Come on, you gotta' listen unto me….

The Dark Lord enjoyed his cell—as best he could—before they corralled him and his followers into a barge set sail for that forsaken speck of rock on the North Sea. He always hated the Orkney Islands, and now he’d have to spend the most of his natural life there. He had twenty five more minutes before they’d dragged him away from luxury.

Someone hooded approached the wooden separator. When the hood came off, it revealed a young man with unpleasant features and dull brown eyes. He looked around nervously before whispering, “My lord, answer me.”

He vaguely recognized the man, but otherwise he was forgettable. “Show me your mark.”

Hastily, he yanked up his sleeve just long enough to sufficiently flash the skull and snake before hiding his arm. “My lord, I have something for you.”

“Give me your name.” He kept in his padded chair at the farthest corner of the room.

“Yaxley, sir. Raphael.” The young man moved toward the door the separator indicated only by a latch and some hinges. “I’ve been serving you almost from the beginning. Remember? I’m related to the Blacks through one of my relatives. Pure-bloods.”

The Dark Lord mused over his name. “Raphael Yaxley. Rather strange name for a wizard.” His gaze was steely. “I remember you now. Useless lump.” Twenty-two minutes to go.

“Sir, I have an important gift for you.” After faltering for a few moments, he dared to try the latch. It swung off easily. The Ministry trusted Voldemort not to go out, and they trusted everyone not to go in.

“Yaxley, you have nothing to give me just as you had something to give me before,” he said gruffly. “And what is the use of you coming here? You’ll be good as dead in a year like all the others.”  

“Hah,” he sneered, eyes still darting around. No one seemed interested in coming this way because, to everyone around, the Dark Lord was already dead. “You’re lucky, sir, that no one even remembers my name. Karkaroff and the others sent the Ministry off looking for someone named Lafayette Jacksby.” Even though Voldemort had mentioned him in his own testimony, officials seemed to acknowledge that the Dark Lord might be truthfully misremembering because a ‘Lafayette Jacksby’ came up many times while the man’s real name only appeared once.

His anger could still inspire fear in his followers, something he knew quite well and often used to the best of his advantage. The Dark Lord exaggerated himself just a little, happy to see Yaxley shrink and cower. He hopped out of his seat, rushing at his follower. “I will not let a talentless wizard tell me why I should feel lucky!” Twenty-one minutes to go.

“Please, just let me help you, my lord!” he half-whimpered his words, bracing himself for an attack.

The Dark Lord halted a few paces before him, turning abruptly to head back to his padded chair. “Now I remember you. A little braver than Pettigrew, but not much.”

Yaxley straightened up and ventured toward his master’s corner of the cell, and it became obvious that there was something bulky underneath his robes. “If there is one instance that you should have anything to do with me, please make it now.”

“Just leave me be,” he said dismissively. “I highly doubt that you can do anything for me now. None of Christ’s disciples bothered to stop the Roman guard, and I see that mine are no different. I shall find my own way out, and I shall take revenge entirely on my own without you or the others to burden me.” Twenty more minutes to go.

“Sir, Christ bore his own cross.” Yaxley pulled a heavy wooden box from his clothes, putting it on the coffee table. “You do not have to.”

The Dark Lord furrowed his brow at the box. “What is this.”

He looked over his shoulder nervously. “Please, just open it.”

“Yaxley, stop being so cryptic. Tell me what it is this instance.” He didn’t have the patience. Nineteen more minutes to go.

Sighing, he withdrew back toward the exit. “Just remember what you always told us. To conquer the world, you must first kill that which you love the most.” Before the Dark Lord could pursue him, he slipped out of the cell and stole off down the corridor.

He stared at the box, reluctant to open it. Eighteen more minutes to go. He finally fiddled with the latch, lifting up the top. There was a languishing python balled up for eating too much and a large pull-string bag. He dumped out the contents to find a long knife, his own wand, a galleon, and two hypodermic needles.

For a moment, he disbelieved his eyes. With a hand shaking giddily, he traced his finger over the contours of the syringe’s barrel and the galleon. He pulled the snake out of the box, showing it the tenderness he never showed people. Petting his head, he whispered sweetly to keep it calm.

Seventeen more minutes to go. The snake quietly complained of how much it had eaten and still felt hungry. It didn’t understand how it could be so fat and still be starving.

Yaxley had told him: you must kill that which you love. The knife he had must have been from a kitchen or something similar. It was for chopping up meat or gutting fish. The knife was so sharp he could give himself a great shave. The young man had included a small mirror in the box, and the Dark Lord carefully scraped the blade against his neck to trim up some of the scruff. If he was going to leave, he at least wanted to look a little presentable before that. Perhaps young Yaxley knew more than he had originally suspected. If the man could keep himself in the shadows for a little longer, he would be rewarded handsomely for it.

Sixteen more minutes to go, and now it was fifteen. He gave the snake a final reassuring whisper, promising to be kind so long as it did not struggle. And naturally, the snake was completely unaware of how high he raised the blade.