The Declaration

The war was not going well for the resident dark lord. His return had not been welcome even by his formally most loyal servants. Somehow, in the years between his disappearance and his return to power, his followers had discovered the merits of peace and prosperity. For over ten years, those who had evaded capture had enjoyed manipulating the government and events to their advantage to comparatively little cost to themselves or their families. Only his inner circle, who had been most fanatical back in the day, had resignedly and fearfully returned to him. Voldemort knew that they did not welcome him back. Some had even grown to wish he would never return. As his widespread support had all but vanished and as the majority of those who had been inclined to commend him from a distance had turned their backs and knotted their purse strings, Voldemort was in the unique and unprecedented position of lacking funds.

It took money and resources to wage a war, he did not wish to expend the energy and time of his minions on petty theft. It lacked dignity and undermined their respect for him. In any case, few prizes were worth the taking besides the formidable Gringotts bank and even he was not so brazen as to anger the goblins. Any attempt would be doomed to failure and would herald the end of his efforts. Though many of his followers belonged to rich old pureblood families, their resources were not infinite. The Dark Lord suspected that Malfoy resented the use of his family's capital. A shade of reluctance had woven itself into his deferring posture. The Malfoy's wealth had been greatly diminished in the previous war and Lucius had spent the last years once more building it into a fortune to humble kings and buy out parliament. The most severe crucios within Voldemort's power could not humble the man, one who shared so completely in his belief of wizarding supremacy. It would not do. Funds would have to be taken elsewhere.

Voldemort violently squashed a spider that had slowly been creeping over the cracks on the window sill as he had stood silently brooding. Outside, it rained lightly as if the clouds would part at a whisper. The extensive gardens of the Lestrange summer house were lush with bloom and vigor. The once carefully tamed beds, which were as straight and morose as the head of the family, had profited from their owner's absence and now spread across the grounds in irreverent freedom and life. That is what the country had become in the Dark Lord's absence, and he would not let it take hold.

Voldemort promised himself that he would rip their comforts and their freedoms and their joys from them. That they ever dared consider themselves liberated from his presence was an affront. Of course the mass breakout from Azkaban had helped his cause, yet it was not enough. There was hope, the Dark Lord could smell its nauseous presence everywhere. They had been rid of him once, if temporarily, there was hope they could do it again. Potter's escape from the Department of mysteries had been a fiasco, his inner circle held off by a few fifth years. If he hadn't desperately needed their support, Voldemort was certain he would have taken great satisfaction in executing them himself. As it was, an unprecedented campaign of terror was needed that he might once again confirm his status as history's most powerful Dark Lord in the minds of all. Yet, this would necessitate healthy finances.

The Dark Lord turned suddenly away from the window. His own spectral reflection had seemed to mock his preoccupation with such mundane matters as money. His continued existence would rely on an effective strategy. A slow building of momentum would not serve him well, all would have to be done quickly before the purse of his followers ran dry. Those who had been condemned to Azkaban were now of little use as their access to Gringotts had been restricted. They all now relied on the fortunes of the few lucky enough to escape conviction. It would not last.

After more silent reflection, Voldemort walked down the gothic hallways of the mansion. He entered the main dinning hall. His follower Bellatrix sat calmly at the end of the table, gleefully caressing her wand. At the sound of his entrance, she looked up from her reverie.

"Master," Bellatrix intoned respectfully, bowing her head. "May I be of use?"

"I am calling a general meeting," he replied. "I have chosen our course. All that we wish will soon come to pass. Terror shall reap the land as never before. Give me your arm."

As Voldemort pressed his finger on Bellatrix' arm, he knew that he would be successful.

OoooooooooooooooO

Once again, the Dark Lord stood surrounded by his Death Eaters, their fear and loathing coursing through their veins. For once, he did not care. In the stagnant air of the Lestrange dungeon he observed them coldly. Confidence that they would soon be brought to heel and would again worship him as a god, thanking him as they rushed to the deaths he chose, calmed him. He found it difficult to believe that mere hour before, he, Lord Voldemort himself, had been preoccupied by such minor concerns as monetary resources.

"My loyal Death Eaters," Voldemort rasped into the silence that caught his every word. "The time has come for action. No longer will we hide from the world. They will come to respect up as they ought and remember their lawful place. I am pleased to announce that the demetors are joining our cause…"

Half-hearted cheers momentarily interrupted his speech before he silenced them with a wave of his hand.

"I am aware many of you do not welcome such allies, having been tormented yourselves during your time in Azkaban. However, would you wish us to loose such an opportunity for revenge out of mere personal preference? I assure you that they will not harm you or your own. With what we offer, they dare not oppose us. As they spread fear and hopelessness, we will accompany them with random attacks and destruction throughout the country so that no one may feel safe. As well, I will personally take care of Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She has opposed us long enough."

The interest of his Death Eaters was slowly being aroused and at this announcement a few chuckled darkly in amusement. No one could manipulate his followers better than the Lord Voldemort, offering and ensnaring their interest, coaxing them into a murderous frenzy.

"Our success is within our reach. We will carry out mass muggle killings if Minister Fudge does not step down and accept our dominance!"

The thrilled laughter was unmistakable; the mood of the room had shifted to bloodlust. Though many still hung back, realizing that all this would be difficult to accomplish considering their small numbers, success was not a given.

"This brings us to the most important part of the plan; nothing will succeed without it," Voldemort declared knowing that everyone's attention was riveted to his next words. "Many grey families have so far eluded their necessary allegiance to our cause. Their inaction weakens us. It is imperative that they be brought to our side by the use of persuasion, threats, or even force if necessary."

"Avery!," the Dark Lord snapped. "I charge you with making our cause known to the Bulstrodes, the Flints, the Warringtons, the Zabinis, the Macdougals, the Parkinsons, the Joneses, the Montagues, the Nigelluses, the Skeeters, the Davises, the Greengrasses…"

And as the list went on, the Dark Lord knew that with so many families and so many ancestral fortunes at his disposal, he could not help but succeed.