Disclaimer: I am not George Lucas or J.K. Rowling.
Enter General Mulciber, alone in his chamber on Little Hangleton.
Enter Floo image of Lord Voldemort.
Mulciber. Yes, Lord Voldemort.
Voldemort. General Mulciber. I suggest you move the separatist leaders to Hogsmeade.
Mulciber. It will be done, my Lord.
Voldemort. Excellent, General. Now you must turn your hand to preparing our trap here in Little Hangleton. The Aurors hunt you personally at last. You must be ready for their attack.
Mulciber. Yes, Master.
Voldemort. I am arranging matters to give you a second chance to do my bidding, Mulciber. Expect that the Auror sent to capture you will be Sirius Black.
Mulciber. Black? And Potter?
Voldemort. I believe Potter will be . . . otherwise engaged.
Mulciber. I will not fail you again, my Master. Black will die.
Voldemort. See to it.
Mulciber. Master? If I may trouble you with boldness, why did you not let me kill Tom Riddle? We may never get a better chance.
Voldemort. The time was not yet ripe. Patience, General. The end of the war is near. And victory is certain.
Mulciber. But the loss of Lord Arcturus?
Voldemort. Arcturus was not lost. He was sacrificed, a strategic sacrifice, as one offers up a piece in chess: to draw the opponent into a fatal blunder.
Mulciber. I was never much the chess player, my Master. I prefer real war.
Voldemort. And you shall have your fill, I promise you.
Mulciber. This fatal blunder you speak of . . . If I may once again trouble you will boldness . . .
Voldemort smiles.
Voldemort. You will come to understand soon enough. All will be clear, once you meet my new apprentice. He shall be far younger than Lord Arcturus . . . and more powerful.
Exit all.