The Pretender
Raoul couldn’t work out if he was burning or freezing. He’d lost feelings in his hands and feet at some point, but whether that was hours or days ago he had no idea. Last thing he remembered he had been speaking with the magnificent Zmija when the snot-nosed Lord Black turned up and ruined everything. He snarled in the darkness. Why the Dark Lord had tolerated such an arrogant, insignificant child was beyond him. Had the amazing Lord Black fed useful information to the Dark Lord to ensure that the Death Eaters won every battle, gained every advantage? No. He had hidden behind pompous dinners, fancy outings and making stupid potions. Raoul seethed. And where, just where, was the high and mighty Lord I’m-so-much-better-than-you Regulus fucking Black when the hotel collapsed? And afterwards? Nowhere. That’s where. Nowhere! That bastard was supposed to be the Dark Lord's Heir. His Heir! That boy had more money than Crosus. He was already heir to a wizarding empire, what need did he have of more power he hadn’t even earned? Those bastard Blacks! Instead of fighting the corrupt Ministry and the unworthy Order by his Lord’s side, the untrustworthy upstart was nowhere to be seen. Even sniveling Snape, malicious Malfoy and ludicrous Lestrange were there. They were all so incompetent. He hated every single one of them. But him?! He had made sure everything was in place. Every contingency had been predicted. Every plan had a plan within a plan. Just in case. On the very very very slim chance that the ministry of stupid got wind of their ambush. If he ever found out who the traitor was he would hang, draw and quarter them in such a way they would never actually die. Prometheus would have nothing on his revenge. It had been a perfect plan. And it had all gone to shit because Regulus fucking Black had chosen to hide. Maybe Black had been the traitor. Raoul had suggested it to the Dark Lord a number of times, when plans had gone wrong. But no! The Dark Lord had verified Black himself. Had been inside his mind. The boy was perfect. Cold, dispassionate, ambitious, and completely amoral. He did what he was told without question. Raoul winced at the pain he still felt whenever he did or said something wrong and was punished for it. But he learnt so much as well. The Dark Lord had kept his promise. He was so much more powerful than the so-called morally righteous Order of Mediocrity. He cackled to himself. Oh yes. He was learning the most powerful magic. The banned dark arts. Certainly it was hard. It was meant to be hard. It was driven by pain and anger. By desire and disappointment. By hatred. And he hated so much. He hated everyone who had treated him like a had been, like an inferior wizard. He hated those who pretended to call him friend but never truly knew him. Who abandoned him whenever newer and shinier things came along. It was his hatred, his anger, his pain that drove him to greatness. To follow and learn from the greatest wizard Britain had ever seen. It was what was going to set him free. Free to hunt down that bastard Black and kill him as slowly and painfully as he knew how. To rescue the magnificent Zmija who was undoubtedly trapped nearby. And have her so grateful she would let him possess her as the Dark Lord had possessed his own Lamia Nagini. Yes. That’s what he would do. He cackled again. He would be free. They would all die. He was the most powerful wizard on the world