Voldemort frowned at his parchment, feeling pressure build up in his head. He was in his office, just past sunset, bent over in a crouch as he wrote, almost humanly vulnerable in his position. Shadows eclipsed most of the far corners of the room, bookshelves clothed in darkness, but the glow of the dying day lit up his desk as he worked. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see the headline that was causing him a fair bit of grief. "MUGGLE FAMILY FOUND DEAD – TWO BRITISH DARK WIZARDS SUSPECTED". He had trusted his followers to be discreet. He had trusted that they had a basic level of competence so as not to be caught in their actions. Apparently, this was asking too much. He did not care in the slightest how many muggles his followers went out to kill – hell, he himself would sometimes indulge when he was feeling particularly stressed – but for the bodies to be left, and for there to be witnesses, was just outrageous. Clearly his followers had a lot of learning to do. Unfortunately, the magical authorities had already got to his men, and so he would likely not be seeing them for a long while. He supposed Azkaban was a fair enough punishment for their idiocy.
And there was another problem that was plaguing Voldemort. In rough diagrams, he had been attempting to plan out what Lord Potter wanted, how to work around it, and how to get the best out of it without weakening his authority. It was obvious now that he would not be able to bypass Lord Potter, and he would need to work his way over the obstacle he represented. Fortunately, there was a wealth of documents regarding the man, from records of speeches to news articles, from which he had been able to interpret his goals. The truth was far more complex than what he had studied back at Hogwarts; Lord Potter was completely driven by his emotions, it seemed. While he had base arguments, rooted in the rights of dark wizards and creatures, among other things, he was erratic in his behaviour, and worked entirely with what he had and what the situation called for. Of course, he had his routines of speeches and articles and publicity, but in terms of what he desired… Voldemort could honestly not tell. It was possible that he hadn't any motives other than his political campaigns. This, he supposed, meant that Lord Potter would not make much of a move against his rise if he played his cards right. The only conflict seemed to be over muggles, but he needed more information to be able to gauge his more emotive reactions to this.
What had he wanted with the bracelet back in the forest? It was obvious that he had wanted it; there was little other reason to be wandering around in that forest (unless you were idiot muggles, apparently). He doubted the man had wanted it for a violent extraction of lycanthropy, considering his preaching of animal respect. Frustratingly, Voldemort didn't actually know any other use for the artefact, loath as he was to admit it. Perhaps some use could be made of it in the opposite way. All magic could be reversed, after all; though he had not considered it, maybe it could replenish the energy of a werewolf, or potentially even other magical creatures. Regardless, it was not something he cared about. The object was in his possession, and for him to use as he saw fit. It was clear that Lord Potter did not care much for it, or else he would have put up more of a fight in the forest. Indeed, it seemed as if he was there merely there to mock him. Voldemort's left hand clenched into a fist.
Loyalty through respect, not fear. Did the man think he was stupid? Of course, many followers join due to genuine belief in the cause, but if there's no fear involved then these people would leave. Is Lord Potter really foolish enough to trust his followers? Trust was never something that Voldemort was naïve enough to fall into, and look where he was; more powerful than any wizard to walk the earth. Half of the other Dark Lord's followers were probably only in it for the chance of a fuck anyway; this was something that Voldemort was certainly familiar with himself, but such juvenile fantasies were quickly beaten out of his followers as soon as they were identified. Lord Potter probably did not have it in him to do such a thing - once he grew grey and old, his following would surely decline.
Such are the joys of being a young Dark Lord.
Lord Potter was probably equal to him in attractiveness, despite the age difference. They were, in fact, rather similar in appearance, now that Voldemort thought about it. At least, if one looked from a distance. They both had dark hair, though Voldemort's was a deep brown, neatly styled, whereas Lord Potter's was black as death, appearing like it had been combed by the Reaper itself it was so untidy. Both were pale skinned, with perfect complexion; a pair of dolls, with equally piercing stares. Even their eyebrows were of similar shape. Both would likely pass rather well as models, if he did say so himself.
He was shaken out of his thoughts by the knock on his office door.
"Enter," he commanded, setting his quill down by the parchment.
Abraxas entered with a bow.
"My lord, you have a visitor. A Spanish man, named Espina," Abraxas announced, still in bow.
"He may enter."
In walked the Spanish man, who Voldemort found was incredibly attractive, with a rough smile but smart robes.
"Lord Voldemort," he greeted with a bow, the Spanish accent obvious. "I have come here on behalf of Lord Potter."
"Not an apology for his behaviour, I suppose?" he commented, a slight bitterness to his voice.
"I'm afraid not, Lord Voldemort," he said sheepishly. "I am to pass on a personal invitation to you. There will be a European gathering of dark witches and wizards in Italy, in a few weeks. There will be a range of speakers, that including Lord Harry Potter. My Lord wishes for you to attend, as you may find interest in the topics discussed, though there will be limited opportunity for making contacts, as the event is intended to be anonymous. I have here the official card, from which you may find the details for the event and the R.S.P.C.V. My Lord very much hopes to see you there."
The man bowed once again, and Voldemort waved him and Abraxas out of the room. Lord Potter had the nerve and the arrogance to send someone, not to apologise, but to give him an invite to his speech, after he had threatened him with his life, in front of his followers. It was beyond belief. Still, it would be useful for gaining information on the man. He supposed he would attend.
At five o clock in the morning, the day of the event that he was supposed to be speaking at, Harry was still bent over several thick tomes, taking a swig from a potion that one of his followers had provided him with to keep him alert. He had academic documents on dark auras, dark artefacts, and three on soul magic. Soul magic was the direction that days and nights of research had taken him; with so little to go off, and having no idea where to start, it had taken up a good portion of his time to work out what this ring of Voldemort's was. The more he had thought about it, the more he had convinced himself that it was important information. Items did not just come with the dementor-like drain that that ring had. Only, once he had relived the memory via pensieve several times, he had concluded that it was not a drain, almost the opposite. The ring had felt full, almost too full. This had helped in his research, and it was not until the last two days of research that he had practically stumbled upon the idea of soul magic.
That led to his current sickening state. Sickening. Harry was absolutely sickened to the stomach as his conclusion. It had taken a while for the fact to sink in. In denial, he had frantically searched for more and more to find any alternate answers. But at five in the morning, he gave up on that vain hope. He now had no doubt in his mind that Lord Voldemort had made a horcrux.
Horror at the pit of his stomach. Voldemort had mutilated his soul for a chance at immortality. The one thing that made people human. Harry felt as if he was going to throw up. Not many people knew about horcruxes, and so Voldemort must have actively sought the information out. He could hear his blood in his ears as it rushed to his brain, dizzying him. He must have been desperate to achieve immortality to have done this. Horcruxes were more than just dark magic. True, soul magic seeped into light and dark, depending on its use, but something as terrible as to shred your very soul… What Voldemort had committed was the blackest of magic. Horcruxes were for powerful fools. Very few had the power to successfully create a horcrux and survive the torture to the soul, and fewer still were deficient enough in common sense to try it; the damage to the soul does not seem terrible, at first, but from what Harry understood, if the owner of the horcrux continues to kill and tear at his soul, even if he still has only one horcrux, the hole will widen and tear over time.
It was with a feeling of numbness that Harry recalled his short visit to the north of Canada. The wind had been sharp and iced, but he had just taken a fresh dose of Pepper-Up Potion, and so physically he was well. It was only once he'd found that old shack… the place reeked of dark magic, or so Harry had thought at the time, inexperienced as he was. Harry would only later understand the difference between dark and black magic. He was curious, wondering if perhaps there was an opportunity to learn something there. That was what his exploration there had been for, but in retrospect it had been a foolish thing to do regardless of who was in there. If he'd been really unlucky, he may not have lived past that day.
Unlucky he had been, regardless. What he had found there… who he had found there… The man, if he could be called that, had looked about 40, but his features were distorted by the dim candlelight, and Harry could barely see him at first due to the sound of his creaking bones as he crouched inhumanly over scattered piles of parchment. He had been babbling, seemingly unable to form any words, only mindless sounds, and his saliva was frothing just behind his lips, occasionally dripping and splatting onto the parchment. As soon as he heard Harry, however, his head had snapped up, and Harry's temperature had plummeted at the sight of him. He looked as if a hoard of dementors had gotten to him, his eyes a mad abyss. His eyes seemed to absorb Harry's very being for a moment, and then the man spoke.
"Whu're yu?" was the slurred question, a hint of hostility in his tone.
Once Harry had sat him down, calmed him, and managed to get him to talk, he learnt of the true horror of the man's situation. He was no 40-year-old, but a 300-year-old. He had successfully created a horcrux in order to preserve his life and to continue his studies and writings. He had wanted it all to be published at once, to astound the world with his incredible knowledge. But he had never killed before, and suddenly it had intoxicated him with sick pleasure. He continued to kill, and kill, and kill, until he no longer had the sanity and coherence to do so. The tear in his soul grew and grew. Too young to fully comprehend and to sympathise, Harry had left, undoubtedly shaken. That man had not been a man. Immortality, as far as Harry could see, drove men to the brink of insanity. It had been an important lesson; never again would he even joke about such matters.
Voldemort apparently had not had such life lessons. To create a horcrux, of course, he must be incredibly powerful, and Harry would certainly not be underestimating the man any time soon, but he must be truly crazed by this power to actually choose to make one. Not only that, but to wear it out in public! Harry could not even bring himself to comprehend such stupidity. The broken piece of one's soul should be as protected as one's own life – there was no point in it if it was being flaunted. Harry should never have been capable of discovering what it was. He was fortunate for knowing though. Today, today he would have to confront the man. There was no other option. Though getting through to him would be a task in itself. All he had to do was to get through to Voldemort that he should not be wearing his horcrux out in public. That shouldn't be too hard.
About as easy as a game of tug of war with a bloody Hippogriff, Harry thought to himself.
The room was stuffed to the brim of witches and wizards, many accompanied by glasses of wine, making their way over to each other and having animated conversations. Voldemort, for his part, felt a little out of his depth, rather unusually, and his guard was up. He had not yet delved into European politics, focusing mostly on finding allies within his own country, and so such an event as this was a little more intimidating than the man cared to admit, especially without his followers to fall back on if needed. But he knew he would not need to; this was an event meant only to be a reprieve from the usual politics and to watch others talk about their work. It would be incredibly useful for him to listen to different ideas and theories, and perhaps even take some of it on board.
In theory, the event was anonymous, but it was impossible to recognise many of the figures present. There were some notable European dark wizards present, and many of Lord Potter's followers were scattered about the room, too. People were recognising him, as well, many throwing him glances as he confidently strode into the room, after the doorman having taken his cloak. He could not tell the feeling behind the glances as well as he would have liked, but it was likely that they were varied in thoughts towards him. Some, with similar ideals, having heard the rumours of his ascension in Britain, may well be looking on in respect. Others, either not truly knowing his significance or not respecting his cause would be looking out of curiosity or derogation. He paid them no mind, however, as he went to take his seat, not wanting to interact with any of the attendees that he could see.
The only other member of the table so far was a woman, to his right, looking perfectly at ease scanning the evening's schedule. She had short dark hair and a dark complexion – the woman was undeniably attractive, though Voldemort had never fully understood the allure of women. As he sat, she raised her head from the schedule and offered a warm smile. Voldemort gave a charming smile in return, and greeted her with a polite "Good evening". At this, she set the schedule down on the table.
"Good evening, Sir." Her voice was kind, and Voldemort could tell that she was the type to make very honest friendships. "My name is Dora. Oach."
"Lord Voldemort," he returned.
"Ah," she smiled, seemingly entertained. "A very grand name. I am sure you have grand power to accompany it. So, do you know Lord Potter well? He does like to associate with grand people such as yourself."
Voldemort was taken aback by the assumption that he was there as an invitation of Lord Potter, though it did occur to him that perhaps this table was exclusively for such guests.
"I confess, I have met him only a few times. He is not a man who I would go out of my way to be in the company of, if I may say so. How is it that you know him?"
He asked out of politeness, but the wistful sigh that Dora started with was the only warning Voldemort had that he would regret having asked.
"He was my lover," she murmured, and Voldemort got the distinct impression that she wished he still was.
"Ah, I see."
"We met at school, in Durmstrang. He was a year above me, and fairly well known for his proficiency in dark magic, and general academic success. Very charming, too. I suspect everyone in the school that liked men liked Harry. I, of course, was no exception. I was completely enamoured by him, and then one day, he caught my eye in the corridor. He told me that I was beautiful, the first words he ever had said to me. From then, we had started talking, seeing each other daily in the library, the food hall, or just walking around the school together. He poured his life story out to me, his ambitions, his grievances, his passions. As for me, I never had much to tell, and so I listened. I was absolutely devoted to him, and for a whole glorious year, I thought that he had been devoted to me. And I think he was. Harry's a good man; he never intended to break my heart. But of course, there were plenty of other women out there other than me, and I don't suppose I made a lasting impression for his dreams of the future."
Voldemort was struggling to keep himself from openly showing his boredom. He had had no idea that a simple question would be interpreted as asking for this woman's life story. But maybe she was merely lonely. None of it was surprising, of course. It fit very well in his image of Lord Potter for him to be a ladies' man, charming them and then dropping them. Voldemort would never understand these people and why they could not seem to stick to their own sex, where there would be more mutual understanding of life experiences. A real shame though, Voldemort thought to himself. He'd look delightful bent over a des – that was an unwelcome thought. He turned his attention back to Dora.
"He argued it was for work, you see." Oh, and she was still going. "One day he just said that he couldn't do it. He couldn't continue. I know it wasn't for work though, because very quickly he became very close to a wizard in his own year, and I swear I saw them kissing in a corner of the library not a month after he'd ended it with me."
So, Lord Potter swings both ways, then. Voldemort supposed that that was fair, he should have known. Though it was a terribly dry thought process to be having. He really had drawn the short straw on seating arrangements, and if he found out that somehow Lord Potter had purposely organised this, the man would be facing the full wrath of Lord Voldemort for subjecting him to such a waste of time with such useless information. He should never have come. But he was here now, and it would seem rude to just leave. It would not reflect well on his international image.
He tried very hard not to make much more eye contact with the woman, not wanting to encourage her conversation topic any further. Salazar forbid, at the rate she was going, he wouldn't be surprised if she started talking about the sex life the pair had. Voldemort does not do dealing with the exes of rivals. He does not do dealing with exes at all. He was hardly a practitioner of counselling, and he was most certainly not going to start with this stranger.
Soon enough, however, he was saved by people beginning to take their seats for the event to properly start. He noted that many of the people on his table were in fact followers of Lord Potter, of which he was not overly surprised. He only hoped that people would not look and think that he was one of them, but he would not be paying much attention to the people around him. Or at least, other than to keep an eye on their behaviour, but he would not be communicating in any way after that last horrid affair. As the first speaker went up to take the podium, Voldemort bade himself to relax for this evening, and took a sip of his wine.
The first speaker was a young, bright eyed and bushy tailed man, who was potentially barely out of school, and surely was the least knowledgeable person in the room. He was clean shaven and had soft round cheeks, making him look rather like a child.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Witches and Wizards, I would like to present to you all today, a presentation on the creation of dark spells. I began my passion for spell creation as a child, since my father was an avid spell creator himself, and knew many runic symbols and their blends. Much of the magic I learnt, in fact, was not as a result of learning specific spells and their incantations, but small spells of my own creation!"
There was some muttering at that, some of the audience looking rather impressed, while some rolled their eyes at the bold declaration.
"Indeed, as was my prowess that I created my first dark curse at the tender age of 13, while practicing on the family's kneazle. My mother wasn't impressed, rigid as she was, but my father was proud. From then on, I put my passions into dark spell creating and I have even written a book on all the spells that I have created so far – 'My First Dark Curse, and other evidence of childhood genius'."
Voldemort felt that the name was lacking somewhat in flow, and general respectability, and it was from great effort on his part that the following sip of his wine was not an exasperated gulp of the alcohol.
"Naturally, when creating a spell, it's important to have passion for it, as I always have done, thanks to my father's encouragement. When creating a dark spell, it's equally important to have malicious intent. Not full evil, of course, this is dark magic we're creating, not black, but you can't be wishing well because it just doesn't work as well. I mean, unless you're creating dark healing spells, but that's far too complicated to get into tonight."
I'm sure we'd find it no harder than I'm sure you did, Voldemort thought sardonically.
"But anyway, with my passion for spell creating, and my affinity for dark magic, it means that I can create dark spells with speed and with ease, which is why I've created so many. And they're good ones, too. If you read my book, you'll find in there a spell that twists a person's eyeballs until they pop out; I created that one when I was 16, it was great fun practicing it on the animals –."
It potentially would have been a fascinating talk, if the kid was not so obsessed with his own achievements. He was so up his own arse that Voldemort was surprised that he didn't have faeces dribbling out of his mouth as he spoke. Voldemort felt that it was best to tune out of the talk at this point, as really, he had enough of his own knowledge of spell creation that he really was not going to learn anything from paying attention. Perhaps he would miss out all the details on the speaker's gifted nature, but he was certain that he would not suffer too badly from this gap in his knowledge.
He wondered if Lord Potter was having the time of his life backstage, knowing that the audience had to sit through this ocean of drivel while they waited for the first speaker to finish talking. How long was each talk supposed to last? And of course, most of the people on his table were likely only here to watch Lord Potter speak, they must be out of their minds. Never mind that, Voldemort did not have even that motivation to be at the event, other than politeness, and the vague hope of learning something new. And here he was. Wasting several hours of his precious time at this stupid event when he could be overseeing his own business.
Malfoy had been given the task of befriending the main candidate for replacing the Minister of Magic. Everyone could see that the current Minister was losing his touch, very much on the verge of standing down, and so in the higher circles of British politics and society, there was a battle of who should take his place. To Voldemort, the answer was obvious. Ogden's stance was ambiguous, but he was proficient at gaining political support for any policy. He had also shown sympathy to the dark cause, certainly having a distaste for the likes of Dumbledore, without being obvious in his bias. This meant that he was ideal, and fortunately, the Malfoys already had ties to the Ogden family in politics. While Abraxas's father was still alive, he was quickly on his way out of politics, and Abraxas was doing a fine job of establishing new allegiances and reinforcing old ones that Voldemort wanted in place. It was, after all, beneficial for them to have a Malfoy on their side; a Malfoy allegiance meant access to funds when the time came for political campaigns.
Voldemort was taken out of his musings when a round of applause signalled the end of the talk on dark spell creation, and the introduction of a new speaker. An elderly lady, potentially around the age of 80, approached the podium, ready to address the audience.
"Good evening, fellow dark practitioners," she begun, her voice as frail as her appearance. "Now, we all know that sometimes, to get somebody to agree with us, we may need to resort to the gentle persuasions of dark magic. Indeed, while I do not condone the excessive use of such methods, by any means, I cannot deny, nor can any of you, that knowledge of such practices is incredibly useful. However, rather than the variety of spells that can be used for such a task, many of which have been discussed by the young man speaking before me, I myself am in the habit of developing potions for such a task."
There was real credit due to her, Voldemort felt, that she managed to introduce such a simple topic in three times the time that one might usually be able to. This was perhaps worse than the egotistical boy that came before her. The monotonous drone that was spreading about the room was about as dull as watching a full candle burn down. Fortunately, Voldemort happened to be particularly well informed on this subject, and so he was perfectly happy to tune the second speaker out as well as he had done the first. Instead, he could occupy himself with counting how many of the guests that he could see had monobrows.
Only a couple did on his table, slightly older men who perhaps cared less about their appearance, or naturally grew more hair. Lord Potter was a smart looking man himself, clearly cared a lot about his appearance if one ignored the issue of his hair, so Voldemort was unsurprised to find that most of the people he associated himself with were generally equally as beautiful. Not that there was not a certain amount of charm to a monobrow, he supposed. It could have a sense of strength and authority about it. So, two monobrows so far. He discreetly tilted his head to survey the table directly to his left. On this table he found four more monobrows; one on a stick-thin woman, and the rest on some hefty looking men. As the talk went on, an almost pleasant background sound to his activity, Voldemort continued his counting. Seven, eight, nine… Ten? He wasn't sure whether or not to count that one. Out of the corner of his eye, it looked like there was a gap, but upon closer inspection, there was indeed a thin strip of eyebrow hair connecting the two. A monobrow is a monobrow, Voldemort concluded, and counted that one. He was not quite sure what had possessed him to undertake such a mindless task, but now that he was doing it, the task had to be completed. At the very least, he was getting a good assessment of the room without being too obvious about it. Fifteen, fourteen… The woman continued to drone on in the background
"Now, what I find best to use for a potion of this kind is Alihotsy leaves, as –."
No, no, Alihotsy leaves would be devastating for such a potion, who invited this madwoman? Voldemort thought, unimpressed. Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…
Maybe if Voldemort counted for long enough, he would miss the whole event, and surely that would be a blessing.
…Fifty-four, and fifty-five. Voldemort was quite certain that this was the accurate count of monobrows in the room. He had counted twice, and so there was very little chance of error. By this time, the elderly lady was just finishing her talk, and polite but muted applause bade her farewell. After a moment of her absence, then stepped on Lord Harry Potter.
He was met by a completely raptured applause, many members of his own table even cheering at the arrival of the man, a striking juxtaposition to the last two speakers. In all fairness, he was a captivating sight, and Voldemort was almost taken back to Hogwarts, when he had seen Lord Potter speak for the first time. His eyes were just as magnificent as they were on that day, drawing all the energy and the attention into the room. His attire was equally captivating this time, as he wore deep green trousers that complemented his eyes with a dark grey shirt, and a flowing black cloak that could rival death itself, the way it hung over his shoulders like a storm cloud. He was the very definition of beauty. Voldemort wondered whether there was any involvement of his magic, perhaps bending it to his will to change how he appeared to people.
"Good evening, everybody," he greeted with a charming smile, and the applause begun to die down. "It is wonderful to see you again this year, and I have come once again with a potentially controversial topic!"
There was scattered laughter around the room at this.
"I would like to give a talk today on the treatment of muggles." The rooms was finally silent. "For centuries, it has been debated how to treat muggles from the wizarding community. Indeed, many of us still speak of the witch trials as if they were only the other day, and since then their danger has become only more prominent. The muggles have technology to rival our charms. They have weaponry to rival our curses. They have the sheer numbers to rival any upper hand we have, vast armies of disposable men to threaten us. Nobody but radicals such as Dumbledore would deny the threat that they pose to our way of life. But this is no reason or excuse to hunt them down.
"As many of you are aware, my opposition of the Dark Lord Grindelwald was grounded in his treatment of muggles, leading to the unlikely alliance of Dumbledore and myself. He believed in a world where muggles knew of us and cowered beneath our feet in reverence, as the inferior race. This belief was monumentally misguided. The muggles, as Grindelwald should have been able to tell from the war in their world that paralleled our own, already see themselves as the superior race. The muggles are prideful creatures, just as we are, and would not so easily bow down to us. The muggles, despite what Grindelwald felt, were far more powerful than we sometimes care to admit. The muggles killed 72,468,900 of their own kind in the Second World War. The muggles killed 1,345 of us. Innocent wizards, with the protection of their magic, died due to the advances that muggles have made in their weaponry. This is not a species to view lightly. Grindelwald thought that he could overlook this danger and torture muggles into submission, but this leads to exposure, and exposure leads to many more wizard deaths."
Voldemort frowned at this - of course muggles would eventually turn to submission, it was a given that any being with magic was superior. Yet, he could not deny that the statistics were disturbing, especially knowing that he could have been one of those wizards to die in the war, stuck in his cursed orphanage over the summers.
"This behaviour reflects badly on our community. After the fall of Grindelwald, numerous laws were introduced worldwide restricting our freedom and power. Most of us can no longer use blood magic, we can no longer practice dark magic in public, some of us can no longer teach in schools! All of this, directly as a result of extremism towards muggles. Every tortured muggle is ammunition for the Light against the Dark.
"Muggle haters flock to the Dark community, because of the extreme liberal views that can be found on the Light, and these people give us a bad name. This behaviour should not be tolerated if we want our community to strengthen, and to return to its former glory. The world's magic is out of balance towards the Light; the Light doesn't believe in this balance, but it's been here since the dawn of time, and an imbalance causes natural devastation. The last time we allowed our magic to become unbalanced, when the greedy of us held excessive power over the Light, it led to the devastating destruction of Pompeii. The Light responded with the slow but steady oppression of Dark magic in return, and soon it will tip the other way. We cannot accept members of the Dark community encouraging this oppression with their extremism."
Voldemort was growing irate with Lord Potter's nonsense, and yet it was so easy to be taken in by the passion in his voice, the sincere concern for the wizarding community, the way his soft lips jumped about with the excitement of their speech. He was simultaneously draining the life out of the room and replacing it with a new life of his own creation.
"I implore you to listen to my message, my warning, for the sake of our community. Safety from muggles, safety from imbalance of magic, falls onto our shoulders. It is our duty to fight extremism, and to fight for our rights with reason and logic – this is a fight that we cannot be stigmatised for. Unite, fight, and reason with the Light, my friends."
As Lord Potter stepped back, the audience regained their own life source, and a furious applause, more reverent even than the first, saw him off the stage. Voldemort, for his part, maintained a polite clap, trying very hard not to show his annoyance. He could not believe the words that fell onto these people's ears like the words of Merlin. How could anybody have such adoration for this muggle-loving idiot? The adrenaline coursing through his body was enough to distract him from the speakers that took the stage subsequently, and he found himself discreetly brooding over Lord Potter's speech. He had been so taken in by the man's charm! He, Lord Voldemort, been practically drooling over his every word, internally in as much awe as the rest of the audience had shown externally. And they, of course, had fallen for his propaganda; it was only because of Voldemort's own control of his thoughts and feelings that he could identify it as such, as was therefore immune to the spell that had fallen over the audience. He was infuriated more than anything that he had, in fact, been quite caught up by the speech until it ended. He naturally disagreed with everything that had been said, but his heart had still been held tightly by Lord Potter's voice for those minutes.
Well. He had actually made a few valid points. It was certainly true that something needed to be done about the magical imbalance. Voldemort, of course, had known all about this prior to the speech, but had admittedly not noticed quite how bad it had been getting in recent years. But this, surely, is why more forceful action needed to take place to solve the issue! And muggles still needed to know their place; wizards merely needed to be discreet about their methods, as Voldemort knew he always was, and as Grindelwald had not been. Wizards were too powerful for this academic nonsense to take over the movement, they were too powerful to sit in hiding, biding their time while the muggles grew ever more powerful. The wizarding community needed to be ready to fight for their way of life, and the Dark needed to be ready to lead!
It was infuriating, to Voldemort, that moderates like Potter were taking the stage the whole time, and these wastes of space blabbering on about their research that nobody cared about. Moderates like Potter were not leaders, they just wanted to hide their own physical weakness through flowery language! Well, Voldemort thought. That's probably a bit unfair, Lord Potter is obviously physically powerful too, but the point still stands. He certainly was more of a speaker than a fighter. Such a status would be completely useless when it came to protect the wizarding world. Well, a voice interrupted Voldemort's musings once again, in that same annoying tone. It certainly would be useful to have a speaker like that to rally the people.
Such internal arguments spun round and around in Voldemort's head, as he worked tirelessly to conclude. It would not do to not know where he stood on his rival. Before he knew it, the evening was at an end, and Voldemort noted Lord Potter approach the table. The man pulled over a seat, his smile more rugged than the sly, charming expression he had adopted for his speech, and sat casually to greet his friends.
"I'm so pleased that you were all able to make it!" he exclaimed, pouring himself a glass of wine. "I hope you all enjoyed the speakers tonight. I thought there was a good selection, though it could've done with some more political contrast. It was all very academic this year, I found."
"I find myself agreeing with you, my Lord," commented one of his followers. "Though they might have been worried that any other political speech would look a little frail next to yours!"
Lord Potter let out a hearty laugh at that, eyes glimmering with amusement. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, David."
He then scanned the table, his eyes settling just to Voldemort's right, and a slight shift occurred in his expression.
"Dora!" he greeted warmly, his charming smile back in place. "Long time no see, my fair lady. What have you been doing all this time we've been apart?"
"Oh, nothing as exciting as you I'm sure, my Lord" she murmured in a sultry tone, adding a wink at the end.
Voldemort was ready to throw up just at the way she spoke, especially with her being so close to him, and he was desperately hoping that Lord Potter would be just as uncomfortable and put an end to his suffering immediately. No such luck; the man seemed to live for Voldemort's irritation.
"Oh, now that just can't be true, Dora darling," Potter purred back at her, leaning forwards in a predatory way. "Not even any affairs to tell of, for such a beautiful woman as yourself?"
Salazar, how revoltingly forward. In front of everybody on the table. Who was this man?
"I'm afraid not, my Lord," and Voldemort nearly threw up just at the way she said those two words. "The others have yet to reach my expectation."
Now, Voldemort was no misogynist. He knew some incredibly powerful women. In fact, he could sense great power from the very woman next to him, but he absolutely could not stand the way she was throwing herself at him, and he could not understand in the slightest how Potter was letting such foul behaviour continue. Fortunately, it seemed that people were starting to take their leave around the room, so Voldemort took one last sip of his wine, and made to stand.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Potter was not done with this slow and terrible torture. He had immediately snapped out of his interaction with Dora as Voldemort stood, and stood with him. Dora, Voldemort noted smugly, looked rather put out by this.
"Lord Voldemort," Potter greeted civilly. "Would you mind speaking with me for a moment? I would greatly appreciate your company, if you would follow me."
"Of course," Voldemort agreed grudgingly, not wanting to seem impolite, and tailed Lord Potter through the crowds and into a separate room, which was empty.
They stood in silence for a moment, assessing each other. Lord Potter had a slight crease worrying his brow, and his eyes were almost sorrowful.
"Do you have me here merely to waste my time?" Voldemort asked, growing impatient.
This seemed to snap Potter back into reality.
"There's no easy way of saying this to you, but I want you to know that I'm confronting you only with the motive of helping you."
Another pause, and Voldemort was growing increasingly irritated. He was being spoken to like a child; as if he needed Potter's help in anything.
"I know you have a horcrux, Lord Voldemort."
A pause. No, silence. No.
The sound of his blood rushing past his ears, assaulting his senses and his mind.
Dread.
Dread.
Horror.
Fear.
Crippling fear taking hold of Voldemort by the neck so tightly he felt like he couldn't breathe, winded, mortally wounded by anxiety.
Dread.
Horror.
Fear.
Nobody was supposed to know
Fear.
Potter could kill me
Fear.
Nobody was supposed to know my secret
Nobody should ever have known
Fear.
Fear.
Horror.
Rage.
Desperately clawing at his emotions to keep control of them, in reality it was only a moment for him to suddenly be breathing again. His panic was evident only in the slight change in pitch, and one vital slip…
"How did you know about them?"
Them. Them. He had said them. Voldemort restrained himself from slapping a hand over his mouth. Idiot, idiot, IDIOT.
The fear and rage that Voldemort felt begun to visibly infected Lord Potter, his eyes growing dark and dangerous. While Voldemort prided himself in being able to keep control of his external appearance when he was angered, Lord Potter seemed to be just the opposite.
"Did I fucking hear them?" He snarled, fists clenching at his side. "Do you have any fucking clue how dangerous that is? How dangerous just one is?! You're not living forever, you know that, right? You're surviving forever and having a damn miserable time of it! I cannot believe you would be idiotic enough to make two!"
Voldemort bristled at the insults, infuriated at being spoken down on in such a way.
"You cannot talk to me like this," Voldemort bit out. "I don't think you seem to realise how dangerous I am to you; speak to me with respect and I will respect you in turn! I am a powerful force, Lord Potter, and you do not want to cross me. I have warned you of this already."
"I know you're fucking powerful! You've got multiple fucking horcruxes, of course you're powerful! But you're acting as if this is a game, how can I respect that? There will be no rivalry, Lord Voldemort, and soul magic is a serious business!" He seemed to lose his steam at this point, but Voldemort was still livid. "Could you at the very least stop wearing the damn thing around, lest anybody else figures it out" Potter muttered darkly, gesturing to the ring on his hand.
"I'll show you power, Lord Potter," Voldemort hissed venomously, already making his way towards the door. "You dare to mess with my affairs... You do not yet know the meaning of the word regret, but you will".
And with that, he abandoned Potter, set on splitting his soul once more.
This is a much longer chapter than the last two, but I just couldn't work out how to split it, and so I've left it - if I hadn't had the last section in, there wouldn't have been any drama, and what's a Harry/Voldemort fic without drama? Hope you're enjoying it - I do welcome discussion about the fic if you want it! Whether you agree or disagree with me on my characterisation choices, how my personal beliefs have influenced the making of Harry in this fic, my exploration of magical theory, if you've got something you wanna chat about please do! I would especially like to know how people are feeling about Dumbledore...
