Chapter 7: Ducking off for Tea with You-Know-Who
"I bet these are the stairs he pushed that bird off all of those years ago…"
"Come off it, Lestrange."
Two long and lithe masses lurked by a mahogany balustrade, oil lamps lining the wall of the corridor stretching out behind; casting a weak glow over the wooden panelling entombing them with dust and cabinets of family heirlooms.
"What?" Lestrange asked, aiming for innocence but achieving something akin to a sneer, "Like you haven't wondered, Nott – what with all of these meetings happening here in the old Montague house..."
"It's not that old," said Nott. He gripped the balustrade and gave it a bracing shake to test its integrity, "And Margaret only kicked the bucket around a decade ago, the house elf's kept it in alright condition…"
"That doesn't look like blood, does it?" said Lestrange, his own hands resting on the balustrade. He nodded down at a darkened section of floorboards, stained with something more than varnish, "Down there on the floor?"
"I insist that you cease this silliness."
"Rumour has it, she was pregnant."
Just as Nott glared around at his only company, one more shadow joined them.
"Ghost stories, gentleman?"
The two whipped around, finding a tall, dark-haired man.
"What are you doing here?" spat Lestrange, his wand slipping into his hand from his embroidered sleeve.
The man, fairer than both of his younger companions in every way, simply glanced at the wand; unperturbed.
"The most accomplished sorcerer of the century requested I be here this evening," said the man, making a show of opening his arms, "So I am here."
"Enter." The voice came not from any of their lips, but from inside each of their heads.
The three fell into a swift silence and strode across the corridor into the only lit room in the Wiltshire Manor, their altercation forgotten.
Dozens of colourless-robed men and women were already lining the walls of would have once been a beautiful marble-floored ballroom. In the centre was a man; more decadently robed than any other in the room.
At the addition of the three from the corridor, the door slammed shut.
"It failed?" Voldemort said rather than asked. He raised his eyebrows and peered around at his followers in accusation.
"It failed, my lord," said an auburn-haired man, kneeling, "I beg your pardon for bringing such news."
"You are pardoned,"
With a lazy flick of his wand, green light seized the kneeling man, silent in itself but followed by a hollow THUD. When the green had abated from the edges of everyone's vision, they found the man on the floorboards with his face in the dust.
"From life."
"My lord…" said the dark-haired man from earlier, bowing his own head, "If it were anyone's fault that he didn't succeed… surely it is my own."
"And yet here you still stand," said Voldemort, pacing along the length of the body on the floorboards, "I believe that your friends affectionately call you 'Lucky', am I right?"
The man nodded, "You are always right, my lord."
Voldemort watched him; he knew that, but he didn't dare meet his increasingly red eyes.
"And yet you still use your mental barriers to test my…intuition."
"My lord, I am most apologetic," said the man, lifting his eyes briefly, "It is only habit."
Voldemort waved a hand and looked away himself, pacing again, "Details of your incompetence don't interest me,"
"The old fool has taken to setting up an armed guard of his phoenix friends inside the ministry,"
Voldemort frowned in false sympathy.
"I had to spill the blood of a good family name in our last attempt at the Ministry… a good family turned traitors…convoluting with mudbloods…"
His lips pulled back over his teeth; baring them in the most disdainful of sneers.
"Someone will see that the rest of the family is also punished for their…misgivings…" Voldemort held out a spidery hand, closing it around thin air and bringing it to his chest, "As of yet, Hogwarts is still…just out of my reach…"
A few glances were thrown around the room, those with spots visible on their shadowed faces the culprits.
"Cygnus Black heard half of the prophecy when he was still in Hogwarts," continued Voldemort, slowing by the table and placing his hands down, "But this is not enough,"
Silence blared in the room at his pause.
"We will concentrate all of our efforts on the Department of Mysteries from now on."
"My lord?" said a voice from the other end of the table, "Alastor Moody is part of the guard."
"Rosier, I shouldn't think that an issue," said Voldemort, flicking his hand listlessly, "Take your cousin Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus, if you must."
"Yes, my lord." said Rosier.
He earned a glare from Rodolphus and the most imperceptive of lip twitches from Bellatrix.
"Lucky, stay for tea, the rest of you are dismissed."
It wasn't until the room was cleared of all but two that the man dubbed 'Lucky' spoke. He watched closely as the raven-haired man flicked his wand to get all the fixings of tea jumping into action.
"I am honoured, my lord, but rather confused by your request of me," he said, his brow furrowed as he motioned his left arm, "I don't even bear the mark."
"For good reason, you know that," said Voldemort, lounging on a settee. He sighed as he cast a forearm across his eyes, "I find myself troubled lately…"
Voldemort wasn't the only one.
The other man in the room was deeply troubled by the connotations of being privy to a relaxed Dark Wizard.
"Troubled, my lord?" he asked dutifully, taking a teacup that persistently nudged his arm from where it was levitated in the air.
"Yes, quite," said Voldemort, taking a long sip from his own cup, "I heard a smidgeon more of my fate when I paid a visit to my dear former potions Professor after Cygnus Black brought me such delightful news… over a decade ago now…"
The red of Voldemort's eyes became less so, a slicing green instead fixing the other man over the teacup.
"I'm sure you have your reasons for withholding this from the rest of your followers."
"Yes," said Voldemort. His tone was suddenly lighter, "Yes, I do,"
The man nodded once. He finally took a sip of his own tea, satisfied that it wasn't poison as it came from the same teapot as the Dark Wizard.
"What do you know of love, Lucky?"
He regretted the sip. It quivered and pulsed up and down his throat; scalding all the while.
"Love, my lord?"
"Yes…love." said Voldemort, mouth twisting around the word.
"I have resigned myself to an existence without it," said the man, placing his teacup on the saucer and then even further down onto the table, "It's dangerous."
"Powerful?"
"I don't see those words as being symbiotic, my lord; no."
Voldemort nodded and blinked, far away for a short moment
"What about breeding the next generation to rise with me?"
"I'm sure that the Black family will have you well-equipped with soldiers until the end of your days." said the man, bowing his head.
"I had thought so too,"
A sigh was the last thing the man expected from Voldemort, who then went on to blink mournfully.
"But… Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier… Orion and Walburga Black… so admirably set on breeding a generation conforming to my ideals… with immense talent… have failed to do so…"
Voldemort stared into the flames of the fireplace.
"Their offspring have taken to marrying mudbloods… befriending half-breeds and blood-traitors…" his teeth became bared once more, "It makes me sick…"
"What of Bellatrix? And her sister Narcissa – she has just announced her betrothal to the Malfoy heir?" asked the man.
A wry smile was bestowed upon him, "Bellatrix is blinded and besotted by my appearance… fading already… but still, fading…"
A spidery hand was, once again, lifted. In the moonlight streaming through the grimy window, it became apparent that the skin was flaking and discolouring.
He remembered the summer it had happened… only two ago…
Bellatrix had just married a newly marked Rodolphus Lestrange and they were hosting a winter ball, to show how well they were settling into their union. Bellatrix pretended to not know about his mistresses. Meanwhile, Rodolphus pretended to not notice his self-depleting liquor cabinet. Her sister had just run off and married a muggleborn, being promptly disowned. It was a shame he didn't quite understand – or want to.
"Without a word?! Without a goodbye?!" Bellatrix had screeched, "We are born into this privilege! It is our birth-rite to rise above some common actions and set a standard for how purebloods should behave!"
It was perfect timing. Bellatrix was a witch at the very heights of vulnerability and tied to a husband she did not want. There was a passion – malleable into devotion – simmering beneath her alabaster flesh.
It appealed to the darkest of lords, begging to be added to his arsenal by any means he knew possible.
"I'm…not…proud of it," said Voldemort slowly, shaking his head and clicking his tongue, "Witches and their acceptance of a Wizard's wiles…"
"You're still young, my lord," the man gulped, "You could always take further advantage of Bellatrix's unfailing loyalty."
"As soon as I eliminate Miss Spencer, there will be no end to my days and no need for an heir."
It was as if all of the air seeped out of the room through the floorboards beneath their feet. Left was a choking, palpable silence.
"My lord?"
"I have found the…final solution…if you will." said Voldemort with a deceptive amount of detachedness.
It was, perhaps, the most important thing he had revealed all evening.
The man bowed his head to hide the disconcertedness he felt all the way to his spleen, "Very good, my lord."
"I find myself impressed with you, Lucky," said Voldemort. He placed down his teacup and stood, "You have proved a most faithful servant. You will receive the mark as soon as you are able."
The brushing down of his richly-embroidered emerald robes indicated his departure.
The man allowed relief to seep into his muscles despite the implication of the compliment, "There is no greater honour, my lord," lied the man, wetting his dry lips, "I find myself…stricken… with pride."
Voldemort inclined his head and swept across the floorboards. He paused at the hearth.
"One last thing,"
The man gulped, but lifted his eyes.
Voldemort had his own eyes set on the flames while he fondled his wand, "I've heard that she looks like her mother…"
The man's hands fell from where they were clasped behind his back. He used the fabric of his robes to wipe the sheen from his hands.
"Almost a perfect facsimile, my lord."
A mere nod, not approving nor condemning, was shadowed on the wall behind Voldemort.
"And what of her father?"
Voldemort's eyes left the fireplace with the burning intensity of the flames licking at his robes.
"A… great deal, my lord." said the man.
The bone-white man's fingers twitched around his wand, a tick in his jaw as he gave a hostile smile and a none-too-impressed response.
"How… interesting."
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! :)