Harry Potter: The art of divination

Nicolas Flamel sat in his workshop his wife by his side as he pondered the recent news from England. He knew Tom was using Horcruxes but for some reason something about them was itching at his brain as if he should be remembering something. 

Something Morpheus knew but he was forgetting. 

Just what was it? 

"What is it?" His wife asked in concern 

Nicolas sighed, "I'm not sure something about this situation feels wrong. I'm missing something." 

She frowned, "Can't you just ask Morpheus?" 

Shaking his head Nicolas stood, "He wont say, I think he thinks I wouldn't be fond of the idea." 

"A lot of secrets that one." 

Nicolas cracked a smile, "Yes he does have many secrets doesn't he?"

***

Tom stood in a chamber rage boiling through his pores, "He dares!" Voldemort hissed, "DARES TO CALL ME A HALF BLOOD!" his shout startled the death eaters outside of his chamber 

In the center of the chamber, an innocent young man knelt, bound by enchanted chains. His face was pale, streaked with tears, and his eyes were wide with terror.

Before Voldemort, a black cauldron bubbled with a foul, viscous substance. On a pedestal nearby sat an ornate Slytherin crest, its emerald inlay gleaming in the flickering light. The crest was centuries old, a relic Voldemort had acquired during his time in search of artifacts tied to his heritage.

"This will do nicely," Voldemort hissed, his crimson eyes gleaming with anticipation, "I will show them true immortality! With seven Horcruxes I shall be unkillable." 

The Death Eaters who now lined the chamber watched in silence, their masks hiding their unease as Voldemort began the incantation. His voice carried a dark, ancient rhythm, the words twisted and profane.

The young man whimpered, his pleas drowned out by Voldemort's chanting. With a swift, almost casual motion, Voldemort raised his wand and struck the boy with the Killing Curse. The flash of green light filled the chamber, and the boy slumped lifelessly to the ground.

The fragment of Voldemort's soul, torn free by the act of murder, swirled in the air like a wisp of smoke. He guided it toward the cauldron, where it merged with the vile concoction.

***

In a vast, white void that stretched endlessly in all directions, two men stood. One was tall and regal, with flowing silver hair and a beard that shimmered like moonlight. His robes were deep blue, adorned with ancient runes, and his presence radiated authority and wisdom.

The second man was younger, though his face was shadowed and indistinct. His features seemed to shift, never settling into a fixed form, as if he were not entirely real.

"Why are you here," the younger man spat, his voice calm but stern.

The older man smiled faintly, though his edges seemed to blur, his form flickering like a dying flame. "I didn't have much of a choice, Merlin."

Merlin frowned, his gaze piercing. "What is happening to you? Are you finally fading to death." 

The fading man glanced at his hands, which were beginning to dissolve into wisps of smoke. "Perhaps." he replied with a smirk an infuriating one it was almost a family trait 

Merlin nodded solemnly. "It's as I thought your brother has a hand in this I suppose?"

The fading man chuckled, though there was no joy in it. "Doesn't he always my dear Merlin."

Merlin stepped closer, his voice softening. "I will be alone then."

The man smiled faintly, his eyes glimmering with an unreadable emotion. "Knowing him I don't think he will let you stay here long." 

Merlin laughed it sounded so hollow, "Fitting I will be called to a world of war because of you two." 

****

Back in the chamber, the cauldron's contents began to swirl violently, turning from green to deep crimson. Voldemort raised the Slytherin crest over the cauldron, chanting the final incantation.

But as the ritual reached its climax, something went wrong. The smoke pouring from the cauldron turned black, curling upward like grasping fingers. Voldemort's triumphant sneer faltered as his body was wracked with an unnatural, searing pain.

"No!" he hissed, clutching his chest. His features began to distort—his already inhuman visage shifted further. His nose flattened entirely, his eyes flickered from crimson to a dull silver. His fingers elongated grotesquely, and his skin took on a waxy, almost translucent quality.

The Death Eaters recoiled as Voldemort fell to his knees, screaming. His voice echoed unnaturally, overlaid with another—a deeper, sorrowful tone.

The Slytherin crest glowed fiercely before blackening, its emerald inlay cracking. The artifact rejected the fragment of Voldemort's soul, casting an ominous light throughout the chamber.

Throughout the Britain his carefully hidden Horcruxes began to glow brightly before cracking at the surface the soul shards inside screaming in pain. 

***

Nicolas shot from his bed startling his wife, "Whats wrong?" she asked 

"I remember!" Nicolas yelled 

"Remember what you old fool go to bed!" 

"Morpheus planned this that bastard," Nicolas said gruffly, "Voldemort he planned it, the Horcruxes that's why he didn't kill him! He needed Voldemort to keep making them to complete the seven!" 

"And what does that mean?" 

"It means someone very old is about to awaken, the only bastard that truly knows Morpheus, and it also means war is much sooner than I thought." 

***

Voldemort's screams deepened, turning guttural and raw, as his body contorted unnaturally. His skin rippled and tore in places, thick rivulets of blood pooling beneath him. The sickening sound of bones snapping and reforming echoed through the chamber, each crack punctuating his agony.

The Death Eaters stood frozen, their fear mounting as they watched their master's once-terrifying form disintegrate into something unrecognizable.

His face, once serpentine and devoid of humanity, began to shift. Dark stubble emerged, spreading unevenly before thickening into a full beard. The sheen of his bald scalp disappeared as a mane of long, flowing hair cascaded down his shoulders, streaked with silver and chestnut.

His crimson eyes dulled, morphing into piercing gray, cold and calculating but entirely alien to the Voldemort they had known. His features sharpened, the grotesque flatness of his nose replaced by a regal, aquiline structure.

As the transformation neared its end, Voldemort's tortured screams ceased abruptly. The silence that followed was deafening, a void that seemed to pull the breath from the room.

The figure before them slowly straightened, standing taller and prouder than Voldemort ever had. His tattered robes clung to a lean, powerful frame. The air around him crackled with a strange, oppressive energy, unlike Voldemort's venomous presence. This was colder, more calculating, and infinitely more composed.

The Death Eaters exchanged uneasy glances. They didn't need to speak; the truth settled in their hearts like a stone.

The man who now stood before them was not their dark Lord. 

"W-who are you?" Lord Mulciber asked not daring to move forward 

"I go by many names but I suppose you can just call me…" the man stopped for a moment a wistful look entered his eyes 

"Herpo."