Lucius and Narcissa, trembling and clinging to the last threads of consciousness, dared to lift their heads.
They had never seen anything like it.
The figure that stepped out of the void stood tall, completely covered in black. A long cloak, torn at the edges, hung from his shoulders, as if it had been woven from darkness itself.
His face—or what should have been—was hidden behind a mask of swirling black, the surface shifting like a pool of tar. No features. No mouth. Only two crimson glows where eyes should have been, burning down at them.
But it wasn't the figure's appearance that stole the breath from their lungs.
It was what came next.
The moment the entity's boots struck the marble floor, they first heard a low, rattling hum so dense it sent a shockwave through their bones, amplifying the tension in their already brittle nerves. Then, subsequently, the space around them felt like it was twisting—shrinking and expanding all at once.
Everything was unfolding too quickly, too violently, and their minds couldn't keep up. All they could do was cling to each other, desperately holding on for dear life.
Finally, in a final, nightmarish cascade, they watched in horror as their surroundings were consumed by an all-devouring darkness, pulling them into an abyss that could only be called pure nothingness. And then, their minds went blank.
---
Drip.
Drip.
The couple's eyes fluttered open. An oppressive silence enveloped them, shattered only by the distant echo of liquid droplets splashing into something unseen.
"Where... where are we?"
Narcissa Malfoy barely managed to whisper. She shook her head groggily, as if trying to dislodge the haze clinging to her mind.
Beside her, Lucius let out a low, guttural growl. His hand found hers instinctively.
"Did we... pass out?" he rasped, turning his head stiffly toward his wife.
"I... I don't know," her voice cracked. "But if we had, shouldn't we be lying down?"
Lucius narrowed his eyes. That was... disturbingly true.
He thought back to the last thing he remembered before everything went black. Had they even passed out? It felt like it—but at the same time, nothing added up. They hadn't moved. Not an inch—still kneeling, nothing like two people who had just lost consciousness.
His head jerked forward instinctively—and what he saw made his breath catch painfully in his throat.
Narcissa, too, followed his gaze, and the color drained from her face.
There, in front of them, upon a throne that seemed to rise from the very shadows, sat the entity.
The chair was magnificent and terrifying, carved from something blacker than night itself, its edges jagged and alive with a faint, pulsing energy. The figure lounged there with a casual arrogance, one leg crossed over the other, his body draped in flowing darkness.
One arm rested lazily on the armrest, his head tilted slightly to the side, propped up against a closed fist. From the hollow void of his mask, the entity's crimson eyes—like twin drops of fresh blood—glowed with a detached, almost lazy contempt, half-lidded as they stared down at them.
Lucius and Narcissa swallowed dryly. Neither dared to speak. Neither dared to move. They didn't know what this creature was—or even if it was human—but one thing was certain: they were completely at its mercy.
A suffocating silence hung between them, stretching on and on, until Lucius and Narcissa saw it move.
The figure lazily lifted an arm and made a slight motion with its finger.
In an instant, the space between them collapsed. One moment, they were kneeling what felt like yards away, and the next, they were much closer—as if the very air had twisted and compressed around them.
Their hearts barely had time to react when they saw it move again. Another casual gesture, like one might swat a fly.
Before their wide, frozen eyes, a table and two chairs materialized out of thin air with a soft thud.
Then, finally, it spoke.
A voice rumbled through the void, cold, heavy, and alien—like the groaning of an ancient glacier tearing itself apart.
"Sit," it ordered.
Lucius and Narcissa were still trying to process what was happening when that one, simple word hit them like a hammer.
The figure's half-lidded crimson eyes narrowed slightly.
That was all it took.
The couple jolted into action, scrambling to their feet, wobbling slightly before hurriedly lowering themselves into the chairs.
Another dreadful pause stretched over them like a second skin.
Narcissa, gathering what little courage she had left, slowly lifted her head—but did not dare meet those monstrous eyes.
Her voice was a trembling whisper. "H-how... how should we address you, my lord?"
The figure's head tilted slightly, as if amused.
"Bloodraven," it said simply, the word sinking into their bones.
Blood... Raven?
Lucius and Narcissa wracked their memories, the name tugging at the edges of their minds.
It was Lucius who remembered first.
A rumor from a few years back. A mysterious mage with frightening power who appeared once, but was never seen again. Back then, he had only heard whispers—whispers of a formidable wizard, a Great-Magus... but certainly not an Archmage.
Yet now, sitting here, facing this suffocating presence firsthand, Lucius knew better.
This was no mere greatmage. No doubt clouded his mind. Only one other person he had ever met—his former master—had radiated such overwhelming terror.
And this Bloodraven made his former master, Voldemort, seem... small.
Lucius had barely finished the thought when he heard his wife ask again, her voice tight and respectful.
"Lord... Bloodraven... may we know—" She didn't get to finish, and whatever she was about to ask got stuck in her throat as she watched Bloodraven lift a hand once more.
From his upturned palm, something began to spin into existence—a book, old and worn, twisting lazily in the air.
The moment Lucius saw the book, his pupils shrank to pinpoints.
The book floated toward them and landed on the table with a soft, deliberate thud.
"Do you recognize it?" Bloodraven's voice boomed.
Narcissa instinctively turned to Lucius and saw sweat glistening on his brow. That look—she knew it all too well. He recognized it.
She watched him force himself to swallow.
"Y-yes, my lord," Lucius stammered, nodding and bowing his head stiffly.
His mind whirled. Fear. Confusion. How? How did Bloodraven come to possess this? Could it be—?
No. No, impossible.
He crushed the thought. Maverick Caesar was far too young. Even if he were a prodigy, there was no way he could be this... monstrous.
Then again, Bloodraven's power was undeniable. Best not to think. Best not to question.
"Do you know what it is?" Bloodraven asked.
Lucius hesitated, hands twitching slightly.
"I... only know that it is... dark magic," he stammered.
Bloodraven leaned back slightly, crimson eyes gleaming faintly.
"What you hold there," the voice rumbled, "is a means of resurrection. A shard of Tom Marvolo Riddle's soul—ripped from the natural order."
Lucius froze.
Narcissa gasped softly, covering her mouth.
"A Horcrux," Bloodraven said, each word hitting like a blow. "A foul creation first born of a Greek Dark wizard millennia ago. What you see before you is a piece of Riddle's very soul."
The hairs on Lucius's arms stood on end. Narcissa clutched the sides of her chair, knuckles white.
Their former master… was not dead.
He could return.
Lucius felt bile rise in his throat. They had lived under Voldemort's shadow once. At first, they had believed in him. They had believed in the cause. But when he transformed—when the murders, the mindless cruelty, the madness consumed him—they had stayed out of fear, not loyalty.
His fall had been their freedom.
DING!
A sharp, metallic sound shattered their frozen horror.
Both jerked their heads downward.
A dagger—sleek, elegant, and gleaming with a sickly sheen—was pinned into the center of the table.
They looked up, confused.
Bloodraven's voice came, low and final.
"Take it. It is laced with the venom of a basilisk. Stab the book. Destroy it."
Lucius and Narcissa froze.
Was he commanding them to... kill Voldemort? Kill the last remains of their old master?
Even with everything Voldemort had become, some part of them hesitated.
But the pressure—the unbearable, suffocating force—tightened around them, making it hard to breathe. Their heads bowed instinctively under the weight.
Lucius reached out with shaking fingers, gripped the dagger, and yanked it from the table.
He held it aloft, both hands wrapped around the hilt, blade pointed downward, hovering above the book.
His whole body trembled.
Seeing his state, Narcissa made a choice. Without a word, she reached out, placed her hand atop his, steadying him.
Bloodraven's crimson eyes narrowed slightly, unseen beneath the mask. Interesting, he thought. This couple is stronger than I expected.
Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance—a silent agreement.
Together, they stood.
The dagger plunged down.
DENG!
The blade punched through the book with a jarring clang as it struck the metallic table beneath.
A high-pitched, horrible screech ripped through the air, sharp enough to tear at their eardrums.
They staggered back, covering their ears.
From the book, thick black smoke poured out—coiling into the twisted, screaming face of Voldemort himself, mouth open in a silent howl.
"Again," Bloodraven ordered, voice cutting through the chaos like a whip.
Lucius and Narcissa didn't even hesitate.
Fueled by something beyond fear, they lunged forward and stabbed again—burying the dagger deeper.
More smoke erupted. More twisted, inhuman screams filled the abyss around them.
The black cloud thrashed and writhed, twisting in agony. A monstrous face, distorted and skeletal, tore itself out of the smoke—Voldemort's own soul fragment, shrieking in mindless rage and terror. The air around it grew heavy and cold, the sound of its wailing so sharp it felt like knives scraping against their skulls.
The cloud pulsed violently, cracks of red lightning flashing within it, as if the soul piece was ripping itself apart.
The horror was suffocating.
But they didn't stop.
Again.
Dang!
And again.
And again.
And again.
Dang!
Dang!
Dang!
The dagger slammed down with brutal force, again and again, until the table trembled under the assault. Black smoke spewed from the book, screeching like a living thing, twisting and clawing at the air.
The space around them pulsed with a deep, unnatural hum. The smoke thinned, flailed—and with a final, piercing wail that rattled the very air—
—it collapsed inward, like a dying star.
A rush of dead silence followed. Only a thin wisp of ash remained, curling above a gaping, blackened hole in the center of the table.
Thump!
Lucius staggered back, his chest heaving, each breath rasping painfully through his throat. The dagger slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering onto the floor with a hollow clang that echoed through the suffocating silence.
Narcissa caught him just before he could collapse, her own legs giving way beneath her. She clung to him, trembling, and together they sank onto their knees beside the scorched table, holding onto each other as if they might drift apart otherwise.
What had they done?
Never in their lives had they imagined themselves capable of it.
Sure, they had disagreed with the madness their former master had descended into. They had despised the slaughter, the mindless cruelty. But even so—betrayal? Striking a killing blow?
The thought had never crossed their minds.
Voldemort had been a terror beyond reason, a force so absolute that even thinking of rebellion felt like inviting death.
And yet… today… they had done it.
They didn't know where the strength had come from.
Was it because they had no choice?
Perhaps.
After all, the being that had commanded them—this monster cloaked in crimson shadow—was an Archmage. Just like their master had been… once.
Or perhaps it was something deeper.
A final, desperate break from the chains they had never dared shatter before.
They couldn't tell.
Not now.
All they knew was that their hands were now stained with the unthinkable—
And there was no going back.
For a long moment, they just breathed.
In.
Out.
Slow, ragged, desperate breaths.
Lucius pressed his forehead against Narcissa's shoulder, his hands gripping the back of her robes. Narcissa squeezed her eyes shut, willing her racing heart to slow, feeling his heartbeat thundering against her own.
The space around them was silent now—eerily, unnaturally silent.
But neither dared lift their heads.
They stayed like that, locked together, gasping for air like drowning survivors dragged ashore.
Bloodraven — Maverick — watched them in perfect, unbothered stillness.
He hadn't moved an inch.
Not when the book screamed.
Not when the black smoke twisted and died.
Not even now, as the two of them clung to each other, trembling, broken.
To him, this had all been an experiment.
He had already made up his mind: within two years, all of Voldemort's Horcruxes would be destroyed.
Every last one — apart from Harry.
Even Nagini, the living vessel Voldemort had chosen — he would hunt her down.
But thinking of the old man Dumbledore — and the unpredictable nature of ancient, demonic curses — he decided it was better to let others tread the minefield first.
Why risk your own hand, he thought, when you can see if another's gets bitten off?
His crimson gaze flicked once more over the exhausted Malfoys, still gripping each other for strength.
They were broken — yet alive.
Terrified — yet obedient.
For now, they would serve.
—————————
Author's Note:
🔥 Drop those Power Stones! 🔥
If you're enjoying the story and wish to support me, you can visit my P@tr3on, where you can read 30+ extra chapters ahead!
Thank you so much for your support. It means the world! 💙😊
PAT r30n [.] com / RyanFic