Once again, Lord Voldemort found himself in an irritatingly cramped space, contemplating the accursed prophecy. This time, he had not even been afforded the use of a real desk or a good quill. In fact, Lord Voldemort was currently sitting on a rickety chair in a muggle motel, hunched over a side table with a generic notepad and pencil in hand. Currently, Lord Voldemort's attention was unfortunately split. The prophecy was as mysterious as ever and now he was burdened with an infant Harry Potter who was, thankfully, sleeping quietly on the absurdly huge bed. Voldemort had, upon escaping the Potter's cottage in Godric's Hollow, immediately thought of indirectly killing the boy. To that end, he had called a fairly inconsequential Death Eater to his side and ordered the man to cast the killing curse. However, the useless moron had been unable to generate even green sparks, and had balked at harming a baby in general; Voldemort had wiped his memory in exasperation before sending him away with a mission to compile information on house elves.
Thankfully, that task, at least, had been no problem for the Death Eater to handle. On the side table lay a thin sheaf of papers from the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, Being Division. Apparently, getting one's hands on a house elf was not as easy as it seemed, and required going through a great volume of bureaucracy. Voldemort had, of course, immediately rejected this route and searched for another one.
Thus, beside the information pamphlet and application forms rested a dusty, handwritten tome he had dug out of Abraxas Malfoy's collection, which described the process of binding an elf—there, finally, was an explanation for how the Malfoy family could have over twenty elves serving it at any one time. Of course, Voldemort doubted any Malfoy had recently found a free elf and managed to bind it—once the ritual had been invented and perfected, the remaining free elves had quickly made themselves scarce in order to avoid an unfortunate fate.
Harry Potter's little arms flailed and he made a low cry, and Voldemort froze; the baby calmed and fell back into slumber. The Dark Lord scowled at the child. Perhaps if he tried enough times to kill the boy indirectly, he would be able to drain the prophecy of its magic entirely by overtaxing its power of influence. At this rate, however, he could indirectly harm himself. He had not stopped at the first idiot Death Eater, and had called another, more experienced one to the task. The man had cast Avada Kedavra correctly, as expected, but to Voldemort's consternation, the curse had somehow missed by millimetres. The next attempt at closer range had hit one of the buttons on the boy's shirt and had bounced off dangerously past the man's head and into the wall. At that point, in order to prevent any casualties, Voldemort had not asked the Death Eater to try again and had instead sent him home with altered memories and an expensive bottle of wine that Abraxas had previously tried to bribe him with.
Next, Voldemort had conjectured that it was his presence and knowledge of the prophecy causing problems. To this end he had called Walden Macnair, one of his most violent and base Death Eaters, and simply told him to enter the room with Harry Potter and stay inside for half an hour. Voldemort had then left and read several chapters of the book on elves.
When he returned, Macnair was standing stiffly in a corner, looking rather bewildered and disgusted as the baby Potter drooled on his shoe. Voldemort realized his oversight—he had forgotten to inform Walden Macnair that he was meant to kill the baby, not entertain it. Privately, he suspected his forgetfulness was not a product of random chance at all—or rather, it was, but the sort of highly probable random chance that happened while prophecies were involved.
Convinced at that point that asking someone else to get rid of Harry Potter would not work, Voldemort had then attempted to use an object to do so. Since he supposed that throwing a cursed object at the boy would be equivalent to personally doing the killing, he had instead cursed all manner of interesting toys and scattered them around the room. Hours later, however, Harry Potter had not touched any of the objects and simply sat in their midst, crying his eyes out, before falling asleep.
Realising the futility of his pursuits, Voldemort had found a suitably ordinary motel room and was now attempting to make a more viable plan. Because Voldemort knew the prophecy and was acting with it in mind, consciously or not, Harry Potter would not die by any means other than through Voldemort's own action. "Either must die by the hand of the other."
Voldemort wondered, suddenly, if that meant that he himself was also similarly probabilistically invincible unless the baby somehow killed him. He wanted to dismiss the thought as absurd, but could not help his irrational hope. He forced himself to think more slowly. For what reason would it apply to him? Why did it apply to Harry Potter?
Invincibility applied to Harry Potter because Voldemort believed that Harry Potter was his prophesised vanquisher. If he ceased to believe that, then Harry Potter would just be another boy. However, he could not afford not to believe—if he disregarded the prophecy, then he would have no reason to kill Harry Potter, who was a baby. Attempting to convince himself that he would have considered doing so independently from the prophecy would be deluding himself, and he was fairly certain prophecy magic did not care whether one operated under delusion or clear-headedness. Therefore, if he honestly did not believe that Harry Potter was the prophecy child, he should completely ignore the boy. But if Dumbledore, the recipient (and therefore the one with the default advantage), believed in the prophecy, then Harry Potter would become his vanquisher regardless of what Voldemort did or didn't do.
But no, that was not correct. The prophecy had specifically indicated that he would have to mark the boy as his equal. Surely he could not do that unintentionally? Then again, prophecy was all about belief. If Dumbledore somehow managed to trick himself into genuinely interpreting any action of Voldemort's as fulfilling that statement, then there would be nothing to help it. Therefore, Voldemort could not afford the risk of such a thing happening, and he himself had to put stock in the ridiculous prophecy.
In conclusion, Lord Voldemort desperately needed a wit-sharpening potion and perhaps some tea. Fortunately, the former was a potion below OWL level that he could brew in his sleep, while the latter could be conjured to his taste. Drinking what amounted to an illusion of tea was perhaps somewhat pathetic, but Voldemort was quite talented at transfiguration (something even Albus Dumbledore had been forced to acknowledge, albeit grudgingly), and could perfectly deceive his own senses, which was all he really wanted out of the tea anyway.
Two flicks of his wand and he had his steaming cup, which tided him over for several minutes as he flipped through the book on elves. He vowed that, until he got his wit-sharpening potion, he would not get his mind into an inextricable knot over the prophecy. Actually, that would be an interesting topological exercise, something like metaphysical knot theory…
Voldemort shook his head and attempted to focus again on the elf book, which was much more straightforward than any kind of divination. The actual ritual itself was very simple and even somewhat barbaric, by Voldemort's standards. He would hardly call it a "ritual" at all, except that it required extensive stylised actions and multiple symbols; as with all spells, however, the presence of these accessories was only strictly necessary for the novice, whose imagination and experience were too limited for the purposes of shaping magic.
Actually, Voldemort supposed, his definition would class most witches and wizards, especially purebloods, firmly in the category of "novice." He had always wondered at the lazy pureblood method of using magical symbols. While it was quite true that symbols, especially runes, animals, and gestures, were useful magical aids, it was also absolute folly to rely entirely on them. Even wands, to some extent, were part of this symbol problem. Part an ordinary pureblood with his wand and Voldemort could be assured that the man would be as helpless as a muggle—more helpless, probably, since the muggle has never learned to rely on a stick of wood. The wand was more than a stick of wood, as the core material resonated with and amplified magical results, but for all intents and purposes it was easily possible to do without one and still cast most spells, as long as one could properly believe. Doubt was the magic killer, and confidence was paramount. Unfortunately, most witches and wizards seemed to be under the impression that magic came out of their wand, where in fact it came from the mind and not out of or through anything at all unless one willed it to be so.
It took much less creativity to believe that magic goes through the wand, comes out the end, and hits the target, therefore rendering the effect, than to believe simply that results will happen after drawing power from a magical artefact without enacting any kind of motion whatsoever. This would not be the case, were someone to be raised to believe that anything one imagined was possible. That would be terribly dangerous, however, which was why it was not widely practiced. First of all, the child, after gaining comprehension, would immediately become more proficient than the parent at simple magic, and this "accidental" magic would furthermore be able to infringe on the will of others, because the child's belief is pure, while the beliefs of other witches and wizards are restricted and knotted up into socially safe "spells," complete with incantations, wand movements, and fear of failure.
Voldemort smiled rather severely at that thought as he tossed the elf book back onto the desk. Magic only failed as a result of a lack of belief. However, that did not mean that arrogance guaranteed true success. Most arrogant but unknowledgeable witches and wizards cast laughably weak spells for a very simple reason; they believed that they were capable and that their spells should come out of the end of their wand and do something. Therefore, they were indeed guaranteed to produce the desired effect. However, if they had not performed the spell properly the first time, that is, including focusing on the wand, the spell would be cast without the wand—and forever, after that, would continue to be based on that first success and therefore be cast without the wand. Voldemort thought it was rather funny that these people were very proficient in so-called "wandless magic" but had no idea that they were.
In any case, Voldemort thought that it would be prudent to get himself a house elf by way of a modified "ritual." The idea had intrigued him greatly after he had begun his research, and even if he had not had Harry Potter to procure care for, he likely would have proceeded anyway. A correctly handled house elf was completely loyal to its master and had fairly powerful magic. It was still inferior to that of a wizard because no elf could conjure, have nearly enough willpower to force mental suggestions on a wizard, or directly harm one, but elves were able to apparate through most wards as if they did not exist and some varieties could even change shape.
Loyal servants without uncertain motives were also difficult to come by; if one were to cast the same level of compulsion and binding on a wizard, he would probably die or at best become mostly dysfunctional. The imperius curse, annoyingly symbolic as it was of overcoming another's will, was as close as one could get to controlling another human, barring the marionette potion and curse which literally turned people into inanimate puppets (which seemed colossally useless, as one could simply conjure a significantly more durable golem). Lord Voldemort glanced over at Harry Potter and reaffirmed again that, not only was the idea of turning Harry Potter into a house elf ill-advised, it was also impossible.
Having read the chapter detailing the method, Voldemort knew now exactly what the desired results of the house elf binding were supposed to be and what aspects of the ritual he should change. The hardest part, of course, would be finding himself a genuine free elf. He did not want a house elf that had been freed of only the most superficial binding spells by clothes; he wanted an unadulterated, real elf, brownie, or kobold. He doubted there remained a single one in Great Britain. All of them had probably heard about the horrible existence of house elves and fled the island.
The majority of the elf book appeared to deal with capturing elves and sprites, but it was clearly very outdated in that it assumed there were many elves and sprites around to be caught. Voldemort had already skimmed the only section likely to be useful, the one that treated on the notable qualities of each kind of sprite and signs that might indicate its presence. He had already decided that he did not want a brownie, as it appeared most useful for cleaning homes, a purpose for which he did not intend his future house elf. Ordinary elves were usually proficient in basic charms, usually hovering and banishing objects, as well as apparating, and could be taught to wield weapons and wear heavy armour. At this point, Voldemort noted again that the book was very, very outdated. Lastly, kobolds were mischievous and could fly, as well as change their shape almost freely, but could only apparate in their line of sight.
Voldemort concluded that earlier witches and wizards had had the right idea when they had bound mostly elves to serve them; they seemed superior in usefulness to the other "common" sprites. But elves were native to the British Isles, and they had probably all already either been bound or had left the area.
How annoying.
Harry Potter woke suddenly and began bawling. Lord Voldemort had no idea what could be wrong, but was only reminded that he needed his house elf soon, preferably at that very moment. He flicked his wand at the baby, sending it back to sleep, and scowling for a moment as the word "somnus" flashed distinctly across his mind. He doubted he would ever be able to completely reverse the flawed thought processes that had been trained into him at Hogwarts.
He also could not keep Harry Potter under a sleeping spell forever. Knowing the accursed prophecy's magic, the boy probably would not die, and might even end up manifesting some sort of ridiculous power, such as the ability to resist all spells. That was not beyond the realm of possibility; people had gained immunities to certain spells before—not every spell, of course, but who knew what this prophecy was capable of? As long as Trelawney was still alive, the prophecy would draw on her until it sucked her dry, which theoretically was not even possible. One could not run out of magic, since having a functioning mind implied that one passively generated it at all times. The only way out of it was to kill the prophet, remove her soul, or in some other way render her either comatose or unable to interact with magic.
Therefore Voldemort needed someone to clandestinely take care of Harry Potter at this very moment. Perhaps he ought to have kidnapped Lily Potter—but no, that certainly would not have ended well. A house elf was still the best idea. If only he could have a temporary, ordinary house elf to do the deed while he looked for a free elf; the Ministry process would certainly take months, however.
Then Voldemort looked at the book again and felt idiotic. He had got the book from Abraxas Malfoy, whose house had an entire legion of elves. Surely if his lord asked to be spared an elf for some time, Abraxas would have no reason to refuse.
With that thought, he vanished the entire lot of Ministry papers and picked up the elf book before apparating away to somewhere in Wiltshire, but precisely before the front walkway of the unplottable Malfoy manor. There was no gate, but there were heavy, formidable wards. Voldemort ran his wand horizontally across the air before him, and, recognizing him, the wards allowed him entrance.
At the door, he was greeted by a rather shocked and overexcited man. Lucius Malfoy had joined his Death Eaters several years ago, following in his father's footsteps, and was an overenthusiastic muggle-hater. For an upright and well-bred pureblood, he was surprisingly vicious and, along with Walden Macnair, was one of the leaders of Voldemort's terror campaign, which served as an excellent distraction to mask the slow political and magical takeover. Voldemort supposed Lucius's position on the Hogwarts Board of Governors also had its uses, though his power there was limited.
"My Lord, you're alive!" said Lucius in lieu of a proper greeting. Lord Voldemort was rather perplexed by this statement of the obvious, and elected to simply watch impassively. Lucius coughed and inclined his head before opening the door further and gesturing for Voldemort to enter.
"And why, pray tell, would I not be alive?"
"People, er, Dumbledore, that is, are saying that you are gone." Lucius mumbled, ducking his head. "Defeated…" and then something that sounded like, "Potterswimble…"
"Speak up, Lucius." Voldemort said impatiently. Never mind that he wanted to make a scathing comment about the trustworthiness of Dumbledore's words over any clear lack of evidence.
"I apologize, my Lord." Lucius said, wasting more time, though more loudly at least, "Dumbledore declared yesterday that the young Potter heir has vanquished you."
"Correct me if I am wrong, Lucius, but the Potter heir is an infant, yes? The same age as your own son, I believe."
"Er, yes, my Lord."
Voldemort said nothing further along those lines, as Lucius seemed to have realized the absurdity of Dumbledore's claim himself, if the pink flush that crept along his pale neck was any indication.
"Of course, Dumbledore is hardly an idiot. Do you know the circumstances surrounding this claim, Lucius?" Voldemort found it incredibly interesting that Dumbledore believed the prophecy had already been fulfilled, despite the lack of the Dark Lord marking anyone and, indeed, the lack of the vanquisher.
"Yes, my Lord." Lucius replied hurriedly, undoubtedly attempting to make up for his blunder, "He announced that, late on Samhain, you entered the Potter home and murdered James Potter, before moving to kill his heir. However, the boy somehow protected himself and his mother and your curse rebounded on you. The boy has disappeared, but it is confirmed that he is still alive, and they are searching for him." There was a pause, and then Lucius added, "Peter Pettigrew has been arrested as an accessory in the murder. They say he betrayed the Potters, somehow."
Voldemort wondered what sort of convoluted reasoning Dumbledore had used to reach his implausible conclusion about the Potter boy. At least Dumbledore had got the part about Wormtail correct. It was no matter, as the man had been a snivelling, pathetic coward anyway, and hadn't known any sensitive information.
"Why does he think I am 'vanquished?'" Voldemort asked Lucius. The man looked rather uneasy.
"Well, as the Potter heir and his mother are still alive, something must have stopped you from killing them." Lucius said carefully, "But this is good. We can strike a great blow by proving Dumbledore wrong."
Voldemort said nothing for a long moment, though he thanked Severus in his mind for having made him make that silly promise. Then, "That is correct. This is good. But the world shall not know that Dumbledore is wrong until it is too late. I am afraid, Lucius, that you and Walden will have to stay away from your… recreational pursuits for awhile. Success may be far nearer than we thought."
"I don't understand, my Lord." Lucius said cautiously. Voldemort glanced back at the man for a moment, disinterested now.
"You will, in time. Now, where is your father?"
Lucius seemed rather disappointed at his inquiry, but answered nonetheless promptly, "In his study, likely."
"Thank you." said Voldemort, before he climbed the ostentatious main spiral staircase to the third floor of the manor and strode past several wide windows that looked out into the garden, still flourishing even in November, and dotted with slowly strutting white peacocks. He turned to the fourth room on his right, whose door was ajar. Abraxas Malfoy was leaning back in his high-backed mahogany chair, undoubtedly layered with cushioning enchantments, pretending to read a book. Voldemort noted that the man's eyes were actually focused on the door, and now on him as he stepped into view.
"Good day, my Lord." Abraxas said, standing up and giving a short bow. Voldemort nodded back.
"Good day, Abraxas. I trust you do not believe in foolish rumours?"
Abraxas immediately grasped his meaning and shook his head slowly. "No, my Lord. There was never any doubt."
"Very good. Now, I do not wish to take you away from your business, but this should be fairly quick. I need a house elf."
"A house elf, my Lord? You know that the Malfoy elves are always available for your use." Abraxas replied quickly.
"I am aware, but I need one bound to me, temporarily." Voldemort clarified. Abraxas frowned.
"Forgive me, my Lord, but, you do not have a house." he said quietly, "And a house elf can only be bound to a house."
Indeed, a house elf that had been subjected to the usual ritual binding could only be bound to a house and not a person. For several reasons, binding a house elf to serve a specific magical location was much safer than binding it to a human, as the house provided a shield for any attempt the elf might use to break free of the magic. Otherwise, the elf could simply kill the human in rebellion, as long as it was crafty enough to resist the compulsion magic. It was, on the other hand, not exactly possible for an elf to kill a house's magic. But an elf that had already been bound by the house ritual would resist conversion.
"That is not strictly true." Voldemort told Abraxas. "But I will need an elf that is resistant to compulsion."
That request should not be too difficult to fulfil. The House of Malfoy had at least twenty house elves at the moment, and the probability that an elf would be able to resist compulsions to an extent was high, because every single elf was subject to compulsions upon compulsions all the time; these compulsions would grow stronger to overcome the will of the elf, but the elf's children would inherit the resistance without inheriting the enchantments, which were always cast at a basic level in order not to impair the elf's development.
"I'm afraid I do not understand." Abraxas said.
"Do you have a young elf who is more disobedient than the others, perhaps?" Voldemort inquired. Abraxas seemed mildly insulted that any elf of the Malfoys could be disobedient, but his hesitation betrayed that it was, indeed, possible. Voldemort knew that the Malfoys did have several very young elves at the moment, since the elves were traditionally allowed to reproduce whenever a new generation of Malfoys began, in order to have fresh servants most loyal to the future heads of house.
"I can ask the elves." Abraxas finally said. "Pokey!"
A house elf with a very long, very pointy noise and copious amounts of fluffy white hair trailing out of its ears appeared with a pop. He was wearing a dirty but neat pillowcase with the Malfoy crest in the center.
"Master calls Pokey?"
Voldemort repeated the question to the elf. Pokey's eyes widened and his expression suddenly melted from bouncy to conflicted. Therefore, there was indeed such a house elf, but Pokey was afraid to possibly betray his co-workers. However, a glare from Abraxas quickly remedied the situation.
"Yes, Master Dark Lord. There is the Dobby. Excuse Pokey!" Pokey's eyes bulged so much that they risked popping out of his head and he twirled around dizzily, before disappearing with a pop and the beginnings of a distraught wail.
Abraxas Malfoy looked rather appalled at his elf's behaviour, but Voldemort held up a hand to forestall any pointless apology. "I hope you would not be adverse to giving Dobby to me, then?"
"Of course not, my Lord. But… are you certain?" Abraxas's fingers were twitching. Voldemort knew that Abraxas had already known about Dobby; for whatever reason, however, he had not wanted to say it himself.
"Abraxas, are you questioning my decision without any situational familiarity?" Voldemort did not mind advice or criticism, but groundless doubt was unacceptable.
Abraxas blanched and bowed again. "I apologize, my Lord. It will not happen again."
"See to it that it does not." Voldemort replied blandly. "So, that house elf."
"Yes, of course, right away. Dobby!" Abraxas spoke the name clearly. For several long moments, nothing happened. Abraxas shot Voldemort an uncertain look. "Yes, you see, this happens sometimes." He cleared his throat, "Dobby!" Then he threw his hands up to his ears. Voldemort followed his example for safety.
There was a deafening CRACK of inexperienced apparition, painful even when muffled, and Voldemort shot Abraxas a dark scowl. The man winced.
"Dobby is here! Dobby is a bad elf. Ahh!" Dobby, a tiny, rather smooth-skinned elf with bright green tennis ball eyes contorted oddly, spun in a circle, and then ran to bash his head on the desk.
"No! Dobby, stop it!" Voldemort suspected that Abraxas couldn't care less about the elf's welfare and was entirely concerned about the rattling Dobby was causing and the fact that several inkwells were inching closer to the edge, below which rested an expensive-looking rug.
"BAD, BAD, BAD DOBBY!" screamed the elf.
"Dobby, stop!" Abraxas shouted. The elf paused for a moment, looking very conflicted. Then it seemed to relax slightly, and glared around the room mistrustfully.
"Bad Master is telling bad Dobby to stop. Dobby is bad, oughtn't stop. Dobby is stopping." muttered Dobby. "Stopping…"
"You see, my Lord…that is why I was concerned." Abraxas said quietly. Voldemort accepted the explanation; Dobby was rather…different, after all.
However, he only said, "Yes, that looks correct. Well, break the binding." When Abraxas only stood there, doing nothing, and Dobby continued twitching and muttering, Voldemort explicated, "Give him clothes."
Abraxas continued to look reluctant, while the elf perked up significantly at these words. He inched closer to Voldemort and stopped his restless actions. Abraxas, meanwhile, seemed to be looking around for some suitable article of clothing. Voldemort wondered at the occasional idiocy of his followers.
"Abraxas, you have a wand." Voldemort flicked his own and conjured a red scarf, which he threw at Abraxas. The clothing one gave to an elf to free it did not have to be real clothing; the entire value of the clothing was symbolic, and therefore it was actually quite possible to free an elf without involving clothes at all—but of course a Malfoy would never consider such a thing proper. Abraxas looked rather abashed and coughed slightly before handing the scarf to Dobby, who grabbed it from him in a violent motion and put it around his neck, clutching at it possessively. Then he jumped up in the air.
"Dobby is FREE!"
A/N: Um... yeah. Yay, Dobby. That is all.