Chapter Two is up! (But I guess you know that.) Thank you to all those who reviewed, favourited, followed or any combination thereof.
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Chapter Two: Pathways (Studies Have Shown Colour Coding Aids Memory)
The issue with trying to start a criminal empire, Tom had realised, was deciding where to begin.
He knew where he wanted to be, just not to how to get there. As it turned out, googling "how to start a criminal empire" was (in his case, at least) maybe 14% helpful at best. Most of the advice was something along the lines of either "don't fall in love/get blinded by pussy, because that shit gone turn on you", "get into debt with mysterious strangers with vaguely foreign accents" or "run for office".
None of that seemed like good advice, except perhaps the first. Even then, it was only marginally useful. Lord Voldemort did not waste his time courting pretty girls. (He'd scrapped the idea of being Lord Batman when he remembered that Batman stopped criminals. Lord Loki, on the other hand, had been tempting.)
Organising a murder, for instance, was surprisingly difficult. It had taken him far too long to manage the last one. Well, he smirked, the last series of murders, really. Offed them one by one, slowly and surely, then prettied them up just the way he wanted them found.
Unfortunately, something so spectacular would have to be followed up by something equally spectacular. Otherwise, he'd just be some wannabe, some punk-ass kid that old men would tell to get off their lawns.
He needed money, an ongoing source of it. A benevolent benefactor. A personal patron. A splendid sponsor. A marvellous money-maker (well, money granter, was more like it, but the alliteration was, in his opinion, rather charming). A generous… gentleman? That didn't sound right at all. He'd run out of words, so he figured it was probably better if he just stopped with the alliterations.
For all that this was a relatively small town, it hosted more than its fair share of wealth. Now he just had to pick whose riches he wanted, and then convince them to give it to him (a task, he imagined, that would be easier said than done, but he had faith in his creativity).
-o-o-o-o-
Trixie gave her audience a falsely demure smile and a flourishing curtsy, letting her skirt rustle up around her legs as she did so. She flounced down from the small makeshift stage and headed for the bar, an end-of-the-night tradition, so to speak. Slowly, one by one, her audience trickled out of the bar to stumble home.
"Heya, Amycus." She grinned at the bartender, leaning over just so that her cleavage fell right into his line of sight. Her grey eyes sparked with mischief as he made an effort to actually look at her face.
"Miss Trixie," Amycus responded with a wink. "How can I pay you for your astounding performance?"
Trixie chewed on her lower lip idly as she deliberated. "How 'bout a screwdriver?"
"Your wish is my command," Amycus chuckled. "Screwdriver it is."
The door swung open; its rusty hinges squeaked in protest. Sirius Black poked his head inside.
She went from jovial to darkly irritated the second her cousin stepped foot inside the Creed. This was her place.
"It's after hours," Amycus said, "we're not serving anymore."
"It's quite alright, Am," Trixie told him, "I don't think he's here for a drink."
Amycus raised an eyebrow at her tone, which had dropped dangerously. "Sure thing, Trix." he said, letting her deal with it.
"Sirius!" Bellatrix called out to him, taking control of the conversation before it began. "Come! I didn't expect to see you here. Hours are over, like Amycus said, but that means nothing for family, right?"
Sirius ventured over, hands stuck in his pockets as he sauntered slowly, trying to look comfortable with his surroundings. He did not succeed.
"Something strong for my dear cousin, Amycus," Bellatrix requested when Sirius sat next to her. "He's far more tolerable when he's drunk."
"It's good to see you again, Bellatrix." Sirius offered her a sham of a smile. He took the drink Amycus set in front of him. "Friday nights at the Creed, huh? I wonder what dear Uncle Cygnus thinks."
Bellatrix scowled. "He doesn't, and he wouldn't believe you if you told him. Keep your fucking nose out of my business, Sirius, and I won't hack it off."
"Can I talk to you alone?"
"How about no?" she responded, distinctly annoyed. "I don't enjoy your company, Sirius." To emphasise her point, she drained half of her drink before facing him again.
"Look, this isn't a personal visit." he snapped. "I'm not doing this for fun. If anything, I enjoy your company less than you enjoy mine."
Amycus wisely moved away from the quarrelling cousins.
"Fine," Bellatrix huffed, "fine. But I'm not leaving this place with you. We talk here or not at all."
"Fine." Sirius echoed. His mouth twisted unhappily, the face of someone who had bitten into a particularly sour lemon without intending to (somehow).
"Amycus," Bellatrix called out, "be a dear and trust me to lock up, won't you?"
Amycus shrugged. "Righto, Trix, but I'm holding you liable if the place burns down sometime between now and forever."
Bellatrix shot him her sweetest smile. "Of course." She turned to Sirius, and her smile warped into a grin not unlike what you might see on a shark. "Come then, Siri, what's on your mind?"
He bristled at the nickname, but let it go, reminding himself all the while that this was for the greater good. After all, what was a few minutes of enduring an insufferable cousin to solving the hottest mystery currently stumping the police?
Not too much, right?
Sirius hoped so.
-o-o-o-o-
It was about approximately 4:27 in the bloody morning when Remus received a phone call. He always slept with his phone on, never turned in to silent (unless, of course, he was in a movie theatre; Remus Lupin may or may not have been many things, but rude was not one of them, except for extenuating circumstances, such as dealing with Greyback's gang or a particularly exasperating Sirius Black).
Incidentally, the call was from the latter. Sirius had set up a rather charming image of himself of Remus' phone, one with his hair slicked back, cross-eyed and his tongue touching his nose.
"Hello?" Remus said into the phone.
What he got in response was a somewhat hysterical bout of giggling more suited to small children than to a man grown.
"Sirius, are you quite alright?" Remus inquired of his friend.
More giggling, then, "Reeeeemus… I talked – I did the talking to Bella."
"And then you got drunk?" Remus said flatly. The answer was almost guaranteed to be yes.
"I think!" Sirius declared loudly, then dropped to a whisper, "I think there was something in my drink. Something that wasn't alcohols. And then also alcohols."
Fuck. He hoped Sirius hadn't been poisoned. He wouldn't have thought Bellatrix would have, but then again…
"Okay, Sirius," he said calmly, "tell me where you are and I'll come pick you up."
"I'm on Mains Road." Sirius told him unhelpfully. Mains Road ran most of the way through the city, and for some bizarre reason, Remus didn't really fancy driving all through town looking for his friend when he could pinpoint a location with only a little bit of irritated sighing (and, if necessary, some forceful shouting).
Remus gave the irritated sigh a shot. "Is there an intersection nearby? A landmark? Are you still at the Creed?"
"Yes, and then no, and then no again." Sirius responded, with only a slight slur to his words. "Intersection is Mains and Carr Street. That's Carr with a C-A-R-R. Did you get that? Carr with a Carr."
"Yep, got it. I'll be there soon, Sirius. Don't go anywhere, okay?"
"Kay," Sirius mumbled, and then made a rather peculiar noise. "I'm not gonna vomit, promise."
Remus frowned. Whenever Sirius said that, it usually meant that he was indeed going to vomit, probably within the next three minutes and then possibly several times after that.
He retrieved a bucket, and drove off to find his friend.
-o-o-o-o-
Tom – no, Lord Voldemort, he had to stop thinking of himself as measly old Tom – pulled out his colour-coded spreadsheets. They were, of course, notes on the wealthiest people in the city and the likelihood of getting them the sponsor his nefarious plans. (He'd drawn up a scatterplot as well, but he couldn't quite remember which variable went on which axis, so he'd just put Amount of Money on the x-axis and Chance of Success on the y-axis.)
So far, things were looking grim. He had narrowed down a few candidates when it came to Amount of Money, but so far, Chance of Success hovered around zero for all of them, mostly because he had met exactly none of these people.
Which was why he had set aside a day for investigating. Namely, today. And possibly tomorrow, if need be. But not the day after, because that was Monday, and he had to go to work, aspiring crime lord or not.
The first name on his list was the one who he figured would be the most pliable to suggestion (and then maybe threats) – Mary Macdonald, who had amassed a considerable amount of money through writing trashy romance novels, the most famous of which, An Effervescent Affair, remained one of the highest selling e-books, presumably because actually walking in to a bookstore to purchase such drivel would earn you the hastily concealed judgement of everyone there. Not that Voldemort would know.
Apparently, she was very open to chatting to fans about her work. Hopefully that meant she would be easy to track down and talk to about her money. Tom – Voldemort – had traversed the internet earlier, and found a fair few interviews, one of which was kind enough to attach an email address. Mary seemed oddly down to earth for the author of one of the most famous trashy romance novels to bless (curse?) this world.
And so he sat down to write an email. Funny, how building the basis for a criminal empire was so much like work, sending emails to this person and that, but at least he hadn't had to fetch someone coffee yet (his current workplace, Everard Insurance, had a technically-unofficial-but-still-followed-to-the-letter-lest-you-be-frowned-upon policy that fetching your colleagues coffee and just generally being nice was good for the soul).
Hello Mary, he began. An auspicious start, to be sure.
I've read a few of your books, and I must say, I'm a big fan! I really admire your work and your success, would you mind answering a few questions? For instance, how much money do you make per book? And would you be willing to part with that money?
He deleted the last two sentences, and opting instead for something simpler.
I'd be very grateful if you would meet with me. Please write back soon.
Thank you very much,
Voldemort
Then he realised that he had painted the name "Voldemort" over twelve or fifteen corpses in the blood of those same corpses, so signing it as such might make her disinclined to help a man in need. With a scowl, he deleted that as well, and forced himself to punch out three letters – T-o-m. And then six more – R-i-d-d-l-e.
Names were such a bother.
-o-o-o-o-
Bellatrix smirked to herself. While she had told Sirius that no, she wasn't a criminal, and yes, she would tell him if she saw anything suspicious, she had never promised not to do some investigating of her own. She had also not promised just when she would tell him if she saw something suspicious, and even if she had, she was A-OK with breaking that promise.
Boredom was her greatest enemy, and she went to great lengths to avoid it. Sirius had just, unknowingly, presented her with a great gift – a hint at something fascinating. There was a certain intrigue that surrounded crimes and their culprits, (not so much petty crimes though, graffiti wasn't much of a turn-on at all). Perhaps it was the rebelliousness, the danger involved.
After all, Bellatrix did not do as she was supposed. Bellatrix did what she wanted, especially when everyone else (particularly her father, sisters or annoying cousins) called it a bad idea.
She strolled through the city's entertainment district easily and headed for the most prominent building there – Le Rêve Tortueux (often shortened to its first two words, the easiest for "the commoners" to (mis)pronounce), a recently opened and very successful casino (and hotel and conference centre, but mostly casino) run by Rodolphus Lestrange, who himself was well-known for being absurdly wealthy.
It took a fair amount of effort not to gape at the scene before her when she entered. The place was remarkable to say the least. A high ceiling that had been cleverly designed to look like the night sky, gilded patterns along every wall. Bellatrix blended in well, looking every part the slightly snobby, bored, rich young hellspawn looking for entertainment. No doubt old grandfathers would shake their fists at her if she stepped on their lawns.
For a moment, she let herself simply observe the surroundings to see who was where. It was difficult to tell, at least until she heard the commotion.
"What? You dare accuse me of cheating?" a voice yelled. Most people barely paid it any notice, but Bellatrix followed like a hound on the hunt.
She tracked the source of the noise to one of the blackjack tables, where a bandy-legged, long haired ginger was shouting about how he was "one of the most upstanding, honourable citizens in this godforsaken city". Next to him stood a rather large blond man who looked like he could lift large trees with little to no effort. If a scuffle broke out, Bellatrix was betting on tree guy.
When she crept closer (that is, if by "crept" one meant "calmly and inconspicuously strolled over"), she saw another figure of interest standing nearby, observing the interaction – the owner of Le Rêve. Bellatrix smiled. Clearly, she had arrived at the right time.
Tree-guy clasped a large hand around the protester and moved to escort him away. The protester, however, clearly had other ideas, and tried to twist away. Lestrange turned to him, leaned in, and said, "What, you want Thorfinn to carry you like a sulking child? If not, then walk, Fletcher."
Fletcher did.
And Bellatrix followed behind them all.