The Irish Sea, the cliff cave, the location of the fourth Horcrux.
The cave was an abyss carved into the sheer cliffside, its entrance hidden beneath layers of jagged rock and crashing waves. It yawned like the mouth of a forgotten beast, dark and foreboding, untouched by time. The sheer isolation of the place made it nearly impossible for ordinary people to reach.
Muggles, should they ever attempt to approach, would require extensive climbing gear, battling the ruthless winds and treacherous waves just to set foot inside. Even then, they would likely never return.
For wizards, however, the means of entry were far simpler—broomsticks, levitation charms, apparition, or other magical methods could bypass the physical challenges.
Yet none of that made the cave any less dangerous.
This was a place Voldemort had once deemed worthy of safeguarding his Horcrux.
And as with all things the Dark Lord touched, it was laced with death.
Traps, curses, protections woven deep into the very stones. Any who dared enter uninvited would find their fates sealed long before they ever realized their mistake. Muggles would be corpses before they even reached the inner depths. Ordinary wizards wouldn't fare much better.
Tonight, however, the cave was filled not with silence, but with the low murmur of voices.
A flickering light illuminated the once-dark interior, revealing an eerie sight.
Glowing orbs, akin to enchanted night pearls, were embedded into the cavern walls, casting an ethereal glow upon the rough stone. The chamber had been transformed from a place of desolation into a gathering hall—one filled with wizards clad in flowing black robes, their faces obscured by darkness and shadows.
Death Eaters.
They stood in orderly ranks, motionless as statues, all eyes fixed upon the high platform at the front of the cavern.
There, two figures stood side by side.
At first glance, they seemed to contrast in every possible way.
One possessed the elegance of youth, his features sharp and striking, his presence enigmatic—magnetically compelling yet impossible to decipher.
The other was pale, skeletal, exuding an aura of malevolence so thick it sent shivers down spines. His very presence was suffocating, his gaze piercing, cold, and devoid of anything resembling human warmth.
Tom Riddle.
Lord Voldemort.
Two faces of the same man.
Two halves of the same entity.
And yet, standing together, their conflicting auras did not clash.
Instead, they merged into something far more terrifying.
"You may be wondering why I summoned you here," Tom Riddle spoke first, his voice calm and deliberate.
It was a voice that commanded attention, even without the threat of force.
The Death Eaters stood rigid, their focus absolute.
"Many of you hail from pure-blood families," Riddle continued. "You should already be aware of recent events. The goblins have begun to show signs of rebellion."
A ripple of unease spread through the crowd.
Riddle's gaze flickered across them, his expression unreadable.
"You may have already noticed it when attempting to withdraw from your family vaults at Gringotts," he said. "Delays. Unusual restrictions. Increased scrutiny where there should be none."
A heavy silence followed.
Among the gathered wizards, those belonging to ancient pure-blood families exchanged tense glances.
They had, in fact, noticed.
The rumors had spread swiftly through their circles—whispers of Gringotts restricting access to gold, of treasuries being scrutinized, of funds mysteriously disappearing under the guise of "security measures."
At first, many dismissed the concerns.
But when the delays persisted, when once-simple transactions were met with obstructions, skepticism had turned to alarm.
And then came the most damning revelation—news that wizarding wealth was being funneled away.
Gold, siphoned from their vaults, was allegedly being used to support the American goblins in their war against Grindelwald and his Saints.
It was a betrayal of the highest order.
And now, standing before their Dark Lord, the pure-blood wizards felt their unease solidify into something far more dangerous.
Rage.
They had remained indifferent when war raged in America.
It had been someone else's problem.
Grindelwald's growing influence had been something to watch from afar—entertainment, nothing more.
Britain had Dumbledore, Lockhart, and two Dark Lords. Grindelwald would not dare challenge all four.
And so they had felt safe.
But this—
This was personal.
Their fortunes, their legacy, their birthright—were being tampered with.
And that, they could not tolerate.
"Now," Riddle continued, his voice laced with quiet amusement, "I must ask—how confident are you in the integrity of your wealth?"
Silence.
Then—
A single word cut through the air, sending a fresh wave of dread rippling through the chamber.
"Counterfeit."
The word was like a curse, and it struck deep.
Some among them paled visibly.
Others clenched their fists, their expressions twisting into fury.
Even among the dark wizards—those less attached to pure-blood traditions—the revelation was met with shock.
Gold was everything.
And if even that had been compromised…
For the first time, true chaos stirred within their ranks.
Voldemort, who had remained silent thus far, observed the scene with cold detachment.
His gaze flickered briefly to Riddle, irritation flashing through his crimson eyes.
The other half of him was dragging this out—too much talk, too much manipulation.
Voldemort preferred fear.
Fear was simple.
Fear was effective.
You did not need to convince a man who feared you.
You simply commanded, and he obeyed.
During his reign, he had built his empire upon that philosophy.
And yet, here he stood, forced to share the stage with another version of himself—one who delighted in carefully stoking resentment and ambition.
He detested it.
But for now, he tolerated it.
Because even Voldemort could not deny the power in it.
Tom Riddle, sensing the shift in atmosphere, took a step back, smoothly ceding the floor.
Voldemort wasted no time.
He strode forward, his movements precise and deliberate, his aura dark and all-consuming.
A hush fell over the chamber.
Not a single Death Eater dared to breathe too loudly.
Then, without a word, Voldemort raised his wand.
A violent explosion of dark green sparks erupted into the air.
Boom.
The walls of the cave were instantly bathed in sickly green light.
The flickering skull and serpent of the Dark Mark spread across the stone like a creeping plague, twisting and writhing as if alive.
For many, this was a familiar sight.
A reminder.
A warning.
When Voldemort finally spoke, his voice was not loud—but it commanded the air itself.
"Pure-bloods. Wizards."
He did not need to say more. The way he spoke those words already carried the weight of exclusivity, of power, of purpose.
"Follow me," Voldemort continued, his voice as smooth as silk, as deadly as a blade. "And let the goblins understand this—wizarding wealth is theirs to protect, not to control."
He raised his wand higher.
"Follow me," he whispered, and yet it resounded like thunder.
"I will lead you to reclaim what is rightfully ours."
A hush.
Then—
A single voice rose.
"We follow you, my lord."
Another joined.
Then another.
And another.
Until the entire cavern roared with devotion.
...
==============================================
Support me at [email protected]/goldengaruda and check out more chapter of this or more early access chapter of my other fanfic translation.
=============================================