Jun. 23rd, 2006

wand_wavers: (voldemort)
OOC: Warning for violence and extremely disturbing images


All of them, gone.

All of the infinite care and precision put into making them, concealing them, searching for them...all for naught.

But what is worse, and what has been preying on his mind since the moment he Apparated away from Egypt, is the fact that if he does not have them, then someone else surely does. And there are no prizes for guessing who that someone might be.

It is not surprising that he has been rather liberal in his use of the Cruciatus Curse, in the last few days.

Not even the knowledge that the Horcrux which had been in his old diary is safe, ensorcelled in his wand, is of much comfort. One Horcrux is not enough; he must have more than that.

He has only one real option, and very little time to prepare it. There is no way to save time by cutting corners, not for magic of this degree. The price for failure, or even over-hasty execution of the spell, is high enough to make even Lord Voldemort think twice. But after several exhausting days and nights' work, he has managed to assemble all of the necessary ingredients to brew the required potion -- including the one that now lies upon the low table before the steaming cauldron.

Bellatrix had not questioned him, when he had ordered her to bring him a half-blooded child of a pureblooded mother. (Then again, Bellatrix was not likely to question any command of his that gave her the opportunity to sink her arms elbow-deep in blood; a pity, what had happened to her, but after all, every war demands its sacrifices.) The child is male, less than six months old, taken from his parents' home in the very first strike the Death Eaters had made on Black Sunday. Even under a Silencing Spell and a Full Body Bind, it appears to be attempting to scream its little lungs out.

The glass orb is floating in the thick, oily potion that fills the cauldron. Voldemort takes the child by its ankles, casts a spell to suspend it above the cauldron and leave his hands free for what he must do. A freshly-sharpened knife is in his hands, and the blade glints dully as he holds it aloft and begins to chant the words of the spell.

'Here I stand, and summon the darkness that dwells between the worlds!
Here I stand, and present my sacrifice to those who dwell within that darkness!

The temperature of the room seems to drop a few degrees, in response to his summons.

'Blood for blood -- '

The knife flashes.

'Life for life -- '

The Silencing Spell stifles the infant's final cry and even its last gurgling breaths.

'Soul for soul -- '

The potion begins to change colour, and the bubbling around the edges quickly expands to cover the entire surface of the cauldron's contents.

'Return that which is rightfully mine!' His voice rises to a high, vengeful shriek on the last word.
wand_wavers: (voldemort)
One of the few remaining pieces of furniture in the manor's master suite is a grand old oak desk, and it is at this desk where the Dark Lord is busily engaged in putting the final touches to what even he would have to consider his master stroke.

Inch after inch of a parchment scroll, covered in meticulous and detailed instructions. With such explicit elaboration, even the most simple-minded of his followers will be able to carry out this mission. The best and the brightest of them would also benefit from further clarification, for they will have much to do this coming Sunday. There is no room for failure here, no room for any less than complete dedication.

He cannot contain a small chuckle of pure delight at the sight of his plan laid out so precisely. On Saturday evening, wizarding Britain would be sleeping peacefully. On Sunday morning, all of Britain would wake to the dawning of a new day.

His day.

And by Sunday next, he would be the undisputed lord and master of the wizarding population of the British Isles -- or rather, what would be left of them.


The tip of his quill jolts on the paper, and a dark blot begins to spreads across the parchment.

With a scowl, he casts the necessary cleansing spell. A silly thought; his Horcruxes are safe. All five of them, all precisely where they had been concealed years before. And he would know if anyone had tampered with them.

Though you did not know when the diary was destroyed.

His scowl deepens further. All things considered, when Potter had committed that act of wanton destruction, he had not exactly been in a state to be aware of anything.

The thought was nonetheless unsettling, much as he loathed to admit it. There was time to follow through on the Horcruxes, time enough if he so desired. But until then, there were more pressing matters to consider -- matters which would commence on Sunday. All of pieces had to be put into place: pawns to arrange, opening moves to consider, an endgame to design.

Nothing, therefore, to worry about. Nothing to fear.

And everything to be won.


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