INTERLUDE - TO HATE A GOD

Why was it always so cold?

No — no, not cold. Empty. Something deeper than frost, deeper than winter even. It seeped under her skin, into her teeth, into her bones. No air, no edge to the dark. Just endless—

Nothing.

She was falling. Or floating. She didn’t know. The dark had no up, no down. She should’ve been screaming but even that was gone. The void ate sound. Ate her.

There was something in it. Watching. Waiting.

No—not something. Him.

Always him.

That boy. That thing. He shouldn’t have been here. This was her mind. Her punishment. Her prison. And yet—he was. Not walking. Not running. Just… there. Standing where there was no ground, in robes that didn’t move, in light that didn’t exist. His eyes glowed like the Killing Curse, but worse—because they didn’t promise death.

They promised judgment.

“Potter,” she spat, or tried anyway. It came as a whisper. 

Weak. Everything here was weak. She was weak.

She threw a curse. Or thought she did. Her arm moved, and her wand — wait, was it her wand? It sang — the spell tore through the air, then unravelled like silk burning in reverse.

He didn't dodge. He didn't need to.

The shadows did. They were shaped like people—but wrong. Featureless. Hollow. They were reaching, always reaching. She knew those hands, had heard those screams. 

They belonged to those she had killed. Those she had tortured.

She wanted to run. But she didn’t. Instead, she screamed.

Was screaming. 

“YOU’RE JUST A BOY!”

No answer.

He raised something—metal, maybe, it was too hazy to tell. It was too bright. It hurt to look. Runes on it crawled like insects. The blade hummed—not with magic. With purpose.

And then it was inside her.

The pain was unbearable. The blood. The magic. The humiliation. It was too much.

She wanted to die. Wanted him to kill her. Instead, he kneeled and looked into her eyes.

“It’s not your time.”

Those words should have meant mercy. They tasted like rot.

And then he was gone. And she was back in the void. With them. With her. All of her. All the pieces she carved off and gave to the Dark, floating back to scream.

Over and over.

… 

Bellatrix Lestrange jerked upright in bed, gasping for air, sweat slicking her skin like a second skin. Her fingers clutched her side—right where that impossible blade had sliced through her in the dream. Not dead. Not dying. Just… dismissed. By him.

She curled her knees to her chest, heart hammering as she stared at the cracked ceiling of Nott Manor’s eastern guest wing. Rotting plaster, peeling wards, the stale scent of politics and decay.

And Harry Potter’s face—cold, impassive —still burned behind her eyelids.

Not your time….

A sudden knock on the door made her flinch, and fumble for her wand.

“Who’s it?”

“Nott.”

“...enter.”

The door creaked open and Benjamin Nott stepped in. “I thought I heard another scream. Is the dreamless sleep potion not working?”

She said nothing.

He stepped closer, studying her like she was a chess piece mid-board. "Another nightmare?”

Her lip curled, teeth clenched. "He doesn’t even kill me. He looks at me like I’m already dead."

"Perhaps you are," came the voice from behind him.

Bellatrix stiffened. The temperature in the room dropped. Nott moved aside.

Marcus Flint entered. No—not Flint. The posture, the poise, the presence—this was no petty aristocrat’s son. This was a god wearing flesh like a joke.

"My Lord," Bellatrix whispered, getting off the bed and dropping to her knees.

The Dark Lord, in Flint’s skin, surveyed her with vague amusement. "Get up, Bella. We’re at war again."

The drawing room awaited, shadowed and warded. A fire snapped and crackled as Nott poured drinks, Bellatrix shadowed the edge, and Voldemort seated himself like a king returned.

"The ICW ruling," Nott began, tossing a Prophet onto the table, "is a gift. They’ve put Potter in a corner. Either he gives Azkaban to us, or they claim him for the world. Either way, we move in."

Bellatrix barely listened. She didn’t care about the ICW. Or Azkaban. Or this… suit, whatever it was. All she wanted was to face that… monster, and flay him with her own hands.

—Not your time — 

Make him pay for toying with her.

Making her feel insignificant.

It’s not your —

“I’LL KILL YOU!”

The glass table before her cracked and shattered. Bellatrix blinked, looking at the unsightly display of her lack of control. The Dark Lord merely raised an eyebrow, while Nott whipped his wand out and repaired the table back.

Bellatrix stood now, pacing, her hair wild around her face. “I — I don’t care about this! ANY OF THIS! I just want to face him again, tear that damned grin off his face, and cruciate him to every inch of his life! I — I —”

“That will be enough, Bella!” admonished the Dark Lord.

“Do you know what it’s like, my Lord?” she hissed. “To be spared. Not defeated—dismissed. I struck with everything I had, and he... he unmade my spells. With his eyes.”

Voldemort watched her quietly. “And you hate him for it.”

“I loathe him,” she spat. “He turned me into a joke. He could’ve killed me. Should’ve. But he left me alive like I was nothing. Like I wasn’t even worth the effort.”

“You confuse power with theatre,” Voldemort said softly. “He let you live because he has no fear of you.”

Bellatrix flinched. But then her expression twisted, fever-bright. “Then I’ll give him a reason to.”

“You’ll do nothing alone,” Voldemort said. “Not yet.”

“WHY?”

“Because,” came a voice that sent shivers down her spine. “You can’t.”

It was less of a voice, and more like a choir of one — distorted versions of a single person speaking in eerie synchronization, as if time and identity were fractured. The light in the room dimmed, the hearth flickered, and…

And a wrongness faded in.

IT did not walk. No footsteps. No weight. No shape the mind could settle on. Only layers—shadows moving within shadows, folding and unfolding like parchment soaked in ink and blood. He didn’t stand; he hung, like a torn veil strung up by some invisible hook.

At first glance, he seemed cloaked—a tall, tattered thing draped in darkness. But no cloak moved like that. It whispered. Twitched. It breathed like something alive. Not fabric, but forms—hundreds of thin, flickering faces stretched and screaming just beneath the surface.

Not quite human. Not quite a ghost either.

Wraiths. A choir of them, stitched together into a single silhouette.

And yet… there were eyes. So many eyes. Each blinking out of sync, some glowing faintly like coals in dying fire. Others, hollow, bottomless. She couldn’t tell which pair belonged to the speaker. Perhaps none of them did.

When he finally turned toward her, Bellatrix’s mouth went dry.

She’d looked upon Dementors and felt cold. She’d looked upon the Dark Lord and felt devotion. But this—

This was being seen by the end of all things. Not hated. Not judged. Just… catalogued. Like a butcher examining cuts of meat.

And when he spoke, it wasn’t with a voice. It was with too many.

Some came from behind her, others from inside her skull. One whispered directly through her wand arm, and another vibrated in her spine. Like a curse that had learned to talk.

“You will do nothing,” it repeated. “Because you can do nothing. You are badly, insanely outmatched. I had the power of the Anima backing me, and Harry Potter sealed me away. What chance does your little stick and head full of nightmares have against it, little girl?”

“Bellatrix, Benjamin, meet our newest ally, Ekrizdis,” introduced the Dark Lord in his silky tone. 

“The Ekrizdis —” began Nott, disbelief and awe in his tone, only to realize who was sitting in front of him. Calming himself, he said, “Can I get anything for all of you?” 

The Dark Lord looked at Nott with amusement. “No further hospitality is necessary. Ekrizdis, as he put it, claimed divine power, only to be brought down by Potter… something, we have all experienced, haven’t we?”

Bellatrix didn’t know if this was the Dark Lord’s self-deprecation speaking, or rage. She didn’t know which was worse, and certainly didn’t want to find out.

“Each of us have suffered defeat at the hands of Harry Potter,” said Voldemort. “And I’ve realized that we simply did not have the full picture, or rather, did not know what it was we were truly fighting.”

He looked at Benjamin Nott. “Not the de-facto fulcrum of the Potter, Black and Greengrass Families, or the protege of Albus Dumbledore.”

At Bellatrix, next. “Not the Warlock with the power of Death, that which ends and unravels all Magic.”

Ekrizdis was last. “Not the Nexus Child, born to serve as the perfect vessel for your Eternum, either.”

The Dark Lord stood up. “The enemy isn’t Harry Potter at all, my friends. The enemy is Fate, and Harry Potter, whether he realises it or not, is its pawn.”

“You’re referring to the Prophecy,” murmured Nott. Bellatrix gave him a sharp look.

“The Prophecy claimed that Potter would be the one with the power to vanquish me,” said the Dark Lord. “The power, not necessarily the one to vanquish me.” He paused, as if considering his words. “Though, I suppose it’s moot, since he has already vanquished me several times so far.”

“Back on that accursed night. Then again, when I possessed Quirrell. My enchanted diary. He might have missed destroying me at the cemetery, but he eventually finished it in Azkaban, rendering me bodiless, where Amelia Bones used Potter’s power to defeat me. It seems, whenever I am facing his power, I am destined to be vanquished.  Whether Potter is physically doing the deed or not, is irrelevant.”

Bellatrix still stayed silent.

“If you are so disgustingly assured of your defeat, Voldemort,” Ekrizdis sneered, though it was less of a sneer, and more of someone rubbing a chub of metal against a stone floor. “Why must I even deign to work with you?”

“Because,” the Dark Lord hissed. “The prophecy mandates that I am the only one who can defeat him.”

That shut him up.

“I was always too obsessed with the first lines of the Prophecy,” admitted the Dark Lord. “The possibility that someone might have a power that I know not, a power that can vanquish me…  it engulfed my mind. And that has led to my defeat, not once, not twice, but four times. Even after gaining my hands on the complete Prophecy, I was certain — that conjuring events where our powers collided indirectly, would shift the tables in my favor.”

“Foolish!” spat the Dark Lord. “I was a fool. A fool that believed that finding that vanquishing power was the key to defeating the prophecy. I had… I had believed the Prophecy to be my foe, and fought against it. And that led me to my doom!”

He exhaled. “EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HANDS OF THE OTHER, FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES. That is what the Prophecy says.”

“But my Lord,” said Nott slowly. “Harry Potter…. He — uh—”

“You can be candid, Benjamin,” said the Dark Lord smoothly. “So long as what you raise is vital to our understanding, you are in peril of my wrath.”

“Potter killed you back on Halloween,” he blurted.

“Did he?” mused the Dark Lord, frowning. “I’m afraid even my own memories of that accursed night are fuzzy. Try as I might, I cannot truly fathom what truly occurred that night. All I remember is casting the killing curse, and then…. agony.”

“Quirrell —”

“Quirinus was my host. Whatever power lay in Potter’s blood, it did not — could not — touch me back then.”

Nott frowned. “But my Lord, Amelia Bones claimed that she — er — drove the sword of Gryffindor into you. That’s what everyone is saying.”

“And she’s speaking the truth, Benjamin,” said the Dark Lord. “But it was not her power, but Potter’s. The sword of Gryffindor — has Potter not claimed it? Does it not answer his call? Channel his magic? It was Potter’s weapon, and Potter’s magic that… vanquished me. Bones was merely… the hand that did.”

“Either must die at the hands of the other,” murmured Bellatrix finally, looking up at the Dark Lord with something like awe. “You think that this was fulfilling the Prophecy?”

The Dark Lord’s eyes gleamed. “I have already died at his hands, fulfilling my role in my prophecy. And now, it is his time to fall. And for the first time, it shall be FATE that shall dictate it. For Neither Can Live While The Other Survives.”

“And how do you propose you do that?” asked Bellatrix. “Even with the knowledge of the Prophecy, it does nothing to challenge our odds.”

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed Voldemort. “But we know for certain now, that Potter has to die, and I am the one anointed by Fate that shall strike him down! And you — all of you, shall pave the way.”

“How?” asked Nott.

“Each of us have faced a different aspect of Harry Potter, and failed to understand his complete truth. This isn’t an enemy that can be defeated by raw power, or knowledge of magic. To defeat Harry Potter, we have to use Destiny against him. Follow his path, sense the obstacles, and use them to injure him where it hurts most. I have conquered Death, so it is only fitting that Death is the last enemy that I must destroy!”

“But that was then,” said Nott. “I have heard of Potter doing impossible things. He apparently bypassed the wards and securities and directly appeared at the ICW meet. Nobody in that chamber could understand how he did that. Even the Department of Mysteries is busy altering its wards just to check for weaknesses. As is… perhaps, every Ministry out there!”

“He had embraced my Eternum,” said Ekrizdis in that wrong voice. “For a brief moment, he was one with the Anima. It seems he might have gained something out of it. Good. At least he did not waste my Eternum into constructing that — that GATE!”

“I have to ask, Ekrizdis…” said the Dark Lord. “You have been there when it was crafted. Exactly what… is the Gate?”

Ekrizdis did not answer at first.

He tilted — or rather shifted — as if someone had taken a canvas and turned it sideways. The shadows behind him writhed. The fire dimmed again, shivering like it had heard the question too.

And then he spoke. All of him.

“You ask what the Gate is, Voldemort? It is not a wall. It is not a wall. It is a scar. A hinge between the Formless and the Formed. Built with my bones. Fed with my eternity. And he dares use it as a lock.”

Bellatrix swallowed. Her knees locked. She didn’t know what it meant, but her skin did. Her bones understood it — in the way frost understood flame.

“Permanence… somehow, in ways that defy all comprehension, that blasted brat was able to comprehend true Permanence. That which is eternal, unchanging. Do you know what that is, Lord Voldemort? The one thing that does not change, does not bend, does not warp according to the whims of Fate?”

The Dark Lord spoke the answer as if he had always known it.

“Death.”

“DEATH!” snapped Ekrizdis, the chorus spread out, making it feel like multiple fingers were scratching a blackboard from every possible direction. “Just as Death is Permanent, so was his blow. It wound me, ripped me off my suit, my Eternum, and spat me out — unchanging, stuck, unable to move on. With one single blow, Harry Potter cast the Permanence of Death on himself, on the suit, on me…”

“Are you…” Nott cleared his throat. “Are you telling me that Potter too is immortal now?”

Ekrizdis gave him a feral look. “No. He bound himself to Death. Permanently. And with those shackles, he bound the suit. So long as the permanence stays, it is inert. The sky will fall and the earth will swallow itself, but that suit shall not bend, not warp, not react to anything in this entire universe.”

A power that could make something absolute in the Universe? As confident as she was with her magic, Bellatrix always knew that Magic, or enchantment, was by its very nature, temporary. There was nothing permanent in magic, just varying rates of degradation.

Then… whatever Potter had enacted, could it even be called Magic in the first place?

“Such a thing would not have come without its due cost,” murmured the Dark Lord.

“And it is that cost we have to figure out. What did he pay, in exchange for Permanence? What did he seek in the Eternum, and what did he find? That cost, that is Potter’s weakness, a vulnerability that shall stay until the Permanence is there.”

“The ICW has demanded control of the suit, the Gate…” murmured Nott.

Ekrizdis scoffed. “The suit means nothing. The Gate means nothing. Not until Potter disenchants it.”

“So we must ensure that Potter does it,” said Nott. “And I think I know exactly where to start.”

He waved his wand and the Daily Prophet’s pages shifted to one particular title. On it was a photograph of a young girl, and a title would no doubt shape it to be one of the major events of the year, if not the decade.

HARRY POTTER TO MARRY DAPHNE GREENGRASS ON WINTER SOLSTICE

A blooming romance or political countermove?

“Say, Bellatrix,” said the Dark Lord. “Won’t you be there to offer your congratulations?”

END OF BOOK 4 - SKIN IN THE GAME