The Death Eater station stood atop a windswept seaside cliff, where the salty air mingled with the crashing waves below.
The sea breeze roared as it swept through, stirring the deep blue ocean into frothy waves that relentlessly battered the jagged cliff face. Seagulls circled above, their sharp cries echoing over the churning water. Yet, despite their graceful flight, none dared to land on the cliff itself, as if an unseen force warded them away.
A closer look revealed the ominous presence of dense black specks swarming the cliffside. Near the edge, a foreboding black gate loomed, its surface etched with dark runes that seemed to pulsate faintly in the dim light.
Before the gate stood two figures—two versions of the Dark Lord. One, a pale and skeletal Voldemort, radiated malice, his eyes burning with an eerie red glow. Beside him stood his younger self, Tom Riddle, his sharp features etched with cold ambition. Around them, their followers—the Death Eaters—waited in tense silence. The air was thick with a mix of solemnity and electric anticipation.
Among the gathered crowd, several Death Eaters wore expressions of barely contained zeal. To the pure-blooded families present, this mission was merely an opportunity to restore their fading wealth. But to the devoted Death Eaters, it was far more—a chance to seize power and riches without restraint, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to plunder and destroy.
Tom, ever calculating, glanced at his older self. Voldemort's skeptical gaze rested on the portal. Despite his younger counterpart's reassurances, the elder Dark Lord clearly harbored doubts. The portal, capable of bypassing any space barrier, was their key to breaching Gringotts—the fabled safest bank in the wizarding world, fortified with countless protections.
"Voldemort," Tom began, his voice measured, "have you given any more thought to my proposal?" He gestured casually toward the black gate. "The wizarding world is at a turning point. Soon, the tide will shift. Working together would ensure our dominance. Divided, we risk being weakened by our enemies."
Voldemort remained silent; his serpentine features unreadable as he considered the younger man's words.
Tom pressed on. "A new land, unfamiliar territory. Bloodshed will be unavoidable. Unity is our best chance."
Voldemort's crimson eyes flickered briefly toward Tom, but he gave no reply.
Suddenly, the portal hummed to life. A low, resonant buzz emanated from the gate, accompanied by an otherworldly green glow. The smooth, obsidian surface rippled like water as faint light began to radiate outward.
The Death Eaters instinctively leaned forward, their eyes wide with awe and curiosity. The ripples on the portal's surface grew, spreading like waves until they stabilized. In mere seconds, a shimmering image began to form on the other side.
Through the portal, the familiar sight of a cavernous space came into focus. At the forefront stood Bellatrix Lestrange, her wild hair framing her unhinged grin as she raised her wand, chanting incantations with frenzied intensity.
Voldemort's thin lips curved into a faint smile as he stepped forward, his movements deliberate. His pale hand touched the edge of the portal, and with a slight shimmer, he vanished, reappearing instantly inside Gringotts' vault. Tom followed close behind, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings.
The Death Eaters surged forward eagerly, unable to contain their impatience. They spilled through the portal, one after another, their excitement palpable.
"Bella," Voldemort intoned, his voice low but unmistakably dangerous, "you've done well. Now, it's time to reap the rewards." His tone shifted to one of sinister promise. "Everything we have lost before—we will take back tenfold. Let the wizarding world remember what it means to fear the name of the Death Eaters."
Bellatrix trembled with exhilaration at her master's words. Her eyes shone with manic devotion, and her entire body quivered as though his praise were a spell cast directly upon her soul.
Tom watched her with mild distaste. Her mind, warped by years of dark magic, was as volatile as it was fanatical. While Voldemort valued her blind loyalty, Tom found her reckless fervor a liability.
Voldemort, unconcerned with Tom's disapproval, turned his gaze toward the goblin Russo, who was held motionless under the Imperius Curse. Without hesitation, Voldemort raised his wand and hissed, "Avada Kedavra."
A flash of sickly green light illuminated the vault as the goblin crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
Voldemort stepped over the body with an air of detached indifference. "No witnesses," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.
The corridor outside the vault was soon littered with bodies as Death Eaters unleashed a cascade of Killing Curses on any goblins foolish enough to approach.
Tom, meanwhile, focused on extracting the goblin Russo's memories. Pressing the tip of his wand to Russo's temple, he pulled silvery threads of memory into his palm, allowing them to flow into his mind.
As the stolen knowledge settled within him, Tom's lips curled into a sneer. Most of the vault's treasures had already been plundered—by none other than Kamar-Taj. Even the dragon that once guarded Gringotts' depths had been taken.
Disgust flickered across his face. He muttered an incantation, and with a flick of his wand, the goblin's severed head rolled to the floor. Blood trickled in small, icy streams, but the air remained curiously devoid of the scent of death.
Tom turned to the Death Eaters gathered behind him. "You," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument, "pure-bloods, retrieve what's yours. The rest of you, follow me."
The Death Eaters exchanged wary glances before splitting into two groups. The pure-blood families hurried toward their respective vaults, clutching keys they had prepared in advance. The others fell in behind Tom, their obedience driven by fear as much as loyalty.
Voldemort, standing amidst the carnage he had created, exuded an aura of sadistic satisfaction. The corpses of goblins lay scattered at his feet, their expressions frozen in terror.
Tom watched him for a moment, a flicker of understanding passing through him. Despite their differences, they shared a common truth: both versions of the Dark Lord reveled in the act of killing, finding solace in the destruction they wrought.
As if sensing Tom's thoughts, Voldemort turned and offered a sinister smile. "You asked about my thoughts on your proposal earlier," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "Let's settle it this way. If you can match my pace in this massacre, I will agree to your terms."
Tom's lips twisted into a dark grin. "And if I surpass you?"
Voldemort's smile widened. "Then, I'll reward you—with a Horcrux."
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