Embracing His True Self

Chapter 2

Tom Riddle

Harry watched the scenery passing, the lush green fields and trees, and birds flying overhead, but he wasn't really seeing it. His mind was miles away, thinking about everything that had happened since That Day, as he liked to call it. Of course he had played his part ― the part Dumbledore expected from his little hero. It was difficult, more so now than it had ever been, although he wasn't quite sure why. A few months ago, everyone had been hovering around him, in awe of him after seeing his moves on his Firebolt, fighting the Dragon. Yet once again they had turned on him, and he was quite frankly tired of it. He almost wanted to give them a real reason to hate him. The fact that Dumbledore kept going on about Voldemort wasn't helping either, it was as if the Headmaster wanted as much negative attention on him as possible.

Bartemius 'Barty' Crouch Junior was now a wanted man, an escapee from Azkaban prison. Which of course Fudge was blaming Sirius Black for, insisting that they both got away at the same time, without anyone realizing Crouch was missing until now. Despite that announcement, Harry was still being accused of murdering Cedric Diggory; apparently not even his wand or memories were good enough evidence to prove Voldemort was back.

After Crouch got away, Dumbledore had forced him up to his office to recount everything that had happened. The old fart was seemingly unbothered by the fact his leg was bleeding enormously, especially as the blood was seeping through the bandages he'd attempted to make before his duel with Voldemort. To him that wasn't the worst of it; his entire body had ached, and the adrenaline had long ago stopped pumping through his veins. His body had been shaking intermittently, the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse that had been cast on him. By the time Dumbledore had got him down to the Hospital wing he had been dead on his feet, dizzy with blood loss. He certainly didn't need the Dreamless sleeping potion foisted upon him, but he'd taken it regardless. Say what he liked, but it was the best sleep he'd ever had in his life, before he had to face the reality.

For once in his life he was glad Voldemort seemed to wait until the end of the year to finalize his schemes. So he didn't have to put up with everyone glaring at him in disgust. Or see the pity in his friends' gazes as they tried to draw him out of his 'depression'. The Dursleys looking at him in disgust he could handle, after all he was used to that. He should be used to the idiots at the school turning him into a convenient scapegoat, but he wasn't. Leaning his head against the cool glass, once again he wanted nothing more than to give them a reason to hate him. He was tired of it, the constant stares and whispers; he just wanted to blend in with the night and disappear.

Hogwarts seemed to become less and less like home to him; he had nowhere he could just sit and relax. At Privet Drive he was treated worse than Dobby the House-Elf had been; he was degraded, beaten, and made to slave over every part of the house. Now Hogwarts? Well, there he had to watch his back from everyone and everything; he had to put on a show of being the 'Boy-Who-Lived'.

Home... he'd give his wand arm to have somewhere he could call just that.

"Harry? Are you okay?" Hermione asked looking at him in concern, her brown eyes filled with apprehension as if she feared he might snap at any given moment.

"He's fine, Mione, leave him alone," Ron said shaking his head; girls, honestly.

"Anything off the trolley?" asked the Witch as the compartment doors parted, showing the large sweet-filled cart she was pulling.

Ron perked up, salivating at all the sweets available for purchase. He looked over at Harry, before frowning; the dark-haired boy wasn't even looking at the door. "Harry?" Ron called, becoming concerned himself now. Harry always bought lots of sweets from the cart, both coming to and going from Hogwarts.

"No thanks," Harry muttered, his breath steaming up the window in the compartment.

Ron looked devastated, watching the Witch close the doors and continue on, calling on all other compartments to see if they wanted anything. He could scarcely believe Harry wasn't getting anything; he always, always bought stuff for them to eat. The added benefit was that Hermione barely touched any either, so it was more for him. Hermione's parents were something called dentists, that look after teeth... which was odd, but since Muggles didn't have any magic, he supposed it made sense.

"You should be eating something healthy anyway," said Hermione in what was probably meant as a soothing, consoling manner, but it came out as smug. It helped that she wouldn't need to sit and watch them gorge themselves on a mountain of sugar and become hyper.

"Shut up, 'Mione," Ron muttered, his bitterness bleeding through.

Hermione huffed before diving for her bag, bringing out a book and quickly immersing herself in it. The brooding trio remained silent for the rest of the ride home. Harry was very grateful for that, he just wasn't in the mood to put up with them right now. It didn't help that they'd gone to the Headmaster's office before leaving for the train, and then lied about where they'd been.

Harry didn't even look up when the conductor announced they would be in Kings Cross in less than five minutes. There was no point to him rushing to get off the train, since Vernon was always late; it was just another way to show just how insignificant he was to the man.

"Harry, come on, we have to go," Hermione said, sounding as though she was trying to coax a dog from under the bed or out of the house. Without waiting to see if he moved, Ron helped her down with her trunk; unfortunately on this end they couldn't use magic like they had to get them onboard. At least not until they turned seventeen, then she'd be able to freely use it. That time couldn't come soon enough―she couldn't wait.

"Thanks," Hermione said, in her own way making up with Ron, not wanting to leave things sour, especially now that she knew the Weasleys and herself would be going to Grimmauld Place for the holidays. They were in danger because they were friends with Harry, and they needed to be protected. She took whatever Professor Dumbledore said seriously, especially now, and she would do it. She would go to Grimmauld Place, she wouldn't write to Harry and would keep him safe; the Headmaster knew best, after all.

Together they also got Harry's trunk down, seeing as he hadn't moved. Hermione was becoming increasingly agitated by Harry's ignorance. The way the ride was going, she wouldn't have a problem not writing all summer! This was ridiculous; sure, it had been something difficult Harry had been through, but did he need to go into a strop? Looking out the window she realized they were in the tunnel and had nearly come to the platform.

As soon as the train came to a jerky stop, they left the compartment, and made their way off the train. Weaving in and out of the other students and their parents, they slipped through the magical barrier protecting the train and magical entrance. Nobody even paid the slightest bit of attention to them as they appeared.

"Look, your parents," Hermione said pointing a finger and giving Ron a general direction to them.

"Is that Mad-Eye Moody? What's he doing here? Is it really him?" Ron asked, surprised to see the old Auror up and about so quickly. Everyone knew the teacher they'd had all year hadn't been the paranoid Auror, but a Death Eater in disguise using Poly-Juice Potion. Nobody could deny they'd actually learnt a ton of stuff that year though, even if it had been scum teaching them.

"Harry, your Uncle is there," Hermione commented watching the man, he looked very uncomfortable around the wizards.

Harry wanted to close his eyes and curse; his Uncle was out there beside the Weasleys? Quickly marching himself towards his Uncle he prayed the man hadn't been there too long. Although it was obviously long enough; he looked furious. As he got closer, Harry realized why: Moody was threatening him. What the fuck? Why would the idiot do something like that? As soon as he got home he knew he would be in for it. Moody gave him a sick parody of what was meant to be a reassuring smile, but Harry paid him no mind. What caught his attention was why he would be threatening Vernon anyway? He never told anyone about the abuse, except Dumbledore. They were deliberately riling him up, Harry had to stop himself from cursing violently.

"We'll see you later, alright mate?" Ron said, not promising to write like he normally would.

Harry nodded, catching on to the fact that Ron wasn't his normal consoling self; if anything, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead he just clicked his jaw shut, looking awkwardly at his parents before walking towards them.

"Be careful, Harry," Hermione quietly said, before she too wandered away towards Ron and the Weasleys.

Harry quickly made his hasty exit, with his Uncle practically running from the station; for a big man he sure could move when he wanted to. He had noticed the lack of Hermione's parents, was she staying with the Weasleys? Had that been why she had gone with Ron to the Headmaster's office? If that was the case, why lie about it? It was such a stupid thing to be deceitful about. But of course he knew it was something more.

Meanwhile in a very secure unknown location...

Tom Riddle was better known by everyone as Lord Voldemort, by those courageous enough to say that, and You-Know-Who, by the media and those terrified of the mere mention of him. He'd made a promise to himself that he would be the most powerful wizard alive, and that everyone would be petrified to mention him by name. He had been thirteen years of age then…the world had been his oyster, ripe for the taking. Or so he'd thought; regretfully, the world wasn't as simple as he'd assumed it to be. It wasn't as easy to get his point across to everyone, like it had been to convince the other Slytherins…the first of his followers.

He'd lived up to that promise, for everyone other than two or three people in particular who dared to mention his pseudonym, and those worse ones, who dared mention his Muggle name. Or rather more accurately, the one wizard who dared mention his Muggle name: Dumbledore.

Once he'd sent everyone away, he Apparated himself and Nagini from the graveyard to his home. Barty had done him extremely proud. He had, after all, managed to successfully fool Albus Dumbledore for an entire school year, not only into believing he wasn't a Death Eater, but into believing he was Alastor 'Mad Eye' Moody. Young Crouch had saved him, now it was his responsibility to protect Barty, from the Aurors, from the Order, and most importantly from himself.

Tom had been sceptical about the entire thing being pulled off; Crouch just wasn't in his right mind. After being held under the Imperious Curse by Crouch Sr. for going on thirteen years, it would take him a long time to return to the Barty he'd known. Of course, Tom would have to ensure he was appropriately punished for what he did just after he was…temporarily defeated. There were many things he tolerated that others wouldn't, but torturing magical people into insanity wasn't one of them. The magical world wasn't big enough to willfully spill magical blood. That was madness; the only mitigating factor that was keeping Crouch Jr. alive was the fact that the Longbottoms had been actively pursuing him, and were both Order members.

They were idiots; they didn't even know what they were fighting for, just following Dumbledore's every move and all his orders, hoping for the best. He looked up at his manor, one he'd succeeded in keeping a secret from everyone. He'd had his family build it, those who had the ability to build anyway; they'd been paid generously for their time. The land had belonged to his true ancestor, Salazar Slytherin; it had been in his family since the same year as the inception of Hogwarts. Using those ninety acres of land for the proposed school had been the first suggestion from Slytherin that Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw turned down, for one reason or another. It had turned out to be a good thing, since this property was extremely well hidden. In fact, nobody else now knew such a building existed and that's the way Voldemort wanted it. He'd never even seen it finished before he'd met his untimely defeat. Gazing at it now, his sharp red eyes were taking in his surroundings; as always he was cautious, never truly let his guard down anywhere. Although if there was a place where he could relax, it would be here.

'Rats, Master, so many rats,' hissed Nagini, her snake tongue flickering out as she tasted the air and the very heartbeat of the animal she hungered for.

"Go and get them, Nagini, and I promise, soon you'll eat the one you want," Voldemort hissed back, his long pale hand caressing down the scales of his beloved familiar. No, she was more than a familiar; they were both connected on a level that a normal wizard could only dream of. He had been lucky to find her, and he vowed to keep her close at all times. "Do not go far."

"Yes, Master," Nagini hissed in acknowledgment before she slithered off, her eyes bright with the enjoyment and thrill of chasing live prey.

Voldemort watched her go before he ventured inside the manor, which had been specifically built to suit his tastes. The interior and exterior had all been kept in perfect condition; good, it meant the House-Elves had stayed on and kept it clean. It was just a pity his Death Eaters hadn't had the same loyalty. Stepping inside, he could feel the wards expand from inside his chest. He could now feel everything, every animal within clear shot of the wards, especially Nagini.

Voldemort wandered around his new home for a while. Most of it was empty; it would need to be furnished, but he had House-Elves for that. It wasn't like he could go shopping for the things he needed, after all. At least not without the shop workers passing out on him, or being surrounded by Aurors before he could think about paying. Smirking at the thought, Voldemort entered the Master bedroom and sat down on what was probably the only bed in the building. Laying down, he relaxed and relished the feel of having a body once more. Part of him had feared this would never happen; ever since he'd heard part of that Prophecy his life had gone from great to down the toilet. Red eyes gleaming, he realized he had to hear it all. He needed that prophecy, but how to get it without alerting anyone that he was back? If he knew the Ministry like he thought he did, they would not believe he had returned, such was the fear he had over them.

Potter... the boy was the most infuriating person on the planet. How he kept evading him, Voldemort did not know, but he didn't like it. Sitting up, his brow furrowing, he remembered what Potter had said to him: That he would need to feed someone else to Nagini since he got away; he'd never said anything like that tonight. He had promised Nagini that she could eat Potter after he was dead… but that had been months ago. He had been speaking Parseltongue then, and so had Potter tonight. His flat nostrils flared; how had Potter managed to get such a gift? Parseltongue was for Slytherin's descendents only; something wasn't right. Not only had the boy known of his conversation with Nagini, but he'd understood it― how and why?

He had to get his faithful followers out of Azkaban; thirteen years stuck in that hell hole with Dementors for company, he'd be lucky to have them back sane. The Lestranges had been his most faithful followers, even if they were a bit extreme―especially Bellatrix, although she was only a Lestrange through marriage. Rabastan and Rodolphus were a little more laid back, probably thanks to their father's influence, one of his earliest friends. Rastaban had helped him gather the Slytherins together, forming a side apart from Dumbledore, who was unfortunately the only one anyone else would listen to. Even before Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald people had been vying for him to help. When he'd actually defeated him, it got worse. Voldemort's points and ideas had been ignored, and then he'd created more and more Horcruxes, and become extremely mentally unstable. Especially after gaining the knowledge that there was someone out there who could bring about his downfall. It didn't help that the boy had managed to successfully escape him three times ...

No, that was wrong; it wasn't just three times, was it? According to Potter, they'd had another encounter in the Chamber of Secrets. That did infuriate him; it had taken him years to find that chamber, and Potter was only now fourteen. And with the eye Crouch had kept on him, he doubted it was this year, so... three years it had taken him. He couldn't help but very grudgingly admitting the boy was resourceful when he needed to be. Four times he had survived clashes with him, more than any other on the planet.

Just wait until he found out it hadn't even taken Harry two years to find its location.

His fist clenched when he realized there was only one way the Chamber could have come into play. At the age of sixteen when he had created his first Horcrux, he'd been determined to finish Salazar's noble work. Such an arrogant teenager he had been, with goals as low as killing children. He'd wanted to purge Hogwarts of the filthy little Mudbloods; this was before he realized what he himself was. To close friends it hadn't mattered; the fact he had Slytherin blood running through his veins was enough.

He'd always assumed his mother had been the Muggle, and his father had been the magical wizard. Unfortunately, the inability to attain any information on the Riddle name had left him to come to terms with the realization that his father wasn't magical. It had all come to a head when his maternal uncle had said he looked like his filthy Muggle father. When he'd found this out, he had been furious, enough to kill them all with the killing curse and modify Morfin's memory, making him think he had in fact killed the Riddle family. It wasn't hard to belief; after all, he had been sentenced to Azkaban before for using magic on Muggles….the very same Muggles to be precise.

He'd planned on leaving behind a diary that would finish his and Salazar's noble work; he had kept that diary... until he gave it to Lucius Malfoy with instructions on keeping it safe. Just how had it ended up in Harry Potter's hands? Perhaps he had been too hasty in forgiving Lucius; once he had more energy and Pettigrew was here, he would call the wizard and get his explanation. He knew that, either way, he wasn't going to be happy.

"Wormtail," Voldemort hissed, his eyes flashing red in suppressed irritation, he loathed showing any sign of weakness, especially to Wormtail."Bring me my potions, immediately!"

Pettigrew squeaked in surprise, not having expected orders so soon. He had, after all, only literally just stepped into the main hall where the Dark Lord was sitting. His Animagus form was handy for more than just avoiding detection. His sense of smell was greater when he was a rat; it had led his nose straight to his Master. Knowing better than to delay, he turned right back out the door and scurried away to the Potions Laboratory. He knew what Potions his Master was demanding; opening the lab door he shivered in cold and fear. He had always been terrified of Severus Snape; even joining the Dark Lord as he had didn't quash that out of him.

"What are you doing here?" Snape sneered, glaring at the rat and wanting nothing more than to kill the thing. Yet he did not, he continued preparing to brew the potions his Lord had demanded despite the interruption. He knew one day Pettigrew would screw up, and he would wait until then; he would have a free rein after that. Oh, the torture he wanted to inflict on Pettigrew; it would be heaven. He had been at a meeting with the Dark Lord for two hours revealing everything from the past thirteen years since his downfall. Dumbledore knew he was there, he'd demanded he returned which is exactly what he had done as soon as the students left on the train and the term ended hours ago.

Pettigrew didn't reply, he just snivelled as he wandered over to the potion supplies. With shaking hands, almost dropping them in the process, he grasped two potions vials before bolting from the room. He found himself flushing red in humiliation at hearing the derisive snort that followed him out. Why was Snape here? He hadn't been faithful! Snape hadn't found their Lord, he had. He alone had set out to find him, rescued him, and restored him back to his old self. Instead of seeing the ones that terrified him writhing in agony, they'd gotten away with it. What happened at the graveyard didn't count! That was no punishment, that was just a slap on the wrist. He had so looked forward to their screams, but no, they were walking around pain-free.

Opening the door to the Hall once more, the overweight weak wizard scampered in, hastily handing both potions to his Master. "Can I get anything else for you, My Lord?" Pettigrew eagerly asked, ready to prove his worth. Almost as eagerly as he was to get away, but unfortunately he had nowhere to go. He couldn't even spend time in his Animagus form here, it was too risky; he didn't want to be eaten by Nagini ― as his Master had threatened often enough.

"No, be gone," Voldemort snapped, knowing the rat wouldn't go too far. He was nauseated by the sight of him, the smell of him, and the incessant snivelling. To begin with it had been amusing, but it had become old extremely fast. It didn't help that he was tiring so easily; his new body would take a while to recuperate to the point that he could do what he always did: cause chaos and despair. He had kept Pettigrew out of sight, never letting him attend meetings unless he was hidden in his Animagus form. For good reason, he'd been a useful spy, but with the Potters gone and his true loyalties known, as well as his ability, Pettigrew was quite frankly useless to him. Fortunately for him, Pettigrew had brought him back, even if it was out of sheer cowardice. Shaking off his thoughts, Voldemort uncorked the vials and swallowed both potions one at a time. One was a pepper-up potion and the other would help strengthen his magic. Barely grimacing, he banished the vials. He would be taking the potions for months, he suspected, which was why Severus was in the lab brewing enough to last him. Once the Potions Master was done, he would be returning to Hogwarts to report to the old fool.

Speaking of his spy, he had grilled him for two hours on everything that had happened since he was gone. Of course, until four years ago, there was nothing much worth reporting. Oh, then the information he'd received was extensive, to say the least. Most of it he already knew; Severus had not known he was on the back of Quirrell and had fought to keep the Philosopher's Stone from a mediocre wizard ― and in doing so had gained more trust from the blind old fool he was trying to get in good graces with. Understandable, since it was the first true chance he had to prove he had 'changed'; the expression on Severus' face had almost made him laugh. The spy had an answer for everything; if he was honest, Voldemort despaired at the thought Dumbledore had truly converted his good friend. He trusted Severus more than any other, perhaps because of their similarities. The fact he drank the potions Snape made, said more about how trusted he was than anything else ever could, really.

The stone had regrettably been destroyed in the aftermath, according to Severus, who had confessed to listening in on conversations when he could. Then it had been confirmed that Potter was indeed a Parselmouth, and he finally gained an answer to the mystery surrounding his diary. Not that Severus knew what it was; none of his followers knew exactly what he'd done to achieve immortality. Or as immortal as one could become in this life. Potter had found the damn entrance in less than a year; the boy was utterly infuriating, and there wasn't a word to truly describe him. How the boy was in Gryffindor he didn't know. Potter was resourceful, too resourceful if he was honest. Lucius had slipped his beloved diary into Ginny Weasley's possession, and she had used it. For a pureblood Witch it was a foolish and idiotic mistake to make. If anything, he would have given it to a Muggle-born who wouldn't have understood how dangerous such an item was. Severus commented on Dumbledore stating that Harry had defeated the 'Monster' in the chamber. Voldemort knew what it was, and it baffled him; just how in the blazes had Potter, a twelve-year-old, successfully defeat a sixty-foot basilisk? What the hell had Dumbledore been teaching him? He must have found some way to educate him, despite the fact he lived with Muggles. There was absolutely no other explanation possible. It truly was a shame to kill someone so capable; Potter was exactly what he looked for in his followers: Someone strong, powerful, magically competent, and extremely intelligent. He had to kill the boy before he got even more powerful and further trained by Dumbledore. He wasn't going to allow the light to win, he couldn't; he'd put his entire life into being heard... and he'd be damned if he quit now.

Potter's third year had been quiet, all things considered; he had learned about Pettigrew's betrayal and gave him the opening he'd needed. His survival revealed to Dumbledore, Wormtail had no choice but to come to him, to save himself from the werewolf and Black's heir, putting into motion the events of this year. Voldemort had to admire the way the boy had completed the tasks, even with Barty at the helm trying to help; he'd done better than any of them dreamed of. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to admire the boy, yet only a fool didn't give their opponent or enemy the respect they deserved... If it was deserved, and in this case it regretfully was.

The boy was calm in the face of adversity; this was the biggest worry for him. He hadn't seen any sign of real panic on the boy; he'd never been tongue-tied, and had openly insisted on defying him. The brat had guts in spades; nobody ever spoke to him in that manner, not even Dumbledore; Dumbledore liked to scold him as if he was an errant child. This set him on edge, admittedly…but the boy ― the boy regarded him impassively with a mouth on him that would get him in trouble.

This all troubled him, but not as much as the fact the boy had known something he couldn't... shouldn't possibly have known. He had promised Potter to Nagini, after he dealt the killing blow; he had been speaking in Parseltongue and in the old, now run-down Riddle Mansion. If the boy had seen that what else had he seen? How could he see it? That was the point, how and why? The blasted boy couldn't possibly be a seer, so what was it? He wouldn't rest easy until he had figured it out. Standing up, Voldemort moved from the main hall and back towards the bedroom; he could feel his body weakening, and he absolutely refused to let anyone see him in such a state. It had been mortifying having to have Wormtail feed him and see him so weak; now that he was back, he wouldn't allow it a single second more.

Sweating by the time he got to his bedroom, he closed the door and the wards immediately flared to life. It had taken a great deal of his magic and strength to set them, but he didn't care. He didn't want anyone disturbing him in here, and soon the manor would be filled with his followers. Those currently in Azkaban wouldn't have anywhere else to go once he got them out of that hell hole. He would need to employ the services of Grant once again, to heal the damage done by thirteen long years in Azkaban. Grant was a healer, one of the best; he'd been neutral until his daughter had been beaten savagely by a Muggle-born wizard, almost killing her. Since then he'd been firmly on Voldemort's side, helping when needed. He always paid Grant handsomely for his services; he had never marked him. He had a lot of followers out there in key places that he hadn't marked, when it became apparent that the Dark Mark wasn't so secret anymore.

Lying down on the bed, Voldemort groaned in relief as his aching body relaxed again; he hated this needing to lie down every few hours. He had things to do; he couldn't continue on as he was. He'd sent word to Lucius to get the layout of Azkaban; after he had those plans he would show Lucius the error of his ways. He would also need to send word to the Giants and other creatures, he had alliances to build; he couldn't win the war with his Death Eaters alone. No matter how powerful they were, or determined, he needed a heavy arsenal at his beck and call; who better than the werewolves, vampires, Trolls and Giants? It would take Fenrir time to round up his old pack, and garner new supporters along the way, perhaps too long; he would have to wait and see.

Patience had never been a virtue that he possessed…at least not in a good long while.

Later that night

"My Lord," Barty said bowing low reverently. His Lord was back after all this time, something he hadn't given up hope for... but fearing it would never come true. He had successfully Apparated away from Hogwarts, his Apparation had been slightly off, and he'd had to walk the rest of the way, stopping for a rest now and again.

"Stand up," the Dark Lord hissed; he watched Barty become confused and do as he bade him immediately. This definitely wasn't the Barty he knew; Barty had proved himself before his demise and thus hadn't had to bow since. He had the lower levels bow to remind them of the hold he had on them; whom they had sworn their allegiance to; who they would protect. He knew Barty wasn't himself, and how he had succeeded in fooling Dumbledore for so long was a true mystery. "When did Bartemius Crouch subjugate himself to me?" the wizard hissed, hurt flashing in his eyes before it was gone; nobody would believe it if they had seen it.

"My Lord?" questioned Barty weakly; he didn't understand the Dark Lord's question. The scene with Potter flashed through his eyes, he didn't resist allowing his Lord to see all. Voldemort dug further still, past his murky memories of being under the Imperious curse. Past the memories of his time in Azkaban, past his trial…where he'd begged his parents to help him (refusing him, much to his despair), and back to his capture of the Aurors. Barty, Rodolphus, and Rabastan had barely touched the two Aurors. A few Cruciatus curses had been cast by them, yes; mostly they'd just subdued the Longbottoms. The person causing the everlasting damage was Bellatrix. She hadn't listened to them when they'd tried to get her to ease off, yet they'd loyally stuck by her side as he'd made sure his Death Eaters did. They had been arrested with her, despite the fact they hadn't caused the Longbottoms' insanity. Barty's biggest fear was not being loyal enough to his Lord…whom he thought of as a father.

"You are loyal, Barty, I know that, never fear…" Voldemort said, his voice soft and soothing. He removed himself from the wizard's mind, easing softly out, not wanting to cause further damage to the wizard... whom he also owed his rebirth to. Barty was all but face down on the floor, exhausted and shivering, yet never resisting. "Amita!"

"Yes, Sir?" a House-Elf appeared, gazing eagerly at Voldemort ― ready to serve him.

"Take Barty to the Blue room; ensure he bathes, feed him, then help him into bed. Grant will be here to see him first thing in the morning," Voldemort ordered, just as he demanded everyone else to do things for him. Amita, however, didn't mind since this was what she was born to do: serve.

"Sir?" Barty asked, looked quite baffled; he hadn't seen such a caring side to the Dark Lord in a very long time.

"Go," repeated Voldemort, his tone deadlier. Barty hadn't been in his inner circle long enough to know he treated those followers differently. Not only were they allowed in his home, but they received certain benefits that most his supporters did not. Mostly, that they could speak to him about ideas, as long as they were respectful about it. Unfortunately that had stopped when he became obsessed over the prophecy. Regretfully his followers had paid the price, but with a little luck he could earn their complete respect back. He wasn't a stupid wizard; he knew, deep down they had all but given up on him during that last year before he'd met his untimely end. He surmised that was why none of his loyal followers had tried too hard to look for him. To them he had crossed a line, trying to hunt down and kill a one-year-old boy, especially those who had children in his own circle. His hastiness and obsession had been his downfall; if he had listened to the others perhaps things would have been different.

"Come, Mister Barty," Amita said; the female Elf touched him and they both disappeared.

He relaxed slightly then, knowing he had to pace himself; Lucius would be arriving soon and he wasn't going to be weak for this meeting. Oh no, once Lucius showed up he was going to make sure the wizard knew who served whom.

"Devika!" Voldemort called after a few minutes of silent contemplation.

"How may Devika help Master?" asked the House-Elf popping in; this elf was female also.

"Retrieve my potions," Voldemort demanded, She knew what to get, since she'd gotten them before; he refused to call upon Pettigrew unless he must.

"Yes, sir," she replied. They never called their Master anything other than Sir or Master. Master You-Know-Who would have been a mouthful, besides sounding ridiculous.

R&R