19
A disquiet settled over Voldemort. It was a subtle shift at first, a low hum of unease beneath the surface of his carefully controlled demeanor. He found himself pacing the halls of the castle at night, the silence amplifying the restless energy within him.
He craved action, a release for the power that thrummed beneath his skin. This was uncommon for him - he, who had always naturally taken to the role of command and rule, over the method of carrying out. The mundane routines of court, the endless reports from his followers, grated on him.
A darkness gathered within him, a hunger for something more, something he couldn’t quite name…or perhaps maybe he could. Alice. He found himself increasingly drawn to moments of intellectual exchange, to the way her mind worked, dissecting magical theory with a logic he rarely encountered among his followers. He told himself it was a novelty, a fleeting amusement to observe a muggle grasping at the edges of a power she could never truly wield. A plaything, a curious experiment.
Yet, the words felt hollow, inadequate to describe the complex interplay between them. A flicker of irritation, unfamiliar and unwelcome, sparked within him. He pushed it down, burying it beneath layers of carefully constructed indifference. He found he could not bring himself to examine it yet.
Antonin Dolohov knew his master well enough to recognize the signs. The slight tap of long fingers against the arm of his throne, the way his magic seemed to crackle in the air more than usual during court sessions. The Dark Lord was growing... restless.
"My Lord," Dolohov began carefully during his evening report, "our intelligence suggests a gathering of Order sympathizers near the Scottish border. Former Aurors among them." He paused deliberately. "They plan to raid one of our northern outposts next week."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed with sudden interest. "Do they indeed?"
"Nothing we can't handle, of course," Dolohov continued smoothly. "Though perhaps... it would be beneficial to oversee the operation personally. To remind everyone of the consequences of resistance."
A slow smile spread across Voldemort's face. "How thoughtful of you, Antonin, to bring this to my attention."
The battle, if it could be called that, was brutally swift. Voldemort and Dolohov appeared like wraiths in the pre-dawn light, finding the rebels preparing their assault. What followed was a display of magical mastery that left even the seasoned Death Eaters in awe.
Voldemort moved like living shadow, his spells chains of devastating precision. When three attackers tried to coordinate their assault, he transfigured the very air around them into poisonous mist. As they stumbled, choking, he turned their own magic against them with a casual flick of his wand, their spells rebounding in a spectacular display of green and purple light.
Dolohov was equally lethal in his own way, his signature curse leaving purple flame in its wake as he cut through the opposition. Master and servant worked in perfect tandem, decades of fighting together evident in their fluid coordination.
When it was over, Voldemort stood among the fallen, his magic still crackling in the air like lightning. His eyes were bright with the thrill of battle, his posture more relaxed than it had been in weeks.
"Efficient," he commented to Dolohov, stepping over a body with casual grace. "Though perhaps too quick."
"There will be others, my Lord," Dolohov replied with a knowing smile. "…I’m glad to see old age has robbed neither of us of anything yet."
Back at the castle, with a renewed sort of vigour, Voldemort issued several proclamations about the consequences of rebellion. The staff scurried through the halls with downcast eyes, the reminder of their master's power fresh in their minds. Even the portraits seemed to whisper more quietly.
He was just finishing a particularly harsh decree when quick footsteps echoed outside the throne room.
"My Lord!" Alice burst in, clutching a heavy tome, her eyes bright with excitement. "I think I've found something about the runic sequence we were discussing yesterday. Look at this passage about resonance patterns in Celtic—" She stopped short, finally noticing his battle-worn robes and the dark energy still emanating from him.
But instead of cowering like the others, she simply tilted her head. "Oh, should I come back later? Only this really is fascinating, and I know you were particularly interested in the theoretical applications..."
Voldemort felt the last of his battle-lust fade, replaced by that peculiar warmth that seemed to accompany her presence these days. "Show me," he said, gesturing her closer.
She made short work of the steps up to the dais, and as she spread the book before him, pointing out the relevant passages with animated gestures, he found himself appreciating the strange nature of her presence in his life.