Dark Empire

Disclaimer: All belongs to Rowling. Nothing belongs to me. Except my collection of pennies.

Rating: R, perhaps even NC-17 later on.

Summary: This is an Alternate Universe ficcie. Just pretend that you are in the late 1930's to the 1940's, and that the Nazi's were instead rampaging wizards.

"blah"- talking

*blah *- thought

WARNING: While there will be a comfortable quantity of heterosexual relationships in this story, there will also be a comfy level of homosexual ones too. Because that's just how life is, baby.

Chapter One: The Wolf Returns to the Pasture

The morning was calm at the Wolf's Lair, Voldemort's manor and headquarters. Mist rolled in softly, refracting the sun as it rose over the mountainside. The Wolf's Lair looked more like a fortress than a house as the light hit its high stone walls, and flickered across polished razor wire. Hundreds of men dressed in black marched along the walls, their barracks filled with laughter as breakfast came to the relieved shift, and the new shift began to assume its duties. Cars pulled in and out of the heavily guarded gateway, and high-ranking generals strode back and forth in their ironed uniforms. The Wolf's Den was a veritable hive nest of activity, with men in heated debates hunched over maps, and maids scurrying to bring them all coffee and tea. Behind the base was a valley of softly rolling hills covered in thick, tender grass and willow trees that waved like dancers in the wind. It was there that the Dark Lord himself sat, in his favorite wicker chair, surrounded by silent, attentive bodyguards. In the valley dozens of children laughed and danced, waving colorful silks and balls that he had given them. Voldemort did enjoy the sound of a child's voice, and partook in it quite frequently. Of course, only the purest children were allowed on his grounds, and all of them were blond, with sparkling blue eyes and cheeks that blushed at the slightest bit of exertion. Those that were judged fit to enter Wolf's Lair, were given the most delightful sweets and toys. No child wanted to leave once they had come. That was how the Dark Lord liked it, and it was a favorite pastime to sit in his chair and watch them scurry about in their innocence, dancing and singing tunes that did not exist.

"Such a pretty boy," Voldemort sighed as the seven year-old Henry Nott ran by to collect the shiny red ball that had slipped through his fingers. The tow-headed boy did not hear him, and swept up his ball, laughing with the other blond, blue-eyed children as they began to play a new game. The Dark Lord turned to the figure behind him, a man swathed in black, knee high leather boots, and a tight black uniform. The man observed the children, arms crossed as he casually rested his shoulders on the tree trunk of a nearby willow. His silver hair fell meticulously over one shrouded eye.

                "Wouldn't you agree," Voldemort said to the man, "That young Nott is a sight to behold? Salazar Slytherin knows he certainly didn't get that face from his father. His mother must be quite a specimen, a pure creature. And purity can cleanse even the filth of muddy blood and all the bastards in this world who spread such a disease. What do you think, my dearest friend? Eh, Lucius Malfoy, commander of my elite extermination unit, the Schutzstaffel?"

                Lucius Malfoy curled his lip in an unpleasant manner, watching the children run to and fro, laughing at simple jokes. He, unlike Voldemort, found all children repulsive and unkempt.

                "If filthy blood was so easy to eradicate, then I wouldn't have to spend so much time spilling it, my Lord." Lucius declared evenly, standing at attention behind the Dark One. "Young Nott might be pretty, but it will not last long. You, of us all, should remember old Avery Nott wasn't so hard to look in the face when he was this boy's age."

                Voldemort smiled and returned his attention to the children. To anyone else, it would seem the smile of adoration, the smile of Virgin Mary gazing at her son, an expression of absolute rapture. To Lucius there was no peaceful tugging of lips, nor was there any affection. Lucius knew his master well, better than the fools that had thought themselves favored by the Lord, and found themselves at the Lord's favored end of an execution line. He knew it was never a good thing when the man smiled. He knew that Voldemort wasn't even a man, and for that matter, neither was he.

                "Do you really think so, Lucius?" Voldemort asked quietly, "Or are you a bit jealous that young Draco Malfoy is not here with my brood?"

                Lucius, despite his resolve, stiffened visibly.

                "Not to worry, dearest friend. I have heard a great many things about your son." Voldemort continued, turning to watch the elder Malfoy, his smile deepening, "That he is the best in his class at Hausser, decidedly brilliant and arrogant, an expert fencer, horseback rider, and swimmer, received a perfect discipline record; and a prime specimen of purity; there's not even one crooked tooth in his precious mouth. Should I even bother mentioning his lineage? You have sired quite an accomplishment."

                "You've been…keeping a record of my son?" Lucius kept his tone unreadable, his eyes blank. Voldemort narrowed his eyes and smiled further, his slit-like mouth curving open revealing snake-ish fangs.

                "He is graduating soon, yes?"

                Lucius nodded stiffly.

                "How old will the boy be, dearest friend?"

                "…Fourteen, sir. He has skipped several grades."

                A silence assumed its position over the discussion, and Voldemort fixed his red pupils squarely on Lucius. Never once had the Dark Lord trusted his General, nor any of his allies, for that matter. But unlike the rest of his followers of importance, Voldemort was quick to note Lucius had gray matter between his ears. The man unnerved him, (if such a thing were possible) with his uncanny ability to slip through any political or military situation virtually unscathed. And Voldemort did not like it. When rebels had stormed the Schutzstaffel headquarters, the general had been there calling out orders, driving the desperate men and women back. When the instructions had come to cleanse the world of Muggles and Mudbloods, he unflinchingly set up massive killing factories, which now put to death enormous numbers of filth. When the Great Army turned to him to pacify conquered provinces, he lured them into support with his magic-coated lips and promises of extra rations, turning a nuisance into full-fledged support.  Lucius Malfoy, the Lord had decided, was too good at what he did.

As a safeguard, Voldemort had sent him to the east, where there was little he could do beyond twiddle his thumbs, for there were not enough troops to conquer anything, and too little political sway to topple governments. Still, the man had managed to forge alliances with Slavic militant groups, and had begun managing raids into villages and cities, looting and pillaging the nations' wealth, and sending the treasures back home. The people saw Malfoy as an unsung hero wherever he went; the Dark Lord knew that this was useful, no matter how annoying.

Having now conquered or neutralized all of Europe, save Britain, Voldemort decided it was time once again to release his sleekest wolf into the pasture. Lucius Malfoy would govern the devastated lands, turn them into machines that would power the war, and Voldemort would keep his eye on the Great Army as it finished taking Britain. It was a gamble, the Dark Lord knew, to have his back exposed even to his most prominent general. Therefore, Lucius would be granted power only if Voldemort was given a hostage to control the man. It would be the Dark Lord's reassurance that his most intelligent servant was still on his side.

Voldemort wanted Draco Malfoy.

"I simply insist," he hissed quietly, "that your son join me upon his graduation at my resort. Here, he can learn everything he needs to know, under the best of instructors.  The stress of war won't misplace a hair on your son's head, and he will finish his education under my wing."

Voldemort rose from his wicker chair, luxurious robes flowing in the soft late-summer breeze. The smile was gone from is lips as he finished.

"There's no need to worry, Lucius, I can assure you myself that he will be by my side at all times."

Lucius stood still like a marionette; his joints locked in surprise, yet his eyes still blank and impassive. He had been prepared for this. Years of watching muggle women and children being shot and thrown into their graves, screaming for mercy, even as their brains spewed from their skulls, years of seeing men under his command openly raping women, girls, even boys on the streets, and witnessing his counterparts torturing men by ripping out layers of entrails slowly, letting the juices ooze out of their bellies before their very eyes-all this had hardened him to a diamond point. Years of participating in such activities had dulled whatever pain he felt. Even the pain of losing his son. Worry? He tightened his lips in a wan smile. Who had the time for worries?

His master, receiving no reaction from Lucius, smiled again, although it was more of a threatening snarl than anything else. The awkward moment passed when the blond children began a new game, pulling one of Voldemort's bodyguards in to join. The man mortified to the point of gibberish, tried to escape their eager hands, but he was soon caught up in an elaborate circle as the children danced around him, laughing and singing.

"I have decided to give you command of Severus' units along with your new responsibilities," Voldemort declared after the moment passed, "Avery does not trust him, and neither do I. He is suspected of treason, although there is no proof, and none of the military generals have time to baby-sit the man. I want you to watch him, Lucius, make sure he is loyal to the cause…"

Lucius saluted and they became solider and commander again. With a twirl, Lucius placed his polished military hat back onto his head and replied,

"Is that all, sir?!"

Voldemort waved a hand.

"That is all, my wolf. Go forth and create hell."

Lucius turned sharply and began to walk stiffly off the grounds, purposely stepping on the children's daisies.

"And Lucius?" Voldemort called. The elder Malfoy halted and turned, a look of weariness in his gray eyes.

"Do have your son here by the end of the week, or I shall be forced to retrieve him myself."

The general saluted once more, before stalking off into the mist.

* At last, * Voldemort closed his eyes, listening to the children's laughter, * At last it is almost finished. Wait for me Albus. Don't get yourself killed protecting Potter, yet.  I have a magnificent surprise, just for you. *

A shiny red ball bounced against Voldemort's feet, and he picked it up. Henry Nott came bounding to his side and smiled innocently at the man, holding his hand out expectantly. The Dark Lord looked at the boy, running over every nuance of the child's face. Perfect. A perfect, pure child. He smiled and handed the ball back.

                "Thank you!" Little Nott chirped before bounding back to the cluster of children. The bodyguard had finally achieved his freedom, but only after a vigorous run and a rather brilliant display of agility. His fellows were quick to lark at him. After having cussed them out in a display of gestures and colors, he returned to his position. Bored, Voldemort turned from the grounds and began to walk back to his headquarters. There, he could finalize the plans for Britain's invasion.  

Fin.

A/N: Hausser is a school that Himmler, head of the SS (Schutzstaffel) set up prior to WWII to prepare future SS elite. Only perfect applicants were accepted (at least 5' 11', couldn't have any teeth filled, blond hair, blue eyes, yadda, yadda, yadda). Once graduated, the young men would be sent to Himmler, who would determine their position of command. The Schutzstaffel began as protection to Hitler although they expanded into intelligence, executioners, and fully mobile military units, and served as a sort of mystical brotherhood. Members usually consisted of gentry, nobility, and the educated upper and middle classes. Only those who were "racially pure" could be accepted. Lovely history lesson for ya, seeing as how I can be incredibly obscure in terms of my allusions and referencing.

Sayonara:

LMC