Lord Voldemort was the name on everyone's lips in the wizarding world. Some whispered it hushed reverence, others choked out the word like it was a haunting from a nightmare. It was a name that was suited to reverence and fear and Voldemort loved to watch the way people would form the name in their mouths. His believers would present the title to him like an offering to a king, bowing as they groveled for his attention and approval. His enemies would stutter as they tried not to fear the might of his name, but more and more, his name was becoming too much for them to bear.
Theodore Nott, a trusted advisor of Voldemort's, had been the first to inform him that wizardkind- that of polite society, at least- had given to referring to the Dark Lord as "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named", or even simply "You-Know-Who". It amused Voldemort, but even more than just amuse him, it assured him of his growth and dominion. They did not understand the power they were giving him, this fear of his name alone. He was growing into a might far greater than just a man, and with his new serpent-like appearance, Tom Riddle had truly become a figure of horror and power.
Lord Voldemort reaches out and strokes Nagini with the tips of two fingers. "My precious one," he hisses at the snake, who, in turn, moves to tangle her head with his hand. "The world is nearly ripe for us. We shall have it all."
Nagini hisses her approval and he smiles at her. There was much work to be done, that was certain in Voldemort's mind. Far too much work for a mere mortal. But Lord Voldemort was no longer a mere mortal. He was a god. He was the Dark Lord.
