Disclaimer: I wish that I owned Harry Potter. And Voldemort. And much, much more. That would make me happy. But alas, I will content myself with just writing this fanfic.

AN:...I...Am kind of scared. I haven't updated this in...about a year? August 7, 2005. It is currently September 26, 2006. Yeah. I apologize. Sincerely. And...I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't lynch me for taking so long (I actually have been working on it for about this entire year.) I also apologize for any spelling errors (though I did my best to catch any that came up!), because my spellchecker is broken, and I feel guilty about taking extra time away to run this through a spellcheck website.

Chapter 6: Stories and Plans

"And then he did what?" Sarah squealed. Petigrew leaned forward and continued, enjoying the rapt attention of his audience.

"He summoned all his followers. All except me, of course," he added, not hiding the smug tone in his voice. "Because I was already there. And he told them off. Malfoy was about to wet his pants, as guilty as he was, making himself a traitorous fortune while the rest of us suffered in silence."

"You mean my Special Friend?" the girl hooted.

"The same!" Petigrew snickered. "And then," he took a breath, restoring the tone of awe that had come before. "As soon as he had their proper attention, he gave me…this!" He held up his silvery hand, beaming at it.

"So that's where you got it!" Sarah concluded, poking it.

"Yes. But that's not all. Just then…" he continued with his story, and she continued poking his hand, but he was too wrapped in his tale to be annoyed.

"'Ey, Volders?" Sarah asked, flopping down in her couch. He gave no sign of having heard her. His head was still bent over the expanse of papers that was strewn across the floor. "Volders? Voooolders?" Losing patience, she snatched away the paper that seemed to have captured the majority of his attention: it looked like the floor plan of some building.

"What is it?" he grated, trying to grab the paper back, only to have it pulled out of his reach.

"What? Are you trying to start a business or something?" she asked, scrutinizing the paper. "Or are you trying to rob somebody?"

"Accio," Voldemort muttered, and the floor plan flew from her hands into his. Apparently, he could still use magic on the objects around her; only Sarah herself seemed to be immune. "What is it?" he repeated.

"I wanted to ask you something," she said, still examining the papers that lay below her. For an expectant moment, he waited.

"Well?" he pressed.

"You were trying to kill that Harry Potter kid, right?" He twitched; she had definitely jostled a nerve.

"Yes," he growled.

"But you didn't. That makes enough sense. But…" At this point he swore to make Wormtail pay for telling her that story. Even if it had shut her up for a few hours. "Why on earth did you go back and try it again? I mean, if it didn't work the first time, what made you so sure that things would be any different the next time around?"

"Because of an irritating ordeal concerning a prophesy."

"A prophesy?"

"I have work to do, Sarah."

"So what all was supposed to happen, in acordinance with the prophesy?"

"I'm sure you have something better to do right now." She paused for a moment, looking thoughtful.

"And I wanted to know, about this Harry Potter kid," she continued, nearly ignoring his request. "If everyone calls him 'the-boy-who-lived,' then what does that make you? The-man-who-let-the-boy-live?"

"I'm busy," he grumbled, shifting the papers pointedly. She was not to be dissuaded…although it wasn't difficult to distract her.

"Doing what?" she asked, thinking herself sly.

"Reclaiming an article of personal importance," he said, leaning closer to his papers, as though that would muffle her voice.

"You really are going to rob somebody!" she cried, something resembling awe or criticism in her voice.

"Yes," he said, grateful at least for a change of subject.

"Who?"

"Gringotts."

"Never heard of 'im."

"It's a bank," Voldemort said. He didn't bother becoming angry; his irritation would be lost on her anyway. "A wizard's bank." The girl raised an eyebrow.

"You have banks just for wizards?" she asked. "Can't you just use the same ones everyone else—I mean, the muggles—use?"

"No," the Dark Lord said dryly. "Muggle banks pathetically lack security. No wizard's money would be safe there…not that Muggles would carry our currency."

"Oh." Sarah picked up another paper from the scattered pile. "Dragons?" she murmured. "You have dragons? Real ones…" The diagram gave a detailed drawing of a fierce looking dragon, complete with notes detailing its most vulnerable points.

"They certainly aren't fake," Voldemort shrugged.

"And those…those are spells, aren't they? And alchemic charts…I saw those on TV once…" She looked absolutely delighted now. "You're really serious about this thing, aren't you?"

He glanced at her for a flickering moment. "Dead serious," he said. She grinned at him.

"You really like the concept of dying, don't you? Skulls, Death Eaters, and all that," she mused. He shrugged. "You might want to be careful about that," she continued. "People might get the wrong idea."

"They seem to be interpreting it perfectly," he said, a dark grin flitting across his pale face.

"I'm not so sure, Voldie-Poo," she said. "From what I've seen, usually that implies that you're mildly depressed and may be suffering from psychosis."

"What?" he eyed her warily.

"And a bit of a control freak. Maybe even mildly paranoid about being bald. But that's just a rough analysis. But if you want the Freudian—"

"What time is it?" he interrupted her, hoping to quell the absurdities that left her mouth before they became too extreme.

"'Bout half past eight. Why?"

"I have buisness to attend to," he muttered, compiling his papers and stowing them on a dusty shelf.

"Business?" she echoed, rolling off the couch. "Are you going to go rob that Grin-goats place now?"

"Gringotts," he corrected wearily. "And no."

"That graveyard, then?" she asked, freakishly excited to be surrounded by dead people. "You're going to go talk with your band?"

"Yes," he said flatly. He had already given up trying to convince her that his minions were not capable of anything that could ever be mistaken for music.

"Can I come?" He looked her in the eyes for a long moment, trying once again to understand why: why she was unaffected by his magic, why she was so eager to follow him around, why she inisted on staying.

"If I say no, you'll come anyway," he shrugged, walking out the door.

"True enough," she said, and came bounding through the doorway a moment later, following at his heels.

Lord Voldemort was powerful beyond compare, but even he had constraints to obey. Money, which had never before been a problem, suddenly seemed to be in bitterly short supply. Though he had more than enough, he quickly realized that if he had Sarah go shopping every time he planned to hold a meeting, he would either be forced to discontinue his pursuits or starve. Neither option sounded appealing.

Nor was the idea of having a "Grand Entry" every time he appeared before his followers. Unable to outrun the exstatic girl, he could only grimace while she slapped her knees in a childish drumroll and sounded a loud, imbacillic trumpet call.

"Announcing the man who needs no introduction, you all know him and love him, his grand high most cunning, the great LORD 'TOMMY-BOY' VOLDEMORT!" She completed the cry with a shower of rice that she had pilfered from the kitchen before they left. The Death Eaters just stared. Meanwhile Voldemort wondered whether it would be more appeasing to his ruined ego to kill them or himself.

"Malfoy," he hissed so only one could hear. The youngest of his minions looked up in reverent surprise.

"Me, my lord?" he asked, skirting his way to the Dark Lord's side.

"I have an assignment for you." A dreading excitement lit up in the boy's eyes. Similar enough to Sarah's, but far less annoying.

"I'll do whatever you ask, my lord," he rhasped. Lord Voldemort allowed slight satisfaction to brush past his eyes, and he pointed at Sarah.

"That girl. Keep her busy until the end of the meeting." The young minion's face dropped slightly.

"What?" he stammered involuntarily. Receiving his master's sharp glance, he bowed his head apologetically. "Right away, sir." Voldemort watched the boy slink to her side with the utmost satisfaction.

Sarah glanced up with mild amusement to see a blond haired young man, a few years older than herself, standing over her. He looked oddly like her 'Special Friend'—she grinned at the thought.

"My name's Draco," he said. "Could I have yours?"

"Sarah," she replied simply.

"Sarah, hm? It's a lovely name." She nodded a thanks at him, and he continued. "So, Sarah, what's a girl like you doing in a graveyard like this?" He sounded very practiced and suave. She blinked at him for a moment.

"Seems to be the place to be these days, doesn't it?" she waved her hand pointedly at the mass of Death Eaters that Voldemort was now adressing. He almost twitched, as though trying not to wrinkle his nose at her reply. She remembered seeing the same pulse on Voldemort's face.

"For some people, I suppose," he said with a smooth shrug. "But it seems a bit dreary for someone with such a pretty face."

There was an audible pause, and slowly, Sarah's eyebrow raised. The pause stretched into akwardness.

"Are you…hitting on me?" she asked slowly.

He blinked in reply.

"And you're…" she looked him up and down. "What? Three, four years older than me?" Slowly, subconciously, he nodded. She grimaced.

"Um…no thanks." She slid from the tombstone and began meandering subtlely away from him. He noticed with a note of panic that she was edging her way towards Lord Voldemort.

"But you're not being fair," he said, darting between her and his master, hoping that his haste hadn't diluted his charm. "The least you could do is give me a chance." He flashed her a smile that had sent several Slytherin girls into giggles. Sarah only looked uncomfortable.

"Maybe when I'm older," she said, sidling away. He paused for a few seconds.

"You're older now," he pointed out.

"Not old enough."

"And how old would that be?" He recited 'The Look'—that glance that could stun a teenage girl from a mile away. Her discomfort deepened.

"I'm thinking…Seventy. Yep. I'm strictly not allowed to date anyone before then. Sorry, Draco, but…"

For nearly two hours he herded her away from the Dark Lord, who continued watching them out of the corner of his eye while he conducted the meeting. He doubted that he had ever experienced a quieter moment since she had begun following him around. The experience was delectable, but short lived. The instant that the Death Eaters scattered to disapparate, she sprinted away from her pretend suitor, colliding with the Dark Lord with an unholy crash.

"Voldemort!" she squealed in distress, clinging to his arm. "Voldemort, help!" Somewhere during the impact, he had loosened his hold on his wand, and she wrenched it from his reach. "Voldemort, he's creepy! Make him leave me alooooone!" Young Malfoy looked less than thrilled to be described as 'creepy.' Altogether, he wasn't disappointed with the evening's accomplishments, but he could gloat later. At the moment he was wandless, and Sarah had him in her power.

"That will do," he said to Malfoy, who looked somewhat miffed and somewhat relieved to be released from his assignment, but he obediently bowed and backed away, disapperating with the others. "Come, Sarah," the Dark Lord said, with an unusually smug wave of his hand. She grinned and followed after, recalling her harrowing experience with 'that Draco skeeve'. He was content to listen to her story, and didn't release an irritated sigh when she finally returned his wand.

Lord Voldemort was in a mood that could not be shattered.

Becase Lord Voldemort finally had a plan.