Summary: Post DH (or rather, a missing scene). Harry said that remorse was Voldemort's last chance. He was wrong. Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Bellatrix discuss love, death, and redemption at King's Cross - and beyond.
Pairings: a dash of Bellatrix/Voldemort, only for plot purposes. (Although I am a shipper)
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE DEATHLY HALLOWS.
Disclaimer: The characters and excerpts used in this story belong to their respective authors. There may be a few quotations unintentionally included in the text. No credit is being taken for their work. Don't sue me.
So, after the year-long hiatus, I, author Ve, am back. Currently I plan to work on the Death Eater's Handbook, and if you have noticed, I have removed "Tiles" in order to polish it up a little. Author Ev is extending her own hiatus a little longer, from what I know.
Enjoy…this piece was conceived at 3 a.m. after a marathon reading session. May contain weirdness.
Starlight on a Pall
(Alternatively titled: "Remorse")
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! On my funeral mind
Like starlight on a pall –
Thy heart – thy heart! – I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy –
Of the baubles that it may.
Excerpt from "To ------ ", E. A. Poe.
I
Pain and terror do not necessarily go hand in hand, and they are two of the only things that 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.
Then again, the man widely known as Lord Voldemort wasn't exactly an average person. Finding himself in both terror and pain does not make him feel bothered in the slightest. Indeed, pain was not a novelty but a matter of everyday life to him – in the form of others' suffering and, occasionally, as experienced by himself. However, terror was an entirely different matter – after all, he had just experienced one of the only things he feared in life; that is, death. It wouldn't have troubled him so much if his mind had vanished completely, or if there was somebody around to help him. As it was, he was fully conscious of his surroundings, and there was nobody present as far as he could see. All around was a dense fog of some sort, while he floated, unsupported, in its midst. Dead?
The mist that swirled and drifted all about began to not clear but solidify, first into a floor below his aching back, then into a high, glass-domed ceiling far above his head. He inwardly groaned. This was the same hall that he had seen after he killed the boy in the Forest…and if he was correct, he would soon find himself stuck in a body similar to the one he had before taking the boy's blood to create a new one. Dead?
His view of the place was limited to the expansive, golden ceiling, vision slightly blurry, as it had been last time. Feeling other than the background of pain returned, and he felt the floor under him to be cold and the air through his throat, dry. Dead?
Breathing became harder to do, and his spirits sank further. This was it. When he killed the boy, he had truly died – and, somehow, he was dying again. The boy…lived? Confusing – but there he was, in the strange golden hall.
This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't in the plan. This was, for Merlin's sake, exactly what Horcruxes were supposed to protect him against!
He lied there and quietly wondered whether anyone would come this time, if only so he could be completely certain about his theory. Last time, he had heard footsteps and distant voices, floating through the air and piquing his interest. Surely someone would notice? Surely --
There it was! Distantclicks on the stone floor, which could only be the sound made by sturdy shoes. He had been strangely calm before, but now he felt his heart clench and his mind barely able to function. In his excitement, he tried to call to the unknown being, but stopped after emitting only a soft whimper and nearly choking on what must have been his tongue. However, it had worked; the clicks were getting closer. He could almost feel the ground vibrate, and he could actually feel the still air disturbed by what could only be the swish of robes.
The person was bending over now, slowly, cautiously, as if making sure of his existence. He – no, wait, she, had long, dark hair that temporarily blocked his view of the ceiling.
Bellatrix? He thought in wonder and despair. So it was certain, then. This was indeed Death. Death, the place he had sought to escape, an abnormally large and nearly empty hall. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry -- that is, if he were capable of doing either.
Bellatrix was still there. Over his terror and pain and urge to laugh or cry, he worried that even she would not recognize him, or worse, would abandon him. However, all doubt was blown away when she touched his shoulder, because for a moment, a golden moment, he was able to feel her unwavering loyalty as if he were she. He recoiled in shock, and so did she. Gingerly, she re-established the contact.
"Can you hear me, my Lord?" she said out loud.
Yes. He thought, and miraculously, she seemed to hear him. Her eyebrows were raised in slight surprise.
Managing for a moment to overcome the terror and the pain and the urge to laugh or cry and the curiosity, he replied in his habitual, dry tone.
It appears I am only able to communicate when there is skin contact. A hassle, yes, but no great matter. Now, about –
He was about to mention what had happened at Hogwarts, but decided otherwise.
-- this curious place, he connected flawlessly, what have you learnt?
She leaned closer to the ground. "My Lord," she whispered into his ear, "Dumbledore is here also."
Dumbledore had always insisted that death would be "a great adventure". To many, this would mean many happy reunions and eager exchanges of the latest happenings. To many, this would mean seeing friends and family again or for the first time, forgiving enemies, and letting go of all their mortal woes.
Of course, if most of the people one recognizes happened to have been dispatched by oneself, things might not turn out so pleasantly. Voldemort's anger towards the old man flared dangerously, but he was also apprehensive. What if Dumbledore wished to annihilate him? Not being able to fight back had always frustrated him, and he was positive that the current situation was the worst encountered thus far. Bellatrix, obviously, was expecting him to confront Dumbledore.
No way. Never in eternity. He can figure out his questions by himself.
Yet, he had a feeling that he was meant to talk with the old fool.
Besides, he reasoned, if he had to stay here forever, his resolve will sooner or later disintegrate. Speak with him once, and he will never have to do it again.
Just once.
Where is he?
"At the far end of the hall, seated." Bellatrix glanced up. "He seems to be … whistling."
Carry me, then.
There was a rustling sound. She did pick him up, but not before wrapping the useless infantile body in a cloak. When she walked, the swaying motion made him feel slightly nauseous. It was better than when Wormtail had carried him, just not by much. Additionally and discomfortingly, Bellatrix rose much higher from the ground than the short, cowardly servant. He was therefore very grateful when she finally sat down.
Facing Dumbledore.
The former Headmaster of Hogwarts sat on a golden chair, his blue robes reflecting the – sunlight? – that the hall was saturated with. There was another surge of fury, more urgent and consuming than before.
"We meet again, Tom." The silver-haired wizard said pleasantly, but his voice contained a trace of sadness. Voldemort felt like throwing every hex he could think of at that horribly serene face. How dare he? How dare he? Even here, even after they've lived and fought and died and been betrayed and betrayed again?
His hands clenched automatically, and he was rewarded with a painful shock up his arms. Yet, Voldemort remained silent. He glared at the speaker. Bellatrix simply stared.
"I suppose I was foolish to think that you would change." Yes, Dumbledore was definitely sad now – perhaps not sad, but disappointed once more in a long history of disappointments. "You would never have listened to Harry's warning."
"…I'd advise you to think about what you've done…try for some remorse, Riddle…I've seen what you'll be otherwise…" said Potter.
"Lies. All lies!" he hissed venomously, through Bellatrix's voice. "The boy is an ignorant simpleton who knows nothing about magicks more glorious than his little book of spells and his love."
Dumbledore raised one bushy eyebrow. "Oh? Then tell me, Tom, how do you explain your death?"
"I – " he stuttered, having thought of nothing at first, "— it was a mistake. An accident. I was careless… and I didn't know of the Malfoy boy's connection with the Elder Wand. You don't believe that Potter survived because of his skill?"
"Tom," Dumbledore said quietly, "take a look at yourself. Do you call mutilating your soul 'glorious'? Do you call the young man who has lost so much by your doing, and yet tried to save you nevertheless, 'ignorant'?
"If there is anyone here who is ignorant, it is you."
"My plan failed, that's all. Partly because of the boy, partly because of – of some other factors…"
"Had you known everything, you would not have tried it in the beginning. I can tell that you still don't understand why Harry survived all of your attempts on his life --" Voldemort, through Bellatrix, tried to interrupt, but Dumbledore spoke on. "Oh, you know what it was, but you do not comprehend it. You have never experienced it."
"Why would I want to?" he sneered.
"Because," his enemy's tone became very patient, as if he were speaking to a particularly stupid child, "your very incomprehension also played a part. For example, the protection that Lily Potter gave to her son --"
"I was able to overcome that!" it came out in a snarl.
"Yes, but through this blood connection, you were also able to save Harry --"
"What?"
"— when he arrived here not so long ago. As long as you could not be slain, neither could he."
The realization hit him so hard; it was almost a physical blow. It was his fault, then and always. While his mind set off racing to affirm this startling conclusion, he could see Bellatrix looking at him and Dumbledore in turn, with an expression of shock.
"Do you mean," she whispered to the bearded wizard, "that my Lord has split his soul --"
"Unfortunately." He replied with a sigh that made his moustache twitch.
She looked back at him; he could see her face above him, bearing an unidentifiable emotion. Her eyes seemed to say something, but he couldn't figure out what exactly. Then, the storm broke.
"I'm so sorry." She whispered in his ear, voice growing hoarse, and, strangely, close to tears. "I should have done better for you…"
Quiet, Bella, be quiet. This is not the time.
She recomposed herself. Meanwhile, he turned his attention back to Dumbledore. "You say that I do not understand this favourite explanation of yours, but you yourself have not an iota of knowledge about what you have done, either…"the throat he was using still threatened to sob.
"How is that so, Tom? All we have tried to do is to redeem you."
"Redeem me? REDEEM me?" the voice cracked. "Don't pretend you don't know, old man. You know perfectly well what your precious Potter has done when he destroyed my Horcruxes. How dare he even mention remorse, when he himself had eliminated any chances I had – at your command? Souls can be repaired, but not regenerated, Dumbledore."
His enemy seemed to consider this, his merry eyes looking, for a brief second, put out.
He laughed, the sound not as familiar as the one his once cold and high voice generated. "Is that pity I see?" when Dumbledore did not respond, he continued, "save it. You have your revenge. You win." He spat the sentence out forcefully; it even tasted disgusting. "I know something which is worse than death. Now, if you don't mind, we will be leaving."
Bellatrix stood up, infallible and as always, knowing exactly what he wanted.
"But there is a way." Behind him, the wizard whispered. "There is a way, Tom." His voice grew louder. "A way to change your state – but only if you are willing to change yourself."
Voldemort ignored it. Looking around the place that vaguely resembled a train station of some sort, he had no idea where to go next. The place was still entirely devoid of any other being. He glanced up at the too-bright patch of …sky… above his head, and knew that this was no sun providing the warm light.
"Which route do you fancy?" the pleasant voice of the former Headmaster carried merrily over Bellatrix's shoulders. "I myself am planning to return to Hogwarts."
Just then, there was a loud noise that echoed around the empty hall. Voldemort gave an involuntary start. It was followed by a clunking sound that grew more and more boisterous; Bellatrix spun around, nearly dropping her Lord, and both of them stared at the source of the disruption. It was something straight from his very secret, very – childish, very innocent (if he had ever been innocent) dreams. No, he told himself, such a thing should not exist here. Not after death – yet there it was.
Through the copious amounts of wafting steam, they could see a large, scarlet something pull up to one of the platforms. It was clear to all three of them that the Hogwarts Express has just arrived.