How many fake Kyles had there been now... the seventh, or the eighth?
Voldemort had not kept count. Or rather, blinded by rage, he no longer cared about such things at all.
And it had all begun two hours earlier.
On a hillside, he had found a panicked Kyle and, without hesitation, hit him with a Killing Curse.
Then the man had died—cleanly and decisively, just like the Muggles and Aurors who had died by his hand.
Voldemort had been delighted, even happier than when he had snatched the Elder Wand from Dumbledore. As "Kyle" lay on his back on the ground, Voldemort had felt as though he had returned to his childhood.
It reminded him of the first time he had taken those who mocked him to a seaside cave and frightened and tortured them with his peculiar methods.
It was only much later that he learned those methods were called magic.
But that did not matter. The terror and despair on those two Muggles' faces had given him an unprecedented thrill, one he could not get enough of, as if every inch of his body had been thoroughly cleansed.
After so many years, with everything changed, Voldemort could hardly believe that he had found that rare feeling again.
He decided to take "Kyle" with him and throw him into Hogwarts later. Dumbledore's expression was sure to be marvelous.
At the thought, Voldemort could not help laughing aloud.
In his excellent mood, he had even generously forgiven those Death Eaters who had failed in their duties.
Until, not long afterward, he watched with his own eyes as the body of the already dead "Kyle" suddenly twisted and, within seconds, transformed into someone else.
As Horace Slughorn's former most prized student, Voldemort understood what had happened almost instantly.
Polyjuice Potion...