PROLOGUE

Spring 1965

Antonin had been terrified when his patron appeared unannounced in his laboratory.

He expected a certain reaction in the face of his experiments as horror and disgust were the emotions displayed by the decrepit old fools of the Magisterium. Those so-called scholars failed to understand that the boundaries of nature had to be pushed for wizardkind to progress forward.

As such, he was taken aback when all his patron said in the face of the Muggles' silenced agony was, "Explain," in a tone that was as soft and even as ever.

Relieved at being given a chance to explain himself, Antonin almost tripped over his own words. "It has already been proven that a sorcerer's Mana cannot be extracted in its purest form. Our bodies will instinctually resist such an extraction, even if our minds consciously agree." He gestured to the far wall, where the ingredients for his potions were clear to see through the glass cabinet. "Magical flora and fauna will work for potions and rituals well enough, but our bodies will also reject that Mana if we try to implant it directly into ourselves."

His patron nodded, gesturing to his own face. "I know better than most the cost of such rituals."

Antonin winced. He had guessed that upon first meeting him but had forgotten in his excitement to finally explain his hypothesis to another scholar. He decided to avoid acknowledging his faux pas altogether and continued. "Muggles possess emotion, intention and self-identity, all of which can only be the by-product of a soul. Therefore, they must have Mana. Sapience is impossible without it."

"We know this already," his patron said. His voice remained even, but Antonin could sense his impatience.

"Yes." Antonin paused briefly. He knew that if his only benefactor was going to back out, it would be because of his next point. Everyone else had failed to see things from his perspective and instead allowed emotion to cloud their better judgement. "But I believe that this Mana can be extracted from them as they have no natural defences as we do."

His patron made a noise of surprise that Antonin would only learn years later was faked. He had known of Antonin's experiments long before he had ever introduced himself.

However, at that moment Antonin was only excited by the show of interest. "We know that magic can be placed without malice from sorcerer to sorcerer, as helpful charms and healing magic already show. But that is only after the conscious transformation of Mana from its purest form is made."

"Sorcerer-to-sorcerer extractions have always ended poorly. Both because it is treated as a foreign attack- the recipient's body rejecting it as it would a failed organ transplant- and due to instinctive malice that the donor feels at having their magic extracted in the first place." His patron frowned. "But you think instead of trying to improve the odds of the recipient, we should be finding a new source of magic altogether?"

Antonin nodded quickly, surprised that he had understood the idea so quickly. "Yes. It makes sense, doesn't it? Otherwise, we would reject all foreign magic placed upon us, would we not?"

His patron hummed. "You believe that because Muggles already have no control over what little Mana they possess, it could be donated safely?" He smiled when Antonin nodded. "Finally, we'll have found a good use for the Muggle masses!" Antonin laughed, more out of relief than thinking the joke was funny. "I came here today to invite you to a gathering that I am hosting, and here I find only more proof of how well you would fit in among us."

"A gathering?" Antonin asked. "For fellow researchers?"

"No, we're a more… eclectic bunch." His patron's smile turned secretive. "But rest assured, my friend, we are all like-minded in our goals."

Antonin was unused to social gatherings, but he would do all he could to remain in his patron's good graces. "I am honoured, my Lord." He bowed lowly.

Lord Voldemort chuckled as he turned to the door, the hem of his cloak whipping Antonin across the face. "As you should be. We are, after all, an elite few."

He then left the room, leaving nothing but a Portkey behind as proof that he had ever been there.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Later that night, the Portkey dropped Antonin off at a magnificent stronghold at the very top of the world.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, torn between staring up at a black fortress that could rival even Hoca's Palace and gazing down at the clouds that obscured the mountain it was built into, but he was shaken out of it by a hand on his shoulder.

Quickly turning, he saw that the stronghold's outer gates had been opened and a servant had been sent out to get him as he'd been stationary for so long. He refused to feel embarrassed and blamed the startingly thin air, claiming that he had been catching his breath, not gaping.

Following the well-dressed manservant inside, Antonin noticed that he (along with the other servants within the fortress) was wearing an Ouroboros. History had never been his best subject, but even he was aware that before the widespread implementation of Automatons, it was only those with the most incredible of fortunes that hired their fellow sorcerers to maintain their properties instead of House-Elves.

If his patron had the money to waste on such frivolous extravagances, then he would be able to provide more resources than Antonin would know what to do with.

The thought alone was enough to make him salivate.

As they walked to a still undisclosed location, the manservant politely asked if he would like anything to drink, and when Antonin declined, he reminded him that he need only ask for anything he required.

Antonin had been raised as the sixth child of an unremarkable pureblood family, one that didn't even have the resources to afford an Automaton. So he was left taken aback by the level of subservience shown to him by another wizard.

Much like his patron's earlier surprise, he would later learn the truth of the matter. His interaction with the manservant was the first time he witnessed the Imperius Curse at play.

However, this did nothing to prevent Antonin from growing used to being waited on by his fellow witches and wizards. It was nice being on top.

He was led into a large, well-furnished study. The walls were lined with dark shelves that held books and Artifices that Antonin longed to examine, but he held himself back. Twelve people were sitting at the round table in the middle of the room, and given that there was only one chair left, he deduced that they were all waiting for him.

Even though the table had no head, it was clear to see who was in charge as the bodies of the eleven others present were all angled towards him.

"Ah, Master Dolohov." From his high-back chair, Lord Voldemort spoke to him warmly as he ever had, making it clear to the others in the room that he was in favour. "I am glad you accepted my invitation."

Antonin bowed deeply. "I am honoured to have even been thought of, my Lord." It was true. He'd been hesitant before as he had no idea what he was walking into, but he immediately recognised six of the individuals present and he couldn't believe that he would be included among their number.

It also made him realise that Lord Voldemort was even more formidable than he'd previously believed to have gained their subservience.

"Finally," Voldemort began once Antonin had taken his seat. "The thirteen of us are assembled. Each of you possesses objectives and agendas that align with my own, so believe me when I say that I will ensure all of them will come to fruition."

There was slight movement around the table. For a moment, Antonin thought it was a sign of discontent, but a closer look revealed only excitement and desire in the faces of those present.

Voldemort continued to speak, unbothered by the restlessness of those around him. "Together, we will create a world where every corner is filled with magic, a world where pure wizarding blood reigns supreme, a world where everyone at this table will be as immortalised in history as Hoca's first twelve Aurors!" He didn't shout, only raising his voice ever so slightly so they could hear the passion in his words.

"It does not matter if our initial moves are thwarted. There are many paths to victory and our ideals are too strong to be crushed by momentary failure." His red inhuman eyes flickered over their faces, as though imploring them to have faith in his crusade. "Be it five years or fifty, our ideology will prove itself by outlasting theirs, and we will win!"

Again, Antonin glanced surreptitiously at the others, but this time it had less to do with any small movements that they had made and more about how affected he was. He was unsurprised that even the most notorious amongst them looked moved by Voldemort's speech, but he guessed it had less to do with the words and more to do with his presence. Even with his serpentine disfigurement, Lord Voldemort possessed incredible charisma.

That powerful presence suddenly shifted, even without Voldemort changing his expression. "However, I will warn you all now. This is not something I take lightly, so if you join me there can be no turning back." His voice carried the same clear tenor, but there was a strange quality to it now, as though he was daring them to defy him. "We are comrades, one and all until death. Anything less is betrayal." He paused then, before asking, "Who will join me?"

Antonin felt put on the spot, and he suspected that the others were as well, but one dark-haired young woman leapt to her feet and drew her wand. For one wild moment, he thought she was going to attack Voldemort for his steep demands, but instead, she vanished the round table and threw herself at his feet.

"It would be the highest honour to join your crusade, my Lord," the woman whispered reverently. She then crawled forward to kiss the hem of his black robes.

As though moved by her show of loyalty, others began joining her on the ground, crawling to kiss Voldemort's feet and prostrate themselves before their new master. A few, like Antonin, were more hesitant to show their subservience and he could see Voldemort's eyes take note of them.

Not wanting to attract any special attention from his patron before he had good results to share, Antonin was quick to fall to the ground, scrambling pathetically on his hands and knees in his haste to kiss Voldemort's feet, eager to beat out the other stragglers.

When they were all finished exhibiting their loyalty, they remained kneeling before their master's high back chair- his throne- waiting for him to acknowledge their display.

Finally, he spoke. "My friends, it is an honour to welcome you to the Knights of Walpurgis."