Chapter 1
Saturday 17, May 2005
“Potter.”
A man lingering by the partially open doors turned. He wore elegant black robes with elaborate embroidery of silver and emerald snakes twined around the neckline and hems. His perpetually messy hair seemed like it had been wrangled into partial submission and fell over his forehead, where the thin, jagged edges of the infamous scar peeked out, pale and stark against the deep tan of his skin.
“Hello, Malfoy. Am I blocking your way?”
Vibrant green eyes flicked over Draco Malfoy, who squirmed slightly under the inspection. His robes were not as ornate but of equally high quality, and his blond hair was impeccably styled, though thankfully free of the copious amounts of gel he favoured in his younger years at Hogwarts.
Small mercies, Harry thought wryly.
Malfoy stepped closer to the other man. Though his natural snootiness diminished as he aged, it still was intrinsically Malfoy. It showed in the way he tilted his pointy chin haughtily. “No, I merely wondered if you knew the reason behind today’s meeting. They’re usually bi-weekly.” Malfoy looked at Harry expectantly, then to the door.
“Yeah, I know. Voldemort wants to run a quick check before leaving for France tomorrow.” Ignoring the minute wince that escaped Malfoy’s pureblood mask at the Dark Lord’s name, Harry glanced at the watch Molly gifted him for his 17th birthday. They were a few minutes early, but Harry could hear the cracks of apparition and the clip of steps on marble flooring signalling other arrivals.
Harry pushed the heavy oak doors open and stepped into the enormous room the Dark Lord had assigned meetings to be held in his manor. It had been a formal dining area until Voldemort had the house elves relocate most of the furniture, leaving behind the crystal chandelier, a long table and cushioned chairs that could easily seat a crowd of his followers, and a massive fireplace and mantel for floo entrances, all made from carved wood. The towering arched windows showed a violent thunderstorm pouring rain down onto the gardens and slamming into the magically reinforced glass. Harry felt fervently relieved he had decided to apparate straight from home.
“Only the Inner Circle will be here today.” Harry continued as he strode to his seat, Malfoy hurrying from behind to catch up and keep pace. “No point in summoning everyone for a load of nothing.”
The chairs were placed to have the higher ranking Death Eaters closer to Voldemort, whose own chair was at the end closest to the doors, and the Death Eaters of least importance trailing down the table. Harry’s seat was at Voldemort’s immediate right, as his closest confidant, horcrux, and a powerful political and magical ally.
The room rapidly filled with black-robed figures, several already seated. They emerged from the fireplace in bursts of brilliant green and glided in through the doors. The creak of antique wood and the low murmur of conversation steadily rose as Harry and Malfoy sat down, and the long-haired man seated next to Harry turned to them at their arrival.
“Severus, you’re finally back!” Malfoy’s exuberant greeting rose above the rest of the room for a second. He flushed when people near him glanced at the trio.
Snape raised an eyebrow and drawled, “Yes, I finished what was needed and arrived last night. Dare I ask what you two have been up to in my absence?”
Malfoy waved his hand dismissively. “Lazy deflection like that is not worthy of a Slytherin or small talk. Tell us what you were doing that was so secretive you went no contact for a week." The blond’s grey eyes were alight with curiosity and fixed on the older man. Harry, who had seen Malfoy around during Snape’s unexplained disappearance, knew he had been worried for his godfather.
Harry leaned back into his chair and painstakingly scrutinised the former potions professor as the seats surrounding them were taken. While still pale and thin, clothed in a never-changing all-black ensemble and his lank hair a curtain around his face, Snape looked as he did before he vanished. Though the shadows under his eyes seemed a tad more pronounced, there were no other indications that anything of note had happened while he had been gone.
Noticing Harry’s inquiring stare, Snape glowered at him. “And a blunt interrogation characteristic of a Gryffindor is not worth telling you two either,” he snapped. “The only reason I’ve joined this meeting is to inform the Dark Lord of confidential information that wouldn’t be secure over owl or floo and is too valuable to not do it in person. He leaves tomorrow so I will not have another opportunity.”
In a manner frighteningly reminiscent of his envious and spoiled thirteen-year-old self, Malfoy whined, “I bet Potter will find out.” He shrank back at the looks Snape and Harry levelled at him. Faint distaste and grudging acknowledgement of the truth curled over the spy's features, and icy amusement, unaccompanied by denial or confirmation, over Harry's. Snape’s scowl deepened, and he opened his mouth-no doubt a sneering retort ready to leap from his tongue-just as two shadows stopped at the seats on either side of Malfoy. Hastily, Malfoy stood up to pull out his mother’s chair, as she kissed his cheek in greeting. Harry smiled at Narcissa and Lucius as the small group exchanged pleasantries. Snape sensed the mingled curiosity and incoming interrogation, and asked, “Will you be accompanying the Dark Lord, Lucius?”
The elder Malfoy smirked at his friend knowingly. “Yes, we sho-”
A brilliant flash of lightning interrupted him and lit the room aglow with blinding white light. Amidst the startled blinking and roaring thunder, the doors opened once again. The man who stalked in was painfully, terrifyingly beautiful, and the crushing weight of his magic swelled, dark and seductive. Instantly the Death Eaters fell silent. Heads swivelled and twitched, and the greedy, devoted stares of Voldemort’s closest followers snagged onto the figure that cultivated fear and intrigue in the hearts of wixen effortlessly.
Another dazzling streak of lightning erupted from the dark clouds, throwing elongated shadows into sharp relief. By the time it faded, Voldemort stood at the head of the table. The Dark Lord gazed at the gathered, backlit from the flickering fireplace. For a moment the only sound was the pounding of the rain and rumble of thunder. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured and carried in the echoing room. “Knights of Walpurgis, welcome.” He folded into his throne-like chair, an expression like carved marble, and his robes-even more intricate than Harry’s-decorated with the colours of his family House, elevated and removed from the lowly mortals scrabbling at his feet.
Suitably impressed by Voldmeort’s love for dramatics, Harry bit back an incredulous chuckle. He wondered if the dark wizard had planned the meeting around the horrific storm.
As if he could hear Harry’s thoughts, Voldemort’s carmine eyes darted to his right, where Harry lounged in his seat, struggling not to grin. Knowing the Horcrux bond and the younger man's abysmal occlumency skills, he probably could. Harry opened a sliver of the connection and sent his glee through it. A minuscule narrowing of Voldemort's eyes in admonishment was the only reaction Harry received before the Dark Lord returned his attention to his vassals.
“The yearly diplomatic mission to France is routine; everyone will have this in hand. Lucius, Theodorus, and Yaxley will be attending with me. I expect my return to be as dull and mundane as any other day. If anything urgent occurs over the three days I am gone, you all know the corresponding procedures." The Dark Lord paused and glanced around. The forbidding expression on his face conveyed that nothing of the sort better happen. "The French ministry has been resistant to cooperating with us, but I believe as a gathering of intelligent individuals looking to shape the future for the betterment of all, we have much in common."
Here, he paused again, and when he spoke no more, Harry and the others echoed their agreement. Dismissing the characteristic verbosity, Harry translated the tail end of the speech as subtly (or not) threatening the French ministry into doing whatever the hell Voldemort wanted.
“My lord, what of the rebels?” Barty’s voice lingered over the word like he tasted something foul and contrasted sharply against the reverence in Voldemort’s title. Harry knew without looking that the man was leaning forward in his chair, drawn in by his lord’s gravitation. “The filth cursing your name should be exterminated like the despicable vermin they are.”
Harry watched over his glasses as Barty’s seething words rippled over everyone. Well-trained as they were-as prominent members of society or purebloods with instinctive mannerisms-there were few things that could make the Death Eaters as wrathful as a mention of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry’s hands dug into the cushioned armrests as he remembered the slow slide of ice down his spine, the herald of disaster, followed by the blaze of fury when he realised the betrayal of people he once relied on and the awful, constricting panic when he thought it was over, we’ve lost…I am going to die.
A sudden spark of pain made him jolt; Harry jerked his head down to his lap. A pale hand, with long, narrow fingers and palm, rested heavily on his upper thigh, the neatly trimmed nails digging into the flesh. A flush rose behind his cheeks and spread down his neck. Harry dragged his gaze up. Voldemort had turned towards him, and the concern and affection Harry glimpsed in the micro-expressions of his face and through their bond only made his face burn hotter. Voldemort didn't remove his hand; the possessive hold gentled into something grounding. The receding panic faded without notice as the two men studied each other.
The mounting tension wafted in the air like a heatwave. The Death Eaters subsided into nervous silence as they grew aware of their lord’s distraction until one grew a fraction of a spine and tentatively spoke, “My lord?”
The weak inquiry broke through the fragile moment like a pebble thrown at still waters. Harry’s leg twitched; Voldemort’s hand tensed before he let go. Verging on hysteria, Harry wished the older man would put his hand back, then frantically checked that particular tidbit hadn’t transferred over.
Banishing his whirlwind of thoughts to a corner of his mind, Harry peeled his eyes off the Dark Lord and onto Rookwood, who was, disappointingly, not half as handsome and twice the bore.
“Put your concerns to rest. The Order has been driven into the ground. They are a matter of the past. The few that persevere will be easily stamped out.” Voldemort gestured to an empty chair with his hand, “Bellatrix will see to that.” He continued, switching back to the former topic, "Our objectives remain as they were after the war; overhauling the shambles of the outdated ministry and fostering goodwill with our fellow wixen throughout the world and in Britain. This is the reason for congregations such as the one in France. Your usual tasks have been updated. Many of you must shoulder a few more obligations, though I believe there will be no clumsy blunders.”
On this vaguely ominous note, Voldemort rose and called, “Severus, let us discuss your findings in my office,” before departing, the doors magically opening before him. The abrupt dismissal had the Death Eaters scrambling to obey, and Snape hastened after the Dark Lord.
Swiftly, Harry said his goodbyes and followed.