In about five minutes in walks a man….

Someone was screaming down the hall, probably another Death Eater being hauled into court. He imagined that it was the same sound his uncle made when the Ministry finally took him away for good. Not only had he done himself a huge service by killing the Riddles, he had done the rest of the world a favor by eliminating the last of that line. Uncle Morfin had been the worst kind of pureblood: a savage beast below werewolves and muggles. Taking the name Voldemort had been a way for him to expunge both sides of his family, and he still couldn’t decide exactly which one he abhorred more; was it a mother born of sick blood or a father born of bronze? None of that mattered now. When he escaped here, he could found a new bloodline which would truly bring glory back to Salazar Slytherin. And what was more, Bellatrix would help him accomplish this; her husband was too weak-willed to stop him.

That is, if he escaped at all. While there were few wizards he feared, he had seen Albus Dumbledore in the gallery during his trial. The old man dared to meet his gaze; while there had always been softness to his expression, the disapproval in his eyes was authoritarian. The prisoner was also developing a healthy respect for Minister Bagnold, although it was the kind of respect a dishonest suppliant gave a patron. He was waiting for his chance to leave, but he considered sparing her in his carnage of the Ministry when he was free as a way to repay the favor. He didn’t believe much in kindness, but he could appreciate someone who bargained well. She treated him like someone with rights and privileges rather than an animal because he could see the fear that danced wildly in her eyes every time she looked at him. That power over her gave him comfort although he unfortunately couldn’t exercise it properly.

In his cell-quarters, the nurse who visited at schedule points during the day, Anise Dehctar, was more like a maid because she tidied up the area before tending to him. She always took unnecessary amounts of time with her cleaning as a way to put off the duties toward him, even scrubbing the loo and doing everything by hand rather than using magic. The plain-looking woman in white was now washing her hands since she was done with her cleaning and could now give him a check-up. Opening up her black medical bag on a coffee table, Nurse Dehctar pulled out her usual implement of potions, instruments, and bandages. “Time for your look-over.” She refused to call him anything aside from ‘you’ or ‘mister’ when she wasn’t pernicious that day.

Normally, he was expected to take the stool in the middle of the room and sit up straight whenever she said this. He stayed defiantly in his padded chair.

Nurse Dehctar glanced over. “I said it’s time for your look-over.”

The Dark Lord coldly turned his face away.

“Fine.” Raising five children with a mostly absent husband had hardened her authority. She began packing up her kit. “I’ll tell Mr. Dumbledore and the minister that you’re not behaving today.”

When it became obvious that she had every intention of carrying out her threat—she never bluffed—the Dark Lord rose and took the stool with a glower.

Nurse Dehctar didn’t smile when he finally complied. “That was what I thought.” She approached with a small wooden stick. “You know what will happen if you bite me, don’t you?”

He nodded with inaudible hiss, opening his mouth for her. His gums were still bright pink and swollen but not as spongy as before; because of so many of his teeth had been rotting to the root, a dental surgeon replaced all of them with magical replicas that could sink into the gums as if they were his own. Many of the procedures had been painful despite the availability of less agonizing means; it seemed so typical of the Ministry to put him through as much as they could.

She tugged at his mouth and lips but showed respect when touching the most tender portions. One reason why the Dark Lord tolerated her is that she did not seek to harm him during examinations. “You’re not eating like you should. Maybe I should just let you go to waste.”

The Dark Lord sneered, purposely breathing hard so she’d be forced to inhale a puff of his putrid breath while she checked his mouth. The moment he was free, he spat, “You wouldn’t. Your job is to keep me alive.” Despite his terrible conditions, he clung fervently and tenaciously to the wretched thing he called his life.

“Just take off your clothes so I can see the rest.” Folding her swarthy arms, she looked away to give him the only privacy he could expect. Never in her time as his caretaker would she move so that she couldn’t see him. She was taking care of a wild animal.

No part of the examination he despised more than when he had to disrobe. As usual, he waited until she pestered him just in case she decided against it. With a glower, he gingerly pulled the drab brown robes off his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. After some more badgering words, he removed his trousers, socks, and undershirt.

He wore as much clothing as they gave him because he always felt cold. Arms folded across his hairless chest, he twitched to keep from shivering. Every rib was still visible, and his hips looked angular. The white underpants, stained of course, had trouble holding onto him since they had been tailored for a man two sizes larger. His collarbone stood out against the rest of him; Ministry officials had wisely withheld a mirror from the room. The sickness of his arm had spread further. One side of him looked thin but healthier than before; it looked like he possessed muscles and tendons and all the other things a body should have. Like anyone his age, he had developed his share of age spots which had darkened from practicing the Dark Arts, and his destructive lifestyle made jaundice unavoidable. Lesions had developed on his skin after his terrible neglect, although treatment gave plausible hope. Yet, he had full movements of his limbs and no outward signs of severe disfigurement as if he had been born to practice such unholy magic.

It was the other part of him that he often wished to keep over. From his armpit to the bottom tip of his ribcage and from his shoulder to the middle of his collarbone, he looked cadaverous. Sharp purple spider veins stood out against what was left of his grayish flesh. Only his bones seemed intact while a poison had dissolved much of his muscle; it was near miraculous that he still had the tendons keeping his joints together. His fingernails were yellowed and brittle, and perhaps the dark stuff underneath them was yet another fungus that had found a home. The sores here needed the most attention for they still had dead flesh and infections. Because he was so thin, one could see the unnatural bulges of his organs. Nurse Dehctar had told him she suspected this also came from fluid collecting in his abdomen; it was the first signs of his liver, and perhaps other organs, failing completely. One could almost see his sternum rise and fall with each beat of his heart.

The verdict said, “In the first degree….”

“I hope that nurse takes better care of you than you’ve been doing.” The composed, aloof voice was one Voldemort had never forgotten no matter how much he wished it. To hear that matter-of-fact tenor instantly heated his body with rage. The only wizard to ever inspire fear in him stood just beyond the wooden bars of the separator that created his cell. Over the half-moon spectacles gazed blue eyes burning with cold fire. He wore scarlet robes that matched his wide-brimmed and tall, pointed hat.

The varnished wooden frame separated them. Other than that, he was on display in this living room for everyone else to see. But it was enough to make him feel safe to do what he wanted. Barking unintelligibly, he tore away from the nurse’s grip to rush the frame. He threw himself against it on his good side, otherwise too weak to do much else.

Dumbledore never flinched, keeping his eyes fixed on the prisoner. “I’m not easily scared as your followers, Thomas.”

“I could still kill you now!” With his good arm, he reached through the bars to grab at some available part.

For a man close to 100, he was still quicker than the invalid prisoner. He snatched up Voldemort by his wrist, bony fingers like a tourniquet. When the Dark Lord yelped, he pushed the hand back.

The prisoner rubbed his wrist as best he could, melodramatic about his pain as always. “Why did you come here? Minister Bagnold said for no one to visit. I need my rest.” He sneered to know how much the old wizard inconvenienced him with his presence.

“Minister Bagnold made an exception for me.” Pulling off his spectacles, he cleaned them with part of his robes. “You were always such a good student at Hogwarts.” He spoke with his usual disappointment, subtly signaling for the nurse to keep her distance until they were done speaking.

“Sod off, Dumbledore.” He still didn’t have the courage to use his first name; not even the Dark Lord was so brazen. “There’s nothing more to say. I’ll leave here; by hook or crook I’ll leave this forsaken shithole.”

“You always could talk highly of yourself.” Now able to see the extent of the damage, his eyes conspicuously inspected his former student’s body. “It’s no use, Thomas. You’re dying, and the only thing Miss Anise can do is make your death less painful. Look at your right hand.”

“I know what it looks like.” He refused to look at himself or to meet Dumbledore’s eyes.

“Your magic is unraveling after that blow to Lily’s child. It doesn’t happen often, but dark wizards are always the victims.” Glasses replaced, he took a step closer. “Everything you built is disintegrating, Thomas, just like your body. And still, you hold fast to your hatred.”

“I still have my followers, and I still have enough magic to do what I need.” Provided that he could also acquire some of that delectable white powder from which he had derived so much strength, he would have enough magic.

“You destroyed everything, Thomas, even yourself.” For a moment, he wavered before asking his question. “Was it worthwhile?” Though his tone was patronizing, it also hinted at morbid curiosity. “Was the slaughter, the torment—was it worth your while to make certain wizards became masters of the world once more?”

“Every moment of it,” he spat without hesitation. This time, he dared to look at the old wizard. “I have no regrets.”

“Not even what happened with Lily?”

He snarled at the question. “It was a small mistake, but I should have been more careful. I still do not regret keeping her.” Feverishly, he scrambled to his feet. “And I don’t regret coming here either. I don’t regret the deaths of my family, or the muggles I would still happily murder, or trying to achieve what is rightfully ours.”

“And yet you’re here.”

The prisoner had to take a few breaths because, once again, the sheer force of his anger had worn him out. “You know well as I that wizards are the natural rulers of the world. You know it, and you want it just as much as I.”

His eyes hardened. “I want a good life.”

“You know that they are less deserving of the world! Look at what they’ve done to it!” Voldemort’s voice cracked from the passion. “The smell, Dumbledore! Everything used to smell green and good and pure. The sea used to be as blue as the sky. They’ll just consume everything in their path like rabid wolves, Dumbledore! They’re animals!”

As much as he wouldn’t acknowledge it outwardly, the Dark Lord was right about everything. In his life, he had seen healthy rivers grow black and die. He had watched muggles try to destroy each other so they could lay claim to some useless speck of land.

The silence encouraged him. “You should have joined me, Dumbledore. To you I would have submitted myself.”

“I am not your Dr. Faust,” he replied coolly. He noticed how the prisoner’s ribs moved. “Another minute of this and your heart might expire.”

The Dark Lord gripped the bars as best he could. “What about that friend of yours, huh?” His tone with the defiant tone of a hustler pushing to get whatever it was he wanted. “Gristlewand, was it? I remember what they had said about him in the papers, and I remember that you had to leave school for a bit on his account. What was his name?”

“Grindelwald.” He wasn’t pleased to say the name. “What about him, Thomas?”

In his audacity, he dared flash a snide grin. “People have always talked. They still talk around here when they pass my cell and wherever they go. It’s so funny how people think that I can’t hear them or read their lips. People have always talked. They said that you were his best friend. Closer than brothers, were you?”

Much of Dumbledore’s voluminous beard and moustache hid his expression, but still his eyes flared up. His eyebrows wiggled just enough to show the restraint he used to keep his face as neutral as possible. “He was dear to me.”

The prisoner snickered. “How dear was he? The only thing closer than a brother is a lover, so they say. Was that what you two did?” Even if he was tired, he always had the energy to mock someone else. “You would have played the woman, I think.  Let him ream you up—”

“The more breath you spend on that, the less you have to keep yourself alive, Thomas.” He kept his offense closely under wraps.

“I will live forever. Forever, you hear me? Until the moon falls and the stars burn out and world turns into a cold ball. And from that, I will rebuild everything.” Even as he started wheezing from his anger, he refused to stop. “You hear me? I am a god among men!”

“Even gods meet their deaths, Thomas.” He turned away from the bars, deciding he had gotten enough of the conversation.

“Christ rose again, and I will too!” The prisoner gripped the bars, vainly reaching out to snatch up a part of the old wizard’s clothing. “Your time is ending soon, Dumbledore! But not mine! I’ll always be here! Mark my words!” As he shouted, the nurse went through her bag to pull out the box of cutting tools and antiseptics. His wounds has been responding well to the medical maggots, and the nurse decided that she'd need to use leeches so she could alleviate the fluid build-up in his abdomen.

He gave the Dark Lord a deaf ear. However, his singing was just within earshot, and there was deliberate irony as he sang softly, “On a Monday, I was arrested…..”