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The driest day of the summer so far was, at last, drawing to a close. Not that “dry” was a very efficient term to use. The grounds were a muddy mess. One building in particular stood out against the sheets of water pouring down. Splotches of icy rain splattered against the frozen window panes. The building’s rooms were different; bright and warm light bounded from roaring fireplaces; comfortable chairs stood merrily in the middle; it would not have been distinguishable from a grandmother’s cottage sitting room. Men and women chatted merrily, drinking large tankards of a sparking liquid; each was wearing a thick set of dark robes. The rest of the castle, however, was a much different story. It contained a chilly labyrinth of passages and hallways. Hooded figures passed each other silently, not daring to so much as look at each other. They simply started ahead, their faces covered in skeletal masks. A blood chilling roar seemed to fill the air; monsters from the dungeons, screaming in agony and hatred. The coldest part of the castle, by far, was the very top.
Alone, in the darkest, coldest room of the tallest tower, sat a bald man at a desk. His head rested upon his hand in a weary sort of way. The other hand was busily writing away on a piece of parchment. He seemed to be copying out a letter. The parchment he was glaring at was tattered and faded. All that could be made out across the top were a few words: “Process”, “Sivience”, and “Enchantment”. It was extraordinary that this man could read any of it at all, but he had obviously reread it so many times, that he knew it well enough to know what to pen; he was already nearly halfway down the fresh parchment he was writing on. He rested his Eagle Quill in the pot of ink above his paper, and tilted his head towards the thick door opposite him. Somebody was coming; indeed, it suddenly, it opened with a bang and a large, blonde-haired man entered at a dash.
“My lord...” he gasped, clutching a stitch in his chest, “Narcissa Malfoy as arrived.”
Voldemort said nothing, but glanced back down at his papers and continued to write steadily to the end of the parchment. Near the bottom, he signed Salazar Slytherin quod Tom Marvolo Riddle; Filiolus immortalis. When he finished, he rolled both up serenely and tucked them inside his robes. The man stood at attention the entire time, never slouching; he kept his gaze straight ahead.
“Show her in, Pulciber,” said Voldemort, looking up. The man called Pulciber glanced down. Voldemort’s eyes were bloodshot. He flinched, bowed low, and backed quickly out of the room. Voldemort breathed heavily, his nostrils flaring and his brown furrowed, until the door creaked open once again and Narcissa stepped into the cold room. She was a short woman, hardly taller than Voldemort’s shoulders, but she had an air of superiority. Her dirty-blonde hair was up in a tight bun, and she wore an expression that suggested she had just had a whiff of Dragon dung.
“You requested my presence?” she asked tonelessly. Her face seemed to grow, if possible, more disgusted. Voldemort nodded in a jaded sort of way.
“Recount to me what took place the Night Dumbledore fell,” he said coldly.
“Hasn’t Snape told you?” she asked, with the slightest hint of cheek in her voice. Voldemort’s nostrils flared violently.
“I would like your version of the night’s events– and do not deny being involved. I have been informed –albeit a slightly irrational source – that you, Narcissa Malfoy, were heavily and personally involved in the matter.”
“Irrationa.. From who?” Narcissa demanded.
Voldemort reached at once for one of the many drawers of the desk. He produced a shabby, fat rat, held it up for a moment in the dim light, and calmly tossed it to the ground, as if this were something he regularly did. Narcissa glared at it furiously.
“Whom else?” Voldemort said lazily. “Leave us, Wormatail,” he added to the twitching rat. Wormtail squealed in alarm and dashed out the door. “Now, Narcissa, I believe I’ve proved myself adequately. Tell me what happened that night. I do not wish to use force.”
“I… of course, my lord,” Narcissa said feebly. “Well, it all started with Wormtail, Ironically. - You remember that he was in my care at the time –“
“I seem to recall placing Peter in your care just before Severus returned to his job last September,” Voldemort said thoughtfully. “I certainly did not want him anywhere nearer to me than possible, and as Lucius had been so painfully taken from you just weeks before-“
“I know.” Narcissa said callously. “Anyway, on this night, I happened to be sipping a sherry, lying on my divan-“
“Perhaps it would be more... ah… interesting, if we were to review this within a Pensieve. What do you say, Narcissa?”
Narcissa gave him a look that said all too plainly that she preferred to keep her mind closed and away from him, but that was just not the sort of thing that was denied of Voldemort; Narcissa nodded in consent. Voldemort flipped his wand out and quickly fashioned a haphazard wooden bowl. It had dark, meticulous lines and designs running down its sides, and neat, cursive writing that seemed to never stop. Odd runes and symbols lined the edges; in an odd, eerie sort of way, it seemed to be whispering, as if it knew the evil that surrounded it.
Narcissa, on the other hand, held her wand to her head, and grudgingly pulled the required memory from the ranks of her other recollections. Then, suddenly, she couldn’t remember what the memory was about at all, besides the fact that it had something to do with Voldemort. The memory seemed to float senselessly around the wand tip, illuminating the surroundings with its soft, white light. Narcissa motioned her wand forward, and the silvery substance fell like fog into the bowl. There, swirling tufts of light (or perhaps even wind) churned about, never stopping. It might have been gaseous, if she wasn’t so convinced that it was liquid.
Voldemort, his wand out, prodded the thought lightly; at once, it swirled about, like a whirlpool and a twister combined into one.
“After you,” Voldemort said, doing as close to a grin as a Dark lord could possibly muster. Narcissa frowned, and slowly, cautiously dipped a single finger into the bowl. Quite suddenly, her body lurched forward. She was diving headfirst into the bowl; she might have expected to hit the bottom, had she had any sense…. She frowned at the though of being sucked into an endless vortex of liquid wind… then suddenly her feet hit a floor with an almighty bang that caused her knees to buckle. Grumbling, she clambered to her feet in time to see the Dark Lord fall into place beside her. His legs seemed perfectly fine… Perhaps he did this often.
“Well, Narcissa?” he said. “This is your memory; consent to narrate for the Dark Lord.”
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Finally.
Before I say anything, I want to say to anyone looking in that this is a Good, Well written story. 
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