Marauder strolled to the centre of the platform. The noise dipped. He lifted his eyes, glanced around the hall, and grinned bright.

“Six years ago,” he said, “I had everything lined up. Perfect conditions, perfect site, perfect timing.” His fingers flicked lazily. “Then the Keepers barged in and ruined the whole bloody thing.”

A few dark-robed figures muttered. Several scoffed. Marauder carried on.

“But this time? This time I’ve got every piece. Every thread. Every door pried open. It’s finally time to bring the Keepers to heel, along with the rest of the world.”

Bathael let out a whistle. “Can I ask what you did six years ago?”

Marauder turned, eyes sharp but his smile wide enough to show teeth. “Of course. You’re one of us now.”

He swept his hand out.

A map burst into the air above them, drawn in fire… phoenix fire. The heat licked the closest rows. Even Bathael’s armour picked up a faint glow. He eyed the flames with a squint. Cursed.

The world floated there, ringed in burning lines. Marked points glittered like hot embers.

Mesoamerica.

Greece.

Norway.

Australia.

Turkiye.

China.

Mongolia.

Central Africa.

And a cold blue flare at the very top… North Pole.

A witch murmured. “You planning a sightseeing tour? Looks ambitious.”

Marauder ignored that. He tapped a point over Greece, and the flame pulsed.

“In our last meeting,” he said, “I told you I’d found something. Something old enough to make the Keepers sweat. Something that should’ve changed the balance in one strike.” His smile thinned. “I nearly woke it too. But the Keepers turned up and smothered it before it fully pulled itself together.”

He flicked his wrist. The point over Mesoamerica flared next.

“Took me years to work out why it stalled. Turns out the creature’s soul wasn’t with its body. Sealed separately, halfway across the world.” He shrugged like the detail was a mild inconvenience. “Which meant what I tried to raise was only half of it. Too weak to stand.”

Someone laughed down below. “So you poked an ancient body without checking if the soul was home. Solid planning.”

A few chuckles echoed. Marauder didn’t bother hiding his smirk.

“I check now,” he said. “And the soul is still sealed… but not unreachable. When those two parts come together, body and soul, the Keepers will lose their footing. Completely.”

He spread his hands, firelight danced in the air.

“And this time, I won’t be interrupted.”

The hall went quiet.

Marauder’s grin sharpened.

“The sites you see marked are the locks. They’re weakening. Not all at once, but close enough. The Keepers know it too… They’ve been racing across continents trying to stall the chain. They’re desperate.”

Alforc hummed. “Desperate Keepers. That’s new. Makes me curious what you plan to do with the thing once you wake it.”

Marauder’s eyes gleamed. “Whatever I like.”

He looked round the room, the fire-map washing his grin in red.

“As I said…”

He spread his arms.

“It’s war.”

“So,” Bathael said, tilting his head, “you reckon my sightings match yours?”

Marauder’s grin widened. “Precisely. They’re trying to smother it before I wake it properly.”

Bathael rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “And what is it you’re so keen to wake?”

Marauder snickered. “Curious, are we?”

Bathael raised a brow. “You waved a world map at the room. Hard not to be.”

“As you know,” Marauder said, sweeping into a theatrical bow, “old things grow stronger when named. So I’ll refrain until I’ve got proper control. I’d rather avoid giving it ideas.”

Bathael let out a laugh. “Reasonable enough.”

Marauder clapped him on the shoulder. “See? We’ll get along fine.”

The meeting began to break apart. Cloaks and hoods rustled, chairs scraped stone, and the more ancient members slipped into smoke, shadow, or other shapes that shouldn’t have fit through the door.

Bathael stepped down from the platform, ignoring the way several witches pulled their legs back as though he might brush past them and turn them to ash for fun.

He was halfway to the exit tunnel when footsteps fell in beside him.

“Lord Bathael.”

Bathael didn’t stop walking. “Mm? And who might you be, then?”

The man beside him straightened, trying for dignity despite having to look up at him. “Lord Voldemort.”

Bathael slowed half a step, eyes narrowing as if he’d caught a whiff of something rotting. “Never heard of you. Granted, I’ve been tucked away for a good while.” He gave him one long, unimpressed look. “Right. Go on, then.”

“Lady Kaed. That’s an impressive spell.”

“Very observant.”

“I heard she was supposed to be unkillable.”

“People say a lot of things when they like the sound of their own legends.” He glanced down at him. “And she liked the sound of hers.”

Voldemort frowned. “Someone once tried the Killing Curse on her. It bounced.”

“I’m not surprised,” Bathael said. “Avada Kedavra’s tidy. Too tidy for someone who carved her years out of whatever she laid hands on.”

Voldemort’s eyes sharpened. “So how did you do it?”

Bathael blew out a slow breath through his nose, as if debating whether to bother answering, then settled on something close to polite. “She stored her longevity in herself. Neat trick. Means you can drain it the same way you drain anything stored. Takes a particular sort of grip on magic, and a very dull conscience, but you can do it.”

Voldemort stared up at him. “You pulled her life from her.”

“All of it.” Bathael shrugged. “She’d been hoarding the stuff for centuries. Waste of good years, really.”

They walked a few more paces.

Voldemort tried again. “Her magic should’ve resisted you.”

Bathael smirked. “Should’ve. Didn’t.”

Voldemort’s jaw twitched. “How.”

“You’re awfully inquisitive,” Bathael said, amused. “Don’t worry. You’re not in danger. You’re not hoarding stolen years. Besides,” he gave him a sideways look, “you’ve got your soul sliced up like badly cut bread. You’re harder to digest.”

Voldemort bristled. “You know about that.”

Bathael barked out a laugh. “Does that surprise you? Saints, you’re softer than I thought.”

He turned fully, amused. “Listen. Covenant’s rules are strict, to be seated here, you prove two things. You’re not dropping dead next week, and you’ve got bite. Power first, years second. That’s the order. Always has been.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

Bathael clapped him on the shoulder, heavy enough that Voldemort shifted half a step. “But I’ll tell you what’s odd. I’ve never heard the Covenant accept someone who carved their soul into confetti. Bit tacky, that. Makes you unstable. And honestly, weak.”

He started walking again.

“I’d stitch those pieces back together if I were you. There are ways to kill you even with your little trick, and scattered souls don’t grow strength.”

Voldemort hesitated, jaw clenching, then strode after him. “How.”

Bathael slowed, not fully stopping, grin widening like he’d been waiting for the question.

“Well,” he said, “you might not be completely hopeless. I came across a ritual once, old, ugly thing…” He shivered. Then contunied, “It bolsters a shattered soul every time it’s forced to pull itself together. Cumulative growth. Quite clever, actually.”

Voldemort’s breath hitched faintly. “And you’ve used it?”

Bathael snorted. “Absolutely not. I’m mad, not stupid. Splitting your own soul is the sort of idea you come up with after drinking potions that should’ve stayed in the cauldron.”

He leaned in slightly.

“But you? You’re already cracked like a dropped plate. Might as well see if the glue works.”

Then he straightened, gave him a little two-finger wave, and carried on down the tunnel as if he hadn’t just handed a Dark Lord a lifeline… or a death wish.

***

Voldemort stepped out into the passage and stopped short. Marauder leaned against the wall as if he’d been waiting there all evening. Voldemort’s fingers curled tight for a moment, but he forced his hand open and walked toward him.

He didn’t want to. Every part of him prickled at being this close to that man. Marauder was unpredictable in a way that didn’t follow any pattern Voldemort recognised, too cheery, too sharp, too amused by things that weren’t amusing. And he owed him. Twice over, if he was being fair.

Marauder had dragged him out of the Ministry when his little raid for the prophecy went to hell. Not for the sake of heroics, Marauder wanted something in return at the time, and Voldemort agreed because he’d had no other choice. Still, he’d been plucked out of a corner he couldn’t blast his way out of.

And then the Covenant. That one had stung more. He’d been researching them long before his fall but all he’d ever turned up were scraps and rumour. Death Eaters had whispered about ancient Dark circles, old names buried deeper than archives allowed, but he’d never even found a doorway. He’d thought himself clever for mastering Horcruxes young, for carving a path few had walked.

He hadn’t known there were other ways to cling to life. Better ones. Older ones. And when he was first hauled before the Covenant after his resurrection, they’d laughed. Some openly. Some behind masks. They called him incomplete. Unstable. Cracked. A child who’d butchered his own soul because he didn’t know any better.

He’d lived more than seventy years dragging those fragments around like chains. Dumbledore had lived past a hundred without carving up a single piece of himself. How was he supposed to know longevity had other routes? If he’d known other ways existed, proper ways, developed by witches and wizards who actually survived centuries, he’d have taken one of those instead. He wasn’t sentimental about his mistakes, only furious he’d made them without all the facts. Knowledge withheld was a curse. He’d learnt that early. Every scrap of lore he’d found early on pointed him to one path, and he’d taken it. What else was a boy meant to do when the world had no intention of letting him grow old?

So yes. He owed Marauder. And he hated it.

Marauder straightened as he approached. “Enjoy your chat with the new lad?”

Voldemort stopped a few feet away. “He speaks too much.”

Marauder laughed. “Warmages always do. Comes with the sword.”

Voldemort didn’t answer. Marauder watched him with that look, the one that said he already knew Voldemort was wrestling with something.

“Well?” Marauder asked. “You’re brooding. That’s usually my job. What’d he say? You look… unsettled.”

Voldemort met the Marauder’s flaming gaze. It was like staring into a furnace that had learnt to smirk. He curled his hand into a fist.

“I didn’t mention the item you want,” Voldemort said. “I’m not an idiot.”

Marauder let out a warm, unbothered chuckle and patted his shoulder. “Good lad. I wouldn’t trust a Dark Lord either. They’re terrible at favours.”

Voldemort dipped his head in a stiff nod. “I’m aware.”

He hesitated. Then, grudgingly added, “He mentioned a ritual. Said it could strengthen me by dragging my fragments back together. Claims he’s never done it but he’s curious enough to try it on me. He gets his experiment. I get stronger.” Voldemort’s mouth tightened. “I’m not naive. He’s not offering charity.”

Marauder’s expression changed, still amused, but eyes narrowed now. “Huh. I’ve heard of something like that. Ages ago. Only the first half, mind.” He scratched his cheek. “Could be he’s telling the truth.”

Voldemort felt his pulse jump. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely not.” Marauder shrugged. “My memory’s a sieve and it was decades ago. Could be the same thing, could be something that eats you from the inside out. Hard to say.”

He tapped Voldemort’s arm with the back of his knuckles.

“Anyway, you’ve got more than seven, don’t you? Use one. Worst case, you blow yourself apart and hop back into another.”

Voldemort stilled.

He had had more than seven. Once.

But Dumbledore and that damned Rosier had hunted them. Voldemort hadn’t been able to track how many the pair of them had reached. He only knew the answer had dropped dangerously low.

Now, he only had Nagini.

His jaw tightened.

Marauder glanced sideways, catching the shift.

“Problem?” he asked lightly.

Voldemort turned away, “No.”

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