Chapter 74 – Voldemort No. 1: A Grand Resurrection
"Heh heh… hahahahaha!"
Mimiron Selwyn stared at the golden cup before him, a twisted smile spreading across his face. At last—at long last—he had stolen it.
He was short and squat, pale and plump, the hair on the front of his head long gone. His fingers were thick as radishes as he hugged the cup to his chest, laughing uncontrollably.
Unlike the other two members of the Gringotts heist trio, Mimiron had known the cup's secret from the very beginning. That was why he had orchestrated the entire scheme in the first place—to get it out of Gringotts.
Back then, he had been nothing more than a nameless underling serving Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort's most trusted Death Eater. When Voldemort fell overnight, Mimiron was thrown into Azkaban alongside Bellatrix—though her level of imprisonment was far harsher than his.
In truth, he could have followed Lucius Malfoy's example, bribing Ministry officials with gold to cleanse his name and escape prison. But his loyalty to Bellatrix ran so deep that he refused—no matter what.
He soon regretted it.
Dementors were not human—cruel, merciless creatures. Every time they kissed him, it took an eternity for his mind to recover.
Mimiron's imprisonment sent the Selwyn family's reputation plummeting. Even so, the rest of the family never struck his name from the rolls. Every year they continued donating generously to the Ministry, hoping at least to ease his suffering.
His crimes were not deemed severe, and with the Selwyn family's steady "contributions," he was not sentenced to life. After only a few years, he was released.
This time, he no longer clamored to stay imprisoned alongside Bellatrix.
On the night before his release, Mimiron received a sheet of silver parchment—somehow delivered by Bellatrix. Only a few short lines were written upon it.
After leaving Azkaban, he went straight to the old Lestrange manor. Feeling his way into the basement, he found a shallow stone basin waiting there.
Following the instructions on the parchment, he set it alight and tossed it into the basin. As the flames burned, the silver paper melted into a pool of gleaming, silvery liquid, filling the stone bowl.
When he lowered his head into it, a memory unfolded before his eyes.
It was the moment Voldemort had turned the golden cup into a Horcrux.
Though it was only a memory, Mimiron felt as if Voldemort's gaze were locked firmly upon him.
Voldemort told him that within the Hogwarts library, hidden inside a certain book, lay the method to resurrect him. Mimiron was to find a way into Hogwarts and uncover it.
"Mimiron—if you restore me to life," Voldemort said, "your standing will be second only to mine."
Mimiron believed him.
Although many complications arose along the way, he had ultimately succeeded—he had learned the method of resurrection and retrieved the golden cup. Now, only the final step remained.
To resurrect Lord Voldemort.
He had already cleaned the basement spotless. Following the instructions in the book, he drew an enormous magic circle using dragon blood mixed with snake blood. The materials alone had consumed more than half of the Selwyn family's remaining fortune.
Next, he poured purified dragon blood into the golden cup. With all preparations complete, he stepped back and began chanting the resurrection incantation.
"Fire born of dragon's blood!"
"Serpent beneath the ashes—awaken!"
"Through the vessel of blood!"
"Let shadows heed the call and bind this soul!"
"Redeem death with death—this is destiny!"
At first, tiny sparks flickered within the magic circle. Moments later, raging flames erupted, the heat so intense that Mimiron could barely approach. Only after casting Glacius Spell did he feel marginal relief.
The fire burned for a long time. Gradually, he saw the blood inside the golden cup shift from stillness to a violent boil.
A strange realization struck him—the magic circle was like a stove, the cup a crucible, together brewing a potion. And that potion was dragon blood itself.
Mimiron waited.
One full day passed, then another night, and finally a second night. At dawn on the third day, the flames at last died down.
Forcing himself to stay alert, he stepped forward and lifted the golden cup.
The thick blood inside had transformed into clear water.
Confusion crept across his face.
How could this be? According to the book, Voldemort should have revived within the cup—but there was no sign of him.
Just as despair began to set in, the water suddenly began to spin, forming a swirling vortex.
When the vortex calmed, Mimiron's eyes widened in horror. Cold sweat poured down his face, heavy drops falling to the floor.
A face had appeared on the surface of the water.
Skin pale as bone, completely bloodless. Bald, with faint blue-black veins webbing across the scalp. The face was serpentine—no real nose, only two narrow slits. Blood-red eyes stared out coldly, radiating crushing pressure. High cheekbones, thin purple lips, and rigid features like carved wax.
"D–Dark Lord… greetings, Mimiron Selwyn pays homage to his master."
Though his voice trembled, the truth was far worse—he had already lost control of his body, shaking uncontrollably in primal terror.
"And you are…?" Voldemort asked coolly. A being burdened with grand designs had no reason to remember a nobody like him.
"I—I am your loyal hound, Mimiron Selwyn, under Lady Bellatrix!"
"Oh… so it is you," Voldemort drawled. "You were the one who revived me?"
"My lord, this was all Lady Bellatrix's doing—it was she who instructed me," Mimiron hurried to say.
"I see. Then summon Bellatrix to me."
"I fear that may be difficult," Mimiron replied cautiously. "Lady Bellatrix is still imprisoned in Azkaban."
Voldemort fell silent for a long moment. His gaze rested on Mimiron's obsequious smile.
"So," he said slowly, "that means you are the only one at my side now?"
"Yes, my lord," Mimiron replied, then hastily added, "If you wish, I could summon Lucius. He would surely rejoice at your rebirth."
"No." Voldemort cut him off. "Lucius? You mean to say he was never sent to Azkaban?"
After receiving confirmation, Voldemort closed his eyes. His face remained impassive, but fury surged within him.
Voldemort was mad—but not foolish. Avoiding Azkaban meant only one thing.
Lucius Malfoy had betrayed him.
A despicable traitor.
"He is no longer worthy of trust, Mimiron," Voldemort said, opening his eyes once more. "At present, you are the only one I can rely on. Can you bear that trust?"
"Of course, my lord," Mimiron replied fervently. "It would be my greatest honor."
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