Voldemort's lips stretched into a terrible smile, his eyes sharp and predatory, filled with malice. Anyone who saw could hardly believe such a handsome face could morph into something so evil.
He cast a slow, penetrating gaze across the dim room, his crimson eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "The Ministry believes they have won a great victory," he hissed, his voice barely louder than a whisper, yet carrying enough venom to make even his most loyal followers shudder. "They grow complacent, foolishly convinced that the threat has been neutralized, that they have achieved some great triumph."
His eyes moved deliberately over his assembled followers, lingering on the new arrivals—particularly Aldric and Sarina—in a way that made even the most seasoned of his Death Eaters glance uneasily at each other. Voldemort gestured to them with a casual flick of his hand, inviting them forward, and they stepped into the open with hesitant but steady strides. Their faces were unreadable, but there was a flicker of something fierce, almost defiant, in their eyes. Whatever grudges they had once held against each other had been buried under something far more dangerous. Buried, but not dead. They held a shared ambition, one borne out of both opportunism and fear, and it was a hunger that Voldemort both recognized and intended to exploit.
"Your organizations," Voldemort began, his tone a chilling mixture of cunning and grudging approval, "have shown me something rare indeed—a capacity to sway the masses, to inspire unwavering loyalty in those foolish enough to follow you without proper planning or strategy. A herd mentality in every sense, which guides one nowhere. However, under my guidance, we shall take that enthusiasm, that raw, volatile power, and shape it into something that will send shockwaves through Wizarding Britain."
He turned, his gaze snapping back to his Death Eaters. Their faces were masks of strained loyalty, but the unease was plain in their darting eyes and rigid postures. Voldemort's smile widened, and he let the silence linger, drawing out their discomfort. When he finally spoke again, his voice was as cold and sharp as a blade. "You will work alongside our new allies," he declared. "You will share your knowledge, your resources, your loyalty—and yes, you will obey their strategies where I deem it necessary."
A murmur rippled through the ranks, and the sound was subtle but unmistakable. Voldemort's gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "And any who hesitate, who think themselves above my command or above these new alliances—any who even entertain such treachery—will be dealt with… appropriately."
The murmur died instantly. The Death Eaters stiffened, their faces paling as his threat sank in. Voldemort's smile returned, cold and devoid of any warmth. "I will not tolerate insubordination," he continued, letting his words slither through the room like poison. "You will follow my orders, and you will embrace this alliance. I care little for your petty notions of superiority or your wounded pureblood pride. You will bend, and you will serve as I see fit."
He paused, letting the sheer weight of his words settle over them, watching with satisfaction as the Death Eaters' expressions shifted from mere unease to outright fear. They knew, as they had always known, that Voldemort's favor was as fickle as a shadow, and that the price of falling out of his grace was steep and swift.
Finally, the Dark Lord turned his gaze back to Aldric and Sarina, who stood with a newfound confidence, watching the shaken Death Eaters with barely concealed triumph. Voldemort nodded, a thin smile stretching across his face. "Now then," he hissed, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "We have a world to reshape, and I will not have petty ambitions or prejudices hinder my designs. I have no use for followers who cannot put their own pride aside in service to a higher purpose—my purpose."
A silence fell, heavy and oppressive, as his final words echoed through the room. Voldemort's eyes swept over them all once more, and the message was unmistakable: there would be no dissent, no questioning of his commands. They would obey him, and they would do so willingly—or they would face consequences beyond imagination.
It felt as if the very room seemed to hold its breath as his words truly sunk in, filling every dark corner with their cold finality. Aldric and Sarina stood a little taller, emboldened by the new power their new benefactor had offered them. Meanwhile, the Death Eaters shifted uneasily, their eyes shadowed with dread as they realized their positions were now as fragile as glass, and as dangerous to cling to as a blade.
Voldemort's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his voice once more dropping to a near whisper. "Now… let us begin."
He raised a robed hand, motioning for silence as he regarded Aldric and Sarina with an expression of sinister pride. His eyes flicked between the two, his gaze sharp, penetrating, as if probing the depths of their souls. As their lord's eyes flashed a sinister shade of crimson, the Death Eaters shifted uneasily. They recognized this ritual and what it meant. The Dark Mark—the ultimate symbol of their lord's favor, but also his ownership—was about to be bestowed, should they come true.
The tension in the room thickened as Voldemort let out a small breath. He turned his full attention to Aldric, his voice dropping to a low, compelling tone. "Aldric…" He began, his voice a gentle caress and yet firm. "You have proven yourself a worthy ally to your comrades. You are ruthless, cunning. Unforgiving." He extended his pale, long-fingered hand, and Aldric, though visibly skeptical of the unknown, did not flinch as he took a single step forward. "You, and your people despise the creatures who tore through your bloodlines," Voldemort murmured, his voice nearly affectionate, though every word dripped with malice. "But you are wise enough to recognize power—wherever it may come from."
Aldric's jaw tightened as he nodded, his resentment momentarily replaced by something close to begrudging respect. He was a man who had once sworn to exterminate werewolves for the pureblood families who had offered him a place among them. Yet, here he stood now, at the mercy of a man who not only tolerated their kind but saw value in the very creatures Aldric despised.
"And Sarina," Voldemort continued, turning to her, his tone shifting to a mocking, silken murmur. "Champion of the outcasts, so-called liberator of the oppressed."
Sarina's eyes narrowed, and though her lips twisted slightly at Voldemort's words, she remained silent. Voldemort regarded her with a cold smirk.
"Your side of the rebellion was born of fury—fury against the Ministry, fury against the old families who looked upon werewolves as little more than beasts," the Dark Lord continued in the same silken whisper, his words ensnaring both her and her comrades. "Your people took up arms not only for survival but for vengeance, and their hatred for purebloods is as raw as everyone's disdain for those you seek to protect and uplift."
Sarina and her group's eyes darted around, knowing that apart from them, every other person wanted the extermination of werewolves from the face of the planet. And yet, like Aldric, they had seen the value in aligning with Voldemort, understanding that his vision extended far beyond the ministry's fickle politics.
"Each of you has fought in your own way," Voldemort continued, his gaze moving between the gathered witches and wizards, all of whom gave him their undivided attention. His lips curled, as he said disdainfully, "And each of you has tasted failure."
He let the words hang, watching their expressions darken with barely concealed rage. He smiled, his lips thin and the expression on his face cruel.
"But under my rule, you will no longer scrape for power. I will grant you a purpose higher than any you could have conjured on your own. I will give you the means to reshape this world into one that fears, and obeys, us."
With a swift motion, Voldemort raised his wand, directing it toward Aldric's forearm. Aldric straightened, his face taut with both anticipation and tension. As the tip of the wand pressed into his skin, Voldemort's voice became a hiss, low and ancient, as he began the incantation that would seal Aldric's fate.
As the words slipped from Voldemort's lips, a searing pain exploded in Aldric's arm. He clenched his jaw but did not make a sound, though his eyes gleamed with both agony and a fierce sense of triumph. A dark shape twisted into being on his skin—a skull with a serpent emerging from its mouth, writhing and vivid. It felt as if someone was carving his skin open with a burning sword, inscribing a deadly pattern that had a life of its own. He held his breath, his teeth clenched firmly, and slowly, the pain subsided, leaving Aldric with a cold, exhilarating thrill. He had been marked, accepted, and elevated. Equal in hierarchy to those who looked down on him.
Voldemort's gaze shifted to Sarina, whose steely composure had not faltered in the slightest. He gestured for her to step forward, his crimson eyes glinting with dark amusement. "And now… my fierce Sarina," he said softly, his words both mocking and admiring. "You and your rebellion have fought in the name of justice," he sneered slightly, "but here, you will serve my justice."
Sarina raised her arm without hesitation, her eyes locked on Voldemort's as she dared him silently to see any weakness in her. Voldemort pressed his wand tip against her forearm and the incantation began again. As the mark burned into her skin, her lips thinned, but she held his gaze, refusing to show the pain that blazed up her arm. As the blackened mark took its place, she felt a rush of something she hadn't anticipated: not just power, but the terrifying allure of her lord's vision… and something more. Something intoxicating—a sensation that erupted deep within her gut and consumed her within seconds.
Her pupils dilated, and within a blink of the eyes, her vision cleared, better and more encompassing than ever before. Her chest constricted, and as she gazed into her lord's crimson orbs, the realization dawned on her. It filled her with a thrill of anticipation, making goosebumps rise all over her skin.
She had joined him for ambition, yes, but with this mark searing her skin, she understood that this allegiance demanded more than loyalty. It demanded her very soul, and everything else that she claimed as hers.
Voldemort kept his gaze on her for a few more moments, as understanding dawned on her. With a smirk, he withdrew his wand, letting the silence settle. Slowly, he turned back to the assembled Death Eaters. His voice was a soft, insidious murmur that crept into every corner of the room. "These marks," he said, glancing at Aldric and Sarina, "are the ultimate bond, the last step in your service to me. They bind you to my will—and to my command." He paused, his gaze narrowing on the older followers who watched with expressions veiled in dread. "Those of you who have grown… complacent in your loyalty would do well to remember this. I decide who stands at my side. Your words are winds, and they hold no weight."
Abraxas and his allies visibly stiffened. Their lord's words left no room for misinterpretation anymore, and the last vestiges of hope that had remained within them evaporated in an instant. They knew now that he would cull even them without an ounce of hesitation if they faltered in the slightest. He had already demonstrated how crucial they were for his grand plans when he massacred Corvus, and with a shudder, they all realized it could very well happen to one or all of them.
As if reading their thoughts, Voldemort allowed his voice to harden to a menacing whisper. "If any of you believe that your service makes you irreplaceable, consider this a warning. You will do as I say, and you will find joy in it—or I will find someone who can."
Aldric and Sarina's eyes swept over the Death Eaters, both now marked with the Dark Lord's symbol, and they were emboldened by the fear they saw. In this room, they understood, that no one was safe—not the old, loyal followers, nor the ambitious newcomers. However, one thing was clear—they now sat at the same table with those prissy pureblood lords who looked down on them.
Voldemort turned his back to them all, his voice slipping into a hiss. "Now… let us begin with the first steps of our new order." He gestured for Aldric and Sarina to follow, leading them toward the far end of the room where a dark map lay unfurled across a table. He gave his wand a casual flick and various locations glowed faintly. It was the start of a plan that would bring magical Britain firmly to its knees. The aurors were weak, wounded, and tired. It was the perfect time to strike.
As they moved closer, Voldemort spoke to them in a low tone. "You will lead your followers to these places," he murmured, his finger tracing the map. "The Ministry must be made to see its own futility. First, you will spread panic. Strikes against whoever you encounter, no matter what their allegiance is. Let them know fear."
Aldric inclined his head, the glimmer of sadistic satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
Voldemort turned to Sarina, his tone a tad softer but just as lethal. "And you, Sarina—you will lead your followers to strike where the Ministry is strongest, yet most vulnerable. Let your followers unleash chaos all over Wizarding London. Disrupt their support structures. They must be too panicked to form a proper response, and you will take full advantage of it. All of you, make them afraid to even speak of their own laws."
Sarina's eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the thought, and she inclined her head, agreeing to carry out this plan.
Voldemort stepped back, watching the two with the satisfaction of a master craftsman surveying his latest creation. "This is only the beginning," he said, his voice carrying a note of almost pride. "Together, we will dismantle their world—and build our own. But before we venture further ahead, you will prove yourselves, to me, to each other, and to everyone else that you are worthy of being called my Death Eaters. For too long have I allowed name and hierarchy to dictate the value of my most loyal. Not anymore."
His older Death Eaters stiffened after another of their lord's insulting jabs toward them, and as much as they felt enraged at being treated as such, they knew they could do nothing. Their lord's power was absolute, and they were little more than pawns in his grand schemes.
Their future had died with their heirs. And now their present had met a shameful end as well. All that was left for them was to let things run their course, and only one emotion reigned supreme.
A sense of defeated resignation.
-Break-
James Potter pushed open the portrait door to the Gryffindor Common Room, stepping into the warmth and soft glow of the crackling fire. His face was still set in hard lines, his jaw tight, but the familiar comfort of the room soothed him just a little. He spotted them sitting by the fireplace, their gazes locked onto him, and the tension heightened as they took in his expression.
Sirius was the first to break the silence as he walked over and joined them. "So… how'd it go?"
"Well enough, for the most part," James muttered, leaning back in the armchair. "Bastard pulled out something new," his eyes hardened as he recalled the wild, reckless fury in Snape's eyes. "A spell I've never heard before. Sectumsempra. If it'd hit me, I'd probably be sliced open."
Harry's eyes widened slightly as he gazed at James. He had read a number of obscure tomes, but he had never come across that particular spell. He wondered just where Snape had learned about it.
Sirius swore loudly, attracting the attention of a few students who were scattered about the common room. They soon went back to their devices though, already used to such random outbursts from the Black heir.
"That greasy git honestly tried something like that on you? I'll wring his fucking neck."
"He pulled out a spell like that as if it was nothing?" Harry asked searchingly with an edge in his voice, and both James and Sirius turned to him. The latter nodded, sighing.
"Said it was one of his own creations. For people like me."
Harry's face tightened, his normally calm visage now stony. He leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the couch. "Snape really said that? A spell that slices people open is for someone like you?" His voice was dangerously low, vibrating with the undercurrent of rage that both the wizards felt themselves. James gritted his teeth, his own knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his chair. All he did was nod once.
"He really thinks he can pull that kind of shit on you and get away with it?" Sirius growled.
"I don't think he was even thinking anymore," James sneered. "It was pure rage… but yeah, he went for me like he wanted to see me hurt."
He looked down at himself, his hand unconsciously rubbing his chest as if he could still feel the air slicing from where the curse had missed him by mere inches. He shuddered, the adrenalin rush from before dissipating as he realized how close he'd come to possibly bleeding out. It wasn't as if Snape would've helped him in any way.
"If I hadn't dodged in the nick of time, I probably would've ended up in the Hospital Wing—maybe even worse…"
"Worse?" Sirius let out a harsh laugh. He glared, growling in a menacing whisper, "I think it's time we reminded Snivellus what happens when he crosses the line."
His fingers curled around his wand as though he was imagining pointing it right at Snape himself.
"Padfoot." James's voice had an edge of warning, though there was something dangerous simmering in his eyes too. "It's not worth getting kicked out of here over him."
"Isn't it?" Sirius shot back, his expression wild with anger. "He's unhinged, Prongs! Anyone who'd make a spell like that has crossed every line possible." He laughed darkly, his voice low. "A curse designed to slice people apart. He's sick."
Harry's jaw worked as he tried to bury the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew Snape was a pathetic asshole, but even he had not imagined that he had delved so deeply into the dark. It made him wonder if he'd truly made the right decision to let him live. After all, James' explanation made it clear that Snape had intended to kill him with that curse, if not fatally wound him, and in his eyes, that made him directly comparable to Malfoy and his ilk.
"He is," he growled low in his throat, but his voice came out even, almost deliberately controlled. The rage was palpable though, and it drew both James and Sirius' attention. He sat back, his jaw set firmly and a dangerous glint in his eyes. "And he can't be allowed to continue doing something like this. Sectumsempra, eh? He narrowly missed this time, or rather, you were capable enough to swerve out of its way, but next time would not be the same. Today, he cast that curse on you. Tomorrow, it could be someone else that's angered him. We all know there is no lack of people he hates."
The tension and Harry's rage were both palpable, and James released a deep breath. "There isn't," he agreed. "I told him to stay away from Evans too."
"And you think he got the message?" Sirius scoffed.
"That is not the priority here, Sirius," Harry's gaze was like steel, cold and unwavering. "He tried to kill James. That's all we need to remember. He failed today, but I can guarantee he's not going to give up easily."
"Then we'll go in together next time," Sirius said fiercely. "He won't get another shot at any of us like that."
"Yeah, well… he doesn't need to get a shot as us three to get to us," Harry said darkly, and it was as if someone had unloaded a bucket of icy water over them. James and Sirius' eyes widened, their mouths dry and their breaths coming out in short gasps.
"Y-You mean—"
"I do," Harry said firmly. "Think, you two! Have you learned nothing from the Pettigrew episode!?"
The mere reminder of what that rat had done, and what he'd asked in return for his services made both James and Sirius seethe.
"You're right," the former growled. "Snape is of the same ilk. I can't believe I forgot that."
"I'm not letting him get the chance to do something like that again," Harry hissed. "You know what that means. The question is 'Are you going to man up and do something about it? Or will you leave it to me this time as well?'"
Wide-eyed, James and Sirius exchanged a look, their mind awash with conflicted feelings. They understood what Harry was proposing. They had managed to run away from one obligation before, but they knew their time to take responsibility had long since come.
Harry leaned back and regarded them. They had remained children for too long. It was high time they were held accountable. This war was going to turn ugly, and that meant making hard choices that made you fight against yourself. However, there lay the key to survival in this cruel world.
Slowly, they turned to Harry who regarded them coolly, and it was James who gazed at Harry with as much conviction as he could muster.
"Harry, we all agree that Snape is a pathetic arsehole who deserves everything coming his way," he said softly, and Harry almost let out a sigh. He knew where this was going, and as much as it disappointed him, it filled him with relief for their sake as well. "But we just can't kill him. There has to be another solution that can be as effective, that would give him what he deserves."
Harry released a breath he didn't know he was holding, and he leaned forward, his eyes hard and unyielding.
The people he cared about did not have it in them to kill, and now he begrudgingly accepted it. He also accepted what it meant for him as well.
They might not be able to shoulder that responsibility, but his shoulders were strong enough to carry their loads as well. He was strong, both mentally and magically, to make up for any deficit they left behind. He had been doing it all his life, surviving on his own in a world that had taken everything away from him, leaving him with nothing but more burden since before he had even started to walk.
It was all right for them to leave it to him. He would carry their burden because he was strong and determined enough.
As he gazed at them firmly, he reiterated to himself that it was time to rectify his mistake. They did not want him to die, and as he thought about it, he agreed. Death was a quick reprieve for someone like him. No, what that dour bastard deserved was a place even more dour than him.
He had the perfect plan for someone as abhorrent as Snape. The bastard deserved to rot in the place he had tried his damnedest to push his godfather in. Short of death, that would be the only fitting fate for him.
"Okay. We won't be killing him," Harry said quietly, his face set into one of disdain as he thought about the man and everything he had done to him. This was not the same Snape, but he was as bad, if not worse, after he attempted to murder James.
There was visible relief on both James and Sirius' faces as they gazed at each other for a moment before they turned back to him.
"What then?" James asked quietly.
"Azkaban," Harry stated firmly and leaned back, gazing into the fireplace as James and Sirius exchanged a shocked glance.
"Fitting," the latter nodded after a moment of terse silence during which Harry kept his eyes on the crackling fire. "The bastard deserves nothing less for trying to murder James."
James nodded, his lips set in a thin line, when Harry suddenly stood up. Both he and Sirius stared askance at him.
"I've got something to take care of," he said, and without a backward glance, he turned around and purposefully walked out of the common room.
James and Sirius stared at the exit alcove for a few seconds before they exchanged another firm look with each other. As one, they too got to their feet and walked away toward their dormitory.
Outside the common room, a sneering Harry Peverell pulled the cloak over himself, vanishing out of view. His eyes set straight ahead, he made his way over to the Grand Staircase.
His mind was made up and it was filled with a multitude of tumultuous thoughts. It was a mess, and he knew just the pair of beautiful ladies who could both help him out in this situation and understand him perfectly.
TBC.
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