Flurries drifting down from the ashen, lifeless sky smothered every trace of noise. Even the wind wandering through the deathly silent manor was quiet.
The world was so still that it seemed as if all life had already died.
But Voldemort, seated upon the Marble Staircase, knew it was only an illusion. At the very least, his foolish woman, hiding behind the curtains on the second floor and peeking at him, was still alive.
She truly was a foolish woman—and guilty of a heinous crime.
She had actually used the potion Breen had stuffed into her hands to treat his injuries.
Though her panic under those circumstances was understandable, it had undeniably caused grave consequences.
In the past, Bellatrix would undoubtedly have been executed for the crime of tarnishing the great Voldemort's reputation.
Even in consideration of her proven loyalty, at most he would have allowed her a more peaceful death before granting it to her.
Yet in the end, he had not killed Bellatrix, for some reason even he could not explain.
As he stared at this false world that disgusted him to the point of nausea, Voldemort wore an indifferent expression to conceal his fear.
What exactly had happened?
Why had he chosen to forgive Bellatrix?
What had Breen done to him? What magic had he cast, and what was he trying to achieve?
The unknown—
To him, that was what he feared most.
Wasn't Voldemort supposed to be omniscient?
Why were there so many questions he could not answer?
Voldemort gently stroked Nagini's head, again and again.
In the battle that had just ended—
He had suffered another disgraceful defeat.
He did not wish to admit it, but he had to. Breen had driven him back. Of course, Breen himself was also hanging by a thread.
When