The Slytherin Common Room - D.M. ✔️

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 64

disclaimer: death

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Y/N Y/L/N

As the door to the cottage is pushed open, the light chilly breeze gusts through the house, rushing towards you. It sends you shivers, and you swallow, taking a step inside. None of the lights are open, and when you turn to enter the living room, you drop your trunks, your heart racing.

Eyes widening, you feel your legs give out, and the floor is suddenly much closer than it was before. The door left open, the December snow flies in, quickly melting as soon as it lands wherever. Fallen to your knees, your hands cover your mouth and nose. Your heart twists in your chest, and your breath has been lost. You aren't bothered enough to find it. You almost think the agony is comforting.

In front of you on the carpet are your parents dead, lying face up. You inch closer to them, reaching for their hands. As soon as your skin touches theirs, it's like touching ice-cold stone.

Your cries are muffled and twisted in your throat, almost incapable of escaping their prison. As you blink, your vision is blurred by the tears that fill your sight, slipping down your cheeks with no signs of stopping.

Your mother lies beside your father, both dressed for action. Your mother in an apron, but beneath it is her usual formal attire. Your father looks like he was about to leave for the ministry.

The longer you stare, the more you wait for them to wake up. You keep holding onto the thought that you're just seeing things and that they'll stand up and welcome you at any moment. The lingering feeling of your mother hugging you is lost in dark blank nothingness. Your father's laugh is only an echo in the back of your mind.

Trembling, you take your hand and close their eyelids. Now at least they looked peaceful. On your father's finger is your family ring. You slip into your pocket. Putting it on your finger felt inappropriate at a time like this. When it drops to the bottom of your pocket, the weight pulls at the fabric of your jacket.

"About time," a bitter voice says sharply from behind you. You've never heard this voice before, and yet it sounds familiar.

Still shaking, you push yourself off the ground, regretfully tearing your eyes away from your dead parents and to whomever speaks to you.

There he stands, in the flesh.

Voldemort.

You open your mouth to retort something, but when you do, your lip just quivers, and you feel yourself slipping away into obscurity. Voldemort only glares; one hand grasps his wand. It's almost as if he's waiting for you to respond, except you can't bring yourself to.

"Parkinson didn't work, did she?" He says rhetorically, stepping closer to you. When he does, you take a step back, the pounding in your chest almost as loud as the pounding in your head. "Useless, both her and Malfoy, useless."

Voldemort takes his eyes off you for a moment, shaking his head with severe disappointment towards his younger followers.

"What- what do you want?" You manage out, finding your voice somewhere deep in the depths of despair.

"Why should I speak with you?" Voldemort asks. His voice is deep and chilling. Every word he says sends your head spiraling.

"Did you- did you-" your breath hitches avoiding the truth. If you said it, it'd all be real, but it is. It is all real. "Did you kill my parents?"

"Them?" Voldemort chuckles vilely, pointing the tip of his wand towards your deceased parents. "Of course not. I'm not so low to kill defectives not worth my time. One of my servants did it." His words easily slice your heart to pieces at the ease of his talk. There's no guilt traced in his voice, no remorse. "I'm not here to discuss whatever it is you wish to. I'm here for one simple reason."