Aᴘʜʀᴏᴅɪᴛᴇ's Iɴᴛᴇʀʀᴜᴘᴛɪᴏɴ - Tᴏᴍ Rɪᴅᴅʟᴇ

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖆𝖜𝖓

                             

C H A P T E R   O N E 

THE BEGINNING OF THE BEGINNING

October 27th, 1975.
Saturday.

The House of Slytherins,
Scotland Highlands. 

"𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬
𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭,
                    𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐧,
                                                      𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅."

𝗥𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 12:19

"𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃, I need you to excuse me from the progressing mission."

A scream from the depths of that dark manor echoed, as haunting shadows played tricks on its prey. Stealthily, devils seemed to creep and breed so notoriously it was called the devils' abode. The beguiling castle was no place for a coward.

Yet, no child of darkness stood a chance against one fallen angel, labelled as the Dark Lord. Blood drenched his soul, psychoticism broke it into pieces and utter apathy for life metamorphosed him as the worst fear of humanity.

Satan's favourite as he was called, responded quietly, dark humour gracing his polished accent, "I think I misheard you, Nott. Can you please repeat it?"

The cold lord's temper was never good. He had a cruel tendency to bring plight onto his victims in such a merciless gruesome fashion, that the heavens shook at it.

"My Lord, pl-"

"Crucio,"

Despairing screams left the man's throat as his body went out of control. The poor man wriggled, agony twisting his mind and forcing him into a pit of hell. He felt pain eat away his hope for salvation; he felt it destroy his hopes for peace. It was one of the worst kinds of suffering that ever could be thrown upon humanity.

The handsome devil's reaction was a chuckle. Deep and raspy, like a knife coated with honey.

The suffering was melody to his years. It reminded him that he had won. That he had all the rich and powerful on their knees before him, eager to serve him. He had become what he wanted to, and that fact itself was enough to please him and add to his ego. People have many dreams, but they rarely ever come true, especially if it is an impossible mission. Who would have thought that an orphan, with nothing in his vault, could win the war? 

His handsome face, sculpted in heavens, tarnished in hell, darkened, darkest shade of green glinting,  as his thoughts became more vicious. The lord of darkness knew he was better in magic and mind than all else, but he also knew that he wasn't the best.

Yet.

Albus Dumbledore. A name revered and respected just as much as his own, a name that scorched his demonic psyche and impaled on his broken soul. Albus Dumbledore, the great, people called, but that would be changing very soon.

The wizardry world was a mess, every alley a battlefield, and every living being was brought upon misery. Nights weren't safe, but no one could say days were safer. Serpentines of Hades might anyway crawl and poison you- sometimes with a peaceful death, others a cursed life of anguish.