Bellatrix made the decision.
"Walk."
She hissed, her voice low and hoarse.
Selwyn, Crabbe, and Nott followed behind her, quickly leaving the gray stone house. No one looked back, no one dared to look back. The town bells were still ringing, urgent and shrill.
On the hill, Voldemort stood there, watching the gray house and the four disheveled figures run out of it. His expression remained unchanged; he simply shook his head slightly.
"It still doesn't work," he murmured, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
He didn't wait for Bellatrix and the others to return; he simply turned into a wisp of black smoke and disappeared into the horizon.
Inside the gray stone house, Grindelwald stood before the broken fireplace, watching the sky gradually brighten outside the window. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, shining on the stone houses of the town, on the distant hills, and on the now deserted hill.
"He still hasn't come," he said softly, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
Ian emerged from the shadows and walked to his side, also looking out the window. In those deep eyes, there was no disappointment, no anger, only a faint, almost calm understanding.
"He's more cowardly than we thought," Grindelwald continued. "He wouldn't even dare send a mere clone."
Ian shook his head. "It's not cowardice," his voice calm and composed, "It's caution. He has no more Horcrux, only this one life. He can't afford to lose."
Grindelwald was silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly.
"Maybe."
Ian looked away and turned to walk towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Grindelwald asked.
Ian didn't turn around. "Go do what I have to do."
His body began to change—not a Transfiguration, not an illusion, but a more fundamental, more natural change. His body shrank, his robes turned into feathers, and his arms into wings. A jet-black Raven took flight from the doorway, circled once in the living room, and then flew out the window and into the sky.
Grindelwald watched the Raven disappear into the clouds, remaining silent for a long time.
Then he turned around and looked at the still-burning flame in the fireplace.
"Come on," he said softly, "All of you."
The flames flickered, reflecting in his heterochromatic eyes. In those eyes, there was no fear, no anger, only a calm, almost composed waiting.
"Perhaps I have to fake my death before that coward dares to show himself."
Grindelwald murmured softly.
On the hill, Voldemort stood there, his back to the town, gazing at the distant sky that was gradually regaining its light.
The black smoke had dissipated, and sunlight once again bathed the earth, turning the withered grass into a warm, false gold. But his figure remained shrouded in shadow, his tendrils swaying gently behind him like some ancient, unsettling omen.
Footsteps came from behind him. Rapid, disordered breathing, tinged with fear. He didn't turn around.
Bellatrix was the first to kneel, her forehead pressed against Voldemort's toes, her whole body trembling. Those eyes blinked over her, their dark red light flickering uncertainly, as if they too were filled with fear and unease. Her robes were torn, her hair disheveled, and her body was covered in dust and bloodstains; she looked utterly wretched.
Selwyn knelt beside her, his rugged face etched with terror. His lips trembled, his hands trembled, his whole body trembled. In his dark red, pupil-less eyes, terror surged as if it were tangible, almost overflowing from their sockets.
Crabbe knelt beside Selwyn, his blank face also filled with fear. His hands were clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms, and the blood that seeped out dripped onto the withered grass, looking particularly glaring in the sunlight.
Nott knelt at the very back, his young face filled with despair. He kept his head down, not daring to look at Voldemort, not daring to look at Bellatrix, not daring to look at anyone. He just knelt there, trembling, awaiting his Destiny.
Voldemort slowly turned around.
Three scarlet eyes looked down at the four kneeling figures, their gaze cold and calm, devoid of any emotion. There was no anger, no disappointment, only a chilling, almost cruel emptiness.
"It failed." His voice was soft and calm, as if stating a fact, or as if judging a criminal.
Bellatrix's body stiffened abruptly, her eyes closing simultaneously, dark red tears seeping from their slits and dripping onto Voldemort's toes. "Master... we did our best... that old man was too strong... we..."
"Too strong?" Voldemort interrupted her, his voice still gentle, yet carrying a barely perceptible hint of mockery. "I gave you power, I gave you the gifts of Deep Space, I gave you abilities beyond mortals. And you—the four of you—couldn't even kill a heavily injured, weakened Grindelwald, whose cultivation level had even fallen?"
Selwyn raised his head, his rugged face filled with fear and pleading. "Master, he... he's really different. We used the power you bestowed upon us, we used the spells of the Deep Space, but we couldn't harm him. He's too strong. Only you, Master, only you personally could—" "Could what?" Voldemort's voice suddenly turned cold, like an ice blade slicing through the air, "... could clean up your mess?" Selwyn quickly lowered his head, not daring to utter another word.
Voldemort looked at them, his three scarlet eyes swirling with complex emotions. His fingers tapped lightly at his side, the sound echoing across the silent hills like the footsteps of Death.
"I'm very disappointed in you." He finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse. "I gave you such great power." Bellatrix looked up, and all those eyes opened at once, a dark red light flashing on her body. Her lips trembled, and her eyes were filled with tears—dark red tears, like blood.
"Master, we are one."
"Shut up." Voldemort's voice was calm and cold.
Bellatrix immediately shut her mouth, lowered her head, and dared not utter another word.
Voldemort was silent for a few seconds, then slowly raised his hand. That hand—that inhuman hand covered in jet-black scales—gleamed with an eerie, metallic sheen in the sunlight. Tiny tentacles peeked out from between his fingers, swaying gently in the air, as if searching for something, or waiting for something.
"You think Grindelwald is strong?" His voice was soft yet dangerous. "You think only I can deal with him?" No one dared to answer.
Voldemort's lips curled up slightly, revealing a cold, sinister smile.
"Then I'll show you what true power is."
He raised his hand, palm facing the four kneeling figures. Tentacles emerged from his palm, multiplying and thickening like countless tiny, writhing snakes. They stretched, coiled, and intertwined in the air, eventually forming a massive, constantly writhing net. Bellatrix's pupils contracted sharply. Those eyes widened simultaneously, emitting a blinding dark red light. She felt it—that power, that cold and chaotic power, was approaching her. Not transformation, not a gift, but a devouring force.
"Master—!" she screamed, her voice shrill and piercing, carrying an eerie resonance, as if countless voices were superimposed together, "Master, no—!"
Selwyn sensed it too. He jerked to his feet, trying to run away, but his legs wouldn't obey him, his body wouldn't obey him. The tentacles had already wrapped around his ankles, spreading upwards, devouring his body. He screamed, struggled, and frantically scratched at the ground with his hands, his nails breaking and bleeding, but he couldn't break free.
Crabbe didn't struggle. He just knelt there, head bowed, letting the tentacles wrap around his body. His expressionless face was blank, but in his dark red, pupil-less eyes, fear and despair surged.
Nott tried to run, but as soon as he stood up, the tentacles wrapped around his waist. He was pulled to the ground and dragged towards Voldemort, his hands digging deep, bloody gashes into the earth. He screamed, cried, and begged, but Voldemort's expression remained unchanged. The tentacles grew denser and tighter, binding the four bodies together, squeezing them together, and merging them into one.
It's not a simple binding, but a more fundamental and cruel fusion.
Their skin began to fused together, flesh began to intertwine, and bones began to merge. Those eyes transferred from Bellatrix's body to her new one, blinking, turning, and gazing through the gaps of fusion.
"Aaaaaah!"
Bellatrix's screams grew weaker and weaker, fading into the distance until they disappeared into the writhing of her tentacles. Selwyn's struggles grew feeble and feeble until they finally subsided.
Crabbe and Nott's bodies were indistinguishable; their flesh and blood were intertwined, their bones were fused together, and their souls were forcibly stuffed into the same vessel.
Voldemort withdrew his hand.
The tentacles slowly dissipated, revealing a huge, twisted, and repulsive figure.
Those were four people—no, not four people. They were the remains of four people, forcibly fused into a new, indescribable entity. It was about three meters tall, its body pieced together from countless twisted limbs and torsos, its surface covered with those eyes—dark red, pupil-less eyes, blinking, turning, gazing in different directions.
Its head was formed by piecing together the faces of Bellatrix and Selwyn, the two faces fused together, its mouth opening and closing, emitting a low, beast-like howl. It had six arms and four legs, each joint bent in the opposite direction, making it look like some kind of huge, eerie insect.
It stood there, trembling, its eyes blinking simultaneously, their dark red light flickering uncertainly.
Voldemort looked at it, a satisfied gleam in his three scarlet eyes.
"This is your punishment," his voice was soft and calm, "But also your blessing."
He raised his hand, pointing towards the town, towards the gray stone house, towards the aged figure still standing by the window. "Go, kill Grindelwald."
The stitched-together monster's body shuddered violently. All its eyes turned to Voldemort, to the direction he was pointing. Bellatrix's half-face opened its mouth and let out a low, hoarse growl.
"Yes, Master..."
Its voice wasn't that of one person, but rather the combined voices of four, deep and chaotic, carrying an eerie, chilling resonance. It turned and walked down the mountain. Those twisted limbs crawled and slid on the ground, each step carrying an unsettling, eerie rhythm. Those eyes blinked over it, looking in different directions—some staring at the road ahead, some at the sky, and some at some point in the void imperceptible to mortals.
Voldemort watched its retreating figure disappear at the end of the stone road in the town, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Go ahead," he said softly. "Let me see what you're capable of."
The town bells have stopped ringing.
The Muggle huddled in the house, behind the curtains, behind any cover they could find, trembling and praying that the nightmare would end soon. They didn't know what was happening outside, what those eerie lights were, or what that twisted, repulsive monster descending from the hill was.
All they knew was fear.
The stitched-together monster walked along the town's cobblestone streets, its twisted limbs crawling and sliding on the ground, each step making a dull, wet sound. Eyes blinked over it, watching every window, every door, every alleyway. It could feel it—the Muggle were watching it, fearing it, praying it wouldn't enter their houses. But it didn't care. It only cared about one goal.
That gray stone house.
It walked to the door and stopped. All eyes turned to the black wooden door—it was closed, just as before. But it could sense that Grindelwald was still inside, still in the living room, still by the fireplace, still waiting for it.
It raised an arm—an arm that once belonged to Selwyn, thick, powerful, and covered in scales—and pressed it against the door.
The door was unlocked.
It pushed open the door and stepped inside.
In the living room, the fireplace still burned, illuminating the entire room warmly and brightly. Grindelwald stood before the fireplace, his back to it, watching the flickering flames. He held no wand, wore no protection, and looked the same as before, the same as always. The stitched-up monster entered the living room, its twisted limbs creaking on the wooden floor. All its eyes turned to Grindelwald, to that aged, calm figure, seemingly indifferent to everything.
" Grindelwald..."
Its voice was low and chaotic, the four voices overlapping and echoing in the living room, "Your death... has come again..." Grindelwald slowly turned around.
Those heterochromatic eyes calmly watched it, watching the twisted, spliced, nauseating body, watching those blinking, dark red, pupil-less eyes.
"Here we go again? When will this end?"
His expression remained unchanged; he simply sighed softly.