The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 592-601: The Great Wizarding Revolution 3

Bellatrix looked at the fallen Death Eaters, a sinister grin spreading across her face. "I can feel their fear, Master. I can feel the fear in every single one of them—their heartbeats, their breaths, the sound of their blood flowing. I can see what they can't see, hear what they can't hear, feel what they can't feel."

She stood up, and all those eyes simultaneously turned, looking at every corner of the stone chamber, at the Death Eaters kneeling on the ground, trembling. Wherever her gaze fell, they involuntarily lowered their heads, not daring to meet her eyes—no, not daring to meet any of her eyes.

“I am your apostle, master.” Bellatrix turned to look at Voldemort, her eyes filled with devotion and fanaticism. “I am your eyes in this world, an extension of your will. The power you have given me, I will use to sweep away all obstacles for you—that raven, Grindelwald, and Dumbledore. I will show them what the price of offending their master is.”

Voldemort looked at her and remained silent for a few seconds. Then, he raised his hand and gently patted her shoulder. The movement was light and casual, yet it made Bellatrix tremble all over, and more dark red tears welled up in her eyes.

"Go," Voldemort said, his voice calm and cold, "go and prove your worth."

Bellatrix knelt down, her forehead touching Voldemort's toes, her eyes closing simultaneously as if in prayer, as if making a vow.

"Yes, my master."

She stood up and turned to walk out of the stone chamber. Those eyes blinked, darted, and stared at her, each step carrying an eerie, unsettling rhythm. The Death Eaters kneeling on the ground quickly made way, afraid to be seen by any of her eyes.

The stone gate slowly closed behind her.

In the secret chamber, only Voldemort remained. He stood there, staring at the closed stone door, silent for a long time.

Then he laughed. The laugh, coming from his twisted mouth full of sharp teeth, looked particularly ferocious and satisfied.

"Raven," he said softly, his voice echoing in the empty chamber, "Grindelwald, Dumbledore—soon you will know the price of being an enemy of the deep space."

He turned and walked deeper into the stone chamber. The tentacles swayed gently behind him, like celebratory banners.

Outside the stone gate, Bellatrix stood in the corridor, those eyes simultaneously turning, looking in different directions. She could feel—power surging within her, like molten lava, like a roaring beast, like a call from the abyss.

She wanted to laugh, scream, dance, and kill.

She raised her hand and looked at the largest eye in her palm. The eye looked at her, its pupil reflecting her face. She smiled at the eye, a smile that was eerie and insane.

"My master loves me," she whispered, her voice filled with an almost morbid satisfaction. "My master chose me, my master gave me power, my master loves me."

Those eyes blinked simultaneously, as if in response to her words. A crimson light flickered in the corridor, illuminating her face covered in eyes and the crazed smile on her lips.

In the distance, the Death Eaters huddled in a corner, watching her, trembling. They didn't know what Bellatrix had become, or what Voldemort had done to her. They only knew that from this moment on, everything had changed.

The raven, Grindelwald, Dumbledore—they were all about to face a completely new and unspeakable enemy. And this enemy stood in the corridor, its eyes fixed on the void, a mad grin on its lips, awaiting its master's next command.

Bellatrix withdrew her hand, and the eyes closed and opened simultaneously. She took a deep breath, feeling the surging power within her, a power from deep space.

"How wonderful!"

She was completely absorbed.

After Bellatrix left, the Chamber of Secrets fell silent once more. Voldemort stood alone before the stone platform, looking down at the now empty crystal ball.

The dark red mist had all been injected into Bellatrix's body, leaving only a faint layer on the inner wall of the crystal ball.

The marks resembled bloodstains. They shimmered faintly in the candlelight, as if still breathing, still pulsating, still waiting to be awakened again.

"I will do it."

-

Voldemort murmured.

He reached out, his fingertips lightly touching the cold sphere. The remaining energy pulsed in his fingertips, like a faint electric current, bringing a brief, almost imperceptible sting.

"What?" Voldemort closed his eyes, sensing the fragmented, blurry information contained within that power.

A whisper like a dream.

That was an echo from deep space.

It's saying: Not enough. More is needed. Even greater sacrifices are needed.

Voldemort withdrew his hand and opened his eyes. Three scarlet eyes burned in the darkness, reflecting the faint red marks on the inner wall of the crystal ball. His expression was calm, but deep within those eyes, complex emotions surged: satisfaction, resentment, expectation, and a faint unease that even he himself was unwilling to admit.

He has come so far. He has sacrificed his destiny, traversed the ruins, obtained the Mirror of Exile, and transformed Bellatrix. Every step has proceeded according to plan, every choice has propelled him toward that ultimate, unshakeable goal—to eliminate the Ravens, eliminate Grindelwald, eliminate Dumbledore, and then, rule over everything.

But that raven. That damned, haunting raven. It appeared in Azkaban, at the scene of the Dementors' rampage, at every crucial moment, yet never showed itself directly. It simply watched, observed, and recorded, as if watching a play that had nothing to do with it.

It is not afraid of him, does not avoid him, and even disdains to confront him directly. It simply exists, like fate itself, like an inescapable end.

Voldemort's fist clenched slightly. Tiny tentacles peeked out from between his fingers, gently tracing the surface of the crystal ball, leaving fine, smoky scratches.

"Raven—" he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, "Where are you?"

He turned and walked to the center of the secret room. There was a circular, recessed area there, the floor paved with some kind of black...

The stone slab gleamed with a metallic sheen. It was covered with intricate runes—not Titan runes, but runes Voldemort himself had spent months researching, drawing, and repeatedly revising based on information from the Deep Space Echoes.

That was his medium for communicating with deep space, his channel for obtaining information, power, and even revelation from beings beyond that dimension.

He stood in the center of the rune, closed his eyes, and opened his arms.

Tentacles extended from his body, like countless tiny, probing fingers, touching every stone slab and every rune. Dark red light shone from the runes, spreading outwards from the center like ripples, like a heartbeat, like some ancient, slumbering being awakening.

"Deep space will tell me the answer."

Voldemort took a deep breath and sank his consciousness into deep space.

It was an endless, eternal darkness.

There was no light, no sound, no time, no space. Only chaos, only nothingness, only those indescribable beings wandering between dimensions.

They writhed, whispered, and watched in the darkness, each gaze like a tangible hammer, striking Voldemort's consciousness.

"I'm here, I've always been here." He knew they were watching him, that they were waiting for him to speak, and that they had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

"Tell me," Voldemort's voice echoed in the darkness, carrying an undeniable authority, "Where is the Raven? Where is Grindelwald?"

silence.

A long, suffocating silence.

Then, the whispers began simultaneously. They had no language, no vocabulary, only pure information—fragmented, chaotic, like pieces of information. That information flooded Voldemort's consciousness like countless tiny needles piercing his mind, etching indelible marks deep within his soul.

He "saw" it.

No, it didn't just see; it sensed. It was on a white wasteland, not in the Arctic, but in the south, very, very far south. There were snow-capped mountains, glaciers, and ceaseless winds. It stood atop an ice peak, its dark silhouette strikingly black against the white backdrop. It didn't move, it didn't fly, it simply stood there silently, as if waiting for something.

Voldemort tried to see more clearly, but the information suddenly became blurry, as if obscured by something. He could sense it—the raven had detected his probing and was actively shielding his senses. It was a power he had never seen before, not magic, not mental defense, but some more fundamental barrier, belonging to fate itself.

Voldemort's consciousness trembled violently, but he did not give up.

He continued to plead with deep space, continued to beg from those indescribable beings. The whispers grew denser, more chaotic, and more information flooded his consciousness—Grindelwald. In a small town. Not England, but Europe, in some remote, forgotten valley.

There were churches, cemeteries, and ancient stone houses covered in vines. Grindelwald hid in one of these houses, badly wounded and weak, but still alive.

His magic is slowly recovering, but it will take a long time to fully recover.

"As expected, both sides suffered heavy losses!"

In Voldemort's consciousness, a clear coordinate emerged. It wasn't latitude and longitude, nor a place name, but a more direct "sense of location" imprinted on his soul.

He could sense Grindelwald's presence, his faint but undeniable magical fluctuations, and the vague outline of the town around him.

The answer has been found.

Voldemort was very satisfied.

He opened his eyes.

A fierce light burned in the three scarlet eyes.

The runes' light gradually faded, the tentacles slowly retracted, and the stone chamber fell silent once more. Voldemort stood there, panting heavily, his body drenched in cold sweat. Each communication with the deep space drained a great deal of his mental and physical energy, but this time, he felt it was worth it.

He knew where Grindelwald was.

He knew where the raven was—or at least, its general location.

More importantly, he could sense that Deep Space also wanted him to eliminate them.

In those whispers, there was a faint, urgent expectation, as if the ravens' very existence was a threat to them.

They need him.

They need him to be their weapon in this world, to eliminate those who prevent their arrival.

Voldemort's lips curled up slightly, revealing a cold, sinister smile.

"Ascension to godhood—" he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, "This is my path to godhood."

He turned and walked out of the secret chamber. The tentacles swayed gently behind him, as if celebrating, as if urging him on.

Voldemort walked quickly, with an impatient eagerness, as if he could already see that final, unshakeable end.

Raven was banished, Grindelwald was killed, Dumbledore was trampled underfoot, and he, Voldemort, became the sole ruler of this world.

But when he reached the door, he suddenly stopped.

His hand hovered above the stone door, but he didn't push it open.

He stood there, silent for a long time.

His tentacles stopped swaying and hung silently at his sides, as if awaiting his decision. The only sounds in the stone chamber were his deep, slow breathing and the occasional, indistinct sound of distant waves.

Voldemort closed his eyes.

The battle at Azkaban flashed through my mind. Dumbledore plummeted from the sky, black flames burning in his chest, his blood staining the entire sky crimson. Grindelwald transformed into a black phoenix and vanished into the night. The raven stood on the reef, its dark eyes fixed on him as if he were a clown leaping off a beam.

He opened his eyes, a flash of annoyance in them.

He was afraid.

It wasn't fear of Dumbledore, Grindelwald, or the raven. It was fear of himself. Fear of failing again, fear of being outmaneuvered again, fear of becoming someone else's pawn again. He had no more Horcruxes, no more of those life-saving fragments that could bring him back to life.

He only has this one life, this one body, and this one chance.

If he fails again, he's truly finished.

Voldemort took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He turned around, walked back to the stone platform, and looked down at the empty crystal ball. The remaining red marks reflected faintly in the candlelight, like a half-closed eye watching him, mocking him.

"No rush," he said softly, his voice calm and cold. "No rush."

He needs more information, more preparation, and more certainty. He cannot take the risk himself, at least not without absolute certainty.

Therefore, he needed someone to scout ahead for him, to test the waters for him, and to die for him. With this in mind, Voldemort's gaze fell on the direction of the stone door.

Bellatrix. She was still outside, waiting for his orders.

She is no longer human; she possesses the power of deep space, and superhuman perception and combat abilities. She is Voldemort's best weapon.

It is his sharpest knife.

Voldemort's lips curled up slightly.

"Let her go."

He said softly.

"Let her give it a try."

The reason this guy was trying to change the other person was that he could use them as a tool to test them. He didn't care about love or hate; Voldemort didn't care at all about the other person's fanaticism towards him.

After all, he himself was a wizard without love.