Lord Voldemort SI

Another attempt to perform metamorphosis on the subject ended in his death. I fear you cannot deceive Dark Magic: to attach something to something else, you must take something from somewhere. And don't forget to receive a gift in the form of necromantic energy. Perhaps it's time to stop reinventing the wheel and return to good old-fashioned plagiarism, or rather, creatively utilizing life experience.

The problem is that, besides a living metamorph, something else is required for the work. What do I need? I need a wizard with a body transformed beyond recognition. Then, we can think about how to create an altered body that he can consciously control. After that, we can begin conscious, safe self-transformations that won't result in death from aging due to cell division within hours of active use of the gift. What I've achieved so far could be called "A Thousand and One Deadly Mistakes in Mastering Animagus," like horns growing inward into the skull, followed by brain destruction and protruding through the lower jaw. Of course, there's no evil without good—rumor has it that the Lord is even more horrific in torture than before. But I would rather destroy all wizards than achieve results.

Together with Bellatrix and the Lestranges, I searched with spells for something I could latch onto—some magical creature that used to be a wizard but had become something else. Werewolves, vampires—similar, but not quite.

In the end, I managed to find something suitable: a half-forgotten story about the Isle of Drir off the Scottish coast.

According to legend, centuries ago, two clans of wizards lived on the Isle of Drir: the MacClevertys and the MacBunes. One day, a drunken fight broke out between the head of the MacCleverty clan, Dougal, and the head of the MacBune clan, Quintus, which ended with Dougal's death. It is said that, in retaliation, the MacClevertys surrounded the MacBune village one night and turned them all into five-legged monsters. Too late did the MacClevertys realize that, in their transformed state, the MacBunes were far more dangerous (their ordinary magical abilities remained intact, and new ones were added. Their beastly bodies turned out to be much more combat-capable, resilient, and adapted to magic). Moreover, the MacBunes fiercely resisted any attempts to regain their human form. The monsters wiped out all the MacClevertys, and eventually, no humans were left on the island.

It sounds like a children's fairy tale. But five-legged creatures do exist and have a danger class of XXXXX, like dragons. They are dangerous predators that eagerly attack humans. They resemble acromantulas but have a different head structure, five legs, and the ability to cast spells. I have never seen them (nor searched for them), but, besides numerous mentions in literature, fragments of their bodies can be found on the black market. Because of this, the Isle of Drir had to be treated with the Non-Annoyance Charm. Rookwood told how the Ministry tried to catch a few specimens, but they wouldn't make contact.

Edward Lestrange asked to give Rudolfus more work, and Rudolfus got it—among other things, I ordered him to find a five-legged creature.

Honestly, this was a task from the opera "Kill Albus Dumbledore."

How surprised I was when, the next day, Rudolfus brought back a five-legged creature—only a skeleton, though.

Everything turned out to be incredibly simple. As a sufficiently trusted Death Eater, Rudolfus was checking a secret passage into Hogwarts and decided to conduct an inventory of the Room of Requirement.

From our point of view, the Room of Requirement was filled with junk: books, brooms, and small coins. Perhaps, for a seventeen-year-old student, this held some value, but for us—not at all. We decided to leave it as it was. The main treasure is not the contents, but the Room of Requirement itself. It was the closest thing to a Muggle smart home, reading thoughts, with an unimaginable level of transfiguration and spatial magic added. Unfortunately, I had not yet managed to copy anything from the structure of the Room of Requirement, aside from the most obvious.

It was in the Room of Requirement that Rudolfus found the skeleton of the five-legged creature. The skeleton was just lying around!

Now I sat down to study the skeleton of the five-legged creature. Soon, I was ready with another authorial ritual. Naturally, it was Dark Magic.

The idea was simple: kill a metamorph on an altar made of the five-legged creature's skeleton, toss all this into a boiling cauldron, and then climb in myself.

It is impossible to steal someone's magical power; otherwise, there would have long been one super wizard on Earth. Usually, a sacrifice implies either investing energy from a person into one spell or altering the nature of something, usually oneself. Copying the structural features of the body, even if destroying the original, such as through metamorphosis, is difficult, dangerous, but quite feasible. In literature, I found no methods for stealing metamorphosis, but it can certainly be tried… Of course, I doubt it will yield a gift at the level of the donor mage, but one has to start somewhere.

There was, of course, the second option—seizing the body of the metamorph, colloquially known as possession. But a Dark Lord who is really an underage girl-wizard—that's too much. Although the prospect of shouting, "I can't be punished because I haven't reached the age of criminal responsibility," is very tempting. But the psychological effect is not worth the difficulties of implementation and problems with my own magic—it's unlikely I could cast at full strength in another body. And training for years… Not the time.

I thought. I really didn't want to try it on myself, but it seemed relatively safe. This is confirmed by calculations and some safe elements on the deceased prisoners. If the changes don't go as planned, the Lestranges will interrupt the ritual. Or Nagaina will pull me out of the cauldron. As a last resort, I can interrupt the ritual from within.

After discussing roles with all the participants, we got to work.

The ritual was fairly standard, as standard as High Dark Magic can be. On the skeleton of the five-legged creature, doused with special potions, we placed the second available metamorph (purchased abroad). I didn't want to kill Nymphadora Tonks just yet—she is Bellatrix's relative, theoretically making her the best donor for Bellatrix's metamorphosis, and I don't care who to use for myself—I have no metamorph relatives...

The Lestranges chanted spells and waved their wands, Bellatrix stabbed the girl with a knife, and then the skeleton of the five-legged creature and the still-living metamorph were sent into the cauldron—a large cauldron.

Swimming with an unconscious half-corpse and the skeleton of a magical creature in boiling potion is not the most pleasant experience. And you have to dive without magical protection and clothing… Naturally, had I not drunk potions for Heat Resistance and the like, or eaten some frogwort before climbing into the cauldron, I would have died right there.

I lay in the cauldron in the potion, which changed color periodically. It was a funny sensation—breathing liquid. And the potion also reacted with the skin. I felt the composition penetrate deeper into my body. Right now, I felt like a statue, washed in green silence. Around me was serenity, peace, and calm. It was as if I was being carried somewhere by a gentle current, although I remained in place.

Diffusion was in process. The composition had completely soaked into my skin and was starting to work deeper, processing the flesh and bones. Then I saw that the color of my body was constantly changing along with the potion—green, red, yellow. Slow, subtle, silent changes.

But the metamorph's body was undergoing entirely different changes. It was dissolving. The potion washed away its old flesh and dissolved the bones...

Well, it's reassuring that we didn't confuse the object and subject of the ritual. Otherwise, it would have been a mix-up...

I wonder what's happening outside the cauldron?

I let the softly glowing potion carry me to the surface.

Through the potion's surface, like a fish breaking through water, I looked at the Lestranges conducting the ritual—they were standing in geometrical shapes drawn in their own blood, whose outlines melted and changed like drawings on a balloon.

As always, my thoughts wandered somewhere else. Maybe James Cook was actually a wizard but miscalculated something?

I floated in the cauldron, feeling warmth from below, and thought. I started to feel sensations like from taking a werewolf potion. My bones and skin changed, like clay. Painful, but tolerable. But I had to endure and wait until my form stabilized. After half an hour, I received a signal from the ritual conductors and climbed out of the cauldron.

Externally, I hadn't changed at all. But as soon as I directed my desire to transform onto the finger of my left hand, reinforcing it with a sprinkle of magical energy, the finger began to change. Unfortunately, it didn't turn into what I wanted. I just wanted to change its color to black, and it was starting to resemble a branch.

— This is bad, I thought, trying to restore its previous appearance.

To my surprise, the finger almost instantly returned to its original form.

— My Lord, please get dressed, and then we will explore how successful it all turned out, said Edward Lestrange.

After two hours of diagnostic charms and attempts to use my new Here's the continuation with correct grammar and punctuation:

power, a preliminary conclusion was ready.

— My Lord, I will start with the good news. You are indeed now a metamorph. It resembles self-transfiguration to some extent, but at a much higher level, like in Animagus transformations, yet without being tied to any specific image. We compared the cells, the number of telomeres in your tissues before and after using metamorphosis—you do not age from using the Gift, as should be the case with a natural metamorph. However, your control over the Gift is... one-sided.

If translated into plain language, your instincts on how to manage the ability were not delivered. The only good news is that you can assume your original form at any moment at will. However, if you want to turn into someone else or change the number of joints in your arm, you must think about it and concentrate hard, picturing the entire process in detail. Moreover, the end result must be viable, as well as all intermediate transformations. With such an ability, dying in the process is a piece of cake!

It's like gutting an animal with telekinesis—decide what to do, and then do it. Repeat separately for the brisket and tenderloin, skin and bones. Want to gut it instantly? Then learn spells. Separate for a duck, separate for a cow...

I have the ability to change myself, but I don't have a comprehensive program for every case.

Every new form I will have to learn separately. I will need to make a three-dimensional blueprint and memorize it like an anatomist or a doctor. At the same time, if the body is non-human, I need to think about the composition of the cells, the structure of the muscles, and so on. With a werewolf, it would have been easier...

— So this means I now have to memorize the parameters for each body separately? That's months of work for each incarnation! I stated the obvious.

— That's if the body is human. If you need to change the structure of the tissues... For example, red blood cells like a horse... Or if it's a combat body we've developed... Then I'm afraid it's going to take a lot more time, replied Edward.

The Lestranges pressed against the walls, trying to become as inconspicuous as possible. As Tom's memory suggested to me, now is the perfect time for an outburst of rage. After all, there's a reason: I went after a cow and ended up buying a cat.

Yes, it's a magical world. But to make magic work, a great deal of effort is required.

Fine, it's not that bad.

— Of course, I would like more. But this will do, I replied. — You are not to blame for this. Thank you all for your service. I will try to practice my first form, and you can submit new requests for purchases.

I thought, why chase after things that interest us? Through proxies, announcements had already been made: "I will buy information on the whereabouts of an Obscurus."

Now there would be new announcements: "I will buy Five-Legs. Living or Dead," and "I will buy a metamorph. Living."

If there are so many problems with metamorphosis, I dread how much effort I will expend on Horcruxes...

Meanwhile, I would start my first lesson with metamorphosis. Which form to choose? Albus Dumbledore? Alastor Moody? I sat in front of a mirror in the Lestranges' house and began laying out photographs of well-known members of the Order of the Phoenix.

I need to use the time-turner to engage in combat operations control and other research.

The door to the room opened. Bellatrix entered. If one disregarded the crazy gleam in her eyes, she looked beautiful.

I looked into her eyes, using Legilimency. She immediately folded her mental defense. What can I say—it's vulgar, incredibly vulgar.

— I'm still very far from the initial level of control over metamorphosis. And reaching such a level of metamorphosis—creating multiple bodies connected by thin controlling tendrils—will take me an incredible amount of time. But the idea is very tempting, I replied, embracing her.

— Perhaps you could spare me a bit of your time in one body, my Lord? she proposed.

I never thought I would say this, but I am completely satisfied, and I'm already tired of the taste of those potions. So I don't want to anymore.

— Perhaps we could go see Nessie, and I'll tell you about the stars? I suggested.

— My Lord, I would like... different attention, Bellatrix hinted.

My sex life had been quite specific.

There was clearly something wrong with Bellatrix, not just in her head.

Apparently, her marital bonds were desperately trying to bring me back the marital debt for all those years, with interest.

At first, I thought that, thanks to the time-turner, Bellatrix's day was equal to three to five days for me, and if anyone would have a shortage of sex—it would be me. How wrong I was!

Then I counted on potions. Aside from their disgusting taste, some of them cannot be taken constantly, and they are incompatible with certain combat mixtures. For example, three weeks ago, before a fight, I didn't drink the Speed Potion because then I would have had an intoxication from three ingredients due to a couple of potency enhancers.

Then I switched to spells. But the pleasure from the process seriously diminished—it felt like using a prosthetic.

As a true Dark Mage, I found the solution: Blood Magic. After all, what is an erection? The filling of cavernous bodies with blood. And with my control... I can proudly say that I quickly learned to use non-verbal, wandless control of my own blood for non-combat purposes. It was the most absurd application for a Master of Blood that I knew. Although maybe when you become a Master of Blood, you are no longer concerned with sex?

But the problem came from an unexpected direction: conditional reflexes. The mind quickly linked excitement with using Blood Magic. So when I tore some auror apart, changing the temperature and volume of his blood, I was horrified to discover a reflex erection. Luckily, no one noticed. Despite the potential, I decided not to use Blood Magic during intimacy with Bellatrix anymore.

There was only one hope left—Muggle chemistry.

But now everything would be different. After all, I am a metamorph!

What's the best way to approach the problem? I had the idea to give myself a baculum—a bone in the penis, like animals have. But I'm not a proponent of massive body changes. Moreover, then I wouldn't have time to work. And that Dumbledore would put me and Bellatrix in the same cell—it's a weak consolation. Especially with a cold floor, bad food, and Dementors not mixing well with intimacy.

Though something could undoubtedly be done. I could change the sensitivity of the nerve endings on my genitals and tweak the stimulus-response connection so that the sexual act would take me longer. Just enough to get to Bellatrix's level—she would be satisfied, and I wouldn't have to drink those disgusting potions.

— My beloved, lie down and undress. I will now attend to my research, I said.

Once, I had doubts about whether I was a normal person. But now...

War. Magic. Immortality. All this nonsense, the main thing is to ensure I have a strong erection! Without this, I have no reason to live!

It seems I took Albus Dumbledore's words about the power of love too seriously...

POV Albus Dumbledore

Albus Dumbledore stood on the lawn of his home in Godric's Hollow, looking at Fawkes' grave.

Unfortunately, nothing remained of the body. As a grave, they had to simply use a stone with an inscription.

More than once or twice, Albus had compared the Order of the Phoenix to Fawkes at meetings. When Voldemort killed the Prewetts, McKinnons, and Bowens, it seemed the Order of the Phoenix would not recover. But they found the strength to continue the fight.

When the Potters and Longbottoms died, and Sirius Black turned out to be a traitor, it felt as though some inner trust within the Order disappeared. But they continued to fight.

After Barty Crouch's resignation, they lost far too many.

But the Order of the Phoenix, appearing completely defeated from the outside, rose from the ashes time and time again and continued the fight. Again and again. Like a phoenix. And now they couldn't even protect their own banner.

The death of the phoenix seemed unnatural and wrong. Albus never learned when Fawkes hatched from the egg. But sometimes, he tapped into Fawkes' memory and saw the world as it once was—long ago. The phoenix seemed a living piece of eternity, incarnated time. But Voldemort reached him too.

The circumstances of the death were unsettling. Did Fawkes fly into a trap and fail to call Albus for help? How could this happen? After all, the Imperius Curse does not work on phoenixes. Moreover, it lasted several hours, all the while the familiar connection was transmitting happiness? As Robert said, "The bird killed itself."

It was possible to reconstruct the events. First, Fawkes somehow flew to a glade where concealment charms were placed, then somehow ended up in Egypt, where there was a powerful outburst of Dark Magic. The plan to eliminate Fawkes seemed strange, and its execution looked miraculous. This was the most ridiculous murder in Albus Dumbledore's memory. Neither the theory of probabilities nor the theory of sets provided an answer for how this could happen. The best explanation was that Fawkes found Voldemort and asked him to kill him.

One thing was clear—if someone were to kill someone else, for example, by dropping a safe on them, it would be Voldemort.

The protective charms of the house alerted him that a guest had passed through the barrier.

— What time is it? he heard the voice of Alastor Moody.

Albus tiredly looked at his watch. The main thing was not to forget to add the right number to the time, or Moody would try to kill him otherwise...

— Two hours and forty-three minutes past noon, Albus replied.

— Why aren't you at school or the Ministry? Moody asked.

— For the same reason you aren't in the Auror department: time-turner.

— I have doubts about your authenticity. A time-turner messes with time, and then our paired watches would be out of sync! Moody replied.

— Alastor, I've told you this a hundred times. My watch isn't Muggle mechanics. It's an artifact-bound spell of "Tempus." It always shows local time. And to track a time-turner, you need to use the first, not magically concealed dial. And my watch cannot show incorrect time—it either shows the correct value or shows nothing at all.

— Fine. Now you check me, Moody said.

— I am standing in my house, where the protection is better than in Gringotts. Moreover, I am in control of the protection that Albus Dumbledore installed. There is also a locator for all members of the Order of the Phoenix. And no matter how much Severus complains, at your persistent request, I made it so that a person with a Dark Mark cannot enter here at all. Who am I after that?

— Don't feed me nonsense. Let's check. Voldemort doesn't have a Dark Mark either. Next time, I hit for effect, Moody replied, standing before Albus with his wand pointed at him.

— At the last Order of the Phoenix meeting, you said that it was foolish of me to publish information that I lost Fawkes. I should have reported that the phoenix went on a top-secret mission. You also suggested that Fawkes is a traitor. Then you expelled Snape from the meeting room. You criticized my decision not to negotiate with the Death Eaters. You suggested making peace with them and killing them all at the signing ceremony. Furthermore, you revealed a plan—organizing an exchange of Aberforth Dumbledore for captured Death Eaters. One for seventeen Death Eaters. You even volunteered yourself—to impersonate a Death Eater from Azkaban under the Polyjuice Potion. Why seventeen? That was how many wizards possessing wandless magic at an acceptable level you considered loyal enough in England to participate in this venture, Albus replied.

He regretted letting Moody speak back then, oh how he regretted it... For the first time since school, he wanted to draw a donkey on someone's back using wandless magic.

— Why is it an adventure? It's a normal plan! Moody replied, finally convinced that he was in front of Albus and holstering his wand. — We'll eliminate a bunch of Death Eaters, and then when we achieve a numerical advantage, we'll bombard Voldemort with ordinary soldiers. And when he is already leaning on his wand, we'll throw you at him. Try to take him alive. We'll find a way to breach his mental shield, find out about all his supporters, secrets, and check him—if he is immortal, we'll entomb him somewhere, or throw him in the Arch of Death. If he's mortal—first incapacitate him, slice him into pieces, douse him with the Anti-Necromancy Potion, and then burn him.

— Attempting to play on Voldemort's field, we will either lose or become just like him—the remedy is no better than the disease, Dumbledore replied.

Sometimes Albus felt like a parrot. It's a pity Fawkes couldn't be taught to talk—then he could attend half the meetings in his stead. He even felt sorry for Barney Skedaddle; he was a cheerful lad—it took ingenuity to become an animagus, turn into an owl at a Wizengamot meeting, and hoot when he agreed.

— Besides, deceiving Voldemort won't be so easy—he'll send internal opposition to the peace negotiations, getting rid of disloyal staff and making us incapable of negotiating our word. He'll only give Aberforth back under such poisons that neither he nor Flamel will manage to revive him. Not to mention that we would then effectively recognize the Death Eaters legally. As for your battle plan... Setting aside moral aspects—it won't work to bombard Voldemort with "meat"; he has Dark Creatures, like Dementors and fighters who incinerate with Hellfire just as effectively themselves and others. And with the onset of the mass migration of werewolves into Magical England, the situation has only worsened. Neighboring countries have turned a blind eye to the exodus of werewolves from themselves to us. They think that the emigration of disloyal population will make their countries better. Meanwhile, our problems are growing like a snowball. I barely managed to dissuade Scrimgeour from trying to herd all the werewolves into a reservation. Now I see two options for solving the issue—convince the wizards, including his supporters, that Voldemort is not omnipotent and they will be better off without him, or isolate or kill Voldemort so that everyone starts pulling the blanket to their side and the alliance of Dark Forces collapses.

— I would still try my plan, Albus, Moody replied.

— It won't work, Alastor. Something similar worked with Grindelwald. But the war with Grindelwald was a true war, with a front line and supply objects, where there were places Grindelwald defended. Here the situation is different. Voldemort will not defend anything.

— Where does such pessimism come from, Albus? Moody asked.

— Dark Magic is distinguished by its increased lethality and penetrating power. Hellfire is much harder to block than ordinary fire at the same temperature, Dumbledore said with a sad smile.

— Said the Light Mage who defeated the previous Dark Lord and frightened the current one, capable of single-handedly wiping out the inner Circle of You-Know-Who, Moody noted.

— I was simply lucky. Several times in a row, Dumbledore now smiled completely differently. — Besides, there are no more such strong wizards in England as I am.

— Uh-huh. I'm a fictional character; the Auror and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement are actors from a theater, and the Order of the Phoenix is just gathering ingredients for school potion-making. We will definitely win; they will rot in Azkaban forever. And when the Dementors return there, they will get what they deserve, Albus said.

— I haven't recognized You-Know-Who lately, Alastor Moody said. — Playing with Muggle gadgets and explosives. He has been appearing less in raids and is using Crucio less often. Captured werewolves say that he has assigned his werewolf students and land. What medieval feudalism is this? It doesn't fit our times. Maybe the Heir of Slytherin overdid it with the Slytherin Source? Slytherin seems to have had his family killed by Muggles; that would explain the interest in Muggle weapons. Albus, do you think soul migration is possible?

— I don't know. But it's definitely not Salazar Slytherin, the Hogwarts headmaster shared.

— How do you know?

— I can't say. But I know for sure. However, there are indeed some oddities, Albus continued.

— Despite the pace of destruction of prisoners worthy of Grindelwald, Severus reported that casualties among his own from outbursts of anger have become fewer. Tom Riddle now almost does not give the impression of a madman.

— How is that possible? Moody asked.

— I think he is the same crazy Tom Riddle as before, but cautious enough not to kill anyone important from his own, so as not to unleash internal strife that could unseat him, Dumbledore replied. — I spoke to him during the battle at the Crouch house. I remember Tom as a boy; I remember his insane reddish eyes when he came to ask for a place at Hogwarts. But now... Just believe me, when I looked into his eyes, I saw only cold calculation, without a trace of humanity, and that terrifies me, Dumbledore confessed.

— "Fawkes. The most faithful friend," read Alastor Moody the inscription on the grave. — And I thought I was your most faithful friend! Is it because I can shield you from Avada once, while the phoenix can do so many times? How about you get yourself a unicorn familiar, and when You-Know-Who kills it, it becomes cursed?

Alastor Moody... Where does this maimed man get so much life?

— Alastor, you are incorrigible, Albus remarked.

— Work waits for no one. Let's cry after we bury You-Know-Who. I already thought up an epitaph for him: "You would stand, I would lie," Moody mused.

— Let's go to the Department of Mysteries. We brought something for the Unspeakables! By reports, it is referred to as "Abomination." We took down one of the Death Eater bases.

We had no casualties. I mean, none among our own. We even took some prisoners, though they were small fry—they were just keeping watch over the objects. Those Dark Mages, Moody spat, clearing the spit with magic, were trying to assemble something from fragments of bodies, parts of magical animals, Muggles, and Muggle gadgets! And I find it very strange that the Death Eaters are trying to use Muggle materials and technology. I still don't understand where so many Muggle-lovers came from among the Death Eaters.

Albus had no explanations for Moody's last assertion.

But what worried Albus the most was that too many creations of the Death Eaters were ending up in the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort offered him knowledge, and he refused. However, regarding all the employees of the Department of Mysteries, he was not so sure. It would be necessary to strengthen surveillance...

— Alright. Let's head to the Department of Mysteries. Let's take a look, Dumbledore said.

No matter how long he stood over Fawkes' grave, the phoenix would not resurrect again.