Chapter Text
Cold crept through the walls of Azkaban, relentless and pervasive. The air was damp, a bitter chill seeping into his bones, as if the prison itself was draining the warmth from his very soul. The Dark Lord huddled in a corner, his once imposing frame now hunched and shivering. The Dementors floated in the distance, their presence overwhelming, stealing every last flicker of hope he had left. They moved like shadows, whispering darkness, and with each glide closer, the temperature seemed to plummet, the air thick with despair. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst pain came from within.
They had left him alive. Not out of pity or some twisted sense of righteousness, but to see him suffer. They had pieced his soul back together, just so he could feel the full impact of his failure. Every breath was a reminder of this. His chest ached with every inhale, a dull constant reminder that he was still here, still breathing, when every part of him wanted to stop. Repairing one’s soul was an unbearable agony, far worse than fracturing it in the first place—Lord Voldemort knew that now. But that wasn’t the worst of it either. The worst was that he could feel again, truly feel. He felt the cold of Azkaban, his own anger, his desperation, his hopelessness. He had fought for so long to kill those emotions inside him, to become invulnerable, strong—and it was all for nothing.
He clung to his name, the name that once made him strong, invulnerable. Voldemort. It had once spread fear throughout the world, given him strength, power. Now, it was just a word, empty and hollow, echoing back at him from the unforgiving stone walls, mocking his once grand ambitions. Here, in this cold, dark cell, his name had become meaningless. It was nothing more than an echo of a shattered past. He felt weak, wretched, a disgrace.
He bit his tongue as a fresh wave of pain washed over him, and he collapsed against the wall. His hands trembled. He wanted to hate, to be angry, but there was only emptiness. He despised this weakness; he despised himself. He was the Dark Lord, not a mere mortal. And yet, he felt exactly that—small and insignificant. He curled in on himself, trying to find some semblance of warmth, of comfort, but the cold of the cell was relentless, gnawing at him like the regret that had become his constant companion.
He thought of Harry Potter, his greatest enemy, the one who had brought this misery upon him. Even now, the boy who lived was the reason for his torment. It was Potter’s fault that he was here, alone, broken. The thought of that insolent boy, standing defiant, only fueled his hatred, a faint flicker of warmth in the otherwise freezing void of his soul. The thought of Harry Potter was the only thing that anchored him, kept him sane. Whenever he thought of him, his hatred and anger would flare up again, something he could hold onto.
Suddenly, the air grew colder. A Dementor drew closer, slowly, ominously. Voldemort felt the familiar chill that gnawed at his sanity, threatening to throw him into the abyss. His breath turned to mist before his eyes, every exhale a fragile ghost that was quickly swallowed by the darkness. He closed his eyes and tried—tried so hard—to pull himself together, but fear clawed its way up inside him. It was a cold, unyielding fear, like ice spreading through his veins, paralyzing him. He couldn’t bear to see the creature, to endure the memories it would dredge up from his mind. He wanted to scream, to flee, to do anything, but he was trapped—not just in this cell, but within his own mind.
The Dementor crept closer, its black cloak floating above the ground. Voldemort’s desperation grew as it fed on him, subduing him with memories of his greatest failures. The air around him grew thick with the stench of decay, the sound of the Dementor's rattling breath filling the silence, a harbinger of the darkness it would bring. He clawed at the cold stone floor, his nails cracking and splitting open, but he didn’t feel it at all. The pain in his hands was nothing compared to the agony that twisted inside him, a relentless storm of despair. The only thing he felt was the horror that threatened to consume him.
He didn’t want to be here; he didn’t want to feel. But in this moment, as the Dementor fed on him, he had no choice but to surrender to the pain, the weakness.
For the first time in his life, he felt raw, true fear.
Yes, the Dark Lord was scared to death.