In the darkness of night, mist swirled as layer upon layer of mountain ridges piled together, like the spiny back of a black dragon.
The giant tribe.
Voldemort took a deep breath, his face etched with intense satisfaction, his scarlet eyes fixed on the figure before him—a body like a small hill, sprawled on the ground, with black hair, huge black teeth, and a necklace of bones. It was nearly the tallest among the circle of cowering giants around them.
"What is your name?"
"Golgomath," the kneeling giant rumbled in a voice like muffled thunder.
"What do you want?"
"I want to be Gurg—that is, leader," Golgomath said respectfully in his booming tone. "Karkus offended you, so he died. I won't. I will obey you."
Voldemort toyed with the wand in his hand, a cold smile curling his lips.
Karkus... the giant leader, the dead former leader.
A month ago, two wizards had come to the giant tribe bearing gifts: a flame that could melt even stone. Karkus was greatly pleased—giants liked magic but hated wizards using it against them.
In the days that followed, Karkus received several more gifts. Finally, he agreed to meet the man behind the wizards.
Golgomath carefully lifted his head with movements ill-suited to his massive frame; even kneeling, he towered over Voldemort. His gaze passed over Voldemort's head to the dozen or so giant corpses strewn haphazardly on the ground, and a wave of icy dread surged through him.
The feast had been going well. No one expected Karkus to insist that his new master perform, saying something about gorging on meat while watching tricks, even comparing it to the Muggles giants had caught exploring the mountains. The new master did perform: the flame shifted into all sorts of shapes before surging straight into Karkus's gaping maw.
In mere seconds, Karkus was burned from the inside out into a lump of blackened charcoal.
A dozen giants erupted in uproar. The new master sneered, and one by one, green lights filled the sky, brighter than the moon above. Seeing the tide turn, Golgomath leaped forward, snapped the neck of one of Karkus's loyalists, then knelt trembling on the ground, awaiting Voldemort's judgment.
"Very good," Voldemort hissed. "Golgomath, I appoint you leader of the giants—not just this tribe. If you can find new hidden tribes, I will subdue them one by one and place them under your command."
"Y-yes, Master!" Golgomath exclaimed in delight.
Having subdued a giant tribe and sated his thirst for killing, Voldemort felt content. He glanced disdainfully at the giant leader's throne—a crude stone seat draped with a few animal skins and bone ornaments. Breathing the cold, quiet night air, his thoughts turned to people and events thousands of kilometers away.
Dumbledore, Harry Potter, that Blackthorn fellow...
He wasn't ready to wage war on them yet, so he had to endure for now, building strength. Aside from the giants, he had only a dozen ragged Death Eaters like stray dogs. Sending them against the Ministry of Magic would be suicide, let alone Hogwarts—Dumbledore could crush them with one hand. But releasing them to gather intelligence could still serve some purpose.
And then there was the fool now sitting in the Minister for Magic's chair—Cornelius Fudge, was it? He'd meant to sow discord between Fudge and Dumbledore, but something had gone wrong. Fudge actually believed he'd returned. Lacking the guts to oppose him, Fudge had dispersed power instead—to Amelia Bones, to Barty Crouch—effectively dismantling his former influence in one fell swoop.
Voldemort's lips twisted into a cold sneer.
He didn't believe it—not that the Ministry would dare make enemies of a dozen pure-blood families at once without evidence. For this situation to arise, it had to involve cooperation from his clever servants... Those rats—did they think he'd failed for good and planned to wait and see?
Realizing this, Voldemort refrained from causing chaos in the country. He didn't even have a single spy in the Ministry. At the very least, he needed to know the Ministry's and Dumbledore's movements...
Sss, sss—the wind carried the scent of a person.
A black figure leaped over the giants and prostrated before Voldemort, as if to kiss his toes.
"Yaxley," Voldemort said softly.
"My esteemed Master, the great Dark Lord," the newcomer flattered first, then continued, "I've brought him."
"Hm," Voldemort's voice held a note of surprise. "He had the nerve to come?"
"Yes, Master," Yaxley whispered. "After confirming your situation, he agreed at once. I watched in Knockturn Alley for weeks, ensuring no traps before daring to approach..."
"Under Dumbledore's nose, no amount of caution is too much." Voldemort spoke unhurriedly, then turned his gaze into the distance. A tall, thin man appeared, his black robes thin and fluttering. The moment he drew near, he fell to his knees at Voldemort's feet.
"Master—Master—I always knew—you would return—I've been waiting for this day."
"Raise your head, Severus," Voldemort whispered, almost tenderly.
Snape looked up, suddenly meeting eyes so scarlet they seemed to drip blood. His body shuddered violently, as if struck by a hammer. He swayed, collapsed to the ground, and gasped in great heaving breaths.
Voldemort waited silently for him to calm, then said, "Rise, my dear friend."
At those words, Snape flinched as if whipped. He bowed his head even lower. "Master—I am guilty—I failed to find you at once..."
"Rise." Voldemort's voice was cold and soft.
Snape stood shakily.
Voldemort stepped closer, scrutinizing Snape's pallid face. Then he reached out with his own pale, slender hand—not the one holding the wand—and grasped Snape's arm.
"Is it still there?"
"Y-yes, always."
Snape trembled, starting to reach for the arm Voldemort gripped tightly, but his hand froze halfway, rigid in the air. He shook all over, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, as if enduring immense torment, yet he bit back any sound.
After what felt like an eternity, Voldemort personally rolled up Snape's sleeve and stared at his arm. There, what had once been a vivid crimson tattoo—a skull spewing a serpent from its mouth—was now pitch black, the surrounding bare skin flushed red as if burned by fire.
"Then you should know I did not summon you."
"Y-yes," Snape said, shrinking back, one hand clutching the spot Voldemort had just held. "I—I only heard some rumors..."