The Riddle House

[wand_wavers]

Riddle House, perched on a hill above the village of Little Hangleton, might as well be in another world entirely. Unplottable, as of late, and should any hapless Muggles somehow wander through the Repelling charms, Dementors roam the grounds. The constant cold, clinging mist further obscures the place, much to its owner's pleasure.

The house is empty today, but for two figures, one standing, one kneeling in the cellars. The stone walls drip with moisture as red-tinted, acrid steam rises from a cauldron.

Voldemort leans against the wall, twirling his wand idly. "This had better work, Peverell." There is a sudden flash of light and a rat squeals in surprise as it dies. "Or you'll wish you'd never existed."

"N-no, my Lord, it will work," says the elderly wizard, stooping, chalk in hand, to trace a large triangle on floor. "I've called several demons in this fashion and bound them all to me." He adds quickly, "Or to my master."

"Get on with it then," the Dark Lord snaps, beginning to pace restlessly, tapping his wand against his palm. A demon... this will be most promising. Dementors are all well and good, but to harness the power of Hell's legions? Oh, yes. Voldemort is not, nor ever has been, particularly inclined towards religion - but he believes in power. Be it that of the Dark Arts or of Hell, it will be his.

He watches with glowing red eyes as Peverell traces another shape on the cold flagstones - a circle around the triangle - watches as the salt is scattered, as the rite is performed. The air thickens and sulphur wafts through the cellar.

With growing impatience, Voldemort waits for more power.

Comments

[aj_crawley]

For a while, there is nothing. The steam swirls in the dank, damp air; there's a draft, as there always is in such places, and it draws little eddies and currents in the mist.

Gradually, however, it may start to seem as though the draft, weak as it is, has a purpose in mind - after a few minutes, there seems to be rather more steam within the circle than without.

It shimmers oddly; yellow light, instead of red.

[wand_wavers]

As he paces, thoughts, plots, and machinations race through Voldemort's mind. If he can bind a demon - even a lesser one, as Peverell no doubt won't be able to call up much - to do his bidding, it would be a significant advantage in this war. Besides that, only a demon can provide what he requires for his next goal.

However, as the minutes pass, the Dark Lord runs out of patience. To be honest, he'd sooner not deal with the doddering old wizard - this branch of demonology is obscure and reeks of Muggledom. He'll find a wizarding way to harness a demon.

He raises his wand. A spot of Cruciatus ought to do, in exchange for his valuable time being wasted.

...and then he notices the yellow light shimmering, swirling, becoming more solid. He steps forward eagerly, careful not to step over the circle of salt.

"Come through," he commands. "Come through now."

[aj_crawley]

It coalesces, roiling sluggishly - then starts to dissipate, leaving the circle empty. And then just as suddenly, the steam rushes inwards once more, with a long, low hiss.

sssssssssssssssssss

which becomes

fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff

and then a sudden, muffled bang of displaced air.

"ffffFUCK."

Within the circle, there is a triangle, and within the triangle, there is a slowly clearing cloud of steam. And within the slowly clearing cloud of steam, there is a young man, pulling himself into a sitting position. Not particularly demonic-looking, to be honest, he has dark hair, good cheekbones, and - even in the dark of the cellar - a pair of sunglasses. On his feet, he wears snakeskin shoes.

Or at least, presumably those are shoes.

[wand_wavers]

To say that Voldemort is put out by the appearance of this "demon" would be the understatement of the century.

Bloody buggering fuck, why must I be surrounded by such utter incompetence? Bloody thing's not even got horns, he thinks, careful as always to not reveal his real thoughts unless one hundred percent certain of his mastery of the situation. His face remains a mask.

"Leave us," he hisses at Peverell. The wizard scuttles away.

Suppressing a most exasperated sigh, Voldemort conjures two glasses of wine. If nothing else, this demon will be easy to command. He'll get what he wants and be rid of it in no time.

Not even horns, I ask you? What kind of demon hasn't even got a set of proper horns?

"Welcome, honored guest," he says, his lips curling into a mockery of the charming smile his younger visage possessed. He floats one glass over the lines of protective wards to Crowley.

[aj_crawley]

"Uh."

A little dazed, a little disoriented, Crowley reaches out to take the wineglass more on instinct than anything else. He doesn't take a sip though; rather, when he finally has enough wits about him to focus on Voldemort's face, he goes very, very still.

Shit, says his expression, far more eloquently than his mouth ever could.

[wand_wavers]

Voldemort bows. The niceties must be kept, after all.

He lazily sips his wine as he sizes the demon up. He looks less like a demon and more like a Muggle celebrity. However, he would do, if Peverell's promises turned out to be true.

He randomly wonders if Legilimency will work on a demon. Then he wonders the same about the Cruciatus and Imperius curses.

Then he smiles again, his red eyes piercing the dimness of the cellar.

"I am Lord Voldemort. What might you called, worthy demon?"

[aj_crawley]

Crowley visibly Pulls Himself Together, slithering to his feet and dusting himself off with his free hand.

"What would you like to call me?" he asks smoothly. "Caim? Chamos? Carnivean? Carreau?"

These are not his name, but they will suffice; neither are they truly anyone else's. Names give power; he will neither give his real name, nor his true one.

There is, of course, 'Anthony' - but something tells Crowley that a guy called Voldemort might not appreciate that one quite so much.

[wand_wavers]

"Have you that many names? Handy, that."

He drains the glass of wine and then vanishes it.

"I won't keep you long, as I'm sure you have a busy schedule, as do I. Have you, by chance, heard of me?"

[aj_crawley]

"You've come up on the grapevine a few times," he allows casually. "Here and there."

His own wine remains untouched, still - and it's to Crowley's credit that his knuckles are not white around the glass.

Another moment of silence, as Crowley takes in his surroundings, the sight of the archaic chalked and salted symbols on the floor catching him half-way between rolling his eyes and cursing. Ancient and ridiculous, and hardly necessary, in a summoning, but - there are rules. Even for things like him, there are rules.

A shallow bow, careful not to spill any wine.

"I take it," he asks, "that I am here for a reason?"

For better or worse, he's stuck here now, until he is dismissed.

Shit.

[wand_wavers]

"Oh yes. Yes indeed."

He notices the wine has not been touched. So, the demon is more canny than he seems. Interesting.

"I suppose you know how this works. I'll cut to the chase, Master Caim. I require certain favors to further my cause. I should think you'd be pleased to contribute. Perhaps it will earn you a commendation, or some such."

[aj_crawley]

This garners Voldemort a raised eyebrow, and a sneer.

"There are many evils in this world, Riddle - " deliberately chosen; Crowley will not give him his title, " - and yours is hardly the - "

He stops, suddenly. There is a feeling, a, a - it creeps, icy into your stomach and it's... colder all of a sudden isn't it? and Crowley's, Crowley doesn't, he can see in the dark so why is -

And then it stops. Fades.





His expression never changed, not one jot - and his voice, now, is just as level.

"You have Dementors on the grounds."

It's not a question.

[wand_wavers]

Voldemort hisses at the use of that filthy name.

"I am Voldemort. I command you call me by my chosen name," he snaps, pacing around the salt circle. How dare he denigrate him so and then further insult him by lumping his life's work with any number of common evildoers.

"Of course I've Dementors on the grounds. They've come to my side."

[aj_crawley]

"They are bound to you?" he asks, to all appearances merely mildly curious.

Dementors have their distant origins in Hell. If the more bestial demons can be bound and controlled - hell, Crowley himself is stuck inside these wards - then...

[wand_wavers]

"You're bound to me, at the moment," he smirks. "What do you think?"

[aj_crawley]

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley's eyes narrow. He doesn't move, however - there is merely a soft, deep whoomph, and suddenly, Crowley is surrounded by huge, dark wings.

When he lifts his chin, he seems very much taller.

"So ask me not; for thy kingdom also after a little time is to be disrupted and thy glory is but for a season, and short will be thy tyranny over us."

[wand_wavers]

Crowley's eyes aren't the only ones narrowing. Voldemort folds his arms in front of him and mentally pulls the air around him into pulsating forms of serpents, hissing and writhing. They are protective wards - yet another layer of magic between the demon and himself.

"I was never a religious man. Your words are quite lost on me," he says casually. "I am in need of two things. You are going to give them to me. Firstly, I need a hell-forged dagger."

[aj_crawley]

Shit, shit. His face settles back into neutral. There are

(whips in Hell)

rules, after all.

And other things. Dementors.

"Is that so."

[wand_wavers]

"Yes. I've lost something I wish to find again. It requires blood drawn from from the edge of a hell-forged blade."

Voldemort smiles that horrible smile.

"My blood, of course."

Well, and that of an infant. Avery's granddaughter is due any moment, and the child has been promised to him. To recover the lost pieces of his soul, shattered from their horcruxes by his enemies, he'll do whatever he must.

[aj_crawley]

Outwardly calm, still - unimpressed, even.

Outwardly.

"And the other thing?"

[wand_wavers]

"Do you know what Inferi are?"

[aj_crawley]

"Yes."

[wand_wavers]

"I want an army. Not one or two or three raised at a time. I want the power to raise my victims to use them against my enemies."

He chuckles, his forked tongue flicking between his lips. "Mortui vivis praecipant. But will the living learn their lesson? One would hope."

He is envisioning a certain Inferi now. It has a lightning-shaped scar on its forehead.

[aj_crawley]

"An army. Of Inferi."

He thinks, with a horrible suddenness of a grey-white face he doesn't even know, and Tonks' voice, telling him of dead friends.

And yet, still. There are Dementors, bound to Voldemort. If Crowley could -

"Not an easy thing, you're asking."

[wand_wavers]

He folds his arms and sneers.

"Then it's as I suspected. You're not powerful enough, are you? Not up to the challenge?"

[aj_crawley]

"No," he replies mildly. "I just want to know what's in it for me."

Yes, if he could just -

[wand_wavers]

"What do you require? A contract signed in blood? My soul?"

He chuckles. He'll hand over that in a heartbeat.

Or a piece of it, anyway.

[aj_crawley]

He snorts dismissively.

"I think we're pretty much set for your soul, in the long run. No. I want - "

His eyes flicker up and to the side - no windows, here, but he glances unerringly towards the grounds.

"I want the Dementors."

[wand_wavers]

He frowns. That was unexpected.

"I'd consider giving you a few in a fair exchange."

Bartering is all well and good when you've got the upper hand. He'll have the Inferi and the Dementors.

[aj_crawley]

He shakes his head, shaping his mouth into a faintly unpleasant grin.

"No cigar, not even close. All. After you've won, of course," he adds, snakily polite.

[wand_wavers]

He considers this. After he's won, the Dementors will be good for what they've always been - guarding enemies. However, there are other entities much less problematic than they for that kind of thing.

After he's won, he doesn't plan to have many enemies left.

"If I agree, then when shall I have my Inferi?"

[aj_crawley]

"I'll need a bit of time."

He hadn't been lying, after all; it really won't be easy. And there are other things he needs to do as well - covering his tracks, back home, sending down copies of the necessary paperwork (in triplicate), figuring out how he's going to pull this off. Warning people what it is that's coming.

Behind placid black sunglasses, the demon is thinking frantically.

"This day week. Call me here again."

[wand_wavers]

He nods. "That can certainly be arranged."

He's rather pleased he didn't kill Peverell this morning. The old man will be of use a little while longer.

[aj_crawley]

"I'll bring the contract then. And the knife."







"If that's everything..."

[wand_wavers]

"It shall suffice. You may go. For now."

He steps back, smug as can be, knowing he is in control here.

With the Inferi, and the knife, there will be no stopping him.

[aj_crawley]

And that's that; no ceremony, no circumstance - just the rules, rules that apply even to things like him, and another quiet bang of displaced air.