The Lord Voldemort sat upon a marvelous chair, a basin filled to the brim with scalding water at his feet. As he slowly submerged the withering sticks of bone and skin, which constituted as his poor excuse for legs, the water splashed to the marble floor beneath him, soaking all unfortunate enough to be near. He waited. It would require a moment or two for the life to return—for the blood of man to gather enough courage to pool—to serge once again through the veins of the wicked. Beside him was a golden vessel stocked with a rare concoction crafted to encourage the weakest of human necessity to return to the godly. For that is the light in which Lord Voldemort—or the Dark Lord, if you are to ask the followers who writhe at his feet, dazzled by his magic and might—regarded himself. Celestial. Divine. Eternal. The phoenix of the wizarding world.

But such august immortality does not arrive to a wizard free of nature's burden. As consequences befall all those who cheat the balance—who mock the laws of original man. He dug his lengthy, foreboding fingers deep within the rigid, merciless potion, removing a portion as he simultaneously raised a leg free of its burning punishment and began to rub the salve along his lifeless limb. As he moved through cycles of resurrecting life, his mind wandered, took in the details of this palatial room in which he currently dwelled. Yes. The Lestranges were most remarkable servants. Gracious. The eldest Lestrange—a follower from their Hogwarts days—was a remarkable wizard, but perhaps his greatest contribution to the cause were his three hulking, brutal sons. Sons—the perfect soldiers—raised on parables of the Dark Lord—the most obedient followers—for they believed not only were the fighting for power, but for home, country, and family. It was practically patriotic in their eyes. The noblest of pursuits: a perfect outlet for their unbridled brutality.

At the slightest mention of the Dark Lord's newest necessity—a headquarters, for their latest had been corrupted—Romulus immediately offered up his manor, like a sacrifice to Ares in the name of their plight. Romulus, the name hissed across his mind—but was it him? No. "Nagini," the Dark Lord purred.

Romulus, she hissed again, rising up his torso, encircling the whole of his form.

"Ahaha," a horse rattle rumbled upward through him as the Dark Lord laughed at the affection of his treacherous pet toward a favorite warrior. At the spark of the name, he remembered—remembered the mention of a Miss Narcissa Black, Nagini finished for him—as she knew each and every thought which crossed him mind, for theirs was one in the same. She was to accompany Romulus tonight, and the Dark Lord was curious. He had heard a great deal about the youngest little Black.

Inwardly, he surveyed each generation of soldiers—some rising to power, some falling from grace—lapping up against each other with the vigor of the sea. He searched beyond those he might already claim under his possession, seeking the next regime. He sighted the freshest span of man within the aristocracy, for his ensuing step must be—snaaaaaaaaaag—the language of his consciousness unwound—the effect of an unfinished immortality. His tongue grappled for the word: pphollow letter—reversed n—flipped—switchgrooooooooooooooooooowl of an antagonized beast in the presence of his master. His mind could not muster the word. He moved on. For weakness must never be dwelled upon. He could see it. He could hear it; this new crop of the finest wizarding blood crashing up against the shore, churning sand, shaping the land into new forms.

There was rustle—movement at the periphery of his attention—a small figure moved further into the room—a house elf sent to change out the Dark Lord's water. Voldemort turned in the direction of the movement and grimaced. What a filthy creature. "Nagini," the Dark Lord hissed in parseltongue, "are you hungry?"

The snake, vicious and powerful in every imaginable capacity, slithered away toward the little sound—a squeak of fear—and lavishly wrapped itself around the elf. The Dark Lord turned toward the spectacle, for he genuinely loved watching the life wither and drain from the eyes—it was the most rewarding facet of his malevolent function.

The Dark Lord eyed all in his presence from his throne at the height of the hall. One couple in particular caught his eye, as the other women of the room would bear him suitable soldiers—that was the function of the night's festivities, after all, to earn the approval of the Dark Lord—but none were like the exquisite witch perched finely upon the arm of his greatest soldier.

He watched not his soldier, but the girl, for no matter his standing or stature a man is always judged in full by the woman on his arm. She glided about the room like a swan on the water, her value soaring infinitely upward with each passing glance she claimed rightfully as her own. As she moved easily from couple to couple, allowing her motions to appear controlled by her suitor, he noticed she possessed the greatest essence of the aristocracy. For in great truth, she was merely a child adorned in beautiful robes and heavenly bobbles, but the manner in which she was raised empowered her to fool one and all—all except for the keen eye of the Dark Lord. However, this minute slip in the coverage of her charms did not diminish his appreciation of her feminine talents. On the contrary, it allowed him to enjoy them further, for he felt above the act—as if it were a secret joke only he and the belle of the ball were aware of.

The number of couples which she felt it her duty to greet—for tonight she was not seventeen, but a woman playing the role of a potential wife—soon dwindled and there was but one which she must pay her respects to. She walked with unimaginable ease, parting the crowd like the queen of a foreign fairy land; she was truly a sight to behold—a glimpse of sorcerous fantasies from the beyond. In the presence of this great and astonishing young woman, his mind began to catalogue the simplest of details pertaining to her person: her robes were white, her hair was silvery blond, her skin alabaster, her teeth, which peeked out at him from behind the soft pink pillows of her lips, were smooth and opalescent. He rolled his wand between his long, spidery fingers as his consciousness made the leap from simple facts to the effects of her class. The dark of his eyes clouded with excess of ambition, and his tongue stirred within his mouth, for every ember, flame and spark of his raging ego grappled—compelled—to express the mythic muse before him.

"Pure," his mouth concluded on a definition; it hummed like a coveted confidence beneath his breath as she made her final approach. Within the confines of his form, his ego swelled with feverous excitement like the ancient Achilles upon first sight of Athena. For now he possessed the icon of his plight—a figure who embodied without compromise the ideals of his holocaust. The yearning for the decimation of the majority of a race simply to right where he had felt wronged momentarily disappeared like the achievement of a candle in the face of a hurricane.

"My Lord," his soldier bowed dutifully. The Dark Lord's eyes jumped for the briefest of seconds to his lieutenant and this rupture in his focus allowed for the rapturous release of his vicious grace. His spine rose, vertebra by vertebra, toward the realm which was so thoroughly repulsed by the very nature of the smile that spread slowly, stretching his waxen skin to its greatest extent.

"May I introduce to you Miss Narcissa Black," Romulus continued, bowing slightly in the direction of his most prized possession.

At the mention of her name Narcissa curtsied, sinking to the cool surface of the unforgiving marble. She continued beyond the standard of the usual curtsy, descending so near the floor those surrounding marveled—mouths agape—at her balance. Voldemort delighted in the subtlety of this spectacle, extending a skeletal hand for the refined celestial debutante. She accepted, the youth of her touch shocking the calloused façade of his flesh, ascending with ease to her full height and to a high rank in his favor.

"My Lord," Narcissa murmured, her gaze cast downward in respect.

"Narcissa Black," he whispered with authority, taking pleasure in the design of a private confidence. "What a patrician name." He inclined closer, "there is no need for such reverence—you may look at me."

Gently, cautiously, she promoted the level of her attention, overcoming the instinct to recoil once she met his. This instinct slithered up within her, seizing refuge in her eyes, ensnaring the form of her favorite little sphere. The slight fluctuation in her composure induced the Dark Lord's notice of that peculiar distance which rippled like the death rattle of mermaid across her eyes. He leaned nearer, as many men before had done, devout in the notion that if he dared a little closer, spoke a little softer, he could possess that distance. But as he advanced she turned, blushing gracefully.

"Please excuse me, My Lord," she spoke in the hushed tones of a beloved confidant, "For I am not accustomed to the presence of such a hero."

His breath quickly caught as the little sphere returned to its serene bed, the distance so many longed to claim as their own as safe behind her guise of propriety as a child in the womb. But at her words he could not help laughing—the hoarse cacophony rattling through his ribs like a wrongly charged prisoner desperate to be free. Oh yes, he hissed inwardly, yes, yes. He understood—it was so right for her to maintain this little trick.

"Tell me," he spoke with gentle manners, rewarding her virginal attitude. "Do you belong to Cygnus's branch or Orion's?"

"My Father is Cygnus—Uncle Orion's branch has only boys."

The Dark Lord smiled in recognition. "Ah, yes. Cygnus, he is one of my greatest supporters."

"Why of course, My Lord," Narcissa was no stranger to this game. "You are the champion of all we stand for."

"And what do you stand for, my pet?"

"The elimination of the blight on our kind." She lowered her voice and dared look upwards at his eyes as she spoke, "In essence: absolute purity."

"Pray, Miss Black, how old are you?" He watched her easy grace, aristocratic manners, listened to her elegant words and could not guess; for the very moment he decided upon one age his mind instantaneously began to hypothesize the next.

Narcissa did not appreciate his inquiry—why did it matter? She had worn the right robes, smiled correctly, curtsied beautifully. She saw no reason for her age to be of any great importance. "I was raised to never allow men to be privy to that particular number," she said, skillfully attempting to dodge his question. But his eyes, which had previously been calm and slightly playful, flashed with rage of such an intensity she nearly trembled with fright. Quickly, she backtracked, desperately hoping she had not betrayed the poise of her upbringing. "But for you, My Lord," she murmured sweetly, "all exceptions will be made… I am seventeen."

The blaze of his ego jumped like a flame at the sudden contact of fuel—flared outward into the atmosphere of his gaze. The flesh of his mutilated limbs rose in response to her answer, awakened to this birth of superlative potential. "My dear Miss Black," the diminutive hairs at the nape of her neck were startled to attention upon the ghostly bristle of his whispering tones. She could sense the frenzy burgeoning at the origin of his innards, and in a moment so quick God disregarded its existence a monstrous notion rumbled, tumbled, jumbled upwards and out, ensnaring Narcissa. "Would you permit me one last question?"

Subtly, she removed her fingers from the palm his hand and returned them to the crook of Romulus's arm, establishing space between them, as she longed to put an end to the path of his questions. "Yes, My Lord," she replied tranquilly, her words climbing outward into the air between them with the finesse of molten silver. "As I said, for you I am an open book."

"Are you still attending Hogwarts?"

Narcissa smiled, enjoying the sounds which permeated all space and time upon his pronunciation of Hogwarts. Within the lifecycle of an envious wink, any hesitation she felt towards him dispersed like vermin in the face of the waking sun. "Yes," each word hummed with warmth as she spoke, "Slytherin class of '71."

"Naturally," a harsh, hoarse ghost of a laugh rattled through the thin skin of his cheeks. "Naturally."

It is in this moment, as she curtsied farewell and fused into the amalgamation of ego and envy before him, in which Lord Voldemort became resolute in the next development of his stratagem. For she had proven true his conjecture that the rising generation of purebloods were ready—ripe for the picking—to be recruited. He steadfastly determined—as he watched her—led by her greedy-eyed suitor—progress toward the shadowy frame of the exit—his next move: Hogwarts.