couple of days of work, I managed to recognize in this the simplest cipher on something like binary code. A couple of weeks later, varying the "call - no call" sequence at different intervals, I was able not only to receive information but also to transmit it. I shouted to my people. It was a success! The good news did not end there. I managed to find out from my servants how long they had been looking for me. What can I say... Albus's artificial world was shaken by laughter that Tom Riddle could envy. Less than two days! I was able to establish experimentally that time here goes 153 times faster! Now it is clear why I failed to send the images to Malfoy—to transmit the image, he and I must concentrate synchronously, and how can this be done if his second of concentration is equal to 153 of mine? The brain of a mental wizard of any level will not cope with this. Think slower? Think slower, think slower?! How is that? But what to do next? Tell my people that I am somewhere unknown in an indestructible spatial pocket? So that my people will immediately chip in for my wake and go to Albus's queue to surrender? After thinking about it, I decided not to order my men to fix everything with the Time-Turner: even if they save me, I will get into the painting next time, and it is not a fact that it will be without witnesses. This is if we assume that I will believe someone from the future that Albus will defeat me with the help of the painting. Therefore, I said that I urgently went to look for some artifact that will neutralize the Elder Wand of Albus Dumbledore. And I need advice on spatial magic—the item was hidden so cleverly! I will return soon, within a month. But what if I really return? A month there—fifteen years here. Having talked with Edward and the others using successive burnings, I approved of his policy and told the others to listen to him. I instructed Edward to look for how to get something out of a spatial pocket whose binding was destroyed from the inside and outside. At the same time, the pocket itself was created using Dark Magic with the copying of elements of the Mirror of Erised, and then Albus Dumbledore modified it with the Elder Wand. Poor Edward... Okay, if there are questions, I'll lie and say I went to get Albus Dumbledore's Horcrux. Although what questions could there be for me when I get back? Crucio and no questions. So while I'm making a binding from inside the little world—a picture with spells, I told the Death Eaters to make a binding from the outside, but I didn't explain why and what was inside—me. To put it simply, they needed to draw the same picture as there was. And cast the same, or at least similar, spells on it. And then I'll try to magically convince reality that the picture the Death Eaters have and the picture here are the same thing, enter the picture here and exit the picture there. And restore the little world for the sake of the previous signal level. It's crazy, but it's roughly similar to a fireplace connection or a through mirror. I can imagine the degree of amazement of Edward and Malfoy—the Lord ran off to God knows where, and now demands that we draw him a picture; otherwise, he refuses to come back. But most of all, I was amazed by Bella: she admitted that she opened my safe and found the founders' items. And she couldn't think of anything smarter than trying to feed Tom's diary to wizards! Against this background, the question: "Did you really go for the Amulet of Slytherin or the Third Deathly Hallow?" was no longer valid. I immediately told her to hide everything as it was. I didn't even know what to think about feeding the "horcrux" to wizards. In theory, this should lead to the downloading of the consciousness of the part of the soul that lives there and its partial embodiment. Only there is no personality left there, so I don't know what will happen. I'll see when I get back. I was told that the attempt to capture the Muggle who was painting the picture ended in failure, but there were no losses in the Inner Circle. And then the problems began—no one, not even my house-elves and Bella, saw the picture that needed to be painted. I had to explain that they had to paint it with a sequence of binary signals. It was not easy: I conjured a copy of the picture here from memory, drew a grid of coordinates on it, assigned each color its own code, and started sending it. I wonder if they can at least do something similar? No, I had no doubt that they would draw the image, but how could they repeat the spells of my authorship? But I don't know; I can only guess what Albus did with the picture. I drew the same picture inside the artificial world while the Death Eaters were making the picture outside. More precisely, I didn't draw—neither Tom nor I knew how to draw, although Tom was good at drawing, mostly runes. I simply copied from the conjured picture to the new one. But since it is pointless to make an artifact and an amulet from conjured materials, my clothes (now I walked around in a transfigured one) and another magic wand (I made a thin layer of paper from the wood of the magic wand) went on the canvas of the picture, and I obtained paints through chemical reactions (with magical catalysts) from myself. Now the list of things I hate will be supplemented by one more item—painting. The damned Muggle would have drawn the Black Sphere like a student of Malevich! No, let me draw different trees! I wish he'd died along with Dumbledore! I really wanted to use the time I was given to become stronger, but it didn't work. There's no testing ground here, no lab assistants under Imperius for dangerous experiments, there is no material, and almost all my energy and time are directed to finding a way out, and the rest is on maintaining my life: air regeneration, maintaining gravity, etc. Therefore, no matter how long I sit here, I will not come out as a new death machine, but at best, I will have worked out several techniques. Okay, if a Muggle got here, he would be completely helpless. Although, if a Muggle got here, maybe it is only for wizards? I also had the idea of leaving this spatial pocket for myself after I get out. But how? It will almost certainly collapse as soon as I leave. Hide the Horcrux here? I'm afraid—what if I lose the inheritance or it mutates? I am all for experiments, but not on myself. I know these "new methods": it's good if one time out of ten they work as they should.

Again and again I worked. Take hair or something else, increase its volume. Transfigure into soil. Increase the soil in the volume of a sphere. Lie down to rest, training metamorphism with the remains of magic. Repeat several tens of thousands of times until victory. What can I say—I am definitely not the heir of Slytherin. First, due to my stupidity, I got into the picture that I myself gave to the enemy. Now I atone for the mistake with my work. I work better than ten Hufflepuffs. I will have to steal the Sorting Hat and see what it says about me. I think it will say: "Hufflepuff!" After about two months of work, I noticed that transfiguration was becoming a little easier for me. I demanded reports from Edward, Bella, Malfoy, and Rookwood four times a day, according to their time. On the third day of my absence in the real world, Dumbledore raided our concentration camp. Edward wasn't able to gather everyone quickly without the mark, or maybe someone was delayed... In short, my guys managed to demonstrate the hundred and first technique of a battle mage—escape. But Dumbledore managed to save a bunch of people and cover all the equipment. His popularity skyrocketed. Rowley was put on the wanted list. Of all the explanations, the most plausible is that Dumbledore somehow senses death. As if that weren't enough, Scrimgeour also showed character: the Travers and Yaxley families once supported Grindelwald, so the Ministry, fearing a relapse, decided to forget about the presumption of innocence and put them in a pretrial detention center and look for the mark until the end of the civil war. Travers sat down, and when they found the mark, he shouted that he was under the Imperius, but recently the phrase "I was under the Imperius" has become a synonym for "I fooled you all beautifully." Yaxley managed to escape from the Aurors; he is now officially wanted. Of course, not everything is so smooth: the Minister of Magic has put fifteen innocent people in jail. But this means that I should not linger... Also, unknown persons have begun to spread rumors that the Dark Lord was wounded in a fight with Dumbledore and is temporarily incapacitated. Against this background, the record losses of werewolves and giants are a trifle. No, the bribed press in England and its neighbors howled. The government was accused of tyranny and extrajudicial killings. An ocean of slop and a lake from above were poured on the Aurors. Some in the international arena pretended to believe it. Belgium began non-aggression negotiations with the Death Eaters, and France announced the recall of Aurors from vacation. Magical England was inundated with notes of protest, and new parties of werewolves rushed into the country—to take revenge. Three days there—a year and a half here. I have already made a decent amount of soil. I painted a picture and began enchanting it. I ruined the blank for the painting and started making a new painting. This time I used a wand for "lawful magic" on the canvas. I don't want to make mistakes in the future—I only have Elena's wavy wand and Frank Longbottom's cherry one, and if I'm left without wands, I'll be doing magic tens of times slower... That is, I'll never get out of here unless the world itself collapses with Albus's death. Now I'm brewing potions. Potion-making is a delicate thing. You mix your magical energy with the magic of the ingredients and get a "liquid spell." Something between a spell and artefactology, much slower than regular magic, but unlike artefactology, it is always disposable. Hypothetically, you can brew anything from anything. Only when acting with such an algorithm does it quickly become clear that either an infinite amount of magical energy or an infinite number of ingredients is needed. Therefore, everyone, except for crazy researchers who can cook for a year, brews according to a recipe. If it is really necessary, they develop a composition for a potion with the desired effect. With me, everything was the other way around—I start from the list of ingredients, which also includes transfigured laboratory glassware: cauldrons, spoons, etc. It was hellish, but in three years I learned to brew three old potions in a new way. First, the hematopoietic one, which costs seventeen times more magic than the standard one and takes three times longer to brew. At the same time, it is no better than the standard one. But I do not regret it—without it, the work would have gone much slower. Second, the stimulating potion. I always felt like I was on a shock dose of coffee. Third, the potion for fixing the transfiguration, which I used as a coating. This one did not live up to my expectations. No, it worked well, but its volumes were very small, and it practically did not affect anything. While working, the day came that I decided to celebrate—two years since I was here. From the ingredients at hand, I brewed a special potion—it tasted like terrible slop, but it gave the effect of intoxication; the main thing is not to drink too much. I had to drink it with my taste buds turned off—otherwise, I would vomit. And this is not surprising: the potion, among other things, included my bile. No, Tom had a lot of experience cutting people into ingredients, but the idea of using himself as an ingredient under partial anaesthesia never occurred to him. I am not prone to self-reflection, but today I was thinking. Did I do everything right? No, it is obvious that Tom did not need to make Horcruxes but to prove that he is white and fluffy and strive for power relatively peacefully (not forgetting about mental magic). Ideally, he would become a student of Dumbledore or Flamel; if they refuse, he could gain authority in the Ministry and, having become Minister of Magic, order Alison to conduct the necessary research. Completely legal. A political marriage also made sense. With someone from the old aristocracy, who has money, influence, and information. Paradoxically, the Blacks would have been best suited. Tom failed in all this. The state will now have to be brought to its knees before it can be used—and that will take years, and then more years of pulling it out of the ruins and catching partisans. Dumbledore won't tell me anything under torture, but if Tom had returned from his travels cheerful, tanned, with a bunch of children, the head of the "Eaters of Muggle Food" club, then Albus would have at least thought about it. With Flamel, things are tough—it's as if he died after the Second World War. I tried to contact him in a couple of unusual ways, but even if the messages reached him, he remains silent. Marriage... Marriage means money, influence, and allies. Now the Black line can be considered almost extinct: one old woman and one blood traitor. But fifteen years ago, everything was different: several powerful wizards and four of their promising descendants. On October 31, 1981, I faced a new choice. But there was no choice: there were so many corpses on me that the death penalty was guaranteed. Say that it wasn't me? They won't believe me; they'll blame it on memory correction or schizophrenia. Although Albus could have been kind enough to imprison me. Run? That means a guaranteed loss—they'll find me. I could have tried to deprive myself of magic; then it would have been harder to find me, but the criminal code of magical Britain does not state that deprivation of magical powers exempts from liability.

So the situation is simple—either you turn into dust, or they do. Fortunately, there is a chance to win; even Hagrid's Legilimency showed that he believes that "You-Know-Who wins." There is only one problem: how did the chain of correct actions lead me here?—To a speedy return, Nagini!—I raised a vial of a potion that caused the effect of intoxication. The next morning my head ached—a hangover was natural. I got back to my work. It was incredibly boring. News from the outside world added variety. Edward said that Snape and Elena were conducting some rituals. I ordered not to interfere. If I did not return within a week of their time—they would die. But if Snape is different "from the flock of sheep that usually come to my lessons," he will work with the homunculi on his own. And he will stun Lily and work on her. No, it won't cancel the oath, but instead of instant death, you'll rot alive for a couple of weeks. If I come back not too late, they'll survive. Karkaroff showed incredible zeal and got a job as the headmaster of Durmstrang, as I ordered. And now he won't leave Durmstrang and says he's busy. Smart; formally he's fulfilling the will of the Lord—Mordred with what the failing mark shows, and if the purges start, they'll get to him last. I'll have to crucify him when I come back. Days dragged on; once a week, I received a list of destroyed shelters and killed or imprisoned ordinary members of the organization. Hopes that while I'm here, Tlautlipuzli will devour all my enemies did not come true. There was only one good news: my transfiguration skill had improved. Tom had nowhere to grow in terms of Dark Magic, but there was progress in transfiguration, with such practice. The fact that I would get out before the planned six years was good, but what should I do with it? Transform myself into Dumbledore, put a phoenix on my shoulder, and go cast Crucio on Sirius Black? Why? After twenty-nine months here, I managed to hone my new fighting body to an acceptable level. No, I couldn't break a crowbar with my hands or kill with a look. Outwardly, I looked like a rather ugly flat-faced humanoid, but internally—ligaments, bones, muscles, joints—I was very different from an ordinary person. My head turned better than an owl's; there were many more joints on my arms and legs. But the most pleasing thing was my fingers—they had no joints; they were like octopus tentacles. Now I could hold a magic wand with one finger. And if you consider that there are seven fingers on each hand, then the speed of wielding the wand exceeded all imaginable limits. With such hands, you could become the best pianist in the world. And since this body is made by metamorphism, the cost of maintaining it with magic is very small. The only bad thing is that there were no skills to use this body. And when I transformed back to my previous form, I bumped into walls because of the change in viewing angle. And I dropped my wand a couple of times—it's inconvenient when you first have seven fingers, and a minute later—five. In the thirty-first month of my stay, I achieved a great result—I filled the artificial world halfway. This is a real success because half of the work done is soil. And what remains is mainly air. Soon it was the third year of my imprisonment. I did not celebrate it—the path to freedom glimmered before me. Now my house was hovering above the ground. Soon I managed to develop a spell for the transfiguration of three-dimensional models of plants. Then I made a lighthouse building. With air, it was quite simple, although it was difficult for me to convince Nagini not to breathe it and fly in a protective sphere. Three years and hope is almost real! I was lucky—I did not take into account that when using transfiguration, I would progress in it, and therefore worked faster than scheduled. For this anniversary, I thought about what I would do when I returned. I was torn between two options: lock myself in the house with Bellatrix for a week and arrange a sex marathon or buy up all the magical and Muggle restaurants and eat well. I don't even know; both options are so tempting… After 41 months of my stay here, I managed to make everything as it was before I walked here with the "Matter Eater." I seriously sat down to cast a spell on the painting and synchronize it with the Death Eaters' painting. After three weeks, I realized that something was missing and clearly on the outside. After another two weeks, I figured out how to fix it. The Death Eaters were ordered to perform a Dark Magic Ritual with the sacrifice of Tom Riddle's original wand, the one with Fawkes' feather. The idea was simple—Tom cast a spell with this wand; I cast a spell with it; if there is something with a trace of my spell—it's clearly a wand. There are also "horcruxes," but it's scary to mess with them—soul magic has not been studied at all since experiments are conducted on oneself with the subsequent loss of adequacy and afterlife. As I was informed by the mark, the ritual went smoothly. But I'm still here! After five days, I discovered the effect: if I put my hand on the painting and Lucius put his hand on their painting at the same time, I could easily send Lucius images using the modified mark. And that's it. How I achieved this, I decided to drink again. A connection had formed between me and Lucius Malfoy! It would have been better between me and his wife! What should I do? I saw only one solution, which is standard for magic. You got something, but it doesn't work? Pour in more magical energy! Just don't forget to put up a stronger defense, just in case. I poured magical energy into the painting from the inside. Lucius poured magical energy into the painting from the outside. But I had an advantage over Lucius: I am stronger and in a different time stream, and I didn't tell anyone the latter. Naturally, Lucius could not pour in volumes of energy comparable to mine. With my permission, he dragged the painting to the Family House, but the source was not enough. Thus began the Inner Circle Death Eaters' pilgrimage to the originally Muggle painting. Rookwood had already asked me where we got a magic accumulator of such a volume. But something in the picture was changing. Now, when I looked at it for a long time, it seemed to me that I heard the rustle of air and felt the breath of wind.

Two weeks later, I decided to destroy my conjured house inside the little world to achieve maximum similarity with the drawings. I was honest with myself: it might not work. Or it might work strangely: I would simply switch places with Lucius. But until you try, it won't work. Two months later, I felt… something. It's like a blind man groping his way through a tunnel. Alas, I couldn't move. Neither by the phoenix nor by myself. The walls of the little world were still flawless. But magic works wonders. Especially when there's a lot of it. Another month later, the painting showed signs of a magical artifact for the first time. How can I describe it? You look at the drawing and it's as if you're there; everything alternately seems voluminous and then flat. Finally, what I had hoped for happened. I stood in front of the painting, touching it with my left hand and a magic wand in my right hand, and I felt a familiar sensation. With another effort, I felt myself turning into a parody of the Resurrection Stone ghost again and being carried away somewhere. A moment later, I was already standing in front of the painting, but it was a painting not in my artificial world, but in a room in the Malfoy house. Alas, such volumes of energy turned out to be fatal: as soon as I got out of it, it began to burn. I tried to put it out, but I failed. I expected to be met, but the situation turned out to be somewhat different. Firstly, it was night. Secondly, I found myself in the Malfoy bedroom—Lucius probably kept the painting close by so as not to have to walk to it for a long time. Thirdly, I showed up at the wrong time: Lucius and Narcissa were making love. But all this paled in comparison to point four: I was attacked by the defenses of the Malfoy house. Fighting the ancestral source is stupid. This is roughly equivalent to trying to pick up a horse. No, if you are inhumanly strong—it is possible, but to fight in this form? And how long will you last? My protective Charms deployed, taking the attack of the house defenses. At this time, I threw Petrificuses at Lucius and Narcissa, but they were repelled by the house defenses. I was about to use Cruciatus, but this did not look like an ambush at all. "Lucius, why are you not happy to see me? Turn off the house defenses; otherwise, your children will be left without an inheritance," I said. Destroying the family source is not an easy task; you can't do it without support, but you can always lie. To my surprise, Lucius did not move and did not respond. I used Legilimency on him. I almost immediately gained access to his memories. Here is Narcissa asking if everything is okay with him. When he talks about his visions that the Lord sends. Here is Narcissa's hysteria when he dragged God knows what into the bedroom. Here he convinces her of something. There are no signs of betrayal, no ambush... And then it dawned on me: when I was sucked into the painting for the second time, the mark should have disappeared for the second time! And when I appeared in Lucius's house, there was a brief moment while the mark was gone, that is, the protection of Lucius's house stopped considering me its own. Considering that I appeared inside the protective perimeter of an unclassifiable artifact, and then attacked the Masters, the alarm reaction is understandable. But I don't understand the Malfoys' reaction. It feels like they haven't moved a millimeter. That's where the second insight came into play. First, I'm under the acceleration spell, and not just one. And second, I'm in a new combat body—what if they try to kill me immediately upon my return? And that's why the Malfoys are practically motionless for me. The easiest way to leave is as a phoenix. Fortunately, Nagini is on my shoulder. But it's not respectable. I cast a couple of especially powerful defensive spells that were supposed to cut off this room from the house's defenses for a few seconds. I sent a signal to Lucius's mark and said more slowly so that he could understand me. "Thank you for your service, Lucius. I'm back," and don't forget to take on the old form of Voldemort, "turn off the house's defenses before I get angry." "Master! You've returned!" they answered me. I didn't sit in the void for forty-four months to stare at a naked man. Narcissa was smart enough to cover herself with a blanket and pick up her wand from the nightstand. While Lucius was ordering the house to stop attacking me, I conjured Lucius a robe like mine. With wandless, nonverbal, eternal transfiguration. And what, the maximum volume of clothing there is three liters. "Lucius, I will call you soon," I said. "My lady," this time I turned to Narcissa, "I apologize for the untimely visit, but the matter could not be delayed." Having waited for a nod from both of them, I was transported to the Lestrange house by Nagini. They greeted me as if I were Resurrected. I woke them all up. The first thing I did was take three Time-Turners for myself. But the time to use them had not yet come. Bellatrix had such a look in her eyes that if it weren't for her ex-husband, I would have been raped right here. Soon we were already in the house checking my new safe, where the "horcruxes" were. I barely fought off Bella's sexual advances, promising to make love a little later. I tried to quickly sort out the affairs, but most of all I was worried about the question of where Snape and Lily were. Snape was simply my only chance to give Albus plausible disinformation about the horcruxes. I found Snape at the base where I taught him to work with homunculi. He looked bad. What happens if you give a werewolf an injection with a silver solution? All his blood vessels swell black: on his arms, neck, even the capillaries in his eyes. That's what Snape looked like. "Hello, Severus. I'm back. Are you still conscious?" I asked. There was no point in asking if he was alive—it was obvious. "Albus helped. He cast some spells, poured some golden potions into me. He said that I might live for another month, although it would be very painful at the end. I need to remember that." Either Albus is dabbling in Dark Magic, or he did more than just wash test tubes for Nicholas Flamel—if Severus can't clarify anything about the golden potion. "What about her?" I pointed my wand at Lily. Lily was lying unconscious on the floor in a pentagram of five disemboweled mages. Lily was alive, but everything indicated that she did not have long to live.

"Stunned her during a training fight on the fifth day of your absence. Gave her a Subjugation Potion. Brought her here and put her to sleep. Put her to sleep and tried to stabilize her condition. So that she would last until you arrived. According to the most optimistic forecasts, she had two days left to live. But she did not feel pain. You are not Rosier, Snape, not Rosier—he would have done better. But how old are you?" "You did everything right. Don't worry, you are out of danger now,"—and now let's try to bring them both into a more or less decent form. Lily does not need to go to the meeting—Pandora will go for her, having drunk the Polyjuice. And I will provide protection from scanning. "Any news from Albus?"—I was forced to ask him for help for myself. He discovered most of my oaths. I had to lie that Elena made me swear that I would kill Dumbledore on the day of your disappearance. Moreover, Albus forced me to go on a raid with Elena. We entered a Muggle house, and Lily stunned them. Then we left. I, using a Time-Turner, returned at the moment we left and killed the Muggles.

I told Albus that Elena wanted to test my loyalty and see if I had the courage to kill Muggles. As far as I understood, Albus needed an imprint of Elena's magic to check if she could cast a spell in your absence. Does the old man suspect something?

Soon I, Snape, and "Elena" returned to the Lestrange house. I called my servants by the Dark Mark. I spoke for a long time, thanked them for their service, and promised to get Travers out of prison. But my thoughts were far away. The organization's actions are not optimal; although, by and large, they brought me back. I will need to write some simple instructions on waging war in case of my absence. But everything ends, and the meeting concluded. With a familiar movement, I took hold of the Time-Turner.

Voldemort-1 was passionately embracing Bellatrix in his true form. "Lord, you have aged," they told me, looking at my true form. Yes, 44 months have passed... I need to think about how to become undying from old age due to metamorphism. And now I need to punish Bellatrix for unauthorized access to my Horcruxes. More harshly...

Voldemort-2 was collecting plant seeds, live miniature livestock, ingredients, and materials in an amulet with space expansion. And 24 types of cauldrons. I should also take a couple of Muggles for sacrifices—suddenly I will again end up in an unknown place. Voldemort-3 was delving into the papers. Voldemort-4 was talking to Edward. And Edward also asked what and why I did with Aberforth. Big deal, I saw it once and was horrified. Maybe I am also developing a superweapon against Albus.

Voldemort-5 tortured Karkaroff. At the same time, I came up with Karkaroff's first task—to remove the carved sign of the Deathly Hallows from Durmstrang. After all, we are against Dark Magic. And the advertising of the Deathly Hallows. Voldemort-6 looked through Snape's memories. Then we will have to check their authenticity. Snape, you will have to drink the "Draught of Despair" one day; I'll hide the false Horcrux at the same time. It seems that you, like your father, like to drink.

Voldemort-7 communicated with Lucius Malfoy. It seems that I overdid it with his processing during the cure from the curse. Voldemort-8 was stunned by the thoughts of Crouch Jr. Initially, I told him to learn the power of love in order to put his father on the wrong track and check whether sex would have an effect on Light Magic. Or at least the withdrawal of necroenergy. Everything worked except the very first one. Then I simply forgot to cancel the mission. And now there is no need—the Aurors are so cheerfully looking for Dominant bonds in the brothels of neighboring countries; it is much easier to pour slop on them. But Crouch seems to have gotten carried away. I went to look for a new mistress? Have I gone crazy or something? The main thing is to keep Crouch away from Malfoy; otherwise, if he finds out under what circumstances I returned, he will start calling me not by the mark, but by an orgy—it's faster and the protection is ignored.

Voldemort-9 was brewing poison for Dumbledore. I missed a couple of ingredient additions while I was unconscious, but that's okay—I'll fix it by adding additional ingredients. Voldemort-10, in the guise of Elena, came to the werewolves. What does it mean that only eight of the strengthened werewolves remain, counting one incredibly mutilated one? Voldemort-11 was developing a plan to eliminate Alastor Moody. As far as I know, they don't know that I'm back, and another flickering of the mark can mean anything. Voldemort-12 was studying his "horcrux" diary. Bellatrix still managed to feed him three mudbloods. We need to figure out if this affected the diary itself. Voldemort-13 finally fulfilled his long-standing dream: food. Normal, human food. And no meat! The house-elf was happy with my appetite; I washed it all down with hundred-year-old cognac aged by magic.

But this was not it; I still could not let go of the disappointment. How to explain it? When I learned of Trelawney's prophecy, I once again legilimized Harry and Neville. With Neville, everything was simple—Bella, give me the child; Bella, take the child. With Harry, I had to hide from Lily. I simply watched invisibly as she bathed Harry, and I myself was rummaging through the thoughts of a child who was not yet two years old. It was an unforgettable experience. While Lily was gaping, Harry got to the soap in the form of a hippogriff. And I read his thoughts—no, not words, but rather feelings: "How can such an amazing, shiny, and beautiful thing be so tasteless!" That's exactly what I was feeling now. The food was good—but I did not like it. I ate, but I didn't enjoy it! But I know what to do.

Soon Greyback stood in front of me. "Master, I'm glad you're back among us..." he said something else, bowing before me. Honestly, of all the decrees I wanted to issue, the "decree banning bowing" took first place. I always need to look into the eyes, always! Otherwise, while this werewolf was bowing to the floor, I lost visual contact and was thrown out of his mind. I took out my wand and issued a new order.

"Look me in the eyes! Legilimens!" I rummaged through Greyback's mind, feeling no resistance. Murder, rape, torture… Of course, Greyback has a style, and if it's a job for me, it's a way of life for him. For someone like Barty Sr., he's a complete maniac with no brakes, and from my point of view, a tool, albeit a rather uncontrollable one. If he behaves well, he'll become a war hero, and if he behaves badly, he'll share the fate of Rosier, killed by the Order of the Phoenix without a trial. But I couldn't find what I was looking for. No, I could see his first murder. His last and any other one too. I could reach any of his secrets. But that wasn't what interested me. Greyback's mind was already partly the mind of a beast. And looking for what I want in the sensations of a beast is a lost cause, like trying to comprehend the tactile picture of the world from a flobberworm. Or the taste of the soul from a dementor.

I saw only endless murders in my mind, clouded by emotions. Here, purely by chance, following the association, I fell into something I didn't want: I saw Greyback's fight with some werewolf in beast form. I felt like Greyback. I felt the faint light coming from the stars in the forest, and for some reason, this light irritated me. Through the stupefying smell of herbs smelling of a damp forest, a thin, barely audible fresh floral aroma broke through, not fitting into the overall picture. I walked on all fours through the grass wet from the recent rain. The forest was thick, endless, as far as the eye could see. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a howl. I followed the sound. I ran, easily making my way through the forest thicket. Flexible tree branches whipped my face, my feet, stuck in the mud up to my ankles, tripped over endless snags, and I walked, driven by stubbornness and an unclear need to find the one who was filling the forest with his howl for so long and drawn-outly.

And then I saw him. A large, skinny wolf, standing in a small clearing. Short grayish-brown fur, wet from the rain, stuck to his body, showing his strange thinness for an animal, amber-yellow eyes. Well, yes, it was not a wolf. A werewolf. I-Grey barely had time to smile at the fact that for a second he mistook the animal standing in front of him for a real werewolf, surrendering to his instincts, when the enemy attracted his attention. He let out an unkind roar, bared his teeth. In his eyes, glowing in the darkness of the night forest, like two small moons, sadness, melancholy, reproach were read. For a short two seconds, I-Grey felt guilty before the werewolf, but the unpleasant feeling disappeared as quickly as it appeared, replaced by... anger? Almost inhuman anger and frustration. The fight was very short. Grey was much larger and stronger than his opponent. As soon as he came close to the enemy, the second werewolf stopped seeming huge. Or even just big. It was a skinny beast covered in shabby grayish-brown fur. It was pathetic. It provoked aggression. The next moment, Grey rushed at him, feeling enough strength and anger in himself. Enough.I left his mind. It was time to ask directly. "Grey," I asked, "how and with what do you kill the taste of human flesh?"

Greyback's POV

Greyback had a hard day today. That Muggle was too fat and wouldn't digest—he had to be eaten in wolf form. Then there was another fight with his own—one of the werewolves accused him of excessive cruelty. A naive fool, who had been in England for two weeks. He died pretty quickly, although he managed to scratch him a little. Then he was called... by his superiors. He didn't give a damn about such superiors. Soon all the people in the world would be werewolves, and then... life would be more fun. It's a pity that the "cure for werewolves" project was discontinued; the forced mass conversion of Muggles during the full moon—there are already too many werewolves. Cure for werewolves... He spat. And some people fell for it! Traitors! Betrayers! Castrates! They no longer know the thrill of the hunt, the feeling of the all-consuming power of their bestial essence over themselves. It's good that not all werewolves are such weaklings. But instead of the usual Death Eater, who, being afraid of him, would say "don't follow him like that" and then let him go, he met You-Know-Who. Big bosses, big problems.

With these thoughts, he fell to his knees, hiding his gaze. Legilimency followed. The Lord was not interested in the yellow metal that had settled in his pockets, or a couple of extra murders, or showdowns in his pack. The Lord asked one question, but it was worth a hundred. For the first time in many years, Grey felt something like a flash of affection for someone. After talking with the Lord, and receiving an order not to blab, supplemented with a block on memories, he departed. He had not been to church for a long time. He needed to have fun again. Soon he was confessing in a Catholic cathedral.

"Father, I have sinned," he said with a smile. "Speak, my son." "Every day the beast that thirsts for blood awakens in me. There is no crime that I would not commit." He went on and on, but after about five minutes he was interrupted. "My son, I think you are a little out of your mind and you are incriminating yourself. You are a large and probably strong man, but I doubt you can punch a man through and through. Or bite him in half."

"I am a werewolf. Not human. And I like it that way," he said. "Confession cannot be interrupted. But given your condition, you may not make it to the hospital. Sit here. I need to run for the first aid kit," they told him. "You will definitely feel better."

How can a Muggle defeat a werewolf? No way. Of course, in human form, you can shoot him, but unless the bullets are silver, it will be like shooting an elephant. "No need to call anyone." He did not even have to transform to get to the priest, smashing the confession booth with his hands. Soon a corpse with a bitten throat lay at his feet. It was a pity that women did not work as priests—they could have had sex and eaten something.