0664 The Dark Lord’s Dinner

Winky shakily carried a cup of hot tea toward the seat beside Voldemort. Her fingers trembled violently with each cautious step, causing tiny droplets of the liquid to splash close to the cup’s rim.

After carefully setting down the tea without spilling a drop—a feat that clearly required her utmost concentration—Winky hastily left back into the shadows behind Voldemort’s high-backed chair, kneeling in a half-crouching posture.

Cliodna remained silent, standing motionlessly at the threshold of the door. Her rigid posture and unwillingness to fully enter the chamber conveyed more resistance than any words could have expressed.

Her this reluctant position caused a barely noticeable but unmistakable crimson glint to flash through Voldemort’s eyes. However, his grotesquely distorted face, which could no longer be described as simply ugly, still maintained a calculated, eerily calm smile that never reached those cold eyes.

“Speaking of food—” Voldemort said with deliberate slowness, “What a coincidence. I was just about to enjoy my modest dinner.”

He gestured toward the table with his withered, child-sized hand, the motion somehow managing to be both elegant and disgusting simultaneously. “Come, Miss Cliodna. I’m sure you didn’t have time to have dinner in your haste to get here. Please, do sit down.”

His voice dropped to a silky whisper. “Winky?”

Winky, her white fur already damp with cold sweat that glistened in the dim firelight, responded in a panic-stricken voice that cracked with barely suppressed terror. “Yes, Master, right away, Master!”

Then, with a pop that echoed throughout the stone chamber like a tiny thunderclap, she vanished into thin air, apparently dispatched to prepare what would undoubtedly be a hastily assembled dinner for this unexpected and unwelcome gathering.

Cliodna did not remove her heavy black cloak. She walked over expressionlessly and sat down beside Voldemort. Her sharp gaze wavered for the briefest of moments when it fell upon the steaming teacup placed before her on the wooden table.

At Hogwarts, there was a man who also loved to drink tea with passionate devotion, but he preferred the greek mountain tea soaked to perfection rather than the black tea that now sat before her.

“You look well, Mr. Voldemort—” Cliodna said coldly, without touching the teacup.

“Thanks to the miraculous life essence of the rare medicinal plants you so thoughtfully left behind before your… shall we call it an unexpected departure, Miss Cliodna—”

The baby-like Voldemort raised his skeletal arm admiring it in the flickering, golden candlelight as if it were a priceless artifact. The corners of his lipless mouth curved upward into what passed for a smile, as if his partial recovery was truly impressive rather than pitiable.

“I must admit that my current situation is slightly better than when we were in the forests of Albania. At the very least, I now possess sufficient strength to read the newspaper by myself without assistance.”

Pop!

Just as Voldemort finished uttering these self-congratulatory words, an ulcer on his withered little arm suddenly burst open, and blood mingled with yellowish-green pus flowed down his arm like a small, disgusting stream.

Cliodna’s brow furrowed slightly. Her gaze swept over Voldemort’s face. Although his expression on that distorted face didn’t change much, she clearly saw a flash of humiliation and raging fury deep within Voldemort’s scarlet eyes.

“Ah, how tiresome. It remains frustratingly unstable. Sometimes this happens—” Voldemort said with forced nonchalance, as if discussing nothing more significant than an unexpected rain shower.

He picked up the wand placed in front of him with his other unaffected hand. He then casted a complex healing spell on the oozing ulcer. Countless silver-glinting particles, like microscopic stars, floated down from the tip of his wand visibly suppressing the rampaging magic festering within the “boiling ulcer.”

“This is caused by Watson’s Fiendfyre Curse—” After his arm returned to its burnt state, Voldemort rotated his wrist, examining himself with interest. “I must admit, I’m surprised by Watson’s mastery of the Fiendfyre Curse, Miss Cliodna. Even your wonderful potions can’t suppress the magic of Fiendfyre—”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Voldemort—” Cliodna’s eyes trembled for a moment as she said softly.

How did Voldemort encounter Bryan Watson’s Fiendfyre?

It was certainly because of Cliodna’s unauthorized and impulsive actions at the Quidditch World Cup. To save his only remaining helper at that critical time, Voldemort had no choice but to expose himself to the wizarding world. He had temporarily forced back Bryan Watson’s attack by self-destructing his temporary form.

“Ah, there is absolutely no need to feel guilty, Miss Cliodna—” Cliodna’s apology was clearly insincere, but Voldemort nodded in calculated satisfaction nonetheless, choosing to accept the hollow words at face value.

“Who among us doesn’t make regrettable mistakes in the course of our grand ambitions? Even I, Lord Voldemort, have fallen into such a lamentable state due to making what I now recognize as stupid, avoidable miscalculations. Fortunately, everything is gradually returning to its proper track. Those foolish mistakes of the past will eventually be corrected—all of them—with appropriate interest paid.”

“Thank you for your magnanimity—” Cliodna nodded slightly, the gesture containing precisely the minimum amount of respect required to avoid outright disrespect.

The remarkable speed with which the terrorized house-elf prepared the meal was impeccable. In just a surprisingly short while, Winky reappeared outside the stone room with a heavily loaded silver tray.

She kept her large head bowed so deeply that her long, bat-like ears dragged on the floor, not daring to look directly at the two figures seated in the room. After several hurried trips back and forth, apparating with soft pops that spread along the heavy silence, the long wooden table was filled with plates of food.

To be fair, this could undoubtedly be considered a truly sumptuous feast under the circumstances. Yet Voldemort clicked his tongue in dramatic dissatisfaction,

“I apologize, Miss Cliodna. Times are undeniably challenging for those of us working in the shadows—”

Voldemort raised his head, his crimson eyes methodically surveying every corner of the stone room as if taking record of his meager assets. Finally, his sharp gaze fell upon Cliodna, who sat as unnaturally still as a perfectly carved marble statue.

He lightly tapped one finger against the slightly crumpled Daily Prophet he had been reading earlier. The animated cover of the newspaper prominently featured a beautiful, dream-like ice and snow castle that glittered and shifted in the magical photograph.

The actual image of the magnificent ice castle collaboratively created by Bryan Watson and Albus Dumbledore on that night wasn’t officially recorded, but after the Yule Ball concluded, the fascinated young wizards and witches had still managed to take numerous enchanted photographs to commemorate the ice castle before it melted away with the dawn.

This magnificent and fantastical structure, combined with the already hotly debated topic of the Triwizard Tournament, had immediately captured public imagination and made the front page of almost every wizarding newspaper across Europe.

“—It certainly cannot begin to compare with the lavish service and accommodations you currently enjoy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Miss Cliodna,” Voldemort continued with false humility, “But I can personally assure you with absolute certainty that very soon—sooner than anyone anticipates—you’ll be able to return there again in triumph. Of course,”

He added with a smile, “I mean without any inconvenient disguise.”

“I look forward to that day—” Cliodna continued to respond with minimal engagement, one question matched with one concise answer, clearly unwilling to say a single word more than absolutely necessary to avoid provoking her deranged host.

However, under Voldemort’s lightly concealed displeasure, Winky’s body shook violently. Its face, turned towards the ground, was filled with fear and despair. Evidently, it had not been without punishment in the days since its return.

“I’m not blaming you for these shortcomings, Winky—” Even without directly looking at the trembling house-elf, Voldemort was aware of her deteriorating psychological state. He said slowly, “I believe you must have done your best given our limited resources, haven’t you?”

“Most merciful Dark Lord.” Unable to suppress her overwhelming terror a moment longer, Winky burst into noisy, hiccupping tears, her large hands pressed against her mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the sounds.

But her heart-wrenching sobs not only failed spectacularly to prompt even the slightest hint of genuine sympathy from her cruel master, but instead visibly caused Voldemort’s snake-like eyes to swell with irritation.

Perhaps only because Cliodna was present, he temporarily restrained his natural violent impulses and did not immediately punish Winky for her disruptive noisiness—a momentary mercy granted not out of compassion but because of this woman’s “peculiar habit”.

“All right, that will do, Winky—” Voldemort said with exaggerated laziness, waving his hand dismissively as if shooing away an annoying insect. “Perhaps you can make yourself useful by going next door and helping to summon my most loyal and devoted servant. I’m well aware he’s completely immersed in the exquisite joy of his… entertaining games, but enjoying a properly prepared dinner in appropriate company is also important.”

This was probably the most terrified and struggling moment in Winky’s eyes since Cliodna entered the room. It seemed as if she would rather face any punishment than go next door to that room of horrors, but she was obviously aware that if she displayed even the slightest hint of resistance or hesitation, the fate awaiting her would be far worse than a quick death.

The Dark Lord wouldn’t keep her alive just because he needed someone to cook and clean his dirty hideout. She would die agonizingly and then become the next evening’s dinner for that terrifying giant snake that slithered through the corridors at night.

If her sacrifice could somehow miraculously save her old master Winky would be willing to die without hesitation. But in the current hopeless situation, she had to stay alive—if not for herself, then for the faint possibility that she might someday help him escape this hell.

Not long after Winky’s reluctant disappearance through the door, the painful wailing from the adjacent chamber, which had never completely ceased throughout their conversation, suddenly rose to a crescendo. Then abruptly, completely subsided into an even more terrifying silence. Then, amidst the slow, ominous creaking sound of hinges, the heavy wooden door opened and a middle-aged man strode out from behind it.

This was a pale-skinned, flushed-cheeked middle-aged man. His face, filled with a distorted smile, had eyes brimming with madness. At this moment, he was breathing excitedly as he walked over from next door. His clothes were stained with blood, and the hand holding his wand was as if it had been soaked in blood, slowly dripping onto the ground.

“It’s YOU—” Upon seeing the elegant figure sitting beside his respected master, Barty Crouch Jr. froze for a moment in disbelief, his body becoming unnaturally still.

Then, like a switch being flipped, he flew into an immediate, uncontrollable rage. He strode forward with aggressiveness, pointing his blood-smeared wand directly at the back of Cliodna’s head, his face was twisted with unrestrained cruelty and ferocity.

Spit flew from his lips as he snarled, “How DARE you! How are YOU, worthy of sitting with the great master!!”

Cliodna remained unmoved by this display of aggression. She didn’t even glance back at the threatening figure of Barty Crouch Jr., treating him with the dismissive indifference one might show a barking dog behind a fence.

“Oh, my dear, faithful Barty—”

It was Voldemort himself who intervened, showing a hypocritical smile.

“I’ve already told you, Barty, haven’t I? Miss Cliodna helped Lord Voldemort during his difficult times. She helped him—helped him escape a truly desperate situation. You should show her considerably more respect—”

“Oh, my magnificent master!” In an instant, the savage ferocity on Barty’s face transformed into fawning, dog-like humility. He quickly scurried to Voldemort’s side like an eager child, dropping to his knees and bending low to worshipfully, almost sensually, kiss the back of his master’s hand.

“I haven’t intentionally gone against your wishes, my beloved Master. I just… just cannot tolerate anyone showing even the slightest hint of disrespect to you! Your honor is more precious to me than my own worthless life!”

“Miss Cliodna has not shown me any disrespect whatsoever, Barty—” Voldemort slowly shook his head with exaggerated patience, as if explaining a simple concept to a particularly slow child. Then, his sunken eyes suddenly brightened with malicious interest. “Ah, perhaps I should offer you my sincere apologies, Miss Cliodna. I just carelessly referred to you as a guest, but in fact—”

Voldemort said with a smile that stretched his thin lips to breaking point, revealing unnaturally pointed teeth, “You, like Barty here, are my family. My true, chosen family!”

Barty Crouch Jr. immediately burst into uncontrollable, grateful tears at this. Voldemort patted his head indulgently, as one might comfort a beloved pet. He looked with feigned enthusiasm at the steaming food on the table and then said with great interest,

“Come now, Barty and Miss Cliodna. This is… oh, this is indeed a belated but nonetheless meaningful Christmas dinner, a sacred gathering of Voldemort and his most loyal family members. Of course,” he added with a self-deprecating gesture, “it may look a bit shabby compared to the grandeur you’ve both known in better days. I’m sure you won’t mind, will you?”

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