Jubilant and boisterous shouts and exclamations reverberated through the darkened manor. The Dark Lord Voldemort put down his glass and moved to his raised seat, making himself comfortable before the doors to the room burst open.
He had spent the last two hours in contemplation as he awaited the return of his followers from their latest mission. Normally he would busy himself with other work as a distraction, sitting around was a shameful waste of his time. This task however had taken months of planning and if properly executed, would serve a lethal blow to his opponents.
The candlelight lit up the white masks of his followers as they entered the room, splatters of blood marring some of them. They marched in, forming an orderly regiment with bound haggard prisoners dragged along.
He watched imperiously from his throne, he was pleased they had obviously more than succeeded in their mission but he made sure no indication of his satisfaction reached his face. The death eaters lined the prisoners up as best they could in the room, a few were unconscious or stupefied so had been dumped more or less in order with the others. The others were shaking in fear, keeping their eyes to the ground as if to deny who they had been brought before. Once his followers had the captives positioned they bowed in subservience. One among them came forward, his heavy boots scuffed the shiny wood floor and he inelegantly bent to the floor.
"My Lord, we have returned from our mission."
The Dark Lord waited a beat before he answered, giving the stout man enough time to wonder if he had even been heard.
"Yes, I am aware." His cold voice made the younger man flinch. He stretched out the silence again, the fear radiating off the prisoners (and his followers) was practically palpable. A cursory glance at the line of shuffling, cowering prisoners showed there were about thirteen of them. Curious.
"You have brought more than I was anticipating."
The masked man nodded enthusiastically, clearly mistaking quantity with quality. "Yes, my Lord. A few others decided to join in the fighting so we overwhelmed them and brought them here as well." The young man lifted his hand to remove his mask. A sharp remark paused him.
"Do not remove that."
He would not risk the identity of one of his most loyal servants for nothing and the fate of all the captives was yet undecided. He schooled his voice to become less hostile. "You have done well my faithfuls, you will be rewarded."
He stood to his full height, it gave him a sense of pleasure to see both his prisoners and followers shrink back and he slowly, gracefully made his way to the pitiful things. Whimpering and shuffling noises were the only things that could be heard.
The first prisoner was unconscious, a deep gash to the man's forehead the obvious cause. It was a waste really.
"You are all talented witches and wizards, led astray by the lies of the light. Step forward any one of you who wishes to join me, this will be your only chance."
Voldemort waited a beat, a few of them shifted awkwardly — considering. As he was about to continue, a bloodied young woman limped forward, blonde hair matted in crimson and a shoulder hanging at a grotesque angle. "Please, please, I will join. Please have mercy."
Tears spilled down her face as she beseeched him. She didn't even have time to recoil as a streak of green light hit her and she dropped with a thump heavily to the wooden floor.
"Unfortunately, we are not currently looking for mudbloods to fill out our ranks."
His servants chuckled with restraint at the remark, the prisoners had become even more tense if it was possible. He wasn't even sure if his victim actually was a mudblood. She must have been one of the extras brought along by his death eaters. Regardless, he preferred at least a shred of loyalty in his servants - she would not have lasted long.
With a careful step he walked along the line of prisoners, nodding approvingly at a few of the familiar faces. Marlene McKinnon, he had been keen for a while to put her out of action. As with all the prisoners, she avoided his gaze and seemed to stare blankly into the distance. Beside her was Trevor McLintock and his wife, both commentators with the Daily Prophet that had refused to write in favour of their pureblood rhetoric. He did not recognise the young man beside them, he looked to still be a teenager.
"And what do they call you?"
The boy was trembling so much he thought he was going to fall over. The Dark Lord would almost have wagered his undivided attention had caused the young lad to piss himself.
"I-I…"
The ashen boy stuttered dreadfully, the Dark Lord almost had an urge to just kill him then and there. "Well? Have you forgotten your own name, you fool?"
"T-thomas Carmichael."
His lip curled back in disgust at the name, so similar to the one he had been afflicted with. All the more reason to make the boy suffer, but that would come in good time.
Thomas let out a deep breath when he started moving again to pass Alice Longbottom, stupefied and laying in a heap on the ground. Her small frame and short mousy hair belied the ferocity he knew her to be capable of. Beside her had been the dead woman, he sidestepped her corpse, left in an undignified pose. Past them was Dorcas Meadowes and a man he assumed to be her fiancee - a simple muggle that should have been left for dead rather than brought to his home. Unfortunately initiative was often one of the most difficult things to instil in his servants.
His eyes swept over the two Livingstone brothers, barely graduated from Hogwarts, before they landed on another unexpected prisoner. He was surprised he hadn't noticed her before now, her thick ebony hair and striking face drew the eyes against their will. Blood still oozed from her bottom lip and she trembled slightly as he gazed down at her even though her eyes were downcast. The man beside her was sobbing silently but he paid no attention.
"I have to congratulate my followers, they really did manage a fine, unexpected catch today." He turned to his followers and noticed them nodding at each other smugly - always so desperate for approval. He returned his piercing gaze to the young woman trembling before him. "I have to say I am surprised to see a Black here — you must be the famous Bellatrix." With a smirk to himself he continued. "Or perhaps I should say, infamous?"
She gave no acknowledgement that she had even heard her name, never mind the question but he paid no attention. He had of course heard of her before, an exceptional member of the Black family — in every sense of the meaning. A well educated witch and a total outcast. The only member of the Black family to be raised in the household despite less than pure blood. It was fascinating really given the families ruthless adherence to blood purity. He couldn't help imagine, she must be somewhat special. An inexplicable sense of excitement had grown inside him and he moved back to his throne but did not sit down.
"Within the next few hours, you will all be dead." A desperate moan was heard but he ignored it. He would be having his fun today. "As there are more of you here than I had initially anticipated, I have decided to be merciful."
He noticed a ripple spread through their numbers, a tiny sliver of hope enough to excite them. "One of you will be spared. One of you will be able to return and give a message to those fools that are rallying against me. But who shall it be?"
Lord Voldemort considered them all, as if he hadn't already decided. He was however surprised when one of them stepped forward. The death eaters levelled their wands at the unarmed woman.
"Ahh, are you volunteering Miss McKinnon?"
She raised her eyes to him, fury blazing in them as she clenched her hands at her sides and spat vehemently. "You can do what you want to us, Dumbledore and the Order will rise up against you. We will destroy you and all your pathetic followers! Everyone of us you kill, more will spring up to bring you down, you bastard!"
He had to admire her really. She had been brought face to face with evil and refused to lie down. Nevertheless he motioned to his deatheaters, who immediately hexed her to the ground and dragged her towards his throne. She lay between the two men with tears running down her face as she tried to suppress the pain from the boils that had erupted on her skin.
He returned to the rest of the them. "I think you shall be the lucky one Miss Black. You were not originally chosen to die here today."
The dark haired woman didn't raise her head but he noticed the slightest widening of her eyes. It gave him some small amount of pleasure to shock her - he would see how shocked he could make her with the other prisoners.
"Come.
He motioned her to approach him but she hadn't seen it. After a beat she raised her head to him, confusion and fear entrenched in her face. As her eyes met his own dispassionate ones, she looked straight back down in terror. He realised she had become paralysed by fear.
As much as he enjoyed inciting such mindless terror in her, he despised disobedience and with a twitch of his wand sent a cutting curse her way. She hissed as it grazed her cheek, blood immediately leaking from the straight cut.
"Come here now."
Gracefully she stepped forward, he noticed her glance sideways at the corpse as she trembled. Unsure, she continued to approach until she was level with Marlene and her two guards.
"Now, Bellatrix. You are a guest, come sit here, I don't want you miss a single thing."
With faux hospitality he conjured a simple, small wooden stool to the left of his huge throne and motioned her to sit as he did the same. She froze again for a moment and he watched her warring thoughts. He did not need the assistance of legilimency to see how his civility was baffling her, how her fear and disgust were fighting her survival instincts.
Just as he was wondering if he would have to curse the stupid woman again, she stumbled forward, every step anticipating some trickery. When she made to sit at last, he noticed with amusement that she held herself clenched up, expecting attack.
From this angle he could see she had obviously been hit in the back, blood soaked through the torn dark blue dress. Three deep gashes marred the pale skin. His attention was pulled away as his most senior servant stepped up to his right and cleared his throat nervously and whispered.
"My Lord. I do not mean to question your choices but I feel I must inform you. Although she was not part of the Order, or one of our targets, she engaged us in battle. She held off three of your followers and was only subdued when I approached her from behind."
He noticed his other followers looked bewildered at his decision to have her sat beside him.
"Are you scared of her?" He smirked mockingly at the man whom he was sure was reddening beneath his mask. "She is a woman. An untrained civilian. And now she will be a simple messenger. There is no need for you to feel threatened, unless of course there is something you want to share." His keen gaze barely concealed his smugness.
The death eater nodded reverently before stepping back, remaining on his right side. Once again, he returned his cold piercing gaze to Marlene McKinnon. She returned his look with unbridled hatred.
"Well I think its time we put on a show for our young guest now, don't you agree? Whose up first?"
The death eaters all glanced at each other until one decided to step forward. It was a thickset man - likely Travers but he wasn't bothered about finding out. A brown wand was drawn and levelled at Marlene, who had attempted to shuffle away to no avail.
Awaiting a final nod from his master, he moved his wand in a complicated pattern. "Filthy bloodtraitor. I am going to enjoy this. Deglubo ferveo."
Within seconds piercing screams erupted from Marlene as she unsteadily lifted her hands to see the cause of her pain. He smiled as he watched the skin on hands and arm burn and crisp before flaking off leaving bare tissue beneath. Her arms shook in agony and her head fell back unable to look at the damage anymore.
His eyes strayed to the woman beside him, she was straining with tension, her knuckles white as she held her arms wrapped around herself. Although he was much more keen on just ending a life - killing was always so much more efficient- he enjoyed a healthy amount of torture. The psychological torment was giving him much greater satisfaction than the anguished screams before him, why did he not do this more often?
"Lacerato."
The spell was fired off twice in quick succession as the death eater walked around his fallen victim. She yowled and clutched her face, it was a moment before she dropped her ravaged hands a little to give them a view of her gravely wounded eyes. Bright shining blue eyes had been replaced with deep, bloodied gashes.
Marlene shifted around and started to crawl, bloodied handprints smeared all over the floor, unaware that she was slowly creeping toward his seat. His follower walked up beside her and pressed down on the centre of her back with his heavy boot, stopping her progress. Pinned down he swung his wand, a blast of the cruciatous curse had her convulsing below him. The pain seemed to entirely overwhelm her for a few moments, there was a beat of silence when the sobs of prisoners could be heard before a tortured screech made them all flinch.
Half a minute under the curse had her trembling with aftershocks, pink froth foaming at her mouth. Weakly she mumbled but he couldn't hear anything distinguishable.
"Begging for mercy yet scum?"
The death eater stepped back, he seemed disappointed that the woman was beyond comprehension. With a last bored flick of his wand fire shot out of his wand and the blinded woman went ablaze.
After a few harrowing minutes Marlene finally died, thick smoke billowed off her lifeless body. Lord Voldemort vanished the still flaming corpse and nodded approvingly at his follower.
The acrid smell of smoke remained in the large room, a perfect setting for an afternoon of torture. He glanced at his guest and noticed she had covered her eyes with her hands, her long ebony hair had fallen across her face to shield her as she shook. She struggled to suppress gagging at the sounds and smells of burning flesh.
He pointed at another death eater that was lounging at the side of the room before waving at the next prisoner. "You, you're up next."
The death eater collected his reluctant prize as the Dark Lord leant over. "You cannot be a true messenger if you don't witness everything."
Bellatrix immediately stiffened at his harsh whispered voice and brought her hands away from her face. He noticed faint tear tracks on her cheeks and he briefly wondered if she had known the dead woman.
"No, no that won't do." His voice was low and deceptively jovial. "I will have to ensure you don't miss a thing, I want my enemies to know exactly what we are capable of."
He slowly pulled out his wand, she thought he was going to torture her next. The thought made him smirk but he merely flicked his wand. Her body shifted back into a rigid position, hands held awkwardly in her lap and face angled straight towards the next victim. Her hair still acted as a barrier but he didn't know any spells that would work on hair — not without ripping it out anyway.
He reached out to push her hair back behind her shoulders. She was blinking rapidly in her fixed position and he knew if she hadn't been frozen, she would have flinched back. It was soft and obviously well cared for, he was a little perturbed he had noticed so turned back to the waiting death eater.
With a stiff nod the torture resumed. The ringing of screams continued in the room as his followers slowly made their way through the prisoners. Some were definitely more creative than others and there was great variation in how long the captives lasted - Alice Longbottom setting the record at about an hour under the skilful wand of Dolohov.
By the time the last person had been extinguished, his guest had become absolutely ashen. There was a far off glaze to her eyes — the odd delight of forcing her to watch had left him now.
"I hope we have provided you with ample entertainment Ms Black. Now there is only one thing left to do."
He indicated to his right hand and the senior follower stalked over to her stool. The spell freezing her had been broken and she fell forward with a clumsy, heavy thump. The stern death eater grabbed a handful of the back of her torn dress and dragged her across the floor in front of him, the seams straining and ripping under the tension.
The dark lord stood to his full imposing height above her, pleased that her lower lip quivered in fear and she trembled pathetically."Please." He wasn't surprised by her tearful begging, she had endured witnessing the cruelty and might of his followers. It stood to reason that the Dark Lord would be even more sadistic.
"Lord Voldemort has shown you great mercy today. For this privilege you must return to Dumbledore and his pitiful rebels. You must inform them of what you have seen today." He tapped his wand gently on his hand. "Of course I also need you to tell them of my power."
He took a step forward and her eyes widened in fear. She attempted to shuffle back but made little progress. "There is only one way you can tell them that. Crucio."
The red bolt knocked her flat to the ground where she flailed around like a fish out of water. Her screams were like music to his ears, the terrorised screams sent tingles down his back.
How long would she be able to last? Part of him wanted to test her but what would have been the use of keeping her alive if she was a turned into a babbling fool. With some reluctance he ended the curse.
Slowly her eyes opened, completely dazed as her chest heaved with effort of breathing. It would take a little while for her to regain her senses.
"You, Travers." The young death eater rushed forward at his call. "Take her away, dump her somewhere in the city. I don't want her left somewhere she can come to harm from those filthy muggles, otherwise this was all for nought. Now go."
Under his watchful eye, the pair disappeared with a loud pop. Now to reassign his death eaters before they became complacent. There was little time to celebrate small victories.
Lord Voldemort flicked over the next fragile page as he skimmed the contents of the heavy old tome. The dining room was entirely lit by soft flickering candlelight as he lazily searched through the delicate book on ancient wizarding genealogy. He was researching the Moody family, one member of which was proving a constant thorn in his side.
Alastor Moody was a young, prolific auror with a close friendship with Albus Dumbledore. He was likely connected with the newly formed resistance group and absolutely needed neutralising.
Unfortunately, he seemed impossible to reach and the young man did not seem to have any close relations with anyone apart from Dumbledore. He was amicable with colleagues but otherwise didn't appear to have any friends or partners. It was a bit of a stretch but he was hoping a look into his family may reveal a weakness.
He took a sip of the goblin coffee he had brewed and let out a bored sigh. It was practically tar and most wizards would never drink it — the taste far too bitter and strong. Unfortunately his various explorations into dark magic had left him with a slightly blunted sense of taste and the pungent flavour suited him well. Plus it was guaranteed no one else would ever accidentally drink it.
The records on the Moody's were stingy to say the least. A Scottish family, Alastor Moody was the only living child, an older sister had died in infancy before he was born. His father had been killed by dark wizards whilst he had also been working as an auror and his mother had passed away a couple of years ago at a healthy old age. Fighting dark wizards appeared to be a family occupation as a number of generations had been involved with aurors from its earliest conception.
It didn't yield much in the way of useful information. Only a second cousin that had relocated to Canada a decade ago. With mild annoyance he flicked the pages again, passing numerous famed and the occasional extinct family. He stopped when he landed on the G's - it lay open on House of Gaunt. Slowly he traced a finger along the spidery family tree, it wasn't the first time he had looked at it. The last two entries were Merope and Morfin Gaunt - he had never been made an entry in the book, something he had once been furious about. Now he was grateful, he did not want his name - Tom Riddle written anywhere near the pureblood family tree. He didn't want to make it easy for anyone to connect him to his past.
Voldemort smirked as a particularly familiar paragraph caught his eye. Members of the House of Gaunt often claimed to be direct descendent's of Salazar Slytherin himself, a supposition that is impossible to prove. Many believed this claim to be a desperate attempt to garner influence and power as the family continued to sink into disrepute and poverty.
If only they knew — the blood of Slytherin had run in their veins, it was the only gift he had inherited from them. He thought momentarily of the locket he still had in his possession, just waiting for the perfect time to be used. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he found his mind wandering.
He decided not to think too much about it as he again flicked the pages to the front, it opened in the middle of the chapter he had been looking for. The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.
Skipping to the end of the chapter he took a moment to admire the delicate small portraits of the last generations. He looked up instinctively to ensure there was no one around to see him before he flipped over to the family tree. It was a long intricate design, he knew they kept meticulous records of their pure line (with a few extras thrown in). A number of them had asterisks beside them and when he glanced at the bottom of the page he realised it was the members that had been removed from the official Black tree.
It was a few pages until he reached the latest generation of the family, he was immediately drawn to the dashed red line from Cygnus to Bellatrix Black. He was surprised to see the faint name of Lucius Malfoy, a devout death eater until he remembered his wife Narcissa had obviously been a Black. He tried to conjure up an image of the woman in his mind and found he couldn't see much of a resemblance between her and Bellatrix. There was a star beside each of Narcissa's sisters, it seemed Lucius got the only one that hadn't been disowned.
His eyes flitted down until he found the paragraph he was interested in. With another suspicious glance to unsure he did not have company and downing the last bitter taste of his coffee, he read.
Bellatrix Black is a most unusual member of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. She is the only recognised illegitimate member and the only non-pureblood relation to be raised in a Black household. Bellatrix was born in 1951, the eldest daughter of Cygnus Black and an unknown, possibly halfblood woman who died when she was just an infant. It is rumoured the young girl was brought into the home due to Cygnus's concerns that his wife, Druella Black nee Rosier, was unable to conceive an heir for him. Three years later Andromeda Black (also disowned), closely followed by Narcissa Black (now Malfoy) were born. Little is known about how closely Bellatrix's upbringing followed a typical pureblood childhood but she was disowned in 1970, just a few months after Andromeda had been disowned.
He leant back in his chair again as he digested what he had read. Much of it wasn't new to him, he had met Cygnus and Orion on several occasions and had received funding from the pair of them. He had heard all the rumours about the dark family, most were just flat out ridiculous but he knew that it was only due to their immense wealth and power that they had been able to keep Bellatrix and not get dragged down through the mud as well.
Of course by the time he had gained support from the Black brothers, Bellatrix had long been disowned and her name - along with her sisters, was never mentioned in his presence. He noticed with interest that Orion's son, the one that hadn't been disowned, was finally of age. He hadn't been able to recruit the older men as anything more than fundraisers but a young pureblood boy would be more open to an active role in his army.
He ruffled the pages back to the small watercolour portraits. He recognised Cygnus immediately, the picture much more youthful than when they had met. His wife was almost the mirror image of Lucius's wife, he couldn't believe he hadn't made the connection before. It was Bellatrix next, black curls pulled back neatly and eyes gazing intensely out at him. The pictures, unlike classical wizard portraits, were immobile. This only made her expression and countenance more ambiguous; the intense, almost stern expression at odds with the ghost of a smile playing at her lips.
With a scowl Voldemort slammed the ancient book closed. He felt an odd mixture of shame and guilt at staring at the picture, emotions he was unfamiliar and angry at having. He pushed the book away from him and stood to pace, he needed to diffuse some of the energy that had built up inside of him.
There was only one thing he could occupy himself with now. He always needed more followers and the son and heir of a powerful house such as Black would be an ideal place to start.