"No!"
"Don't!"
Voldemort had lost all his former arrogance. The Boggart's unique nature had given him the possibility of a unique existence, while also magnifying the greatest fear in his heart.
And this damn death was coming so slowly, so surely, so irrevocably.
The damn forest of death, forged from that silver light, had quietly closed around him.
That damn "Riddikulus" spell had quietly turned everything below his chest into trees, making him part of this forest of death.
That terrifying damn Veil was dancing before his eyes. He didn't know when it had appeared.
The Veil danced, and death was right before him. The loneliness there was suffocating.
He had been too clever for his own good.
Voldemort looked desperately toward the Muggle Vernon, caught in the clutches of the Grim Reaper statue, then toward the slope farther away. The Ritual Magic was just a tiny bit short. Just a tiny bit!
It only needed a little more "helplessness" amid the tangled emotions.
Just a little more, and the Ritual Magic would be complete! Then he could completely unravel that powerful Love Magic.
But his greed had brought about his downfall.
He wanted Harry Potter to return and see the corpse of the uncle who had abused him but died for him, and feel the power of that emotion. That was why he had let Harry leave.
He had even greedily hoped to break that damn Curse.
Yes, the so-called Prophecy that Harry Potter, the Chosen One, would kill him.
For that, he had let Harry run off to find Dumbledore. Voldemort knew that Dumbledore would use the power of Fate in that Prophecy to make Harry kill the younger version of "Tom Riddle."
Turning Dumbledore's plans against him was simply brilliant.
After all, he had long ago used