Saturday May 29
Lord Voldemort sat in his throne and studied the wand he held between his fingers.
The screams of the follower who dared tell him of the death of Nagini filtered through his ears. Their screams were as meaningless and the birds that chirped outside. An irksome noise that ultimately meant nothing to him.
Nagini was a loss, that could not be denied. To lose the horcrux he hid in Nagini was a true loss.
It was a loss that was only made equal by Lord Voldemort's discovery of the horcrux he unknowingly placed in the Potter boy.
Astounding.
Even in his weakest moment, Lord Voldemort had performed magic that wizards in the prime of their strength could never accomplish.
Lord Voldemort alone had taken his soul and hidden a piece of it in a human; a fellow wizard.
The universe knew that there could be no equal to him, no witch or wizard who would ever match him, and thus it enabled him to create one.
With Potter by his side, they would be unstoppable.
The Dark Lord and the Grey Lord.
They would burn the world to ashes and recreate it in their likeness.
Why had he followed the words of a prophecy, shared with him by the traitor Severus Snape? Why had he moved to kill what was so easily gifted to him?
Lord Voldemort had not attacked his downfall that fateful night, he created his greatest ally.
Truly astounding.
Lord Voldemort tore the curse off his follower and allowed her the honor of kissing his boots and groveling for his forgiveness.
Though he never forgave.
Every slight ever pushed upon him was remembered. It was a mental list he added to every day.
Potter had his own section for his insults and his intrusions. He would need punished before he could be embraced.
In the end though, he would be embraced.
Potter would take his rightful place at Lord Voldemort's side as fate clearly intended for him to do.
"Enough," Lord Voldemort told the witch. Her name was as irrelevant as her face. The masks were not for their safety, nor for their comfort.
It made him ill to see their faces; the aristocratic features that once sneered at Tom Riddle's poor clothes and ignorant manner of speech.
And, the more he discovered about his true ally, the less patience he had for the pretenders to what he finally knew to be Potter's throne.
Did any of these weak and worthless wizards master occlumency and legillimency? No.
Would a single one of the witches bearing his mark last more than ten seconds in a duel against him? No.
Could any of them carry conversations and exchange death threats in the language of the Great Salazar Slytherin himself? Proving their superiority to the rest of the plebeians in their world? No.
Only his horcrux could.
Potter, while lesser in his power and weaker from his attachments, would be the companion Lord Voldemort never knew he desired.
Lord Voldemort looked to his right, to the smaller silver throne he had moved to the space beside his, and pondered.
Fate gave him a gift, he wrapped it with his own power, and it was high time that it was returned to him.
It was time for his horcrux to join him at in rightful place. Lord Voldemort would not rest until it happened.
What would it take to bring Potter willingly to his side?
Potter's likeness to himself could not be denied, an attribute of the piece of his soul inside the boy, he was sure.
Lord Voldemort silently considered what Potter would accept as a gift, an offering and a showing of the power that could be his for the taking...
The death of Albus Dumbledore could be a gift to both his horcrux and himself. With Dumbledore out of the way, nothing and no one could stand before them.
Dumbledore wanted his horcrux dead, he meant to kill him that night.
Potter may join him gleefully once he knew Lord Voldemort killed their enemy for him.
"My Lord." One of his followers bowed, approaching him in a bent position; submissive and scared. "What would you like for us to do now?"
Lord Voldemort watched him with impassivity.
What would he like them to do for him? What could they even do?
Dumbledore was a wizard of skill, of his own obscure branch of light power. The witches and wizards before him would never be the ones skilled enough to kill him.
Though what if they could? If they secured Potter's alliance through actions Lord Voldemort ordered?
No.
They would need a different task, one made for menial minds.
"Potter's followers," Lord Voldemort said slowly, "I want every piece of information on his followers that you can gather."
"His - his friends my Lord?"
Lord Voldemort laughed mirthlessly. "Potter has followers," he sneered. "I have seen inside the boy's mind. He cares for them, those that follow him, but he has no true 'friends'. He is mine."Potter denied it, but he was ignorant. A folly of his youth. Lord Voldemort could understand his resistance against being owned, but once Potter understood who he was, what he was, he would see that Lord Voldemort was his master, his creator.
The boy was his and he would reclaim him.
Lord Voldemort raised his wand, a clear threat as his followers cringed before him. "Potter and his followers are not to be killed. Harry Potter is not to be touched at all. If I learn that you have harmed him in any way, you will be finished in my service."
His followers were at least intelligent enough to understand the implied threat in his words as they murmured agreement with the orders.
Lord Voldemort curled his lip as he eyed them all so distastefully. The cretins cowering to him were the weakest of his followers, they were the ones who fled instead of facing the aurors after the battle.
Eight of his followers imprisoned, two dead.
It was no true difficulty to release his followers from Azkaban. The dementors feared him, they feared the power he brought, the way they were unable to affect him anymore.
To lose Bellatrix and Bartemius though, the most loyal and the most ingenious of his followers?
That was a loss.
Potter would pay for it.
Or...
Lord Voldemort twirled his wand as he considered it. Potter would need groomed, taught to respect Lord Voldemort and his place beside him. He would need to be shown that Lord Voldemort could be merciful to him, but that he would accept no further slights.
No more attacks. No more juvenile images forced in his mind. No more rebelling against his creator and his master.
The horcrux would need taught respect before he could truly stand at his side.
But Potter had no sense of self-preservation, he had no qualms over death. Pain did not affect his horcrux just as it had never affected Lord Voldemort. But Potter cared for his followers, he was willing to die to follow the one named Susan to the grave.
How did he punish one who refused to bear pain? How did he threaten one who sneered in the face of death?
"His followers," Lord Voldemort said in a soft whisper. "They will be accepted in our ranks when Potter accepts his place. Until then, show them why I am superior."
"How?" someone grunted.
It was an automatic response, to punish his followers, to show them their proper place. They would address him with respect or find themselves unable to speak at all.
Screaming on the ground, writhing from his wrath, was the proper place for the ungrateful cretins to be.
It was invigorating, imagining Potter grinding his teeth and biting his tongue to refuse to break beneath Lord Voldemort's power. It was an image nearly as intoxicating as envisioning his horcrux beside him as he molded the world to one that worked around them and their superiority.
A world that acknowledged, respected, and feared their power.
"Break them," Lord Voldemort hissed after lifting the curse. "Torture them, destroy them. Do not kill them though. They will join us eventually," his lips twisted cruelly, "they were skilled enough to inflict fear and scars upon you all, were they not?"
His followers were unhappy, he could smell their displeasure over the knowledge that they would be usurped by Potter's followers.
It was no matter, if they did not wish to be ousted by the children, they should have ended them that night when his orders had been to kill as many as they could.
To have his followers be bested by children? It was a humiliation of no small amount.
Lord Voldemort was more than satisfied with this plan though. His horcrux was smart, wise to choose followers for their skills and talents instead of their blood status and financial power. The children proved their strength and their dedication to Potter that night, they would be rewarded for it with their placement above the ignorant fools standing before him.
And, if they refused to see the only future worth taking that was courteously being offered to them, then he would kill them all and his horcrux would come to him once he realized he was alone and without allies.
"Any mudbloods within his ranks can die," Lord Voldemort said carelessly, "but not until Potter comes to me and accepts his place."
Lord Voldemort would accept Potter's followers, he would graciously merge them with his own, a gift to his horcrux. He would fill his ranks with the powerful children of Merlin, the children his horcrux had groomed to fight for him. But he would not tolerate any reminders of muggles to be near him; it disgusted him as he considered their weak parentage, their ignorant ways.
"So... so torture his fr- followers, but don't kill them?" one of the masked wizards asked slowly, puzzling over the exceedingly simple directions given to him.
"Perhaps you need a lesson in listening to your master," Lord Voldemort hissed viciously. "Crucio!"
Their screams soothed the wounds that festered inside him, the wounds that the wizarding world inflicted upon him when he joined it.
The world had tried to beat him down, and it would be destroyed for it.
And then, when there were but smoldering ashes of the world that once sparkled for all but himself, Lord Voldemort and his horcrux would rebuild it.
They would live forever, side by side, ruling and controlling the world.
It was an image bright enough, and close enough, that it brought a smile of triumph to Lord Voldemort's face.
"Make it happen," he announced, ending the curse on the twitching wizard before him. "I will accept no further failures. Do not test me on this or you will see how merciful death can be."
Lord Voldemort rose to his feet with one last lustful gaze sent to the silver throne beside his ornate golden throne, and swept away.
There were plans to make. Knowing what Potter was, there would be no rest until he was reunited with his horcrux, his undeniable proof of power so great that none could understand.
He, and he alone, had created Potter.
And, soon, Lord Voldemort would reclaim him.
Soon.