Barren wastelands stretch as far as the eye can see, a dead land that holds nothing more than ruins and abandoned excavation pits, but which once, long ago, saw horse-drawn carriages crossed this land, carrying travellers to and from a city of impossible scale, a city surrounded by walls so vast and monumental that they might easily have been mistaken for a Wonder of the world itself. And in a sense, they were. After all, the legendary walls of Babylon, capital of the greatest empire of its age, have filled countless pages, both ancient and modern. But that does not mean they are the wonder. They are not; the true Wonder lies buried beneath these plains, beneath the river that coils around them like a serpent. They say the true Wonder is no ordinary Muggle work of architecture. They say that it is magical, and that only the most powerful may find it. They say that those who do are rewarded beyond their wildest dreams …
Of course, not all say this. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon are unique amongst the Seven Wonders in that no-one can say, with certainty, whether they ever existed at all. This has led most people, wizards and Muggles alike, to believe they never did. These people, who lack the vision and courage to pursue truth for the sake of it, without guarantee of reward, they call it a fairytale. A poet’s invention.
But he is not most people. Lord Voldemort is something far greater, and therefore he does not treat such rumours lightly. He does not dismiss it a fairytale.
He has come to seek the truth. Therefore he bows his head, fingers interlaced before him as if in prayer. But pray, he does not. Power does not answer supplication; it answers will, and that much he knows. And when he raises his gaze again, there is a red hunger burning behind his eyes.
He must act now.
With a sharp tilt of his head, he signals the men behind him to move, to pass him, to take the path down to the riverbank first. The two young Muggles obey instantly, approaching the water with cautious steps. The shorter of the two kneels and carefully removes a shoe, lowering his foot; the taller one gives him a shove and he topples over, falling headfirst into the water.
A cold chuckle slips from Lord Voldemort’s lips before he can stop it. The soaked man splutters and curses, though he clambers back to shore quickly enough, and he seems to have made it out unharmed. Wet, yes, but the water is safe to tread, and that is what matters most.
Lord Voldemort nods to himself and hums.
‘So this is the Euphrates …’
Accustomed as he is to being surrounded by followers, the lack of their presence leaves him feeling strangely naked and exposed. His mind reaches outwards, instinctively seeking an audience, yearning to share the moment with someone. Anyone. Any living thing will do, even the Muggles lingering at the river’s edge, and so he continues, and he tries to pay the silence no mind.
‘The longest river in all of Western Asia, the artery of empires,’ he murmurs, his gaze lingering on the slow-moving water. ‘The river that fed kings and gods alike. At my feet. To think of the wonders that might lie hidden beneath these waters … Am I a fool to journey here?’
The Muggles have returned to his side. The taller one shakes his head, taking the question at face value, and opens his mouth. Lord Voldemort’s wand twitches eagerly, though it remains concealed in the pocket of his long Muggle overcoat. It burns and itches to be drawn, to be used. It has grown more and more restless by the hour. Had the circumstances been different, he might have indulged it now. He is, by nature, a benevolent man. But magic leaves traces upon the world, traces which can be followed. He has not come this far to be found. That is why he cannot perform any magic that is not strictly necessary. That is why he dresses as a Muggle. Why he walks. Why he endures the dust, the sun, the heat and the cold, and even Muggle incompetence – without complaint. He has not forgotten how to exist in their world; he has not allowed himself to grow isolated and careless, as so many wizards do. As his own followers do.
Take Nott, for instance. The man’s ignorance is precisely why he was not brought along. Lord Voldemort knows exactly what objections would spill from Nott’s mouth if he learnt of this expedition. He knows the sneer that would accompany them, the recriminations and warnings, the lectures about timing. Nott would insist that Lord Voldemort wait for the unrest in the region to settle. Yes, Nott would call him mad for seeking the Hanging Gardens at all.
Ignorant fool. Were it not for Nott’s usefulness in other matters, Lord Voldemort would have disposed of him long ago.
But Nott need not know. Need not know how close he is. Need not know that his Lord can feel it now, as he brushes past the Muggles and steps closer to the riverbank. He can feel the thrumming beneath his feet, the faint hum in the air.
Nott need not know that he can find it.
His senses explode at once. The world brightens and the silence becomes loud. Deafening. The ground sways beneath his feet and seems to disappear and the air shifts – he shivers, but not from the cold; he can feel the magic in the air more clearly now, and it raises the hairs on the back of his neck. For one fleeting moment, there is nothing, only bliss and nothingness – then hands seize him, and his senses return. The Muggles hover strangely over him and he lashes out, batting them away, but they refuse to move. Their fingers only dig deeper into his skin as his mind assesses the situation at hand.
Their faces are etched with concern. Dirt is all over his skin. His back is sore, and pushed against something hard and solid. He is on the ground, and the Muggles are trying to haul him upright.
He rises. The river is gone. There is only earth ahead of him, and earth behind him. There is no telling which way to go, and yet, he knows the path to take. It is as if the very land itself is guiding him.
He pulls free of the Muggles and strides towards the place the river must have been before, but he can feel them trailing him like needy little pets.
‘What happened? Where did it go?’
Lord Voldemort sighs, steadies himself, decides that it has gone on for long enough and turns around. His face shows a gentle smile, but his wand is already in his hand. He raises it. The Muggles barely get the chance to laugh at the stick they see him pointing at them; the words are so easily spoken. Once, twice …
Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.