In conclusion
Voldemort certainly nailed the air of composure.
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Bellatrix, over Selwyn, over Crabbe, and finally settling on Nott.
However, just to be on the safe side...
His voice was softer, yet more dangerous.
"I need to reform a few of you."
This was Voldemort's true intention. Even his Horcrux Clone were somewhat cowardly, hesitant to act himself, yet unable to genuinely display his fear. His earlier composure was all an act.
The air froze.
Selwyn's face turned deathly pale, his rugged features contorted with disbelief and terror. His lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something, but found himself unable to utter a sound. He instinctively looked at Bellatrix— those eyes were fixed on her.
A dark red light flickered in the morning light, eerie and terrifying. It was the most horrifying thing he had ever seen, not because it was ugly, but because it was inhuman. He didn't want to become like that.
Crabbe froze as well. His usually expressionless face and dull eyes were now churning with complex emotions—fear, resistance, and a hint of barely concealed disgust. He looked down at his rough, calloused hands, imagining them covered in eyes, and a wave of nausea rose in his stomach.
Nott reacted the most violently. His young face drained of all color, turning ashen white, his lips trembled violently, and his eyes were filled with terror. He took a step back, then another, until he bumped into Crabbe behind him. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found himself only able to utter meaningless, breathy sounds like a drowning person.
Voldemort looked at them, his three scarlet eyes devoid of any emotion. He simply stood there silently, waiting, as if waiting for a question whose answer he already knew. Selwyn finally mustered the courage to speak. His voice was hoarse and trembling, each word sounding like a knife cutting his own throat.
"Master... Master... we... we don't want to..."
"What are you not thinking about?" Voldemort interrupted him, his voice still gentle, yet carrying an irresistible sense of oppression.
Selwyn's knees buckled, and he almost collapsed to his knees again. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand firm.
"I don't want... it to become like that." His gaze involuntarily swept over Bellatrix, over those eyes, then quickly averted, as if looking at her any longer would burn him. Voldemort fell silent.
The silence lasted only a few seconds, but to everyone present it felt like an eternity. The air thickened, breathing became difficult, and hearts pounded wildly in their chests, as if they might burst at any moment. Then, Voldemort laughed.
The smile on his twisted, tooth-filled mouth looked particularly ferocious and dangerous. There was no anger, no displeasure, only a faint, almost pitying mockery. "Don't want to?" he repeated softly, as if savoring the word, "You don't want to accept this favor?"
He took a step forward.
Selwyn's body stiffened abruptly, like a taut string. Crabbe lowered his head, unable to look at him. Nott closed his eyes, trembling all over, his hands clenched into fists. " Bellatrix."
Voldemort spoke, his voice calm and composed, "Tell them how you feel."
Bellatrix looked up, and all those eyes lit up simultaneously. A maniacal, almost delirious smile spread across her lips. "Powerful, Master," her voice was low and hoarse, carrying a morbid, almost pious satisfaction, "I have never felt so powerful. I can see things I couldn't see before, hear sounds I couldn't hear before, feel presences I couldn't feel before. Those eyes—they are not just eyes, they are gifts you have given me, your love for me." She raised her hand, looking at the largest eye in her palm. That eye looked back at her, its pupil reflecting her face filled with eyes. "I am no longer mortal, Master. I am your apostle, I am..." "Your eyes are in this world. No one can stop me—not Grindelwald, not Dumbledore, not even that Raven." Voldemort nodded in satisfaction. He turned to Selwyn, Crabbe, and Nott, his three scarlet eyes gleaming with a cold light. "Did you hear that?" His voice was soft yet dangerous. "This is not punishment, not a curse—it is a gift. It is the power I bestow upon you, my trust in you, my love for you." Selwyn trembled even more violently. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found himself only able to utter meaningless, wheezing sounds like a broken bellows. Voldemort's smile deepened.
"Or," his voice grew softer, more dangerous, "Do you think you're unworthy?"
This statement was like the last straw that broke the camel's back.
Selwyn's knees finally gave way. He collapsed to his knees, his forehead pressed against Voldemort's toes, his whole body trembling, his voice hoarse and choked with sobs. "I... I do, Master. I accept your grace."
Crabbe also knelt down. He didn't speak, only bowed his head, pressing his forehead against the cold ground. His shoulders trembled slightly, his rough hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms until they bled. Nott stood at the very back, his young face filled with despair. He looked at Selwyn and Crabbe kneeling on the ground, at Bellatrix standing to the side, her eyes still darting about, and at Voldemort before him, his three scarlet eyes gleaming with a cold light.
He knew he had no choice.
He knelt down as well.
"I do, Master."
Voldemort looked at them, a satisfied gleam in his three scarlet eyes.
"Very good," he said, his voice soft and satisfied.
He raised his hand, and a dark red, swirling light gathered in his palm. Within that light, countless tiny, vein-like tendrils wriggled, each pulsation carrying an eerie, life-like rhythm. "Then, let's begin."
Selwyn's body stiffened abruptly. Crabbe's breathing became more rapid. Nott closed his eyes, his young face filled with despair and fear. But they didn't move. No one dared to move.
Bellatrix stood to the side, those eyes watching all this, a crazy, almost manic smile spreading across her face.
"Don't be afraid." Her voice was low and hoarse, carrying a morbid, almost tender comfort, "Soon, you will know—this is your master's love for you." The dark red light grew brighter and more intense, dyeing the entire hill a blood-red, eerie glow.
The town bells were still ringing, urgent and shrill.
In the distance, black smoke continued to billow, obscuring the sun.
"I accept this honor!"
Voldemort raised his hand, and the dark red light in his palm grew brighter and more intense, dyeing the entire hillside a blood-red, eerie glow. Tiny, vein-like tendrils wriggled within the light, each pulsation carrying an eerie, life-like rhythm. It was as if the light itself was alive, breathing, waiting, and yearning.
"Oh, God, Master..." Selwyn knelt on the ground, his forehead pressed against Voldemort's toes, trembling all over. He could feel the power approaching him—cold, chaotic, with a nauseating, abyss-like emptiness. It wasn't Magic Power.
Nor was it any power he knew of.
Instead, it was an incomprehensible existence from another dimension. He wanted to escape, to run, to Apparition to the other side of the world, but his body wouldn't obey him. His knees felt like they were nailed to the ground, and his throat felt like it was being choked by an invisible hand, preventing him from making a sound.
"I... sigh."
Crabbe knelt beside him, his usually expressionless face blank, but his eyes—those usually dull eyes—were now churning with fear and resistance. His hands were clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms, the blood dripping onto the withered grass, starkly bright in the dark red light. His body trembled slightly, like a mountain about to collapse, every muscle tense, every bone creaking. "It's over!" Nott knelt at the very back, his young face filled with despair. He was the youngest, and also the most ambitious.
He joined the Death Eater for power, for status, and to secure a place for himself and his family in the Dark Lord's new order. But he never considered that the price of gaining power would be losing himself.
"Heh heh, you'll understand how lucky you are." Voldemort looked down at them, his three crimson eyes devoid of any emotion. He had seen too many expressions like this—fear, resistance, despair. Every time, it was the same. And every time, the result was the same.
"Raise your head."
His voice was soft yet dangerous.
Selwyn raised his head, trembling. Crabbe raised his head. Nott raised his head. Three faces, three expressions, but the same fear in their eyes. Voldemort's lips curled up slightly, revealing a cold, mocking smile.
"Look at this light," he said, holding the dark red glow up in front of them. "Look at it, don't look away."
The three men stared at the light. The tentacles writhed within it, each pulsation making their hearts skip a beat. The light grew brighter and more intense, stinging their eyes and bringing tears to their eyes uncontrollably, but they dared not blink, dared not look away.
Voldemort reached out and pressed the ball of light onto Selwyn's forehead.
In that instant, Selwyn's body stiffened abruptly, like a string stretched to its limit. His eyes widened, reflecting the dark red light in his pupils. The light grew brighter and more intense, eventually engulfing his entire eyeballs.
"Ah!"
His mouth gaped open, trying to scream, but no sound came out—the sound stuck in his throat, turning into low, beast-like whimpers. Tentacles emerged from the light, burrowing into his skin, his veins, his bones. They spread, grew, and took root within him, merging with every inch of his flesh. He could feel it—his body was being transformed, reshaped, turned into something that wasn't his own. Those familiar, human parts were being stripped away, replaced by something cold, chaotic, from Deep Space.
"I don't!!"
Selwyn's body began to tremble violently. The tentacles coiled beneath his skin, causing it to undulate like waves. His muscles were tearing, reforming, tearing again, reforming again, each time accompanied by indescribable pain—more intense than Crucio, more agonizing than being burned by Fiendfyre.
It was a hundred times more terrifying than any pain he had ever experienced.
He wanted to scream, to cry out, to beg Voldemort to stop.
But he couldn't make a sound. His throat seemed blocked by something, and he could only utter meaningless, breathy sounds like a drowning man. "This... this..." Crabbe and Nott knelt beside him, their faces ashen as they watched Selwyn's wretched state. They knew their turn would come soon. Voldemort withdrew his hand, took a step back, and watched Selwyn roll, thrash, and struggle on the ground. His expression remained unchanged; he simply stood there quietly, waiting. Bellatrix stood to the side, her eyes watching all this, a crazed, almost manic smile spreading across her lips.
"Don't be afraid." Her voice was low and hoarse, carrying a morbid, almost tender comfort, "Soon, you will know—this is your master's love for you." Selwyn's struggles grew weaker and weaker. His body stopped convulsing and rolling, lying quietly on the ground, panting heavily, his whole body soaked in sweat. The tentacles had stopped wriggling, his skin had returned to calm, and he looked no different than before—except for his eyes.
He opened his eyes.
They were dark red eyes, without pupils. Not scarlet, not the rational and willful red of Voldemort, but a more primal, more chaotic, abyssal dark red. There was no fear, no pain in those eyes, only an empty, blank light, as if gazing at something distant.
He slowly sat up, looking down at his hands. It was still his hands—fingers, palm, nails—everything was the same as before. But he could feel something different. Not externally, but internally. A cold power flowed in his blood, something hard, like metal, was embedded in his bones, and something slumbered deep within his soul, waiting to be awakened. "How do you feel?" Voldemort's voice was calm and composed.
Selwyn raised his head, looking at Voldemort. A light gradually emerged in his dark red, pupil-less eyes—not fear, not resistance, but an indescribable, almost reverent awe. "Powerful, Master," his voice was hoarse and low, carrying a strange resonance not belonging to him, "I feel... very powerful." Voldemort's lips curled slightly upward. "Very good."
He turned to Crabbe.
Crabbe's body stiffened abruptly, his blank face contorted with terror. He wanted to back away, to run away, but his body wouldn't obey him. He simply knelt there, watching Voldemort raise his hand, watching the dark red light coalesce once more, watching the tentacles writhe within the light.
The light was pressed onto his forehead.