II
As mentioned before, a surefire way of ensuring oneself an unpleasant afterlife is to send others there before oneself. Now, if one were to make an attempt at redemption, these poor dead souls would undoubtedly hinder one's progress by a significant amount.
Therefore, Lord Voldemort decided to stay out of sight once they arrived at what appeared to be an afterlife-version of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It seemed that departed souls could visit different places just as if they were still alive; he has seen people from many different eras going to and fro, their dress and behaviour in stark contrast with one another. He was very familiar with the place, and decided to use the Forest as a temporary, if not permanent, hiding place.
He had, indeed, been thinking about redemption, but in truth it was less a matter of redemption to him than it was a way to improve his presently helpless situation. After approximately a year's time in the Forest (for what was time to those who have all of it before them?), he remained in the form of a rather disturbing child.
Pain and terror do not necessarily go hand in hand, and they are two of the only things one can never wish for more of. When one is in pain, one must be terrified of any possible increase in the level of pain; when one is terrified, one must be terrified of any possible increase in the level of terror. In short, it is therefore generally better to be in terror than in pain, because terror would only lead to more of terror and not pain as well.
Recently, he has been experiencing much more terror than pain. Despite what he had said to Dumbledore, after a few months of lonely existence in the woods and faced with an eternity more, he was fully prepared to consider even remorse to remedy himself.
He only decided to because of fully selfish intentions, one must understand; for a soul such as he there can be nothing unconditional, nothing done for its own sake.
The lack of success frightened him deeply.
It wasn't as if he hadn't tried; he tried so much that he stayed silent for hours and even days, blindly grasping for the least trace of guilt in his mind. Recalling his memories, one by one, back as long as he could remember. Yet, all he could feel was anger and frustration and hatred and all the emotions that have been reduced to mere nuisances in his quest. This quest he never meant to undertake.
Hatred that words cannot express for Dumbledore, for Potter, and for himself. For Snape too, the bat-like figure who now stood for all betrayals in his eyes, conniving, lying, deceitful. Like himself, but he, of course, could not love.
Anger at his own failure, his own ignorance. Useless, for were his deeds not indeed ones that anger could not revenge, love could not endure, friendship could not forgive? Anyway, he never had friends.
Frustration. Why? Why does it not work? Why punish him at a time like this? Why does his mortal life still haunt him?
Oh, there was pity too – but only for his own broken self.
In short, he feared for his future because he had been unable to do anything about remorse. He had not expected to, for he knew that he knew himself too well. After the ordeals he had put his soul through, remorse was outside of his capabilities – and this had been done with his full intentions. When he began making Horcruxes, he had assumed that at some moment in the future he will experience remorse, and therefore made himself immune to it. There was no regret for this precaution-turned-curse now.
As to what next now, he had not a single thing in mind. There was no illuminating light that flooded his mind like there used to be; no flashes of brilliance that bought forth a wealth of ideas. In the ministry of theory and ideology he held all the keys. In the field of emotion he was lost -- as if that field was actually an ocean, and he, the poor earthbound creature, was sinking.
Then, he sensed it. A heartbeat, a pulse, a way out! The light once again shone bright in his mind, and he suddenly came to see something he'd never considered before. Something he'd never wanted to consider before.
"But there is a way. There is a way, Tom. A way to change your state – but only if you are willing to change yourself."
It will be hard. It will be a voyage into uncharted territory. It will be a monumental success or an extravagant disaster – yet he was willing to pay the price. No matter what happens, he simply cannot be at a standstill anymore. The desire to end it all was eating away at him, and he thought he would not be able to survive the adventure of death with a mind more intact than his body or soul.
Sooner or later, he reasoned. He'd have to do something sooner or later. Better sooner than later.
"Bella," he tried to call, and it came out as a dry moan.
The woman leaning against a tree stirred. She opened her dark eyes, still unfocused with sleep, and looked across the clearing to him.
Even in death, Bellatrix Lestrange was the epitome of faithfulness. She had chosen to go deep into the Forest with him rather than attend to personal needs. He didn't understand why, and at this show of loyalty he felt a slight twinge of guilt, like the step of an insect on bare skin.
"Bella, come here…" better this time; the words were only slurred and not totally indistinguishable.
He had no doubt she would obey. A moment later, she knelt with rapt attention at his side, clutching one of his deformed hands. "What is it?"
A swell of confidence. I have a plan. He smiled, having no idea of what he will do to achieve his goal. Maybe he should simply go along with a conversation. After all, most of the work had to be done subconsciously.
A pause.
Do you still wish to stay?
She looked slightly curious. "Not if you don't want me to, my Lord."
Why have you remained for all this time, Bella?
A shadow of sorrow crept into her eyes. "I swore allegiance to you. And I owe you, because I have failed you.
"Your soul, my Lord … I should be cursed for such incompetence…"
Don't.
"Don't do what?"
Cry.
"I'm sorry." She said, but with a strange expression. Apparently, she wasn't going to.
Another pause.
No, I'm sorry.
"Sorry?" was the surprised reply.
Should have told her the truth instead of making threats, maybe. Should have done the safekeeping himself, so it would not have become such a burden on someone who did not deserve it. It would have been better that way.
Yes. It wasn't any fault of yours.
Shouldn't keep her away from everyone else she knew – for after all, what did he know of family or friendship or love? He looked at her carefully. Death was supposed to be peaceful, serene, and calm, like – like mist over still water, like snow falling onholy ground, yet she looked harrowed. Tired, dirty in a subtle sort of way. There were leaves in her hair and burrs stuck to her robes, from the times when she remembered to take a patrol around their section of forest.
No, this was not right. This daughter of the Blacks should not spend her eternity outside in the weather, not she who was groomed for nobility since childhood – of course, he would not know of childhood or carefree times.
There was a brief flash of pain, not the sharp kind as from a blade, but the dull sort that sets in after one has eaten spoiled food. It felt as if it came from the inside of his bones. His breathing stopped for a moment, whether from the pain or from his feeling of triumph he did not know. It was working.
After the feeling had faded, the old thoughts of fear returned. It would never work.
It will work.
"Of course, my Lord. Your plans are brilliant." She settled down on the forest floor, among the fallen leaves and other detritus. Warm fingers gripped his hand as if in a handshake.
No, actually, he thought to himself. They may be "brilliant", but his plans of late simply had not turned out as he wished. Not when he was reincarnated, not at the Department of Mysteries. Maybe the woman sitting in front of him was one of the reasons.
She was as fanatical as fanatics came, yet could be trusted with detailed instructions instead of simply causing carnage. Like a Muggle missile (though she should not be compared to such a filthy thing), an explosion inside a sleek package. Oh no, the fault can never be hers, no matter how many times he may try to convince himself. The follower was too perfect for the cause to displease him, too insane to betray him, too entangled with his darkness to leave him.
So he never gave her pleasure, because if she were pleased she would stop striving for the greater good. So he betrayed her many times over, because the promise that he will reward her beyond her wildest dreams was one he could never fulfill. So he remained aloof and distant, because if he were actually to approach her, she would be able to leave – and he would be alone.
Bellatrix was not one of the reasons. She had fought for him, suffered for him, and, ultimately, died for him. Fate was cruel, he thought, just as cruel as he himself. It never rewarded her, as he did not, it never forgave her, as he did not, it never loved her -- as he did not.
Yet there was nothing to forgive, because only now did he realize that he himself was the culprit. Not the mastermind, but the culprit. Shouldn't have brought the Black child up as a human wreck, not a fully sentient being but a human wreck with only the most extreme of emotions, almost a spitting imageof himself.
Oh, but it's good for the cause. The Cause they say with capitals. Cowards, failures, himself perhaps the greatest among them. The Cause didn't need another pureblood daughter broken, another line ended.
Then he was the leader and betrayer, the saint and the demon. The pain was back and more furious than before, as if someone had injected his veins with molten glass. His legs folded suddenly and hit him in the chin, but he was in too much torment and joy to notice. For the first time since the battle of Hogwarts, he screamed out loud –
And then it was gone again. Bellatrix looked very distressed, and the debris around her had curious patterns in it, as if she'd been twisting in many directions to try to determine the cause of his suffering. He realized that his hands were clenched tightly, and loosened his fists to see neat puncture marks in his raw palms slowly filling up with blood. Those of her fingers that have been caught in that grip remained a stark white, only slowly returning to their normal colour.
All is well, he said before she could ask.
"But what was that?" the voice was urgent.
It's working, he said simply, although the doubts resurfaced stronger than before. It was certain to fail. This was as far as he could possibly go.
He closed his eyes and opened them again. Breathing was almost as difficult as when he had just died. He didn't technically have to breathe, as his blood no longer flowed and his heart no longer beat, but it was one of the final links the dead had to the living. Looking up at her concerned face. Knowing she cared for him the most of all people in both worlds. Knowing she loved him. It was too perfect, yet he couldn't bring himself to do it.
Maybe; it could be possible; it was within the bounds of the imagination. Had he been more than a maimed soul inside a body of crippled flesh and cursed (blessed) blood and long-dead dust, had he been as beautiful as the rest of humanity, had he been anyone other than who (what) he was, it would have been possible – but the fact still stands that it was not possible. Not possible that Lord Voldemort could be in love.
Had he been able to cry. Had he been able to give her what she desired. Had he been closer to her. Had he been whole… and the list grew.
Of all his Death Eaters, he had valued her the most. Of all those at the Ministry on the night of the prophecy mission, he had rescued her. Of all those deaths that he has seen, he had reserved his scream for her. If he could value her, if he could care for her, if he could be in so much anguish because of her, then why couldn't he love her?
They say that true love is when one values another's life more than one's own. In other words, when one is willing to sacrifice oneself for another out of pure affection, he recited.
So there was his ultimate obstacle. She could die for him and the cause, but it was completely out of the question in his case.
The irony stung; because of his fear of death, he has eliminated every chance he had at redemption. Because of his attempts at immortality, he has created for himself an eternity of shame and terror. Because of his inability to love, it has become the only thing that could save him.
And then he wished that he could understand. He did not know what it would be like to love, he didn't want to know what it would be like, but he needed to.
What if he had someone around whom he could let his guard down, relax, and truly comprehend his begrudgingly human self? What would happen if he had spared lives because of mercy and not cold-blooded convenience? – That fateful night, that Halloween, did he think of the child's poor, grieving mother when he refrained from such an easy Avada Kedavra? – No, surely not, surely not…
Then, if he knew mercy, he would certainly know how to forgive. Then, he would know why Snape had sacrificed so much for the mother of the boy he hated. Then, he would at least make an attempt at speaking with the victims of his other life, for by then he would have learned to forgive himself.
It was as impossible as gaining a toehold on a cloud.
Yet he sought help -- and help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.
There were three words he thought he'd never say. Now was the time.
If that is true, Bella, he continued from his last muttering, unaware of how much time had passed in between, then I love you.
That was a lie and he knew it. He could value her, he could care for her, he could be in anguish because of her, but he could never love her.
Yet the words were reassuring. If they could not prove that he could love (which he could not), if they could not prove his willingness to trade his life for hers (which he would not), then at least they could prove that he wished he could.
A brief flash of understanding suddenly overcame him, followed by the third and last wave of pain. However, he was so engrossed by the revelations he had seen that he noticed nothing other than his victory – victory indeed, for although he had lost to Dumbledore, he had conquered himself. He stopped breathing.
Then the agony caught up with him, and it was like nothing he had experienced before. Possessing Harry Potter came close, yes -- but no matter how closely connected, they were still two separate entities -- whereas this time the source was, in essence, within and because of him.
Lying sideways in the leaves with every muscle contracted, he managed to wrench his jaw open – but no sound issued from his dry throat, because he could not distinguish between his euphoric feeling of success and the terrible, terrible pain that threatened his consciousness. After all, all feelings in an extreme state are virtually identical, are they not?
The elated half of his mind felt Bellatrix's hand an anchor of which he desired to be free. He was liberated now! Leave him alone as he always had been!
The tormented half knew it to be part of the cause for his pain, and also knew that she must never, for his soul, let go.
A final –
No, the shock cannot be final –
Yes, it must be; the feeling of fading was like having spider webs weaved around him –
NO!
There was neither past nor future, but only the moment in which he was able to feel the warmth of her skin for the last time. All was indeed forgiven.
Only one thing left to do…
Author's Note: Part III and Epilogue coming up soon. Read? Review!