1
The ministerial chamber of the Dark Palace commanded a view of the sprawling grounds through towering windows of enchanted glass, their crystalline panes filtering the afternoon sun into prismatic patterns across marble floors. Rising from the hills on the edge of an endless forest, the palace was Voldemort's masterwork of magical architecture - a testament to wizarding superiority that he had crafted from raw magic and pure ambition. The complex sprawled across the landscape like a living thing, its gleaming spires and elegant wings arranged in perfect magical symmetry, each stone and beam perfected with enchantments. The chamber itself, with its soaring ceilings and elegant archways, housed the Dark Lord's throne upon a raised dais of polished obsidian.
Lord Voldemort sat upon his throne, long pale fingers tracing the elegant script of parchment before him - terms of surrender from the Muggle Minister, delivered by a trembling owl that now lay dead on the crystalline floor, its heart having given out the moment it completed its mission.
"Their civilization is crumbling," growled Antonin Dolohov, his battle-scarred face dark in contemplation. The High General moved to stand beside his oldest friend and master, watching as fires burned in the distant muggle territories. "The their war has torn their society apart - and their…population issue in critical state. They’re desperate."
Voldemort's red eyes flashed dangerously, but he didn't rebuke Dolohov. Few others could speak so plainly to the Dark Lord, but decades of shared darkness had earned the gruff warrior that right.
"My Lord," Lucius Malfoy interjected smoothly, his footsteps echoing as he approached the dais. "If I may... their weakness presents us with an unprecedented opportunity." His silver-topped cane tapped thoughtfully against the floor as he ascended the steps - a privilege granted to only his most trusted advisors. "They've regressed to medieval customs - their nuclear war has caused problems in repopulation - muggle women are not being born. They are treating their few remaining women like precious commodities. Their technology lies in ruins, their armies fight amongst themselves, and now they offer us complete control - all for a mere symbolic gesture."
"A mere gesture?" Voldemort's voice slithered through the vast chamber like ice. "They dare suggest I take one of their kind as bride?”
The demand for a bride had not come as a surprise. Whispers had reached Voldemort’s ears, carried on the wind by his spies within the Ministry, that the muggle government was desperate. Their world, once so proud and self-sufficient, had been ravaged by a nuclear war, who’s effects seemed to devastate their population of one gender, leaving their society teetering on the brink of collapse. Their technology had faltered, their armies fractured, and their social order had reverted to something akin to medieval feudalism, where women, the few that remained, were treated as precious commodities, bartered and protected like the rarest of jewels. Voldemort had watched their descent with a cold amusement, allowing their desperation to fester and grow until they were ripe for the taking. Now, they were crawling to him, offering him anything, everything, to save them from themselves. And what they offered, in their pathetic attempt to appease him, was a bride. A symbol of their submission, a token of their desperation, and a key to their complete and utter domination.
"They're offering us their most valuable possession," Dolohov mused, his rough voice thoughtful. "In their new world order, a highborn woman is worth more than gold. And they know they need our magic to rebuild."
"The Lady Alice Waters," Lucius added, his calculating eyes gleaming. "Last of the old aristocratic lines. Young, beautiful, and most importantly... completely sheltered from their civil war. She's been kept isolated in their countryside, raised in their new traditions of female subservience. She doesn't even know your name, my Lord."
This caught his attention. The idea of someone untainted by the prejudices and fears that permeated magical Britain, a mind he could mold to his own purposes, intrigued Voldemort. As He rose from his throne, moving to one of the towering windows. Beyond the magical barriers, the sprawling grounds of the Dark Palace stretched for miles, a stark contrast to the burning ruins of muggle civilization beyond.
"A blank canvas," Lucius continued, pressing his advantage. "Through her, we gain everything without further magical losses. Their remaining technology, their workforce, their territories - all of it ours. Let them believe they've won some small victory with this marriage. It is simply a show of good faith, while we simply... guide them toward their natural place beneath us." His lips curled into a subtle smirk. "After all, they're practically begging to be ruled now."
"Their society has already accepted magical authority in some regions," Dolohov added. "They've seen how we can protect the few women they have left, how our healing can help prevent further losses. They're ready to submit."
"Yes," Voldemort spoke softly, his reflection ghostlike against the magical barriers. For a moment, his features shifted, handsome Tom Riddle emerging from beneath the serpentine mask he usually wore. "Perhaps it's time we became their salvation."
The two advisors watched as their master contemplated this unprecedented path. Finally, he turned, and there was something dangerous in his smile.
"Very well," he announced. "Let us see what this muggle bride brings to our cause. But remember..." his eyes locked onto both men with chilling intensity. "Lucius, you will receive her at Malfoy Manor. Prepare her until you deem her fit for my halls.
As his advisors bowed deeply, murmuring their understanding, Voldemort returned to his throne, picking up a quill with elegant fingers. He signed the document with a flourish, though his smile suggested this was less a surrender than a calculated seizure of power. After all, there were many ways to conquer - and sometimes, the easiest path was to let your prey believe they'd chosen their own cage.
The Dark Lord's signature sealed more than just a monumental conquest - it represented the culmination of his refined vision for magical society. Many had expected him to rule through pure terror and iron-fisted control, but Voldemort understood what his predecessors had not: true power lay in making others believe they chose their chains.
His gaze swept across the chamber, taking in the representatives of his noble houses who stood in perfect formation. How they had doubted him when he first proposed this system of controlled autonomy. Even Lucius had questioned the wisdom of granting the houses such freedom. But Voldemort had seen further, had understood that power maintained through fear alone was as fragile as spun glass.
The same foresight had served him well years ago, when Severus brought word of that supposed prophecy. His followers had expected him to react with fear, to hunt down every child born as July died. But Voldemort had seen the trap that prophecies represented - self-fulfilling predictions that held power only over those weak enough to believe in fate. So he had done what none expected - he had dismissed it entirely. Let the Order of the Phoenix scramble to protect their chosen families, wasting resources and time on guards and safe houses. Voldemort had focused instead on systematic victory, on dismantling the Order's network piece by piece. The prophecy's chosen children, if they still lived, were lost to obscurity in some distant land - footnotes in his rise to power rather than the harbingers of his downfall that the Order had so desperately wanted them to be.
Each house now played its role with perfect precision...
They thought they understood power - these lords and ladies with their territories and privileges. They didn't realize that every freedom he granted was another chain binding them to his rule, every small autonomy another thread in his web. Their very investment in this system made his control absolute.
His lips curved into a slight smile as he considered how far they'd come from the chaos of war. The noble houses governed their territories with measured autonomy, each lord and lady understanding exactly how much slack their leash allowed. Even the half-bloods had found their place, rising through merit when their loyalty proved absolute. And the Muggle-borns... well, they survived, didn't they? Those who accepted their position at the bottom of his hierarchy were permitted that much.
Setting down his quill with deliberate grace, Voldemort savored the moment. This accord would integrate what remained of Muggle civilization into his empire - their technology, their workforce, their very future - all while they thanked him for the privilege of submission. Perhaps that was his greatest achievement: making them love their chains.
Dolohov and Lucius exchanged glances as they descended the dais, their footsteps echoing through the vast chamber. Each wondered if they'd just witnessed the beginning of their lord's greatest triumph - or his ultimate undoing. Above them, the Dark Palace stretched in elegant magnificence - a monument to magical supremacy that Voldemort had raised from nothing in the years following his victory. Its sweeping wings radiated outward like a celestial mandala, each section purpose-built to house the machinery of his empire. The eastern wing housed the new ministries, their corridors alive with diplomatic activity. The western sectors contained the libraries an endless paragon of archival. Gardens of rare magical plants filled the courtyards, their properties carefully cultivated for both beauty and power. The entire structure was an elegant solution of layers of enchantment, every stone and archway stood as the physical embodiment of his vision - a civilization of pure magical might, eternal and absolute.