Lord Voldemort's Christmas Carol

Chapter Three.

Nagini hissed next to him and Voldemort's eyes shot open when the clock dinged once, then twice. With a groan of despair, Voldemort sat up, not knowing what to anticipate in this next hour of haunting. He did not wish to meet any more spirits that night, yet he was quite certain the fates were not through with their little game.

Sure enough, a loud, pounding knock sounded on his door, urgent and commanding attention. Voldemort did not think he could ignore it, as the spirits thus far had paid no heed to his wards and locks.

'Enter,' Voldemort called from the darkness.

The door swung open and the huge frame of a man filled the doorway, shadowed by radiant light streaming in from behind. At least seven feet tall was this new apparition, clad in a dark green velvet robe trimmed with luxurious white fur, bared at the chest in decadent carelessness, beefy arms crossed in front of bearded face.

Voldemort had the bizarre thought that the man looked like a cross between that great oaf, Hagrid, and that James Potter fellow he had murdered all those years ago.

'Merry Christmas!' the figure's voice boomed into the room. 'Stand, and follow me.'

'And who are you?' Voldemort hissed, standing up in spite of himself.

'I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,' the man said.

Voldemort was beginning to see a pattern here. 'Very well, Ghost of Christmas Present. What have you to show me?'

'Come, come, see the feast that can be yours,' the ghost invited, magnanimous hand waving toward the open door. Cautiously, Voldemort stepped through his own door, into what should have been his sitting room, but was completely transformed into a fiery warm, candle-lit room piled high with an elaborate feast.

Roasted meats, fish, and fowl wafted their tempting scents into the air; heaps of potatoes and winter squash, baked leeks and hearty cauldrons of stews; fresh bread and butter and puddings of every delight adorned the tables, along with great bowls of gleaming fruit, steaming ciders, and sparkling punch. There was scarcely an empty space left in the room, for it was so filled with the cornucopia of food. It looked to be a feast for fifty people at least, fifty friends or relatives that Voldemort certainly did not have.

The room was hung with festive garlands of holly, pine, sweet-smelling flowers, and twinkling candles, the look of a joyous occasional party. Gleaming bunches of mistletoe, cheerful red berries, and glistening ivy snaked across the ceiling. It was a garden of merry-making, the very picture of holiday spirit, a manifestation of all those good wishes that man might bring to others at Christmas-time.

Voldemort peered at it all curiously. He himself had not partaken in such food in years, as he existed by snake-milk and the occasional chocolate biscuit. 'What is the purpose of this conjuration?' he sneered. 'Surely you know I have no use for it.'

'I know you have no use for it,' the ghost replied, a jovial smile still upon his shining face. He chuckled, amused. 'You have no use for human fancies, for love or comfort. But it does not matter, for the wealth of the world is open to you, and it is only you who refuses to see it.'

Voldemort did not grace the man with an answer. Instead, he stood with his arms crossed, mimicking the other's posture, waiting patiently for whatever this new ghost's whim might be.

'Come, grasp my robes,' the ghost instructed, holding out a green velvet sleeve. As Voldemort did so, the feast room disappeared and Voldemort found himself walking down the high street in a small English village, in daytime. Electric Christmas lights twinkled, and the streetlamps were hung with pine boughs. Crowds of people walked along merrily, chattering with excitement, going to and fro the grocery store and the butcher's shop, arms heaped with food for their family meals.

The good cheer was palpable, as people would bump into each other in the crowds, and what might normally have turned into an argument or short words was diffused by holiday spirit, people saying 'thank you!' and 'oh, pardon me!' and 'happy Christmas!' to one another.

'Muggles, are they?' Voldemort said with a distinct sneer in his voice.

'Some,' answered the ghost. 'Not all.' He pointed at two twin heads of flaming red hair, coming out of the butcher's shop, laughing as they concealed something in a brown bag.

'Weasleys,' observed Voldemort.

'Aye. Let's see where they go.'

Through the village they walked, breath puffing upon the air, unseen to all. The houses of the village grew sparse and finally gave way to countryside. The twin Weasleys ahead of them were horsing around, shoving each other, throwing snowballs, and snickering unnecessarily loudly. Beyond a copse of trees, Voldemort saw smoke rising, swirling up into the air, a beacon of someone's home.

He wished he could have his wand with him.

'This way,' the giant ghost said, smiling. 'We're going to drop in on the Christmas day of your clerk, Arthur Weasley.' Down a little lane and into a clearing, the Weasley house came into view. It was a crazy architectural nightmare of turrets and angles, warm light blazing from every window under the slightly darkening sky. Several outbuildings surrounded the house, along with a garden that was barely identifiable under lumps and drifts of pure white snow. The Weasley twins scampered up to the back door and disappeared inside, laughing and throwing their last snowballs as they went.

Voldemort crunched through the snow up to the window. He peered in close to the glass, knowing he could not be seen, although he could see his own snake-like visage reflecting back at him. The ghost appeared next to him, arms crossed benignly, looking in on the warm family scene with a smile on his face.

A largish woman (Mrs. Weasley, Voldemort assumed) bustled around the kitchen, surrounded by a brood of tall, strapping red-haired boys who kept getting in her way. She clapped her hands, ordering them out, and then another two or three would just come back into the kitchen, noses in the air, sniffing the makings of Christmas dinner. The table was set for eight people.

'Come,' said the ghost, gesturing toward the door. Reluctantly Voldemort followed inside, moving his tall thin frame behind the table where he would feel out of the way. He had to admit the kitchen smelled delicious, with the aromas of roasting goose, baked bread, pies and cakes wafting about Voldemort's flat nose. It almost made him hungry, something he had not been in a very long time.

Voldemort recognised Arthur Weasley, who came up behind his wife and put his arms about her, kissing her exuberantly on the cheek.

'Nearly done, is it?'

'Nearly, if you would keep your sons out of the way!' Mrs. Weasley replied, trying to sound stern but sounding amused.

'They can't help it. This is shaping up to be the best Weasley feast yet,' Arthur rubbed his hands together, looking around his kitchen with a satisfied smile.

'Mum, do need help setting the rest of the table?' a girl's voice came from the door.

Voldemort looked over, startled. A vaguely familiar girl with crutches stood in the doorframe, her flaming red hair floating around her pale, pretty face. Bright hazel eyes danced as she looked around at the progress of the meal, and she hobbled forward uneasily.

'No, Ginny, dear, I'm doing just fine,' Mrs. Weasley assured her daughter. 'Arthur? The goose is cooked, why don't you help Ginny to her seat and call the boys in?'

'Of course,' Arthur hopped over to his youngest child, carrying her to a seat directly in front of where Voldemort was standing, watching. Arthur patted her on the head and placed her crutches in a corner.

'What's wrong with her?' Voldemort asked the ghost.

'A Quidditch accident has paralysed her right leg, and caused internal damage. The Weasleys cannot afford the long term treatment at St Mungo's, so they care for her here at the Burrow. It was a messy business.'

'Will she get better?' Voldemort inquired, watching Ginny Weasley's sparkling eyes set in hollowed cheeks.

'No,' the ghost said. Voldemort looked at him, eyes wide. 'If she does not get the proper medical treatment, the internal injuries will kill her, and I see that by Christmas next, all that will be left of young Ginny's presence here will be her crutches,' the ghost pointed, 'still sitting in the corner.'

Voldemort was starting to feel a little bad. Why hadn't Arthur Weasley demanded better pay from him? How was he, Voldemort, supposed to know about this sort of thing? It really did not reflect well on the Dark Lord to have his clerk living in near-poverty. If there was one thing Voldemort did not approve of, it was bad manners, and in his view it was poor etiquette indeed to let your own employees go to rack and ruin. He saw his own guilt and swallowed heavily. 'Good spirit, tell me that she will live.'

The ghost watched him with keen brown eyes. 'Coming from you? Who would have sucked the very life out of this same girl when she was but eleven?'

Voldemort hung his head, ashamed. It was true, he now remembered, he had possessed the girl, through his old diary, and tried to kill her in Slytherin's old Chamber of Secrets. But how she had grown into a beautiful young woman! And how her life was slipping away now, to no end at all, and again Voldemort to blame for it! It was enough to make even a Dark Lord contrite in his guilt.

A pounding begun in the house, like a herd of elephants moving through, and Arthur and his five sons poured into the kitchen, exclaiming and laughing and teasing one another. They all had identical red hair, making it difficult for the uninitiated to tell them apart. The two twins, (Fred and George, one of their brothers called them) sat on either side of Ginny, poking her stomach and twirling her hair, making her laugh.

With a flourish, Mrs. Weasley pulled out the roast goose from the oven, succulent and glistening with glaze, provoking 'oohs' and 'ahhs' from her family. The boys all looked famished, with the way they eyed their dinner. The bird seemed hardly enough to feed such a large company. Arthur waved his wand and a knife began carving up the goose.

'Before we eat, we must say a toast,' Mrs. Weasley announced.

'Yes, we should,' said one of the sons.

'To our family!' suggested a younger boy, raising his glass.

'Yes, to the Weasleys!'

'But, wait, without Dad's salary, we wouldn't have this feast,' Ginny pointed out, her voice small and feminine over her brothers.

'Ginny's right,' Mr. Weasley said. 'To the Dark Lord, the founder of the feast.'

'Oh, I'd like to have him here, all right,' Mrs. Weasley grumbled, her face turning a fantastic red. 'He who would scarcely give you the day off, and with nary an extra knut to show for all your hard work.'

'Now, Molly,' Arthur pleaded, 'not on Christmas. And the children,' he motioned. 'Everyone, to the Dark Lord and his health.'

'To the Dark Lord and his health!' everyone echoed, half-heartedly.

Voldemort felt terrible now. He was reason why Ginny could not get her medical treatment, and they were toasting him? Normally he would have said such a thing was only to gain his favour, but the Weasleys had no idea he was present in the room, watching them. He was unused to selfless actions, family warmth, and gratitude for even the smallest things, all those qualities of goodness which the Weasleys exuded on this Christmas Day. And now these same good people thought him the worst of all creatures, part of the reason for their economic misery, and still they could raise their glasses to him in even partial goodwill.

Unconsciously, the Dark Lord's shoulders started to slump a little. 'I should not have been so miserly about Arthur Weasley's time off at Christmas,' he muttered.

The ghost looked at him curiously. 'Did you say something?'

'No, no, just talking to myself...' Voldemort trailed off.

Arthur Weasley was now exclaiming over the pudding, to the nodded agreement of the rest of his family. Never before had Mrs. Weasley accomplished such a fine pudding, it was said by all.

Arthur stood up, slightly red in the face and smiling benevolently. 'Well, my dear wife, my sons, and my darling daughter,' he began. 'A fine holiday it has been.'

'Yes, Merry Christmas to us all!' exclaimed one of the twins.

'And God bless us, every one,' piped Ginny's little voice at the very last.

Voldemort kept an eye on all the family as he and the spirit left the room, most particularly on little Ginny Weasley. Once outside he reached out to touch the ghost's green velvet robe, and yet again he was yanked from the warm scene and found himself in front of a familiar house: Malfoy Manor.

On the rise of a hill, overlooking the Salisbury Plain, the ring of old Stonehenge visible in the distance, the Manor commanded attention and respect to those who were able to see it. The ancient grey stones were lit by a setting sun, orange rays glinting off tall windows, slate roof peaking towards purple sky. Still this part of the countryside had seen snow, and great drifts of it gave the Manor a look of a luxury ship floating through white seas.

Even as Voldemort and the ghost stood in front of the house, the sun slipped down over the horizon, and darkness seemed to come in mere minutes, leaving the white snow as a reflective reminder of the daylight. Voldemort watched, interested, as two figures Apparated on the lawn; he recognised them as the Lestranges, Rodolphus and Bellatrix, both completely insane. They were some of his favourite Death Eaters.

'Let's follow, shall we?' the ghost indicated.

Voldemort nodded assent.

As they drew closer, Voldemort noted that Bella was not wearing her usual creepy black clothes, but had donned a rather festive long red skirt and (he blinked) a tight red knit jumper with a green Christmas tree stitched on the front. Rodolphus was wearing a tie adorned with Santa hats. Granted, the hats were perched on skulls, which Voldemort appreciated, but there was an undeniable festive air about the two of them. Bella carried a bottle of what appeared to be champagne.

The heavy carved mahogany door of the Manor swung open, a tiny house-elf scurrying out of the way for the Lestranges, golden rays of holiday cheer spilling into the twilight. Voldemort and the ghost surreptitiously followed, the ghost chuckling at the house-elf.

'Bella!' a woman's voice called joyously.

'Cissy!' Bellatrix threw her arms around a slender blonde woman. 'Happy Christmas.'

'Now, Narcissa, give your sister room to breathe,' Lucius Malfoy's amused voice drawled. The blonde woman released Bellatrix, and suddenly Voldemort understood why Lucius would choose Christmas with his wife over Death Eater mischief.

Narcissa Malfoy was beautiful in every particular. From her glossy blonde hair to her slender hands, cheeks high with colour, red bow lips, and blue eyes, she exuded a merry sense of spirit that night, the perfect hostess of the evening. She walked over to Lucius and slipped an arm through his.

'Come in, both of you. Severus is already here,' she said, winking at Bellatrix and Rodolphus.

'Snape?' Voldemort whispered. 'He's here, too?'

The ghost merely laughed.

They walked into the drawing room, where Snape was, indeed, sitting in an armchair and enjoying a glass of red wine. The normally sallow professor looked healthier than was his usual, and seemed deep in conversation with young Draco Malfoy, Lucius and Narcissa's only child. Several other assorted people stood or sat in the well-appointed room; Voldemort recognised the Parkinsons who were not Death Eaters but were sympathetic to his cause, as well as Nott and his son, Theo.

A house-elf made rounds with scrumptious sweets, and the wine glasses were kept full as the guests mingled, talked, and laughed. Voldemort wished for a moment that he could be there not as an observer, but as a participant in the festivities. Although the scene was shockingly normal, with no Muggle-torture or Dark rituals, it held a certain congenial family charm that for some reason Voldemort found nice. He trailed Lucius around the room as Lucius entered into a jolly conversation with Narcissa and Bellatrix.

'He absolutely refused to come!' Lucius laughed. 'The old man just has no use for Christmas.'

'Even I have use for Christmas,' Bella announced, a sly smile on her face.

'I don't even want to think about what you and Rodolphus exchange as gifts,' Narcissa sniffed, a smile playing on her pretty lips.

Bella laughed loudly.

'So our dear Dark Lord would not even celebrate Christmas with us, Lucius?' Narcissa pouted. 'What a lonely spirit he must be.'

'Bah, humbug, he said, when I invited him here tonight! Those were his very words!' Lucius' grey eyes twinkled merrily.

'I think it's appalling,' said Narcissa. 'Surely even someone like himself could enjoy the holiday.'

'I don't think he could,' added Bella. 'Letting loose with us is just, you know, Not Done,' she whispered conspiratorially. 'He might drink too much wine.'

The party laughed at the thought of Lord Voldemort getting tipsy. The colour in Narcissa's cheeks rose higher; Bella pressed her hands to her stomach in laughter; Lucius pressed his lips together and wiped a tear of mirth from his eye.

Voldemort was surprised to see even Bellatrix poking fun at him, but at that point he could not quite bring himself to be upset. He suppressed a crazy urge to attend their party and show them that even the Dark Lord could boogie down and have a good time.

Interrupting the laughter, Severus Snape rapped on his glass, bringing the party to silence, and he spoke, suggesting they all play a game.

'How about Yes and No?' Draco suggested.

'Good idea, nephew!' Bella approved.

'Only because you know Legilimency,' Draco accused his aunt.

'Yes and No, it is,' Lucius said. 'And no Legilimency, that's considered cheating.' He looked sharply at Bellatrix. 'The rules are thus: I will think of something, and you must guess what it is. Only questions with the answer of 'yes' and 'no' are allowed. All right...' Lucius paused. 'I have it.'

Through many questions, it was determined that Lucius was thinking of an animal, a rather disagreeable one, that went about making hissing sounds and causing general mayhem and misery, did not live in Magical Menagerie, had never been eaten by anyone, and was not a snake, a lizard, an acromantula, a bird, a basilisk, a cat, or a kneazle.

Finally, when the company was stumped and Lucius looked on the verge of hysterical laughter, Narcissa stood up suddenly.

'I know what it is!' she declared. 'I've figured it out, Lucius, I know!'

'What is it?' Lucius cried, looking expectantly at his wife.

'It's Lord Voldemort!'

The room rocked with appreciation. Some declared the answer to 'is it a snake' should have been yes, seeing the Dark Lord's strange attachment to his snake, Nagini.

Lucius rapped his own glass for attention, and the laughter gradually subsided to random giggles. 'Now, we are all supporters and followers of the Dark Lord, and that he has given us such a good time tonight, surely we should drink him a toast, wishing him well this Christmas.'

'Here, here!' Bellatrix shrieked. 'To the Dark Lord, our master and provider, our one and only, our--'

'All right, Bella!' Narcissa grinned. 'To the Dark Lord, everyone.'

Smiles were on everyone's faces as they raised their glasses. Lucius smiled. 'Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year, to our Lord Voldemort.'

Voldemort was by now feeling so a part of the holiday spirit that he almost started to give a speech in thanks for the toast. However, the spirit whipped him away from the scene at the sound of Lucius pronouncing his name.

Voldemort scowled; he would rather have liked to hear more toasts in his honour.

They were now on a clearly Muggle street, nondescript, cold and blustery and without any outward signs of the holiday. A chill blew down the street, putting one in mind of loneliness and desolation.

'There is one more thing you must see,' the Giant ghost said solemnly. He pointed at one of the boxy, cookie-cutter houses. 'In there.'

Voldemort did not like the look of the place. It possessed the kind of bland façade behind which truly bad things happen. Brown bricks, white windows, a shiny silver car in front, a mean little plastic wreath on the door as the only indication of Christmas-time. The cool daylight faded out the scene, and where the recent snowfall had looked joyous and sparkling at the Weasleys, and the Malfoys, now it just looked flat and chill.

Once inside the Muggle house, Voldemort noted a sitting room, with a large, overburdened Christmas tree with gifts piled high around it, red and green wrapping paper a clashing contrast to the muted florals of the upholstery. Whoever these people were, they clearly liked to show off their money.

He watched as a large boy bounded into the room, avarice written upon his porcine face, narrow eyes taking in the gifts. Then came an equally large blonde man, with a red nose and a bristly moustache, followed by a woman Voldemort assumed was his wife, a thin, sanctimonious-looking woman with tight lips. She seemed to be trying to smile but it looked more like a grimace.

They appeared to be the worst sort of Muggles.

'Dudders!' the mother screeched. 'Happy Christmas!'

'That's our Dudley,' the man bellowed, his round belly protruding threateningly.

The large boy, Dudley, ripped into one of his presents, then another, then another, glancing at them and then setting them aside.

The woman tilted her head back, resembling a horse about to whinny. 'Harry! Harry! Get in here this instant!' she screamed in a shrill, abrasive voice.

Harry? Voldemort's mind registered.

The hulking Ghost of Christmas Present next to him straightened, crossing his arms again.

A messy head of black hair peeked around the corner, and then Harry Potter stepped fully into the room, wearing Muggle clothes five sizes too large for him, his green eyes dull behind round glasses, mouth set tight against any reaction.

Instinctively, Voldemort hissed, 'Potter!' and reached for where his wand should have been.

'No, you don't,' the ghost scolded, glaring sternly down at Voldemort. 'Watch.' He nodded toward the scene.

'Harry,' the shrill woman said, 'you get in the kitchen and cook breakfast. Get to it, and then you clean up all this gift paper.'

Harry shrugged, resigned, his face a mask of misery. Obediently he marched himself into the kitchen, where Voldemort saw him preparing a large breakfast for these already-fat people and the one wretchedly skinny woman. He realised these must be the Dursleys, Harry's Muggle relatives with whom he stayed during the holidays.

'Why isn't he at the Weasleys'? Voldemort asked the ghost. 'I have heard it said he spends holidays there.'

'He was not given permission this year,' the ghost answered. 'His aunt had a painting job in the house she wanted Harry to do, because she is too stingy to hire someone. Harry has been free labour to these people his entire life.'

Frowning, Voldemort observed as Harry cleaned up the wrapping-paper debris from his cousin, and saw there were no gifts for Harry under the tree. The Potter kid seemed upset, indeed, his eyes clouded, picking up the paper with increasing intensity.

'Harry, when you're finished there, you go on and take Dudders' things up to his room,' the big blustery man ordered.

'Yes, Uncle Vernon.'

As Harry made his way back across the room, arms piled high with discarded paper, cousin Dudley stuck out a fat foot and tripped Harry, causing him to take a hard spill across the floor, paper scattering, glasses crunching.

Dudley laughed loudly, pointing at Harry. The aunt and uncle did not even react.

Standing up, Harry's face twisted in anger, and with a loud crash, every light bulb in the room, including those on the Christmas tree, shattered and blinked out.

Voldemort nodded. 'Accidental magic,' he observed, sagely, to the ghost.

'I told you, boy, about funny business!' the man named Vernon roared, pointing at Harry with his fat finger, shaking with rage, face turning a terrible purple colour. 'I TOLD you!'

'It...it was an accident,' Harry said, not sounding very sorry. Dudley had burrowed down into the sofa, whimpering.

The wiry aunt spoke up. 'Look what you've done to our tree, Harry Potter!' she squealed. 'You've ruined Christmas! Vernon, I want you to do something.'

'Do something, I will,' Uncle Vernon Dursley growled. He shoved past his wife and grabbed Harry by the throat, appearing ready to throttle the boy, to death if necessary.

Seeing his enemy subdued, piggy Dudley took the opportunity to kick at Harry again, this time the backs of his knees, and Harry stumbled.

Voldemort did not like the looks of this. 'Now, wait just a minute, he can't treat a wizard that way...'

'But they have always treated Harry this way,' the spirit said, jovial manner gone. 'They are the 'worst sort' of Muggles.' He looked accusingly at Voldemort.

'What? It's not my fault--' Voldemort broke off. Actually, it rather was his fault that Harry Potter had to live with the Dursleys.

Voldemort watched as Vernon violently dragged Harry out of the room, Harry's face now a peculiar shade of blue, and followed as Vernon threw open a door beneath the stairs and shoved Harry inside.

'You thought you would never have to live in the cupboard again, boy? Well, you thought wrong! That's right, you can stay there forever, for all we care. If you're good maybe Petunia will give you some lettuce in a day or so.' Vernon slammed the door, locking it tightly, and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. Petunia had a cold, hard, unsympathetic look upon her narrow face, and the dreadful son Dudley looked up at his father with unabashed glee.

Voldemort looked up at the giant spirit, confused revulsion on his snake-like features. 'He's always been treated like that, you say?'

'Since he was one year old,' the spirit nodded, looking pointedly at Voldemort.

'It reminds me of myself, at the orphanage...' Voldemort whispered, and he felt something he had never felt before: pity for Harry Potter. The figure of his arch-nemesis, that brat Potter, was fading into an image of a boy remarkably like himself, Tom Riddle. 'I did not know.'

'NO! You did NOT know!' the ghost suddenly shouted, his congenial manner gone in a flash. 'You killed the boy's parents. You orphaned him. You left him to live with abusive Muggles. And still you try to kill him, to make his life miserable at every turn. I'll show you what else you've done.'

With a yank, the ghost and Voldemort whirled through many different scenes, each one worst than the next. A mother, weeping over her dead son who had been murdered by Death Eaters. A girl, orphaned and impoverished by an attack on her parents, her face disfigured by a werewolf bite. Finally, a boy with soft features and brown hair, mouth set against quivering, standing tall in a cold ward of St. Mungo's Hospital as he visited his own parents, who had been tortured into insanity and were unable to recognise their own son.

'Stop, stop it, I say!' Voldemort finally drew his long white fingers over his eyes, unable to bear any more images. He had so enjoyed his rise to power, but he had never experienced personally the aftermath of the murderous chaos he had caused. 'I wish to see no more.'

'But in your own words, there is only power,' the spirit's reasonable, warm, painful voice said. 'And these people, too weak to seek it...'

Voldemort hung his head at his own words. Yes, there was power, and he loved it, and had always despised the weak. Yet, these were mere children he had harmed, and even Dark Lords knew that children were innocent.

'Behold,' the ghost pulled open his luxurious green robe. In place of legs, to Voldemort's horror, were two small children, skeletal and starving, faces dirty, eyes dark and wide with fear, hands shivering over miserable mouths. 'Behold the result of your life. Their names are Fear and Despair. They are what you have wrought upon the world, in your lust for power, your greed for greatness. They are your wake, Lord Voldemort. They have become what you fled from, you! the small orphan boy who dared to dream himself above his station, that boy who was thin and desperate and fearful. That was you, and it remains your only legacy.'

Voldemort let out a half-cry, half-hiss, his red eyes gleaming dully. 'It's true, and I'm sorry! If what you want is an apology, you have it, cruel spirit!' In that moment he viewed himself with disgust and loathing, the Dark Lord who still had nothing to offer the world. For the first time in his life, Voldemort doubted his choices.

He barely noticed when he was deposited back in his bedchamber at his house, breathing heavily, and no sign of the jolly giant ghost remained.