The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 596-605: The Great Wizarding Revolution 7

In short.

Voldemort's demeanor was indeed very well portrayed.

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Bellatrix, over Selwyn, over Crabbe, and finally settling on Nott.

"However, just to be on the safe side—"

His voice was softer, yet more dangerous.

"I need to reform a few of you."

This was Voldemort's true intention. Even his Horcruxes were somewhat cowardly, not daring to go himself, yet he couldn't truly show his fear.

His composure just now was all an act.

The air freezes.

Selwyn's face turned deathly pale, his rugged features contorted with disbelief and terror. His lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something, but found himself unable to utter a sound. He instinctively glanced at Bellatrix—those eyes darting over her.

A dark red light flickered in the morning light, eerie and terrifying. It was the most horrifying thing he had ever seen, not because it was ugly, but because it was inhuman.

He doesn't want to become like that.

Crabbe froze as well. His usually expressionless face and dull eyes were now filled with a complex mix of emotions—fear, resistance, and a hint of barely concealed disgust. He looked down at his rough, calloused hands, imagining them covered in eyes, and a wave of nausea rose in his stomach.

Nott reacted the most violently. His young face drained of color, turning deathly pale, his lips trembled violently, and his eyes were filled with terror. He took a step back, then another, until he bumped into Crabbe behind him. He opened his mouth, trying to say something, but found himself only able to utter meaningless, breathy sounds like a drowning person.

Voldemort looked at them, his three scarlet eyes devoid of any emotion. He simply stood there quietly, waiting, as if waiting for a question whose answer he already knew.

Selwyn finally mustered the courage to speak. His voice was hoarse and trembling, each word sounding like a knife cutting his own throat.

"Master—we—we don't want to—"

"Don't want what?" Voldemort interrupted him, his voice still gentle, yet carrying an irresistible sense of oppression.

Selwyn's knees buckled, and he almost knelt again. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand firm.

"I don't want to—become like that." His gaze involuntarily swept over Bellatrix, over those eyes, and then quickly looked away, as if looking at them for too long would burn him.

Voldemort fell silent.

The silence lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to everyone present. The air thickened, breathing became difficult, and hearts pounded wildly in their chests, as if they might burst at any moment.

Then, Voldemort laughed.

The smile on his twisted mouth, full of sharp teeth, looked particularly ferocious and dangerous. There was no anger, no displeasure, only a faint, almost pitying mockery.

"Don't want to?" he repeated softly, as if savoring the word. "You don't want to accept this gift?"

He took a step forward.

Selwyn's body stiffened abruptly, like a taut string. Crabbe lowered his head, unable to look at him. Nott closed his eyes, trembling all over, his hands clenched into fists.

"Bella."

Voldemort spoke, his voice calm and composed, "Tell them how you feel."

Bellatrix looked up, and all those eyes lit up at once. A wild, almost manic smile spread across her lips.

"Powerful, Master." Her voice was low and hoarse, carrying a morbid, almost pious satisfaction. "I have never felt so powerful. I can see things I couldn't see before, hear sounds I couldn't hear before, and feel presences I couldn't feel before. Those eyes—they are not just eyes, they are gifts you have given me, your love for me."

She raised her hand and looked at the largest eye in her palm. That eye looked at her, its pupil reflecting her face filled with eyes.

"I am no longer a mortal, Master. I am your apostle, your eyes in this world. No one can stop me—not Grindelwald, not Dumbledore, not even that raven."

Voldemort nodded in satisfaction. He turned to look at Selwyn, Crabbe, and Nott, his three scarlet eyes gleaming with a cold light.

"Did you hear that?" His voice was gentle yet dangerous. "This is not punishment, not a curse—it is a blessing. It is the power I bestow upon you, my trust in you, my love for you."

Selwyn's body trembled even more violently. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but found that he could only utter meaningless, wheezing sounds like a broken bellows.

Voldemort's smile deepened.

"Or," his voice grew softer, more dangerous, "do you think you're unworthy?"

This statement was like the last straw that broke the camel's back.

Selwyn's knees finally gave way. He collapsed to his knees, his forehead pressed against Voldemort's toes, his whole body trembling, his voice hoarse and choked with sobs.

"I—I am willing, Master. I am willing to accept your grace."

Crabbe also knelt down. He didn't speak, but simply lowered his head, pressing his forehead against the cold ground. His shoulders were trembling slightly, and his rough hands were clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms until they bled.

Nott stood at the very back, his young face filled with despair. He looked at Selwin and Crabbe kneeling on the ground, at Bellatrix standing to the side with his eyes still darting around, and at Voldemort in front of him, whose three scarlet eyes gleamed with a cold light.

He knew he had no choice.

He knelt down as well.

"I do, Master."

Voldemort looked at them, a satisfied gleam in his three scarlet eyes.

"Very good," he said, his voice soft and satisfied. "Very good."

He raised his hand, and a dark red, constantly rotating ball of light condensed in his palm. Within that light, countless tiny, vein-like tentacles wriggled, each pulsation carrying an eerie, life-like rhythm.

"Alright, let's begin."

Selwyn's body stiffened abruptly. Crabbe's breathing became more rapid. Nott closed his eyes, his young face filled with despair and fear.

But they didn't move. Nobody dared to move.

Bellatrix stood to the side, watching all this with a crazy, almost manic smile on her lips.

"Don't be afraid." Her voice was low and hoarse, carrying a morbid, almost tender comfort, "Soon, you will know—this is your master's love for you."

The dark red light grew brighter and more intense, turning the entire hill into a blood-red, eerie glow.

The town bells were still ringing, urgent and shrill.

In the distance, black smoke continued to billow, obscuring the sky and the sun.

"I accept this honor!"

Voldemort raised his hand, and the dark red light in his palm grew brighter and more intense, dyeing the entire hill a blood-red, eerie glow.

Those tiny, vein-like tentacles wriggled in the light, each pulsation carrying an eerie, life-like rhythm.

It was as if that ball of light itself was alive, breathing, waiting, and yearning.

"Oh God, Master—" Selwyn knelt on the ground, his forehead pressed against Voldemort's toes, trembling all over. He could feel that power approaching him—cold, chaotic, with a nauseating, abyss-like emptiness. It wasn't magic.

Nor is it any power he knows.

Instead, it was an incomprehensible existence from another dimension. He wanted to escape, to run, to apparite to the other side of the world, but his body wouldn't obey him. His knees felt like they were nailed to the ground, and his throat felt like it was being choked by an invisible hand, preventing him from making a sound.

"Me—oh dear."

Crabbe knelt beside him, his expressionless face blank, but his eyes—those usually dull eyes—were now churning with fear and resistance.

His hands were clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms, and the blood that seeped out dripped onto the withered grass, looking particularly glaring in the dark red light.

His body was trembling slightly, like a mountain about to collapse, every muscle was tense, and every bone was creaking.

"We're doomed!" Nott knelt at the very back, his young face filled with despair. He was the youngest and the most ambitious.

He joined the Death Eaters for power, for status, and to secure a place for himself and his family in the Dark Lord's new order.

But he never imagined that the price of gaining power would be losing himself.

"Heh, you'll understand how lucky you are." Voldemort looked down at them, his three crimson eyes devoid of any emotion. He had seen too many expressions like this—fear, resistance, despair. Every time, it was the same. And every time, the outcome was the same.

"Raise your head."

His voice was soft yet dangerous.

Selwyn raised his head, trembling. Crabbe raised his head. Nott raised his head. Three faces, three expressions, but the same fear in their eyes.

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

"Look at this light," he said, holding the dark red glow in front of them. "Look at it, don't look away."

The three men stared at the light. The tentacles wriggled within it, each pulsation making their hearts skip a beat. The light grew brighter and more intense, stinging their eyes and bringing tears to their eyes uncontrollably, but they dared not blink, dared not look away.

Voldemort reached out and pressed the ball of light onto Selwyn's forehead.

In that instant, Selwyn's body stiffened abruptly, like a string stretched to its limit. His eyes widened, the dark red light reflected in his pupils.

The light grew brighter and more intense until it engulfed his entire eyeball.

"what!"

His mouth was wide open, as if he wanted to scream, but no sound came out—the sound was stuck in his throat, turning into a series of low, beast-like whimpers.

Then, the tentacles emerged from the light, burrowing into his skin, his blood vessels, and his bones. They spread, grew, and took root within him, becoming one with every inch of his flesh and blood.

He could feel his body being transformed, reshaped, and turned into something that wasn't his own. The familiar, human parts were being stripped away, replaced by something cold, chaotic, and from deep space.

"I don't!!"

Selwyn's body began to tremble violently. The tentacles wriggled beneath his skin, causing it to undulate like waves.

His muscles were tearing, rebuilding, tearing again, rebuilding again, each time accompanied by indescribable pain—more intense than being ripped from the heart, more fiery than being burned by raging fire.

It was a hundred times more terrifying than any pain he had ever experienced.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg Voldemort to stop, but no sound came out. His throat felt blocked by something, only able to utter meaningless...

The sound was like that of a drowning person.

"This—this—" Crabbe and Nott knelt to the side, their faces ashen as they looked at Selwyn's horrific state. They knew that their turn would come soon.

Voldemort withdrew his hand, took a step back, and watched Selwyn roll, convulse, and struggle on the ground. His expression remained unchanged; he simply stood there quietly, waiting.

Bellatrix stood to the side, watching all this with a crazy, almost manic smile on her lips.

"Don't be afraid." Her voice was low and hoarse, carrying a morbid, almost tender comfort, "Soon, you will know—this is your master's love for you."

Selwyn's struggles grew weaker and weaker. His body stopped convulsing and rolling; he simply lay quietly on the ground, panting heavily, his entire body soaked in sweat. The tentacles had stopped wriggling, his skin had returned to calm, and he looked no different than before—except for his eyes.

He opened his eyes.

They were dark red eyes, without pupils. Not scarlet, not the rational and willful red of Voldemort, but a more primal, more chaotic, abyssal dark red. There was no fear, no pain in those eyes, only an empty, blank light, as if gazing at something distant.

He slowly sat up and looked down at his hand. It was still his hand—fingers, palm, nails—everything was the same as before. But he could feel that something was different. Not externally, but internally. A cold power flowed in his blood, something hard, like metal, was embedded in his bones, and something slumbered deep within his soul, waiting to be awakened.

"How do you feel?" Voldemort's voice was calm and composed.

Selwyn raised his head and looked at Voldemort. In those dark red, pupil-less eyes, a light gradually emerged—not of fear or resistance, but of an indescribable, almost reverent awe.

"Powerful, Master." His voice was hoarse and deep, carrying a strange resonance that didn't belong to him. "I feel—very powerful."

Voldemort's lips curled into a slight smile. "Very good."

He turned to Crabbe.

Crabbe's body stiffened abruptly, his usually expressionless face contorted with terror. He wanted to back away, to run away, but his body wouldn't obey him. He simply knelt there, watching Voldemort raise his hand, watching the dark red light coalesce once more, watching the tentacles writhe within it.

The light was pressed on his forehead.