The Mediterranean sun poured its golden hues over the horizon, bathing the terrace in warmth as the waves below lapped lazily against the rocky shore. Voldemort reclined in his favored chaise longue, the picture of twisted tranquility. His lilac wizarding beach robes shimmered faintly in the light, the fabric enchanted to repel both sand and unwanted seabird droppings. A half-empty glass of something cold and undoubtedly expensive rested in his hand, condensation pooling on its surface.
A soft breeze carried the scent of saltwater and the distant call of gulls. It was an idyllic setting—one that seemed bizarrely at odds with the looming figure of the Dark Lord himself, his snake-like features softened only slightly by his air of languid contentment.
Beside him, Peter Pettigrew fidgeted awkwardly, clutching a clipboard with ink-splotched parchment clipped to it. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if the mere act of standing in Voldemort's presence burned his soles.
"My Lord," Peter began, his voice as thin and quavering as the parchment he held. "The Death Eaters have reported back… from their latest, uh, assignment."
Voldemort didn't bother looking at him. His crimson eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, reflecting the brilliance of the setting sun. "Do enlighten me, Wormtail," he drawled, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Have they finally proven themselves competent? Or must I yet again question why I ever bothered to resurrect such insufferable cretins?"
Peter gulped audibly. "They, uh… managed to enchant most of the toilet seats in the Department of Magical Games and Sports as you ordered. However—"
"However?" Voldemort's voice was dangerously soft now, the syllables slithering like a serpent about to strike. He slowly turned his gaze to Peter, who seemed to shrink under the weight of his piercing glare.
"They couldn't breach the Department of Mysteries. The wards were too—"
A flick of Voldemort's wrist sent a stinging hex zipping through the air. Peter yelped, dropping the clipboard as he clutched his arm. The sound of his whimpering was swallowed by the soft hum of the ocean.
"Peter," Voldemort said with a sigh, his tone more weary than wrathful. "Your ability to disappoint me is almost impressive. Do you take lessons in mediocrity, or does it simply come naturally to you?"
Peter opened his mouth to respond, but Voldemort waved him off, snapping his fingers. A floating quill materialized out of thin air, scribbling furiously on a fresh sheet of parchment.
"Send Snape," Voldemort instructed curtly. "Disguise him as a Ministry janitor. He'll infiltrate the Department of Mysteries and sabotage their wards under the pretense of cleaning their break room."
Peter, rubbing his arm, nodded frantically. "Yes, my Lord. Right away."
As Peter scurried off, Voldemort allowed himself a faint smirk. The evening had only just begun, and his amusement was far from over. He snapped his fingers again, summoning the next names on his list.
Snape's Misery
Deep within the sprawling halls of Voldemort's seaside villa, Severus Snape stood in the shadowed confines of an ornate chamber. His black robes swirled faintly as a light breeze from the Mediterranean filtered in through an open window. His expression was carved from stone, but his dark eyes betrayed a simmering irritation. Peter Pettigrew had just finished relaying Voldemort's latest decree, punctuated by unnecessary squeaks and flinches.
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, his lips curling in disdain. "Let me be absolutely certain I've understood this correctly," he said, his voice silky and dripping with venom. "The Dark Lord wishes me, a former Potions Master and spy, to pose as a Ministry janitor?"
Peter flinched. "Y-yes. He was quite specific. Something about cleaning the break room."
Snape's hand dropped, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to strangle Pettigrew. "Of course he was."
"There's a cover story!" Peter offered nervously, holding up a sheaf of parchment. "He even came up with one himself."
Snape's eyebrow arched. "A cover story? Do enlighten me."
"You're, uh, Reginald Broomsworth. A temp janitor filling in for the regular one who's off with dragon pox."
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Snape's jaw tightened, and a muscle twitched in his temple.
"Reginald Broomsworth," he repeated slowly, the words dripping with disdain.
Peter nodded, a weak smile plastered on his face. "It's quite clever, really—"
"Get out," Snape snarled, his voice low and deadly. Peter squeaked and scurried out of the room, leaving Snape alone with his mounting fury.
The Disguise
Several hours later, Snape found himself in a dimly lit corridor deep within the Ministry of Magic. He was dressed in a drab gray uniform, complete with a poorly fitting cap that flattened his greasy hair against his skull. A mop hovered dutifully by his side, enchanted to follow him like a loyal pet.
The alias Voldemort had devised—Reginald Broomsworth—was emblazoned on a cheap plastic name tag pinned to his chest. It was an insult to everything he had ever accomplished. A man who had once brewed the most complex potions under life-threatening conditions was now pretending to scrub floors.
Snape's wand, hidden in the folds of his robes, felt like a heavy burden. Not for the first time, he considered what hexes he could unleash on Voldemort if such thoughts weren't tantamount to suicide. Still, the notion lingered as he strode toward the Department of Mysteries, his expression a mask of cold disdain.
Inside the Department of Mysteries
The break room was as uninspiring as Snape had expected—a small, dimly lit space cluttered with mismatched chairs and a lingering odor of burnt coffee. A few Ministry employees bustled about, too absorbed in their own chatter to pay him much attention.
Snape waved his mop with feigned enthusiasm, muttering darkly under his breath. He moved toward the coffee machine, his eyes scanning the room for anything of use. Voldemort's instructions had been clear: sabotage the wards surrounding the Department of Mysteries, creating just enough chaos to disrupt operations without raising immediate suspicion.
Pulling a small vial from his pocket, Snape pretended to clean the counter. Inside the vial was a potion he had brewed earlier—a subtle blend of ward-breaking agents that would weaken the enchantments in the surrounding area over time. He poured a few drops into the steam vent of the coffee machine, the faint hiss masked by the gurgling of the ancient contraption.
As he worked, one of the Ministry employees—a stout wizard with a receding hairline—sidled up to him.
"New here, eh?" the man asked, sipping from a chipped mug. "Reginald, was it?"
Snape's lip curled faintly. "Yes," he said curtly, his voice lower than usual to disguise his identity. "Temporary placement."
"Good luck, mate," the man said with a chuckle. "You'll need it in this place."
Snape nodded stiffly, waiting for the man to move on. As soon as the break room emptied, he turned his attention to the door leading deeper into the Department. Whispering an incantation, he sent a faint pulse of energy through the wards. They flickered imperceptibly, the potion's effects already beginning to spread.
Mission Complete
Hours later, Snape emerged from the Ministry into the cool night air, his disguise itching at him like a rash. He discarded the janitor's cap in a nearby bin with an audible scoff, his patience thoroughly eroded.
As he Apparated back to Voldemort's villa, he rehearsed the words he would use to describe his "success." Knowing Voldemort, no amount of precision or efficiency would shield him from mockery. Still, he took a grim satisfaction in knowing the mission had been completed flawlessly.
Upon returning, Snape found Voldemort lounging on his chaise longue, the faintest smirk playing across his lips.
"Reginald Broomsworth," Voldemort said smoothly, his tone laced with amusement. "How did the janitorial arts suit you?"
Snape's eyes narrowed, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "The wards have been weakened. The potion will erode their defenses over the next three days. You may proceed as planned."
"Splendid," Voldemort said, raising his glass in a mock toast. "And do try to keep that delightful uniform. It suits you."
Snape's fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel, his robes billowing behind him as he stalked away.
In the distance, he heard Voldemort chuckle softly, his laughter mingling with the faint crash of waves.
"Summon Bellatrix," Voldemort commanded.
Moments later, Bellatrix Lestrange appeared, her dramatic entrance marked by the swish of her robes and the glint of her wild eyes. She dropped to her knees before him, her voice trembling with fervent devotion. "My Lord, I am yours to command. How may I serve you?"
Voldemort regarded her with mild interest. "Bellatrix, your enthusiasm never ceases to amuse me. Tell me, do you believe yourself to be... versatile?"
"Of course, my Lord!" she said breathlessly. "There is no task too small, no enemy too great—"
"Excellent," Voldemort interrupted, cutting off her tirade with a faint smile. "I have a task that requires a delicate touch."
Bellatrix leaned forward eagerly, her wild hair spilling around her face. "Name it, my Lord, and it shall be done!"
"You are to infiltrate Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions," Voldemort said smoothly. "Charm every set of dress robes sold this season to shrink precisely five sizes when exposed to moonlight."
Bellatrix blinked. "Madam Malkin's, my Lord?"
"Is there an issue with this assignment?" Voldemort asked softly, his voice dripping with malice.
"No!" she stammered, her head bowing low. "I will ensure every wizard in Britain suffers their wardrobe's betrayal!"
"Splendid," Voldemort replied. "Do try to be discreet. A touch of subtlety would do wonders."
Bellatrix backed away, her expression torn between confusion and determined zeal as she vanished through the gates. Voldemort sighed contentedly, turning to the next names on his list.
Bellatrix's Assignment
The grand interior of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was bright and bustling when Bellatrix Lestrange arrived. She stood at the threshold, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the cheerful atmosphere. Wizards and witches flitted about, chatting amiably as they selected their dress robes, oblivious to the presence of one of the most dangerous witches in Britain.
Disguised in plain, modest robes of deep gray—a far cry from her usual dramatic attire—Bellatrix was seething. Her wand itched to send the entire shop into flames, but the Dark Lord had been explicit: subtlety was paramount.
Her task, as humiliating as it was, had to be completed with precision. Charm every set of dress robes in the store to shrink five sizes when exposed to moonlight. It was a petty, ridiculous plan, but she would not fail him. She never failed him.
The Setup
Bellatrix prowled through the aisles, her eyes gleaming with malevolence as she surveyed the racks of robes. She moved deliberately, pretending to examine fabrics while subtly flicking her wand under her robes. The charms were simple enough to cast, but she took care to keep her movements precise. A whispered incantation here, a subtle wand wave there, and another set of robes was cursed.
At one point, a young saleswitch approached her with a bright smile. "Looking for anything in particular, ma'am?"
Bellatrix stiffened, her face twitching into an unnatural approximation of politeness. "Just browsing," she muttered, her voice strained.
"Let me know if you need any help!" the saleswitch chirped before flitting off to assist another customer.
Bellatrix exhaled sharply, her teeth grinding. It took every ounce of self-control to resist hexing the girl on the spot.
Complications
As the afternoon wore on, Bellatrix began to encounter obstacles. A particularly nosy customer—an elderly wizard with a monocle—lingered near her as she worked, peering over her shoulder as if suspecting her of shoplifting.
"Lovely selection this season," he remarked, holding up a luridly patterned set of robes. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Bellatrix forced a tight-lipped smile, nodding curtly. "Indeed."
Her wand, hidden in the folds of her sleeve, twitched as she discreetly cast another shrinking charm. She prayed the old fool would wander off, but he seemed content to hover, prattling on about fabric blends and stitch work.
By the time he finally left, Bellatrix's patience was fraying. Her movements became sharper, her whispered spells tinged with frustration. A few customers gave her odd looks, but none seemed brave—or foolish—enough to confront her.
The Aftermath
By sunset, every robe in the shop had been charmed. Bellatrix stepped out into the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley, her task complete but her mood soured. She Apparated back to Voldemort's villa, her robes billowing in the cool evening air.
When she arrived, Voldemort was, as always, reclining on his chaise longue, the soft sound of waves crashing in the background. He sipped from a delicate glass, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the twilight.
"My Lord," Bellatrix said, dropping to her knees before him. "The task is done. Every robe in the shop has been cursed as you commanded."
Voldemort set his glass down, his expression unreadable. "Did you encounter any... difficulties?"
"None that I could not handle," she replied quickly, her tone sharp with pride. "The charms were placed without detection."
Voldemort's lips curled into a faint smirk. "And how did you find the experience, Bellatrix? Mingling with the common rabble in their mundane pursuits?"
Bellatrix hesitated, her pride warring with her need to please him. "It was... enlightening, my Lord," she said carefully. "A test of restraint."
Voldemort chuckled softly, the sound both amused and patronizing. "Restraint is not your strength, Bellatrix, but I am pleased that you managed it. Perhaps there is hope for you yet."
Her chest swelled with a mix of relief and devotion. "I live only to serve you."
"Indeed," Voldemort murmured, his gaze drifting back to the horizon. "You may go. And Bellatrix..."
She paused, waiting for his next words.
"Do try to learn from this experience. Humility is not a weakness, but an... occasional necessity."
The statement felt like a backhanded compliment, but Bellatrix nodded fervently, bowing low before retreating. As she disappeared into the villa, Voldemort leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips. The thought of unsuspecting wizards and witches squeezing into their moonlight-shrunken robes amused him far more than it should have.
Another day, another small victory in his quest to sow chaos—and humiliate his followers in the process.
"Bring me Crabbe and Goyle," he instructed.
Soon, the towering forms of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle shuffled onto the terrace. They looked thoroughly uncomfortable in Voldemort's presence, their broad shoulders hunched and their expressions blank with apprehension.
"You summoned us, my Lord?" Goyle rumbled.
"Yes," Voldemort said, his crimson gaze piercing. "You two have been chosen for a task that requires both... physical presence and, let us say, creative interpretation."
Crabbe and Goyle exchanged confused glances but remained silent.
"You will infiltrate Flourish and Blotts," Voldemort continued. "Replace every copy of Advanced Transfiguration Techniques with counterfeits containing incorrect diagrams. These diagrams should produce minor explosions when attempted."
Goyle hesitated. "Explosions, my Lord?"
"Nothing lethal," Voldemort clarified, his tone dripping with mock patience. "Just enough to erode confidence in their abilities. Imagine: an entire generation of wizards fumbling through their education."
Crabbe scratched his head. "Uh, how will we—"
"Figure it out," Voldemort snapped, irritation flaring. "You have wands, do you not? Use them."
The two nodded quickly, backing away as Voldemort's gaze hardened.
"And gentlemen," he added, his voice low and dangerous. "Failure is not an option. Displease me, and you'll long for the simplicity of Azkaban."
Crabbe and Goyle all but fled, their large forms vanishing down the garden path.
The terrace fell silent once more, save for the soft crash of waves and the occasional rustle of wind. Voldemort leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink as the last of the sun disappeared below the horizon.
He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The chaos was in motion, and the thought of his underlings scrambling to complete their ridiculous tasks filled him with quiet delight. Retirement, he mused, was proving to be far more entertaining than expected.
Crabbe and Goyle's Assignment
The interior of Flourish and Blotts was bustling with activity as witches and wizards browsed shelves of books. A faint smell of parchment and ink mingled with the dusty air, and the soft murmur of customers filled the space. It was into this busy scene that Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle clumsily entered, their massive frames immediately drawing stares. Neither man was known for subtlety, and this mission was no exception.
Dressed in ill-fitting robes to appear less conspicuous (though their size made that almost impossible), they carried large satchels bulging with counterfeit books—poorly made copies of Advanced Transfiguration Techniques that they had been given to swap for the originals. The fakes contained incorrect diagrams designed to cause minor explosions when the spells were attempted.
"Right," Goyle muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "We're just supposed to… swap these out?"
Crabbe nodded, looking equally confused. "Yeah. Boss said to 'do it quiet.'"
"Quiet," Goyle repeated, glancing around at the crowded shop. "We ain't exactly built for quiet."
The Plan (or Lack Thereof)
They awkwardly made their way to the Transfiguration section, their hulking forms knocking over a display of Gilderoy Lockhart's Greatest Hits. A nearby shop assistant frowned at them but didn't approach.
Crabbe grabbed a random book off the shelf, squinting at the title. "This one?" he asked.
"No, that's Potions," Goyle said, slapping the book out of his hand. He pointed at the Advanced Transfiguration Techniques shelf. "There. Those ones."
Crabbe grunted and began pulling the correct books off the shelf with little regard for neatness, dumping them into his satchel. Goyle, meanwhile, fumbled to extract the fakes from his bag. A few fell to the floor, and he scrambled to pick them up, grunting as he shoved them onto the now-empty shelf.
"Careful!" Crabbe hissed. "They're supposed to look normal."
"They look fine," Goyle grumbled, jamming another counterfeit book into place. "Who's gonna notice?"
A Problem Arises
Their clumsy attempts to swap the books attracted the attention of a nearby customer, a sharp-eyed witch with spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. She peered at them suspiciously, her expression growing more incredulous as she watched.
"Excuse me," she said, crossing her arms. "What exactly are you two doing?"
Crabbe and Goyle froze, their faces turning red. "Uh…" Goyle stammered, his brain working overtime to come up with an excuse. "Stocking."
"Stocking?" the witch repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You're not wearing shop uniforms."
Crabbe, quick to deflect, held up one of the fakes. "This here's… uh, a new edition. We're just, you know, updating the stock."
The witch narrowed her eyes. "Really? Let me see that."
Crabbe hesitated, but Goyle nudged him, and he reluctantly handed over the counterfeit book. The witch opened it, flipping through the pages. Her frown deepened as she noticed the shoddy printing and mismatched diagrams.
"This is a forgery," she declared loudly, drawing the attention of other customers. "What are you two—"
Before she could finish, Crabbe panicked. "Stupefy!" he bellowed, his wand shooting a jet of red light at her.
The spell hit its mark, and the witch slumped to the floor. Gasps erupted from the nearby customers, and a murmur of alarm spread through the shop.
"What'd you do that for?" Goyle hissed, his eyes wide.
"She was onto us!" Crabbe shot back, grabbing the rest of the original books and stuffing them into his satchel. "C'mon, let's go before someone calls Aurors."
The Escape
The two lumbered toward the exit, their massive forms bulldozing through startled customers. A shop assistant tried to block their path, but Goyle shoved him aside with a grunt, nearly knocking over another display.
As they burst out into Diagon Alley, their satchels bulging with stolen books, they hurried toward the nearest alleyway. Behind them, the commotion in the shop spilled out into the street, but they didn't stop to look back.
"We're in trouble," Goyle muttered as they ducked into a side street, panting from the exertion.
"Boss won't care," Crabbe said, though his tone lacked confidence. "We did the job, right? Books are swapped."
"Yeah," Goyle agreed, though he still looked nervous. "We did the job."
Reporting Back
When they returned to Voldemort's villa, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the terrace in a warm golden light. Voldemort reclined in his chaise longue, sipping from a glass and gazing out at the sea. He didn't look up as the two lumbered forward, their expressions a mix of pride and apprehension.
"My Lord," Crabbe began, bowing awkwardly. "We, uh, did what you said. Swapped the books. No one'll know till they try the spells."
Voldemort turned his crimson gaze on them, his expression unreadable. "And what of the originals?"
Crabbe held up his satchel, the weight of the books causing it to sag. "Got 'em right here."
"Hmm." Voldemort's gaze flicked between the two. "And were there any... complications?"
Crabbe and Goyle exchanged nervous glances. "Nothing we couldn't handle," Goyle mumbled.
"Indeed?" Voldemort's voice was soft, dangerous. "I trust there will be no... unwanted attention drawn to this endeavor?"
Crabbe hesitated. "No, my Lord. Everything's fine."
For a moment, Voldemort said nothing, his gaze lingering on the pair. Then, slowly, a faint smirk tugged at his lipless mouth.
"Very well," he said, his tone laced with mock approval. "You've performed adequately, though I wonder if the Ministry will agree when they find their Stupefied customer."
Both men froze, their faces pale.
"Go," Voldemort commanded, waving them away. "And do try to keep your blunders to a minimum next time."
They bowed hastily and retreated, their footsteps heavy as they disappeared into the villa.
As the terrace fell silent once more, Voldemort leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening.
The chaos was unfolding perfectly, and the thought of unsuspecting students causing explosions in their Transfiguration classes filled him with quiet satisfaction. His underlings, though incompetent, had their uses after all.