CHAPTER ONE – THE DARK LORD AWAITS
Aimee Marylebone, personal receptionist to He Who Must Not Be Named himself, bent over the desk. She looked the Dark Lord's visitor up and down, pursing her lips. The journalist tapped her stiletto heel, annoyed. Her acid green Quick-Quotes Quill was at the ready, and her nauseating hairstyle primped to perfection.
Rita Skeeter was dressed to kill, and she knew it.
"Is this going to take all day?" the reporter snapped, clicking her heel once again. "I'm interviewing Thicknesse after lunch, and the Minister does not like to be kept waiting."
"The Dark Lord is not to be hurried, Madam Skeeter." Aimee glared at her. "I am sure that Mr Thicknesse will not mind your absence. At present the Dark Lord is engaged in his diary, and I assure you that he will not be disturbed in this activity."
"Then I shall wait."
Rita stalked over to a small wooden chair on the opposite side of the reception room. Like everything else in the room, not excluding the receptionist, it was cold, harsh and unfeeling. There was no warmth or empathy that one would expect from any chair one might sit in for some comfort.
This was her largest assignment yet. She had been whittling with the relentlessness of a pursuing jaguar through the great, good, rich and famous (not necessarily all the same person) of the wizarding world – Albus Dumbledore, Pius Thicknesse, Lucius Malfoy – all the lives uncovered, all the skeletons dragged kicking and screaming from their respective closets. She had squealed with excitement when she found out about the true nature of Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald's relationship. Her mind was a memory bank of scandals, secrets and lies, decaying like rotten apples in every corner. She was not aware just to what extent this had poisoned her already malignant and venomous personality.
And now she had hit the jackpot – He Who Must Not Be Named himself. Most aspiring journalists and reporters would give every accessible limb on their body for the chance that she was dwelling in currently.
Such a mysterious and unknown past not filled with the glamour and spectacle of the prior celebrities she had combed thoroughly through. So much unanswered. So much kept back. It was too tantalising to resist for a woman of Rita Skeeter's temperament.
And so, with a few well-placed calls upon highly placed people, Rita had, in her words, wrangled a series of appointments with the man whose name the world was too afraid to speak. The Dark Lord. You-Know-Who. He Who Must Not Be Named.
The Man Behind The Name.
"Ooh," Rita murmured during her train of thoughts. "Now there's the title. Rita Skeeter, you are a genius. Must write that down." She took a pen from her crocodile-skin handbag, and began to write down carefully. "The – Man – Behind – The – Name."
"Miss Skeeter?" Miss Marylebone called over the room, having just got off the intercom to the Dark Lord's room. "The Dark Lord is waiting for you."
Rita Skeeter felt a growing feeling of apprehension and nerves as she approached He Who Must Not Be Named's chamber. She had never really felt anything like fear or nerves before. She supposed that it was part of her job as a journalist – super-confident and sassy. No fears. No weaknesses.
And now she was beginning to fall apart in the presence of, to be fair, one of the most intimidating people in the wizarding world. Ever since his campaign had begun almost thirty years ago, when searching for followers, the entire wizarding world had been transfixed to the point of refusing to utter his name. Only those who dared to speak his name were hounded down and banged up – Kingsley Shacklebolt and other members the Order of the Phoenix. She had heard Harry Potter had fallen for this simple trick. Nobody knew how the Dark Lord's followers managed to do it.
Tentatively, she knocked on the door, trembling with fright.
"Come in," the high, cruel voice whispered from within the room. Rita hesitated. This fear and dread coursing through her blood was beginning to overcome her with its strength.
"Come in, Rita," the voice was resisting a cackle. The sneering venom with which he voiced it terrified her. The first syllable was drawn out to a length of malevolence, and the second short and curt, a snap of anger and annoyance combined to one rapid beat of hatred.
Shaking with fright and stammering madly, Rita pushed through the door and stumbled into the room.
To arrive face to face with the one man whose name was feared throughout the land. The man whose title could reduce a man to a shambling ruin – a wretch with his sanity barely intact. The name – and the man behind it.
Lord Voldemort.