CHAPTER 73: TO INITIATE HOSTILITIES
It was late at night, and long ago the owners of the Malfoy Manor had retired to their chambers for a well-deserved rest. Yet, a single being still remained awake, lurking in the depths of the mansion that he had made his personal quarters. Some might see it as his way of perpetuating the myth of the villains in tales living in remote, damp, and dark places, feeding on the crawling vermin as they patiently waited for their moment—the moment when the eternal evil genius emerged from his lair to pounce on his prey and annihilate it.
But Voldemort did not like fairy tales. His own mother had never had the opportunity to read them to him because she died giving birth to him, and the attendants working at the orphanage where he had spent part of his childhood were far too busy trying to keep him on his shaky foundations to waste their time reading a story to a child they found odd. In any case, they could never have liked stories where the villain character inevitably died or failed to achieve the goals he had set. Who could marvel at such losers? Life was made up of winners with pure thoughts and chivalrous souls, and bad people whose defeat was written in the last pages of the book. Oh, if he had the means to rewrite stories, especially his own, he would certainly surpass his adversaries and put them where they truly belonged: at his feet.
But for now, Lord Voldemort was rather pensive, something he was not often accustomed to; an individual as powerful as him should only inspire fear and dread in all who crossed his scarlet-eyed gaze and his horrible snake-like face, with decisions that were clear and quick because such a discerning mind did not need to overthink, with actions that were brief and radical because there was no room for doubt.
However, and away from prying eyes, Voldemort occasionally allowed himself a moment of reflection to sort out his thoughts. In fact, two particular subjects had been tormenting him since his return among the common mortals, two thorny and frankly unpleasant subjects that had the knack of playing with his patience and composure all the time.
The first, and the most well-known by now, was his troops' inability to lay hands on Harry Potter. This boy seemed to be as elusive as an eel, continually slipping through his fingers while he was already congratulating himself on his capture. A hope quickly proven in vain whenever someone returned empty-handed from their meticulous searches. Just like him for the past thirteen years, Potter seemed to be playing hide-and-seek in the shadows, hidden in corners and out of sight of everyone. Perhaps he was afraid of being found, perhaps he didn't care at all and went about his mortal business, or maybe he was simply very far from here, on another continent, secluded deep in a forest, feeding on small animals. The idea was completely absurd, but who knows, this prolonged absence was not normal in his view.
Six months of fruitless searches, six months of deploying his men to every corner of England and the rest of Europe, nearly as much time spying on the Frenchwoman where, he was convinced, a part of the Potter family was hiding, but against whom he had not yet attempted anything for fear of possible reprisals; all of this had exhausted his patience, and an unspeakable anger was rising in him as the results remained unsatisfactory.
Lord Voldemort feared nothing and no one in this world, and Dumbledore could attest to that, having faced him several times in the past without ever defeating him. But caution is the mother of safety, and knowing that someone had managed to bring down the headmaster of Hogwarts in the past and that this same person seemed to be protecting the object of all his coveting, he had to be more cautious and study the opponent before delivering the first blows; since diplomacy and attempts at "friendly" rapprochement had so far been insufficient, his letters having always gone unanswered, the higher gear would soon be shifted, and one way or another, the Princess of Lamballe would soon deliver her secrets to him, if not the Potters.
The other subject for reflection, the one that had obsessed him since his return and could finally help him understand the small details that still eluded his proper understanding of the plot unfolding between him and the Potters, was no larger than a billiard ball, no more resistant than the glass of a mirror, and its contents were as voluble as the mist in the middle of November. This small sphere, which could easily fit in the palm of his hand and was of no importance to the vast majority of people, was none other than a prophecy—the famous prophecy that had almost cost him his life thirteen years ago and held the answers to all the questions he had been asking since that date. Questions like the reasons for his failure to attempt to kill the Potter boys, the power that the eldest seemed to have and that had incapacitated him in moments, or even the possible existence of an alternative approach to eliminate this threat.
So many questions, so many mysteries surrounding such a small glass ball that took great pleasure in tormenting him, constantly reminding him that up there, above his head, hung the silent and imperceptible threat of an existence that could end by the treacherous hand of a young man as elusive as the destiny that bound them both. A small, fragile globe could cause him much more trouble than the sole person of Albus Dumbledore, his eternal enemy, but unlike the headmaster of Hogwarts, it could also provide him with the answers to those famous issues that his twisted mind was the unfortunate victim of.
However, patience was required because hidden in the depths of the Ministry of Magic, his prophecy patiently awaited him, deposited like thousands of others before it on a shelf that only the individuals concerned could extract, open, and hear at their leisure. But to arm himself with it, he still had to go there directly, and that was a risk that Voldemort did not want to take for the time being, as incognito remained the best cover for now, pending a triumphant return... These idiots at the Ministry were already making his task so easy by refusing to admit that he had returned from the dead; he should not shatter their beautiful illusions of carefree denial just yet.
"It's hard to imagine that these fools could one day pose a threat to me," he thought with amusement.
This ace in his game had to remain hidden for the moment, but he couldn't resist the pleasure of announcing it to them one day as he crushed the lifeless body of the elder Potter son under his foot in the middle of the Ministry of Magic's hall.
The prophecy was ultimately just another Harry Potter, so close yet so difficult to catch. The location of both was more or less established, one probably in France, the other in a corridor of the Ministry, but both took a mischievous delight in making his life difficult and testing his patience; if there was now a way to lure Harry Potter to the Ministry to seize the prophecy himself, it would be Christmas come early! But to attract him there, an bait was needed.
Movement near him caught his attention as, in the dim light of the torches in the dungeon where he resided, he noticed that someone had opened the door and stood in the doorway—a person he quickly recognized by his small, round silhouette and slightly stooped posture.
"Queudver, I hope for your sake that you have a good reason for disturbing me," he threatened, shooting a disdainful glance at him.
With satisfaction, he saw the man bow even further as fear seemed to emanate from every pore of his skin.
"M-master," he stammered with a pleading voice, "your appointment is here…"
"Ah," Voldemort sighed as he went to sit on the makeshift throne he had fashioned for himself. "Well, don't keep him waiting; let him in."
Queudver immediately obeyed, and, opening the door wider with the silver hand that the Dark Lord had given him on the evening of his return, he allowed passage to another figure also concealed under a travel cloak, taller and broader than him, who strode confidently in the direction of his master before bowing.
"You're late," Voldemort informed distractedly as he slowly tapped the tip of his magic wand on the palm of his free hand.
"My apologies, master," the man mumbled, keeping his head bowed. "Dumbledore organized yet another meeting tonight, and it has just finished…"
"Oh, really," Voldemort inquired with a sweet tone. "And what was the purpose of this meeting, my faithful servant?"
"The same reason as the previous ones, master," the other replied. "Their attempts to get their hands on Remus Lupin."
"Interesting…" Voldemort mumbled, turning his head to look at the Gothic vaults of the dungeon.
This curious situation amused him every time, and although the targets were different from one camp to the other, all of them had to lead to the same goal: Potter. While he targeted the mother because he knew for sure where she could be found, Dumbledore and his men had embarked on a hunt for the werewolf, the boy's godfather, it seemed, pretending that he had disappeared along with the rest of the Potter family. Two targets, two possibilities, both as interesting as the other, and in this race, Voldemort wondered who would manage to get their hands on them first.
"And so?" he resumed after a few seconds of silence. "They still have no leads?"
"No, master, but they think they have discovered a way to find him," affirmed the Death Eater.
"Oh, and what would it be?" Voldemort asked immediately in a curious tone.
"As you know, Lupin is a werewolf, and generally werewolves have an excellent sense of smell and make perfect trackers," explained the hooded man. "Werewolves sometimes tend to meet and stay away from the rest of living beings due to their... condition. Lupin was fortunate enough to have a few friends during his younger years, people close enough to have retained on them a scent, however faint it may be, that, by tracking it, would lead them to him."
"So, Dumbledore has in mind to use a werewolf in the same way as a dog and keep it on a leash until it traces this trail…" commented Voldemort with amusement.
"Exactly, master," the other approved. "They will first try using James Potter and Sirius Black, who were his best friends at Hogwarts."
"So, they will be led to all the places where this beast left its mark—its home, workplace, all those places where it used to walk..." Voldemort said.
"Yes, master," said the man.
"Clever," Voldemort couldn't help but admit. "What would be more amusing, though, is to use this method in the same way by employing Queudver's services…"
While speaking, Voldemort shifted his gaze back to the miserable lackey who served as his sidekick most of the time. At the same time, the door opened again without anyone behind it... anyone, except perhaps an immense serpent, at least three meters long, with dark scales and a forked tongue occasionally flickering out of its immense mouth. Perhaps for amusement, the reptile slid calmly near Wormtail, stopping a few centimeters from his feet, while the scarlet orbs that served as eyes observed him meticulously.
"Nagini, not now," said the Dark Lord, noticing the serpent's behavior. "You can eat him when he's no longer of any use to me. But for now, come closer and listen to this conversation."
The serpent emitted a particularly loud hiss, and, glancing one last time at the animagus Death Eater, continued its journey toward Voldemort's throne, circling it for a moment before slowly raising its body, bringing its head closer to Voldemort's, allowing the Dark Lord's long, pale fingers to tenderly caress it, much like a master with his pet.
"Continue where we left off," indicated the dark wizard, redirecting his attention to the other Death Eater. "We were discussing the usefulness of Wormtail... Do you think we could employ the same method as Dumbledore to trace the werewolf's trail? His time in Azkaban may have altered the trace he could have had of Lupin on him, but there might still be a small chance it remains."
"Perhaps, yes," admitted his Death Eater, also looking at Wormtail. "But for that, we also need a werewolf, and since Greyback's death last year, we don't have one readily available."
"A regrettable loss to be laid at Lucius's feet," Voldemort declared bitterly. "If he hadn't caused such a commotion during the Quidditch World Cup, he would still be here."
Lost in thought, Voldemort absentmindedly rubbed his pointed chin, while the flames of a torch in front of him caught his attention. Next to him, Nagini continued to hiss near his ear in a way that could easily be mistaken for an attempt to reassure him.
"Starting tomorrow, I want you to search for a werewolf, regardless of who he is or whether he's willing to help us or not," he ordered sharply. "We will try to implement the same plan as Dumbledore."
"Your wishes are my commands, master," replied the Death Eater. "I will do my best to fulfill them."
"I have no doubt, Barty."
Under his hood, Barty Crouch Jr. gave a joyful smile at his master's compliment, though the Dark Lord couldn't see it.
"Now, let's move on to the reason for your presence," Voldemort added, pointing his index finger in Wormtail's direction. "You, leave immediately. This conversation must remain private."
Shivering from head to toe, Peter quickly acquiesced before disappearing without further ado.
"It's regrettable that you're no longer a professor at Hogwarts," he began, glancing at Barty. "Rogue can be a remarkable potion maker and an excellent duelist, and he can tell me all he wants about the unwavering devotion he feels towards me and the cause we defend. However, a doubt persists in me regarding his true intentions and allegiances, unlike you, who have never faltered."
"Thank you, master," Barty replied, suppressing the urge to laugh at the unflattering description of his fellow Death Eater.
"However, you remain a valuable asset in my game as you continue to work for me directly within the Order. No one would suspect the respectable, powerful, and venerated Mad-Eye Moody to be a servant of the most powerful dark wizard in recent decades. Yet... appearances can be deceiving, what do you say?"
Voldemort laughed at his own joke, a laugh devoid of warmth but one that Barty wholeheartedly shared.
"Rogue and you constantly report on the meetings of the Order of the Phoenix, but his are never as descriptive as yours, as if... as if our potions professor is hiding essential things from us."
"Do you want me to take care of him?" his servant immediately inquired.
"Oh, Merlin, no," Voldemort replied. "Rogue will pay sooner or later, but let's leave him in the dark for now and focus on the Order of the Phoenix as a whole."
With that, Lord Voldemort rose from his throne, circling Barty like a vulture around a carcass, absentmindedly letting his hand slide over his servant's shoulder, as if caressing him in the same way as Nagini.
"We must instill fear and doubt in their minds, don't you think, Barty?" he asked in a voice barely more audible than a whisper. "Terrify our enemies, divide and conquer, as the Muggles say... And what better way than to let them discover that a spy has been among them all this time?"
"Do you want me to reveal my true identity?" Barty asked, more troubled than he had anticipated by the news.
"Yes, but it must be done with flair," his master announced, continuing to circle him. "Imagine that moment, that instant of doubt creeping into them when they discover that the famous Mad-Eye Moody, the legendary Auror with such an eloquent track record, the duelist whose only paranoia tarnishes his reputation, the one who mistrusts everything and would be suspected last of being a traitor. Imagine, my dear Death Eater, the horror those fools would feel in discovering it. Oh, you'll have your moment of glory! But to perfect it, we must add a bit of sparkle to this revelation. And what better than to bury as many members of the Order of the Phoenix as possible?"
"But how, master?" Barty asked, almost pleading.
"When is their next meeting?" he simply asked.
"Shortly before Christmas, if I'm not mistaken," said Barty.
A particularly sinister smile spread across Voldemort's lips at this news, and his grip on his servant's shoulder tightened even more.
"Marvelous," he hissed. "It's a splendid gift we could give them, a gift they will remember for a long time. You will build your legend on a pile of corpses..."
Then, turning to sit again, he kept his eyes on the hooded figure still kneeling before him, as if judging whether or not he could rely on him to carry out the plan he had in mind.
"Dumbledore is not an ordinary wizard, so we shouldn't attack him directly. However, all his followers are nothing but cannon fodder fit to feed the dogs. You shouldn't have any trouble dealing with them. As for Rogue, I'll ensure he's not there that day to avoid suspicions of any potential collusion on his part."
"What a brilliant idea you have, master," Barty stammered with emotion.
"I surprise myself at times," Voldemort assured him, laughing. "But let's stop dilly-dallying now and focus on setting up this plan."
In the following hour, master and servant discussed the preparations for this mission at length, under the watchful eye of a serpent on edge, while a few floors above their heads, the owners of Malfoy Manor continued to sleep peacefully.
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