Chapter 2

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After a decade, Tom Marvolo Riddle – known now as Voldemort, to any he encountered – decided to return to magical Britain, and to his followers. He had earnt his name, Flight of Death, and had become more powerful than he had ever hoped he could achieve. Ritual upon controlled ritual, and he had become a being higher than the creatures he left behind. Lord Voldemort was immortal, a god among the world of the perishable. He had risen like a phoenix, from the ashes of his childhood, and was now ready to fulfil his destiny, with two horcruxes behind him.

He had gathered his forces, presented himself to the distinguished Knights of Walpurgis, and now they would begin their true quest for change. Already on their list was to get hold of one particular magical artefact - a wrist band - from where it had been hidden in a forest deep in Dorset. It was a cruel item, though not commonly known for its powers in extracting magical abilities, which was what they wanted it for.

Voldemort had taken four of his most competent followers with him for this particular task, and they navigated the twisted trees with their hoods up over their heads. It was silent (perhaps due to the animals sensing the danger that these wizards posed) and pitch black, as the foliage of the trees blocked out any glow that the moon may have provided. Voldemort was able to make his way without the aid of light, and his followers were working to do the same. After nearly an hour, when they were reaching the base of a hill, they stopped at Voldemort's silent command.

It was a quiet sound at first. Comparable to the delicate run of a mouse in the dead of night. But as the source came closer, it became clumsier, more like the stumbling of a fawn without its mother. These people were clearly lost, and as it become apparent, clearly not magical; a dim artificial light was beginning to illuminate a slither of the forest, guiding the muggles endlessly forwards. When the muggles finally realised that they were not alone, they too stopped dead.

The two muggle men were dressed in thick woollen coats and stiff leather boots, and they both looked utterly terrified. One, the shorter, stockier man, had begun to quiver, and Voldemort felt a rush of excitement as he observed the two pitiful beings. Licking his lips quickly, he could practically taste their terror. Just their luck.

"Men, I do urge you to be careful," Voldemort addressed his followers, twitching for the permission to attack. "Muggles are awfully... delicate," he concluded, grinning at the still-frozen men stood before him.

The first man's screams came without warning, and the other looked on in horror as his friend began to writhe around on the floor in pain, before he himself was whimpering, clutching at his neck and pinned against a tree. Voldemort did not outwardly laugh, but inside he felt positively gleeful; he could watch these filthy creatures suffer all night without having to do any of the work, and would get to rid the world of these two pests. The man on the floor began clawing at his face in agony, screaming incoherently about the pain under his skin, whereas the man up in the air was sobbing profusely as his followers cackled in joy. Malfoy had joined forces with Lestrange, both men having a lust for physical pain, as manifested in the writhing man on the floor. Black and Flint, however, sick bastards as they were, had an insatiable desire to watch the emotional suffering of the weak minded; they had been known to reduce their victims to emotionless shells, when they were feeling particularly cruel. Voldemort himself enjoyed the role of spectator; he had full control over his own bloodlust, and was happy merely to watch his followers carry out their perverted fantasies.

Only a few minutes into the torture, however, both muggles were paralysed in their position, and no more screams were heard.

"Do you not care for the Statute of Secrecy?" The voice carried to the wizards with a tone of authority, and Voldemort braced himself for a duel as five dark figures approached.

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