Hydrus Malfoy dreamed that night, dreaming of a large library, filled with dusty tomes, leather-bound covers and the smell of incense.
He dreamed that he was a pale silver man, cloaked in black robes, sitting on a throne made of cushions, reading one of the many works hidden deep within the stronghold. The words… the words… they were in a script… a script that was made of letters - letters of the English alphabet, but arranged… arranged in all the wrong ways. It was not right, the order that the words that were spelt - it was a moment before he realized it was Latin, not English.
He flipped through the pages, his thin, grey fingers caressing the yellow-stained papyrus.
On and on he went, studying the inked words, reading their meanings, cursing as he set one book aside, then another, then the next, reading the index, flipping to the middle, to the end, to the beginning, running his index finger across the words… on and on… until -
Hydrus Malfoy stopped.
Slowly he got up and walked across the library - nay, floated, moving in a strange, elegant way that was too delicate to be human. His fingers reached for a quill, a pot of ink and a scroll of paper.
Hydrus Malfoy found a table, and he began to write. The wet ink shimmered like morning dew, swirls of words that made no sense to him - no, it was true English this time; not the archaic wording that the books were written in.
For a long time, he sat at the table, his only source of light a handful of tallow candles and the silver half-moon.
Then, at last, Hydrus Malfoy gave a satisfied nod and put away the quill and ink.
He read the words he had written.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches
Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"
Far away, he heard the roar of a dragon. And then, Hydrus Malfoy woke up.
It seemed the Dreamless Sleep Potion was losing its potency as he diluted it with water. This was not the first time it had happened - he had dreamt of the Black library many times, but never had he written those words on parchment.
He was tempted to stop those dreams - they did not hurt him, but the future… was as perilous as his nightmares. Nevertheless, he could not. To lower the ratio was to risk addiction… and he could not afford that on his quest… his duty… to save the lives of all he loved from the hands of filthy muggles.
Slowly, Lord Black stood up and got dressed.
Later that day, he was called to the library, his message written in the swirly script as he had etched in his dreams.
He came immediately, for to keep the Dark Lord waiting was as treacherous as could be.
The library was cold in the late evening, the books kept company by a wide array of different sized candles, burning yellow flames. Through the windows, he could see a darkening sky, turned the colour of murder as the sunset.
Lord Voldemort waited on a throne of cushions, as Hydrus Malfoy had sat in his dreams. "Did you dream of last night, my water snake?"
"My Lord… I…"
"You did. This very seat was where you sat. I could not be sure, the first time it had happened… of course, now I know. I could feel you, Hydrus Malfoy. As you slept, as your mind crept into my very own, slithering… making its way past my mental defences, seeing all I see, doing all I do… how did this happen?"
He thought he knew the answer - for the red eyes, the dark red eyes that haunted his mind… they were the very same shade that graced the Dark Lord's face, that twisted as he blinked, that turned a deeper shade of crimson when enraged. They were the same person. He knew, somehow. He knew.
Yet one tortured me for all of my childhood, and the other has raised me, to stand on a pedestal, towering above the gods themselves.
"The question can be answered later. There are more pressing topics… such as the phrases I wrote on the parchment. You saw them? Do you remember it?"
"Born at the end of July," Hydrus remembered. "With the power… to kill you… the Dark Lord…"
"A prophecy, as you have no doubt figured. Ten years past, I paid a visit to Godric Hollow for that very reason… the fates knew you were not the one… they were trying to tell that night… our connection… you could feel it… in your dreams… we are destined for more than that together."
Lord Voldemort unravelled a scroll of parchment. "The power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born as the seventh dies. There were only two children in the world born at the stroke of midnight: you, and that pudgy first-year Gryffindor who didn't know one end of his wand from another. I was almost certain it couldn't be him… yet here we are. You do not approve of the things I do and the actions I commit, that much is clear every time you look me in the eyes. Your spirit is strong and fierce, and you do not bow down easily to the will of others, but you will never raise a hand against me for you know very well what I mean to achieve. It is for your good and for the good of all those whom you love dearly. For that, you will stand beside me, and kill as I ask."
The truth in his words was strangely alarming.
"Yes, my Lord," Hydrus told him, having no other idea of what he could say.
"I ask another death from your hands. There will be a battle soon, a battle I intend to win. Do you understand that? Yes, you do. You have guessed where it shall be, who we will fight, the preparations I have made… they are coming together and very well at that. There are many things I hope to achieve on that fateful day… but only one thing that you need to do…"
Lord Voldemort reached behind him and held out a bundle of canvas, wrapped around a distinct triangular object; the leather-bound pommel just barely visible. His fingers were gentle and slow as he unravelled the fabric. "Hogwarts has a wide variety of magical wards made to detect the presence of Dark Magic… yet nothing for muggle oddities such as these. It is strange. Once more, the simplicity of a muggle invention will trump a thousand years of magical learning."
The knife had been oiled recently, glimmering like silver-gold as it caught the light of a nearby candle. Hydrus hoped he would never see it again.
"You see," Lord Voldemort told him, "prophecies do not matter when the other person is dead."
_(O.O)_
It took him a fortnight of searching, but eventually, Hydrus Malfoy found the hole he had fallen through.
The light from the room lit the cavernous space: charred stone walls, rough and the colour of slate, perhaps ten feet down. A wonder he had escaped with naught but a bruised collarbone.
"Mondor," he called. "I need you to cushion my fall."
There was no response, but when he jumped, his legs hit a soft, bouncy surface. Nonetheless, a jar of pain raced up his right ankle. Swallowing a curse, he tested his foot and grimaced as a dull throb encased his heel.
It was a different experience this time, for Hydrus Malfoy had instructed that the house-elves place torches every half a dozen feet along the length of the jagged stone. They lit the long hallway with a golden glow, and it was possible to see streaks of red blood that ran across the left wall.
How long he spent walking the passageways, Hydrus did not know, yet he came across half a hundred different openings; rectangular shapes carved into the wall, and when he pushed against them, they seemed to disappear, leading to half a hundred different places. Some were the kitchens, where Philbert, who had been making scones, almost dropped a bowl of dough onto his face. Others went to separate bedrooms, all of which were unoccupied, except for the Lord's quarters, which was Hydrus'. He marked that one in the best way he could - for he had not planned on marking any of the doors - with a smear of blood.
It hurt, but as he dragged the pad of his pointer finger, writing the words, a sense of satisfaction came to him afterwards, staring at the final product. Some of the blood had dripped downwards, and so it looked as if someone had been murdered.
He wiped his finger onto the sleeves of his robes and continued down.
There were moments when the passageways forked into six different routes, times when wood had been used to board the hallways. He did his best to knock through the planks, not wanting to feel the burn of smoke inhalation once more. The timber wasn't particularly solid; time had eaten its fair share of the rough lumber, and it crashed to the floor.
The longer he walked, the more irrelevant the pain in his ankle seemed to become. Hydrus Malfoy found glass windows, the same sort he assumed, as the one he had looked through all those weeks ago - one-way mirrors. They showed everything from empty rooms to the Main Hall to the bedrooms to the libraries.
There was a sort of timelessness about the passageways, a sort of immortality and grace that lingered in the stones. A quiet peacefulness whispered in the air, the kind of solace one finds in acceptance. It was strange what a bit of light could do to a once dark hallway -
"Master," Mondor squeaked. He appeared at Lord Black's feet, his floppy ears dragging across the rough floor as he bowed. "The professor has returned."
Hydrus Malfoy winced. His robes were black, but it had been stained with the very same blood that caked his pointer finger. "Take me to my bedroom," he ordered.
Mondor bowed and laid a small hand against the crook of his elbow.
He nodded as he disapparated, leaving Hydrus to rinse his finger and change his robes. It was a quarter of an hour later when he descended the stairs, to a mass of two hundred gangly teenagers, sitting around a table.
Some looked proud and proper, their chins raised and their backs straight, a look of calm indifference to their faces. High-born, raised in a family of old money, most likely, or perhaps, even more likely, the arrogance of youth. Others shrank in their seats, not daring to meet the Dark Lord's eyes, twiddling with their fingers, as if they were a child once more, caught eating a forbidden second serving of dessert.
Regardless of what they did, Lord Voldemort ran his gaze across them all, sitting where he always sat, at the end of the table, on a high-backed chair. The snake, Nagini, a great black-and-white terror, slithered at his feet, hissing its pale tongue at all those who dared look at him.
The Dark Lord looked up as Hydrus Malfoy entered and gave a gracious nod of his chin, then turning his bright red eyes back to the group, he said, "Has Quirinus ever told you who I am?"
Immediately someone spoke. "He said you paid well," came a voice, sitting half a dozen seats from the Dark Lord. His face was freckled, his hair the colour of liquid gold and his eyes blue like a clear sky. Perhaps if he hadn't sounded so pompous, Hydrus might have been able to regard him with a bit of seriousness. "He said you were a revolutionist, come to bring change to Europe. He said you would end the lives of all filthy muggles and mudbloods."
"I pay more than well," the Dark Lord told them all, clasping his thin, grey fingers. "And I am more than a revolutionist. Durmstrang is very blunt when it comes to its opinion on mudbloods and muggles, is it not? A world where we must watch filth scamper about, toddling as if it were a child, is not a true and proper one. The eradication of grime from any home shall do it a favour, and my campaign is not so different. The world must be cleansed, my friends. Will you stand with me?"
Hydrus Malfoy looked at them, a group that could not have been older than eighteen, their heads filled with glorious thoughts of gold and power, wealth beyond their imagination.
They will fight, and they are skilled warriors, but when the battle seems lost, when we lose a fight, will they go on with us? Or will they break, just as half the Inner Circle once did?
He thought he knew the answer.
A thumping noise came from the back, as a large-nosed, dark-haired wizard banged his fist against the table. One person joined, then another, until everyone pounded against the table, cheering for their new Lord.
The Dark Lord surveyed them all, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
They had another two hundred forces.
"Soon," he could almost hear Lord Voldemort whisper, his voice carrying above the roar. "Soon the world will come crumbling at our knees, my water snake… soon…"
There were six weeks left before Hogwarts started anew. Hydrus felt his stomach squeeze.
_(O.O)_
There were half a thousand bedrooms in the Black castle, and so they had more than enough room for the one hundred and ninety-four newly graduated witches and wizards. They were settled in as the afternoon went by, to gawk at the great rooms they would each receive.
Breakfast the next morning proved a much louder affair than before. Almost two hundred different people were talking, their voices carrying throughout the Main Hall, echoing in the cavernous space.
Hydrus Malfoy could not sleep very well, and so had been one of the first to walk down the stairs and arrive. He watched as they entered, in pairs or groups, talking, whispering with excitement… and suddenly breaking off mid-chatter when they saw him.
Their stares were iron knives driven into his back, but he continued to eat, in the judging presence of them all.
The ten Death Eaters who had been rescued from Azkaban would not join them for breakfast - neither would Quirinus Quirrell. Hydrus Malfoy would be the sole representative of their cause until the Dark Lord came to explain all that needed to be done.
"I saw you on the stairs yesterday," a girl said, dark blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Despite the early hour, she had somehow managed to brush coloured pigment onto the lids of her eyes. "Do you already work for him?"
Her stare was judgemental, and the few people that sat around them turned to stare.
Lord Black swallowed a grin. A year ago, and the thought of talking to anyone older than him would have made him uncomfortable. Now? Not at all. He met the girl's eyes with an unflinching stare. "None of us work for the Dark Lord. We serve."
"And you serve him?" her voice was incredulous. "What are you, twelve?"
"Eleven," Hydrus told her wearily.
Someone tapped the girl on her arm. "Look at his forehead," he whispered.
Lord black watched as her eyes climbed his face, only to stop just above his right eye. His hair was messier than usual, flowing in ragged waves that covered the ever-so-famous scar with ease.
Something seemed to click in her head. "You're…"
"I was given that name at birth, yes. My true name is Hydrus Malfoy, and nothing else."
Her cheeks flushed. "R-r-ight… I…"
"It happens," Hydrus told her, uncomfortably aware of all the stares that suddenly wove their way up to his face. "There is nothing to forgive."
A black-haired, sharp-nosed boy spoke to him. "If I may ask… who is this… Dark Lord?"
Hydrus Malfoy looked at him. "There has only been one true Dark Lord. Eleven years past, his mortal body was destroyed, but veritable power cannot be so easily defeated. The true Dark Lord lives on… and he has asked for your service. Will you give him your life?"
The room quieted.
They looked at him with a sort of awe and wonder, a tinge of fear mixed in their gaze. A new sense of respect filled the air.
"Your choice does not have to be made now," came the Dark Lord. He entered the room, a tall grey shadow, black robes writhing behind him like forever undulating snakes. "Though I suppose you have already."
A murmur of assent spread through them.
"Nonetheless, my hospitality is open for you all. Should you wish, the castle is yours to roam. All expenses have been paid and any utilities shall be yours. In return, I ask for two things: Your loyalty; know that I intend to declare when the time comes. Many of you shall perish… perhaps all… but for those that still live at the end of my campaign… a castle just as great as this one shall be granted to you and all those who come after, and more importantly, the gratitude of a king.
"Second is your service as I ask it. You are all talented duelists and rising learners of the Dark Arts. Find work in the Ministry. It does matter what country. So long as they are in Europe, you have my blessing. Learn about the issues that they face, listen in on conversations between Head of Departments and learn any secrets they may keep.
"For every secret I learn, with proof, a hundred gold galleons shall be rewarded, and for every day that you work in a Ministry, another five will be given. More riches will come as the war runs on. Know that the pay I give you now is insignificant to what you will receive when the war is won."
The Dark Lord spread his gaze across them all, watching as their faces lit up with greed and pride. Murmurs had begun, as friends and foes alike began trying to convert the number of gold galleons into the currency of their country.
"Should you wish to leave, the door is there." Lord Voldemort swished his wand, and the front doors whistled open. Golden rays of sunlight leaked through as if silently naming whoever dared leave as a coward. "No one? Well then. You have a week to find a job within any Ministry in Europe. Do not return unless the employment you seek has been found. Those who do not report to me within that allotted time frame will no longer be in my service. You have my permission to begin."
It seemed all at once, the one hundred and ninety-four witches and wizards rose from their seats, some bowing to the Dark Lord as they left the room. Some climbed up the stairs, others walked through the door, prepared to search for a job anywhere in the Ministry.
An hour later, every single one of the recruits had left the castle.
Their eyes were glazed, a good sign that the potion was taking effect. Lord Voldemort had Severus Snape brew a couple of dozen cauldron-fulls for all two hundred wizards, a specific never-before concoction of all sorts of rare magical plants and poisons, stewed over half a month, imbued with a list of spells. They had tested the concentration and power of the compound on a handful of muggles, watching as their insides turned to dust. Their screams had lasted for a bare second - the process quick and irreversible. All the better for a painless death.
When consumed, should they betray the integrity of the Dark Lord's cause, their end would be rapid, their organs turned to ashes, incinerated in the fury of disloyalty. Even past death, their throat would still move, the muggles having coughed up the dust and cinders, a swirl of grey-black embers to stain the Victorian rugs.
The house-elves had cleaned the mess, and it was now impossible to see the remains of any of their experiments, but the notion haunted Hydrus Malfoy nonetheless.
"I don't expect any will die for at least a few weeks," Lord Voldemort told him, standing nearby. "It is easy gold and easier work. When the war begins, however… when they see the price we must pay for salvation… some will balk… and the corpses shall cough ashes once more…"
He looked over at Hydrus. "That bothers you, doesn't it? No, we both know the answer. Sometimes death and destruction are the prices we pay for greatness. Not sometimes; always. You are a fast learner, my water snake. In time, you will understand. Go, now. Quirinus is back from his month-long journey to Sweden, and you have much to catch up."
Hydrus Malfoy bowed. "Yes, my Lord."
Quirinus Quirrell waited for him in their usual room, on the fourth floor, overlooking the blooming gardens.
Scrolls had been laid out, mottled quills and a handful of gilded jars of black ink. Candles dripped their yellowish wax into metal dishes, uselessly, for the light that filtered through the large square windows were more than enough to brighten the room, casting a golden glow on all it touched.
"Have you read the passages I assigned?"
"Yes, professor -"
Hydrus Malfoy stopped. It had become a force of habit, but Quirinus Quirrell did not particularly care what he called him. "I was a professor once, yes. But now I have been dismissed from my duties. If you would like, it is a... suitable name… whatever works…"
"Then it seems, all that remains to complete your first-year education is to master the list of spells assigned by Bathilda Bagshot."
Life was full of compromises, as Hydrus Malfoy had learned. If he would not return to Hogwarts the following year, then he would learn magic regardless, to be expected to cast non-verbal spells by his thirteenth birthday.
Two hours later, with sweat dripping down Hydrus' forehead, Quirinus Quirrell called an end. "Your knowledge of magic has improved… but your practical abilities… you are a powerful wizard, there is no use in denying as much… your flames…" He frowned. "They have changed colour. I thought I saw it weeks past, in Azkaban… could you… ?"
Hydrus Malfoy clenched his hands and then flexed them, watching as a strange, reddish, brown colour appeared on his palms.
Quirinus Quirrell studied the flames, his swirling seafoam eyes turned the colour of dark carnelians as he stared into the fire. "I don't understand…" He turned his gaze upwards to meet Hydrus'. "What… what has happened?"
Lord Black did not know how to respond. The flames used to turn blue at the base, blue like a clear summer sky… and now… How long had it been since the phenomenon was last seen? He remembered Azkaban… the ghastly pain that threaded through his fingers… and before that… and before that as well… as he tumbled through the floor in the castle, as he landed on a bale of hay…
"When I fell… through the floor… into the passageway…"
"Smoke inhalation… how long has it been since then? Six weeks, two months… no… longer I believe." Quirinus Quirrell stood up at last. "The libraries are an intricate maze of works. With your permission…"
I owe you my life for saving Hermione, Hydrus wanted to tell him. "Of course," he said instead. "The castle is yours to walk."
Long months ago, the Dark Lord had granted Quirinus Quirrell the freedom of the castle, but now, it felt official. Lord Black shook his palms free of the flames but did not dare clasp the man's hands. Not until they cooled down from the residual heat of the fire.
Once, he had made that mistake and watched as a quill seemed to wilt as it liquified into a slimy white thing.
Feathers were much more expendable than hands and Hydrus Malfoy was already in the man's debt… so very deep…
"Thank you," he told Quirinus Quirrell instead.
He gave a mocking bow. "I live to serve."
Yes, but who?
_(O.O)_
On the first day, a dozen of the recruits returned to the castle, each in turn bowing low before the Dark Lord's feet, before handing to him a scroll of yellowed parchment, wads of wax stamped in all sorts of colours with the various insignia of each Ministry.
Each time, he would meet their eyes and comb through their thoughts, before giving a brusque nod and accepting the young witch or wizard into his service.
By the end of seven days, one hundred and seventy-four had returned, each a new spy for the Dark Lord.
They were tested, ranked by their dexterity, their wit, their intelligence, their knowledge of the Dark Arts… one by one, to go through the scrutiny of Lord Voldemort, to determine which of the one hundred and seventy-four was the most well-rounded.
Scores were compared, opinions added… the disdain of the members of the Inner Circle as evident as could be. They did not dare voice their complaints before the Dark Lord, but their every action… when they looked upon the young adults, their eyebrows would pinch together, their lips pursed, a delicate frown to mar their faces.
"They are here to help us in our efforts," Lord Voldemort told them, and nothing more.
Most took it as an insult, to think that their service had not been of enough value, and yet, Hydrus… Hydrus understood in a way, what the Dark Lord meant to do.
"The young can be groomed…"
In thirty years many of the Inner Circle would have retired, but of the recruits - they would be fit and hale, the perfect age to take leading spots in Lord Voldemort's new world.
With their loyalty bought a thousand times over in gold galleons… his empire would never end.
His Inner Circle would not understand, but it was a gamble the Dark Lord took, and it seemed, for now, the gamble would pay off. Dinner was to be held in the great castle tonight, for the very first time, where all the Death Eaters and all the recruits would sit around a large wooden table, to share meat and mead, to break bread with one another, marking their collective alliance.
One hundred and fifty young witches and wizards sat in the Main Hall around a rectangular table, larger than the one at breakfast, just big enough to seat exactly two hundred individuals. Golden plates were laid out, silver forks and knives, a square of the softest silk cloth to be placed on the lap, and tallow candles to light the room.
Hydrus looked at the flames and winced.
The Mongrel stared at the fire, entranced in their foreign dance. They dripped hot wax into their tray, and Lord Black prayed he would not touch it. The Dark Lord had been furious when he learned of what the mutt had done, torturing him with the Cruciatus Curse in what was the most disturbing two hours Hydrus Malfoy had ever witnessed. Perhaps it was the knowledge that it was him who had brought this fate, and no else that made it so much worse.
Lord Voldemort had commanded that Severus Snape chop his fingers off with a cleaver, ordering him to use no sedative when he stitched the wound.
Tonight, the Mongrel wore cotton-stuffed black gloves to replace the digits that he had lost.
One by one, the Death Eaters came and sat down, joined at last by the Dark Lord.
His robes were splendid and the colour of nightmares, darker than black, shimmering like liquid silver, draped across his frame like a thousand snakes.
"We are family," Lord Voldemort began. "We are kin. We are the tightest family that may be found and the greatest. Our lives depend on each other and it is this sort of companionship that will bring the world to our knees. A toast, to our future."
They raised their glasses, and as if by invisible signal, they were filled with mulled wine. Their silver goblets made a twinkling sound when clinked against each other.
Hydrus took a tentative sip because it was expected of him, but the taste made him want to retch. He avoided alcohol in all forms, from drinks to cooking, for the taste… the taste reminded him of the gala… Cornelius Fudge's birthday celebration… the sour but rich tang of the pink-orange raspberry drink, the other one… a dark purple… grapes that time… not as good as the sunset drink… he could still feel the blood on his hands, slithering down his wrist in thin, red worms.
He took one swallow, and that was enough to drain the glass.
Lord Black had ordered that the house-elves only give him a mouthful - and half that for Rabastan.
He glanced across the table and saw him, picking moodily at the engravings etched upon the silver goblet, most assuredly wishing he had more wine, and something more powerful. A sixteenth-century goblin-made chalice, to be fingered by a hapless drunk.
Oh, the irony of life.
"Drink deep, my friends," Lord Voldemort told them all. "This is fine wine; with the riches of my conquest, you shall be able to buy all that there is in the world."
The dishes came and went; baskets of bread and plates of roast beef, asparagus wrapped in bacon, fruity tarts, shortcake, caramel apples… dish after dish, until the hours crawled by, and goblets were refilled. No one dared have too much - to be drunk in front of the Dark Lord…
Nonetheless, they were an impulsive bunch, and so daring conversations broke out across the table. The same golden-haired blue-eyed boy as the last time found his way to Lord Voldemort's right-hand side in between speeches the Dark Lord's many speeches about unity.
He had a sharp nose and a regal face, and in many ways reminded Hydrus of his dear estranged brother. When he spoke it was in the archaic language of purebloods, layered thick with courtesy and words one would only find while reading a particularly thick thesaurus. "It is a most wonderful honour to be invited into your mighty castle," he told Lord Voldemort. "And I am beyond honoured to meet you, my Lord. Your talent with magic and skill in battle is a tale told to every young child in my country. You -"
Hydrus swallowed a look of disgust and turned his gaze across the room.
The ten ex-inmates were handling themselves surprisingly well, the Mongrel clutching a fork awkwardly in his left hand, drinking from a silver goblet in the right. He would spill a little on his robes with every sip, and his eyes were glued to the golden flames of the candles, but at least he did not dare swipe his fingers through them. Down the table were the two Lestrange brothers, Rodolphus sending baleful glances to the very front of the table, where his wife sat next to Lord Voldemort, and Rabastan picking at the filet mignon. He had trimmed the crust off until only mangled pinkish meat remained.
The voices were growing louder by the hour, and when it reached the highest, Quirinus Quirrell turned to him. "Your flames grow darker with your nature."
Hydrus turned his head to him. With all the sounds in the room, he thought he hadn't heard the man correctly. "Pardon?"
"Magic follows a person's emotional progression. I had thought perhaps it would be different… for most, spells become easier to cast as they mature… for you… your flames are not spells… they are not wandless magic either… something different…"
Lord Black turned to look at his palms. They were smooth and pale, as common and benign as hands could be. He had always thought the flames were from the red eyes… but he had stopped seeing them for a long time now, and still, the fire persisted.
"Perhaps I am wrong," Quirinus Quirrell said, in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what he spoke of, "but they will continue to get darker, and so will your nature."
Hydrus flexed his palms and watched as the dark red flames sputtered to life. They were so very weak, so very cold… he remembered the time when his fires could heat a dragon egg and could rival a forge. Now… life's ironies had acted upon them…
"Will it ever stop?"
"Getting darker?" Quirinus Quirrell stroked his chin. He lifted his eyes to the Dark Lord, watching as he spoke with the same gold-haired boy as before. "Not soon."
He clenched his fists and watched as the fire disappeared. "How dark can fire go?"
"Yours is already beyond the colour of weak embers… with time… perhaps to black…"
A lump formed in his throat. "Will it still be hot?"
"Only time will tell."
Hydrus did not understand why he felt so suddenly sad.
Your flames have given you naught but grief in this world… Why do you lament their loss so greatly?
His thoughts were interrupted when the Dark Lord stood up, and the room quickly quieted. Outside, the windows showed a dark world, where a tiny sliver of a moon was all that remained to brighten the green grass.
"We are gathered here today to celebrate the induction of our newest one hundred and seventy-four additions to our cause. They are loyal members and will continue to serve faithfully until their death. The coming months will be difficult, I have no doubt, but our cause is strong, and so long as we are united in our collective goal, we will power through. A round of applause for our new friends."
Hydrus put his hands together and watched as Lucius made a pinched expression for the barest of moments, and then, when his wife gave him a look, he reluctantly began clapping.
If the Dark Lord took notice, he gave no sign. "Our conquest will lead far into Europe, and further into the world. But first, Great Britain has been heralded not for the first time as the epicentre of Wizarding activity. When the country falls, the rest will be quick to follow. You all are a student of history… does anyone know where the true pro-muggle movement stems from?"
"Albus Dumbledore," cried someone who must have had a little too much wine.
Voices murmured their agreement.
Hydrus Malfoy looked across the room and found Severus Snape, his pale face filled with the same apathy as Quirinus Quirrell's. Both would have deduced where the Dark Lord meant to strike ages past.
And so have I.
The Dark Lord gave a lipless smile. "Does anyone know where this Albus Dumbledore will be, come the fall?"
"HOGWARTS," someone roared.
His voice echoed throughout the room, ringing like a thousand brass bells.
Hogwarts, it cried. Hogwarts… Hogwarts… Hogwarts…
Lord Voldemort spread his gaze across the table. "Yes. Hogwarts."
A/N:
Dun dun dun dun...
Interesting stuff. This chapter was originally like twenty pages long but then I realised a lot of if was entirely unnecessary so I chopped it in half and here we are. Well next week will be interesting. Not saying what will happen but I think you guys have already guessed so.
To any of you guys wondering why Lord Voldemort wouldn't want to just kill Neville Longbottom by himself, it's 'cause he's learned from his past mistakes and is still pretty new to his body and definitely does not want to lose it in some 'love shield' protection thing once more. Just in case.
Special thanks to jh831 and KingZeRopL for taking the time to review my story!
To jh831 - you wrote a review for Chapter 2 so if you ever get this far into my fanfic, just know that I pretty much wrote the first ten-fifteen chapters with absolutely no idea of what I was doing. Yep, I'm very much aware of the sheer number of plot holes in the story and some very interesting inconsistencies and inexplicable character actions... but here we are and I assure you that I have been taking the time to at least think about what I want to happen next chapter and the one after. One day, when this is all over, I will definitely be taking the time to do a massive rewrite of the entire thing and will definitely take your suggestion into consideration.
To KingZeRopL, well I'm definitely glad you approved of the giant three-page long word blurb that came from Voldemort. As to whether or not he was lying... I can't say. While writing this fanfic, I wanted to rationalize Voldemort a bit, but, ah, I think you've definitely got a point when you say that he's acting a bit too sane. The guy in the story was a bit... dull, in my opinion. Very much like the stereotypical "oh I wanna kill everyone" kind of bad guy, which is cool and all, but a bit boring. I wanted Voldemort to be like an actual three-dimensional character (not so sure how that's working out), and if that means he'll have to be sane... well here we are... But huge thanks nonetheless for pointing that out.
As always, thanks for reading everybody and I hope to see you all next week!
Cheers