Voldemort returns and is intent on revenge, preventing the prophecy from coming true and ensuring his reign over the wizarding world. But everything changes when he realizes the girl who lived, his ultimate nemesis...is actually a Horcrux...
Voldemo...
Marjorie Batt, with her imposing figure and keen, calculating gaze, was a woman of remarkable talent. Her mastery over the arcane disciplines of healing, potions, and even the more obscure branches of dark magic was such that even the esteemed Severus Snape would seem a mere novice in comparison. Despite her "official" retirement, Marjorie's days were far from idle. She remained the clandestine confidante to a select clientele, individuals of influence and affluence who sought her unique services away from prying eyes.
Her workspace was a testament to her expertise: shelves lined with meticulously labeled potions, herbs, and artifacts of potent magic. The air was always tinged with the scent of simmering cauldrons and the whisper of spellwork. Clients came to her seeking the discretion she guaranteed, a level of privacy and confidentiality they could never find in the more public magical clinics or the bustling wards of St. Mungo's.
In this realm of shadows and secrecy, Marjorie Batt thrived, her skills undiminished by time, her name spoken in hushed tones among those who knew the true value of her craft. Her legacy was not in the public records or the annals of famous healers, but in the quiet acknowledgments of those she aided, the silent gratitude of those touched by her unparalleled prowess.
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In the dimly lit chamber, where shadows danced with the flickering of candle flames, Marjorie Batt's presence was a beacon of focused intent. She hovered over Hadria, her hands moving with a grace that belied their urgency. The air around them hummed with the silent symphony of her nonverbal, wandless magic—a spectacle that even the most seasoned of wizards would find mesmerizing. Her glare cut through the tension, directed at Lucius who had summoned her with desperate haste. The journey through the floo had been a blur, Narcissa's pale face guiding her to Voldemort's private quarters where Hadria lay vulnerable.
"This child didn't deserve this," Marjorie hissed, her voice a sharp whisper that sliced through the heavy air. Her eyes, narrowed with a mix of anger and sorrow, flicked between Voldemort and Lucius, condemning their part in this tragedy. She turned back to Hadria, her expression softening as she resumed her work.
"...in all my centuries..." The words slipped from her lips, a low mutter that carried the weight of untold years. Voldemort's eyebrow arched, a silent question etched into his features.
Centuries?
Throughout this, Voldemort's demeanor remained a study in stillness, his calm almost otherworldly as he watched over Hadria. Lucius stood by, his gaze locked on the scene, witnessing the Dark Lord's uncharacteristic vigil. Voldemort's fingers gently brushed Hadria's hair from her face, his touch tentative as he tended to the lesser injuries. His disinterest in healing magic was well-known; it was a skill he had never needed, never valued—until now.
