Voldemort: Mine Is Better

At the end of the pier, on the stone embankment facing the sea, Voldemort stood with his back to the land and his face towards the North Sea.

The tide is receding, revealing layers of barnacles and wet green algae on the pier pillars, while the sea in the distance is pitch black.

He stood at the highest point of the stone embankment, his black robe billowing behind him in the sea breeze.

Dolohov followed Bellatrix to the dock, where Voldemort's silhouette was clearly visible in the moonlight.

It has a slender body, broad shoulders, and the length proportions of its arms and fingers still retain the outline of a human, but its fingertips are longer than they were three months ago, its knuckles are more prominent, its nails are more curved, and their color is darker.

His skin was paler than when we last met, and dark bluish veins were faintly visible on his temples.

His jet-black hair was neatly combed back, unaffected by the sea breeze; not even the ends of his hair moved.

The black robe billowed behind him, and wisps of black mist occasionally drifted past the hem, only to be scattered and then gathered again by the sea breeze.

Dolohov knelt on one knee, bowed his head, and pressed his right hand to his chest. "The Master."

He had done this move many times, and every time his knees touched the ground, something inside him would churn.

He was a few years older than Voldemort. At Hogwarts, Tom Riddle was a junior student, intelligent, quiet, and well-liked by the professors.

I've seen that dark-haired freshman sit by the fireplace in the Slytherin common room for an entire afternoon, engrossed in a book; I've seen the humble smile on his face after being singled out and praised by Slughorn at the Slug Club; I've seen his unwavering dark eyes when he was cornered by upperclassmen in the Corridor.

He was a senior in Slytherin at the time, watching his junior grow from a freshman to Prefect, and from an orphan to the most talented student in the entire school.

At that time, he was the elder brother, someone who appreciated, mentored, and even took a bit of pride in.

Slytherin has produced a genius, and this genius is younger than him. He will grow up and become a future ally that the Dolohov family can make.

More than thirty years have passed, and that quiet junior has become a name that makes the entire Wizarding World tremble, while he kneels before his junior, his knees pressed into the cold mud.

The fear is real, creeping up from the base of my spine, every single time.

The Master's Magic Power pressed down on the entire dock, the air heavy, each breath feeling like inhaling something thicker and colder than air.

My heart was beating slower and harder than usual in my chest, each beat feeling like a struggle against external pressure.

It could feel the oppressive aura emanating from its the Master, seeping into its skin through the air.

But the loyalty was real. Once he chose this path, more than twenty years ago, when he first knelt down on one knee in a dark alley to that young Tom Riddle, he had no intention of turning back.

What we fear is power itself, and what we are loyal to is also power itself.

Voldemort did not respond immediately; the silence lasted for a long time.

The sea breeze changed direction several times, turning from north to northeast and then back again, while the sound of waves crashing against the pillars in the distance was constant, one after another.

Then the hem of her robe slid silently across the stone slab, turning towards Dolohov.

Walking was silent; the ground was covered with pebbles and shell fragments, but no sound was made.

The covering on his body absorbed all extraneous sounds; even the sea breeze rustling through his robes made no extra noise.

"Antonin."

Voldemort's voice was very soft, more of a whisper than a audible whisper. He didn't ask why he was there, nor about the stronghold, he didn't ask anything at all.

Call out a name, wait, and let the person kneeling speak for themselves.

Dolohov's voice was hoarse, brief, and to the point. "The Master, Skipton outpost was attacked. The Prewett brothers tracked Rookwood to the outpost, and I ordered a siege."

Then a white-haired man, in his early twenties, appeared. He stood outside the Castle for two minutes, then cast an explosive Magic, blowing the entire front of the Castle away.

He paused, swallowed hard, and said, "I ordered a retreat. All personnel were safely evacuated."

"That man wasn't strong," he continued. "The preparation time for that explosion was too long; apart from that one, the rest of the attacks were within the normal range."

Voldemort did not respond.

Dolohov felt his the Master's attention on him, and the weight was very clear, as if something was pressing down on the back of his head through the air.

The scar on the left side of his face started to itch again, and new granulation tissue was wriggling under his skin. He resisted the urge to scratch it.

But he held back his hands, though he couldn't help his mouth. His expression turned ferocious, and he gritted his teeth. "That the Dark Lord's methods are extremely despicable, his nature is extremely insidious, and his actions are utterly vile!"

He paused again, the pain in his left cheek throbbing between the lines, and with each heartbeat he could feel the new blood vessels throbbing beneath the scar.

"He has no bottom line, no dignity, is despicable, vile, vulgar and rude, extremely filthy. This person is base, cruel by nature, uses dirty methods, and acts indecently. He is a thoroughly despicable person."

His Magic was utterly chaotic, his manner utterly dishonorable, he—"

His speech quickened, his vocabulary expanded, and the words he uttered became increasingly dense and numerous. A person who was usually so taciturn that he almost never spoke suddenly became eloquent.

He tried to hold back, but he couldn't quite manage it.

Fifty years old, a core member of the Death Eaters, a top duelist, had half his face smashed by a single punch, and was then escorted away with noble courtesy.

What's disgusting isn't the beating itself; injuries from fighting are common. He's broken more bones than anyone else, and he's also had his bones broken by others.

What's disgusting is that aristocratic etiquette.

That gesture made it very clear: I could kill you, but I choose not to; you can leave now, taking the broken bones from your face with you.

He had replayed that less than one-second scene in his mind countless times, and each time he felt more disgusted. Every time he repeated it, the scar on his left cheek would itch.

Voldemort still didn't turn around; his head tilted slightly, so slightly that it was almost imperceptible.

bad.

In Dumbledore's mind, the people around him were all kind, upright, and law-abiding, just as pedantic as their the Master.

Dumbledore liked to take in people like these: brave Gryffindor, loyal Hufflepuff, and righteous Auror.

A young wizard whom Antonin Dolohov, his most trusted torture expert and a taciturn, almost mute subordinate, described as utterly wicked, appeared beside Dumbledore.

He turned around, his scarlet pupils falling on Dolohov, and uttered a whisper, so gentle it was almost imperceptible.

"Let me see."

Dolohov raised his head, meeting those scarlet vertical pupils. The moment their eyes met, the intrusion began.

The Legilimency, incredibly fine, pierced the depths of Dolokhov's consciousness with a forceful, precise, and unyielding touch. Dolohov's gaze froze, unable to look away.

Voldemort flipped through his memories quickly, page by page, without any emotion.

My first memory.

The white-haired wizard stood in the wilderness, casting the Shield Charm to form a sphere, then infusing it with the Airflow Charm, compressing it, stretching the two-minute preparation into a few seconds.

Voldemort witnessed the compression process, as the air inside the sphere changed from transparent to bluish-white and then to blue-white. The Shield Charm was used in reverse to create a restraining effect, ultimately forming a fist-sized sphere of light.

Then came the explosion, a blinding white flash, the impact, the fireball rising, and the Castle being blown away.

Voldemort's attention lingered briefly on the combined effect of the Shield Charm's reverse restraint and the Airflow Charm's compression.

The underlying logic of this system is impure; Magic here is a tool, a lever, used to manipulate the surrounding environment and leverage external forces.

The effect certainly exceeded the scope of ordinary Explosion Charm, but its scope was limited.

The power of Magic comes from Magic itself, from the direct rewriting of reality by will, and from the resonance between the soul and the world.

A wizard wields the power to rewrite the rules, yet he uses it to manipulate and squeeze.

Using cleverness to compensate for insufficient purity of Magic, the means outweigh the essence.

It's over.

The second memory is of fighting.

Dolohov and the white-haired wizard clashed across the pile of rubble, their Purple Flame Spell and orange Confringo colliding, both sides holding back.

Dolohov was stalling for time, and the other side was cooperating in stalling for time as well, each trying to deceive the other and giving the other an out.

This part was translated the fastest, so I'll skip it.

The third memory.

As black smoke billowed out, his subordinates began to Apparition away. Dolohov stood at the edge of the black smoke, taking one last look at the white-haired wizard.

With an arm raised, the wand traced the Apparition, and in the same instant, the white-haired wizard appeared before him.

His long, silvery-white hair was blown backward by the wind from the compressed space, and scorching Magic Power surged from his body. His right fist, wrapped in a layer of dark red light, slammed upward into his left cheekbone.

The screen shook briefly, then the world spun around.

The white-haired wizard took a step back, bent slightly, placed his left hand on his chest, and stretched out his right hand, pointing to the empty wilderness beyond the black smoke.

The extremely affected aristocratic manners, the elegant posture, the radiant smile—but in this context, they were nauseating.

Voldemort's memories faded.

The image faded, and he remained silent for a while.

Dolohov's Apparition technique had already been initiated, and spatial compression had begun, but it was intercepted by the white-haired wizard within the time limit.

The method of directly injecting Magic Power into the fist is crude, but the precision in capturing spatial fluctuations and the timing of casting are indeed rare among this generation of wizards, completely different from the trickery of the previous method.

That last move was alright, but as for that aristocratic gesture—

He memorized that face: long silver hair, amber vertical pupils, and burning Magic Power.

Voldemort's face remained expressionless, but his crimson vertical pupils narrowed slightly.

Dumbledore has a young wizard by his side, who is quite powerful and uses wicked methods.

He has one too, but he's younger, has better potential, and his personality is completely different.

He was never in a hurry to judge Dumbledore's affairs; Dumbledore old, and his clichés of justice and light could no longer attract true geniuses.

But occasionally, a few noteworthy names would slip across to the other side, and this white-haired wizard was one of them.

Regulus Black is another one, but he's on his side.

Voldemort turned to Bellatrix, his voice soft, yet carrying an unusual warmth that emanated from his breath, making it exceptionally clear in the sea breeze.

"How is Regulus doing lately?"

Bellatrix's face instantly went out of control; a small muscle under her left eye twitched, her lips pulled down, and her pupils contracted sharply in the moonlight.

Extremely fast, it was retracted in an instant.

She hated him, but she couldn't show it to her the Master Regulus; any extra emotion would only remind the Master of her past failures.

Her the Master did not abandon her; The Master personally transformed her, rescuing her from the ruins of that defeat and reforging her.

She lowered her head, her eyes burning with fervor, her face cold. "The Master, the public news is that he went to India, for the family business."

Then he immediately corrected himself, speaking a little faster, his eyelid twitching. "India is fake. The Black family wouldn't let their heir go to a place like that."

Voldemort's crimson vertical pupils fell on Bellatrix's face, expressionless, without response.

Bellatrix's breathing became shallow, the fervor in her eyes turned to panic, her face remained cold, only her voice sounded urgent, "I will immediately investigate his whereabouts."

Voldemort withdrew his gaze, turned back to the Inferi slowly rising in the moonlight. "Go."

Bellatrix knelt on one knee, her voice devout, suppressing an uneasy tremor. "Yes, the Master."

Then he stood up, took a few steps back, Apparition, disappeared into the night with a snap.

Voldemort slightly raised his hand, his tone extremely gentle. "Antonin, heal your face."

Dolohov stood up, bowed his head, and stepped back. "Yes, the Master."

Walking back along the pier, past that open space, the pit was still there, and the Inferi still stood with its hands hanging down, its empty eye sockets facing the sea.

The scar on the left side of my face started to itch again, and new granulation tissue was wriggling under the skin.

After leaving the fishing village, Apparition and disappeared into the night with a snap.

On the stone embankment of the dock, Voldemort turned back to face the North Sea, his black robes billowing in the sea breeze.

The imprint of Bellatrix's boots was still visible where she had just stood, but the sea breeze swept up the dust and erased all traces.