Prologue Part 2- New Beginnings
Michael stepped out of the cab and leaned down to thank the cab driver. Pulling out his wallet with one free hand, he paid the fare and then a generous tip. Handing the money to the driver, he smiled kindly and said, "Buy your wife something nice for your anniversary, amigo. The two of you deserve it."
The man's face split into a wide grin and he shook Michaels's hand very gratefully. "Gracias, gracias. Thank you muy much!" he said in his Mexican accent, as he continued to shake his hand with vigor.
Michael patted the hand, and then pulled back, exiting the window he was leaning down into. "Of course. God bless you." With that, the car peeled away.
He turned around, slipping the wallet back into his jeans and grasping the latch to open the white gate. But his hand paused, as he gazed at the house he had been so far away from. It stood there, the old colonial, in all its elegance. Surrounded by a white picket fence that he had built and painted with his hand, he could see the house, with its red roof and gray walls, along with the rows of vegetables that his wife had so lovingly tended and planted, and the flowers lining the porch in their rainbow of colors. The grass was freshly mowed, and the hedges against the house were trimmed neatly. Two small pine trees stood on either side of the stairs leading to the front porch, and a birdbath sat next to one of them. He knew that it was all done by his wife, and once again he felt a swell of love and affection for her. Suddenly he couldn't wait to get in the door and sweep his wife up in his arms.
Pushing through the gate, he let it swing gently closed behind him as he strolled up the front walk to the door. He raised his hand above the door frame and grabbed the key that was hidden there, using it to quietly and slowly unlock the front door. Grasping the handle, he swung it open and it screeched gently, despite his best efforts. He knew he could oil it, but he preferred to have some rust on the hinges. It gave him a warning if anyone was to ever break in. Closing it, he laid the duffel bag on the side table in the front hall, kicked off his shoes, and hung them, along with his jacket, on the rack. He then padded softly upstairs, feeling he knew where she was. Sure enough, she was sitting in a rocking chair, talking softly as their child breastfeed greedily on her chest.
When she saw his large form appear in the doorway, she leaped up immediately, delight sweeping across her face. She ran forward to embrace him, and suddenly froze as she noticed for the first time what was in his other arm, the one he wasn't using to lean against the doorframe. The bundle stirred and yawned, waking up as if it sensed the breastmilk in the air. Charity looked at the bundle moving and then jerked her face up quickly.
"Michael Carpenter! Is that what I think it is, if the answer is yes then you better start explaining right now!" she barked, her voice commanding authority that belied her small stature.
He backed up a step despite himself and put his hand up placatingly. "What, no kiss for the return of your knight in shining armor?"
She hit his chest, pretending to be angry, but a smile still played across her lips, as much as she tried to hide it. She leveled her finger at his face and said. "Talk, Mr. Knight. Right now. Or we will see how thick your armor is."
Laughing deeply, he lowered his arm and showed the little face, wide-eyed with wonder, to her. "His name is Harry. And he is the newest addition to our family, with God's grace." He then sat down and explained the whole story to her, about how he had felt a calling guiding him to London, and he had kissed her on the cheek and left for London. Then how he found himself in Little Whinging on November 1st. And as he talked, the baby continued to blink and made grabby hands towards Charity. More specifically, the exposed breast. As he spoke about how the people appeared out of nowhere, she reached forward and grabbed the bundle from his arms, bringing it to her.
She cradled it gently, looking down with a loving expression on her face. Slowly, she brought it up to her breast, where he greedily latched onto it and suckled. Their child didn't even notice the intrusion, as she had fallen asleep while nursing. He noticed this and smiled privately to himself as he continued to explain the circumstances.
"And they just left him there, on the steps?!" she said, indignation making her voice low and angry.
He nodded. "I know. I don't know how anyone could do such a thing to a poor baby, especially with how cold it was there. The plan was never for me to keep him, however, I was going to give him to the owners in the morning."
"So what happened?" she asked quizzically, glancing down at him, where he had also fallen asleep in her arms. She adjusted her shirt so she was covered and let them both lay there sleeping soundly.
"He was giving me a warning, so before I just went and gave the baby to the homeowners, I tested them first. I saw the man coming out of the house and asked him if he knew Lily Evans. He turned red-faced and started blustering and yelling at me that they didn't associate with freaks like her and to get off his lawn. When I did not move quickly enough for him, he moved to punch me. After that, I made my decision. Or, more likely, He made it for me."
She nodded slowly, digesting all this new information. "So…He sent you there so we could protect this baby? But what about the blood wards that this man Dumbledore mentioned? Will people come for him?" she asked worriedly, wondering if Molly would come into the crosshairs more than she already did, being the child of a Knight of the Cross.
"I believe that having a permanent guard of angels around your house, more than makes up the difference for the lack of blood wards, making this place just as safe, if not even safer than his previous residence, Charity."
"And if that does not work, there are always the panic room's wards to contend with. Of course, a Knight of the Cross is nothing to contend with either." said a voice coming from the nursery's doorway.
Michael spun around, arm going for his sword that was not there. He relaxed as he saw a young man with a mane of long gold hair, blue eyes, and a sharp, narrow face. He was wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a Rolling Stones t-shirt, hands shoved in the pockets. Even though he was completely relaxed, a dangerous power radiated from him.
"Uriel! You almost scared my wife half to death," he said as he extended his hand.
Uriel stepped forward and shook it, smiling apologetically, warmth radiating from him. "Sorry about that, Charity. It's not often I am around people, I forget how jumpy they can be."
"Not to sound unkind, Uriel, but why are you here? Regular house calls are not like you, so something serious must be going on. What is it?" Michael asked, trepidation in his tone.
Uriel shook his head severely, face suddenly growing cold and serious. "You are right, of course. It has to do with that baby in your hands," he pointed to Harry, which caused Charity to shield him reflectively with her body. "Since the enemy has tipped the scales first, I am permitted to tell you that in the future he will play a very important role in, well…in everything. Keep him safe at all costs. I wish I could do more but as usual, my hands are tied, my friend."
Michael nodded, knowing not to push when the archangel invoked the rules of his existence. "So I was meant to find and take him home."
Uriel smiled and said, "I can neither confirm nor deny that assumption. But one can not ever truly act in the wrong if they follow what their heart tells them to do."
"Can you give me a warning of what is to come for little Harry? Or how the enemy has tipped the scales?"
Once again Uriel shook his head. "All I am allowed to do is warn you that he is important and that he will be safe here. I cannot inform you of the nature of what he will face, or even that he will face it. The future is not yet certain. And as for the enemy, I can not fully know what they have done, only the laws that bound my tongue have loosened. It has the markings of our old friend Nicodemus though, that is for certain. And there is one last thing the Lord has permitted me to do." And he walked forward, leaning down over the baby in Charity's arm. He reached one hand out slowly and touched the forehead of the child, and his thumb briefly flowed as he traced a glowing sigil on it, before stepping back.
"What did you do?" Asked Michael as the sigil's golden brilliance faded and then disappeared completely without a trace of it ever existing.
"Now, his shadow may ever be safe. None may listen in or view him through it. It is not much, I know, but it is all I am permitted." replied Uriel, smiling down at the sleeping baby.
"Thank you. For helping make my son safe from scum like Nicodemus." He started in surprise, as shocked by his own choice of words as much as everyone else. And yet he knew in his heart it was true. This was his son, and he loved him like a father, although it had only been one day. The Lord, after all, worked in mysterious ways.
"Of course," said Uriel, understanding in his eyes. He winked and said, "I'll be seeing you around, Sir Knight." And with that, he disappeared from their room, leaving them standing there alone once more.
With a sigh, Charity shook her head, resigned to the mysterious ways that angels worked, as she laid the two babies down in the crib and took Michael's hand, dragging her out of the room and shutting off the light. "You know what this means, right?" She hissed to him in the darkness of the hallway.
He raised an eyebrow in place of an answer and she said, "You are going to have to build another cradle this weekend!"
He boomed with laughter at the ferocity in her tone and the fact she had accepted their number of children, suddenly doubling, in stride. She shushed him, pointing to the sleeping babies behind the door. Muttering under her breath, she marched down the stairs to begin making dinner for them.
Voldemort thought Just who are you, and how did you get in that coin, Thorned Namshiel? Are you a Horcrux?
That is a long story, one I fear you will not live to see if your wounds are not addressed. If I may make a suggestion? said the voice in his formal British accent.
What could you possibly do for me?! I am a Lord and you are a ghost.
I can lend you power, my lord—enough magical power to heal your wounds sufficiently. And a ghost is far too simple a term for me, he said, vague annoyance in his tone.
Voldemort grabbed his wand and tried to use the healing spell again on his cuts. This time he felt the power flow through him as if he had rested for a week. His mind reeled in shock as he saw all of his cuts and wounds external and internal heal up slowly. Bones righting themselves, tendons and muscles rejoining, and skin lacing up at last. He sighed as the pain finally faded away from him and he was healed. The pain that had made him feel like he was on fire was finally gone, and he almost sighed with his relief. But he did not. Dark Lords did not do such things.
Now explain to me, thing, what exactly you are, he said sternly, demanding answers from him.
I am called Namshiel. I am not a spirit, nor a Horcrux. I am not a mere severed soul fragment nor a feeble imprint. I am a Fallen Angel. I am beyond your mortal comprehension. I have bargained with gods and destroyed armies. I have caused the Black Death and watched it ravage Europe. I was here when the first primitive humans walked upon this earth and I will be here when the last ones crumble back to bone and dust. I offer you a chance to be part of this, a chance at immortality.
Done with his spiel, he stopped thinking and allowed Voldemort to mull over his words. He was suitably impressed but was also cautious. If you are so powerful, what do you want with me?
While I am powerful, yes, I am still bound to this Coin. I can only act through a mortal host and you are a more powerful host than I am used to. I am here to serve you, Dark Lord, in all your desires. I can give you the knowledge you crave and I can fuel your spells with more power than any wizard has possessed in centuries. There is much of this magical world that has been hidden from you, which I may inform you of.
Suddenly a torrent of images and information flashed through his mind, almost too fast for him to comprehend. It hurt his head as his mind tried to absorb all the information, but somehow it did. He saw flashes of a pale man with black hair and a single scarlet earring, lounging on a throne of white marble. Then the image was gone, replaced with another. In this, he could briefly see an enormous battlefield laid out in front of him, with a man standing in the center, holding a glowing sword and facing down a monstrous bear-like monstrosity. He felt the twinges of fear before it too was gone. A short man sitting on a throne in a temple, surrounded by 13 masked men. Another man sat on a throne of skulls, surrounded by hooded figures. He thought he recognized him, but he was gone too quickly for him to be sure. Image after image flashed, and knowledge was imparted.
When it was all done, he pulled himself up from the ground and sat in the armchair. Namshiel said Now do you understand all that you were missing out on, all that I may help you with?
With an effort of will, he slid the mental barriers he had learned from Occlumency training between him and the voice in his head, shutting up the voice. He needed time to think about this information, and did not want to be distracted while doing it.
He had heard rumors of course. He had even pursued some of them, once upon a time, but he was not about to just give in to believing fairy tales. Making deals with faeries? He was above making deals! He was a Dark Lord, he would take the immortality that was rightfully his! So he had dismissed those stories.
Now, though, he realized how wrong he was. They weren't tiny dewdrop fae like he had initially assumed. They were creatures of unimaginable power, things that had been alive and watching over their realms for millennia. In particular, the Winter Court interested him. Closing his eyes, he could conjure up the image he had seen, pulling it as surely as if it was his memories. It was a woman, large and regal, sitting on an elaborate throne made of ice. She wore a crown of ice shards around her head, and her hair was pure white. The skin was pale and the fingernails were cold blue sharpened into claws. What was her name, again? Ah, yes, Mab. That was it. She was the Queen of the Winter Court. Suddenly, other knowledge he did not have 5 minutes ago filled his head. There were 3 leaders of the Winter Court, the same as Summer. The Mother, the Queen, and the Daughter. He focused his thoughts on the daughter.
Another image filled his head as if it was natural. It was a woman in her early twenties, with piercings and streaks of blue in her hair. She was wearing what the Muggles called goth clothing and her eyes practically glittered with malice. Maybe they did glimmer, the way ice did under your feet before it shattered and drowned you. Other images flashed through his mind, of her torturing and killing Muggles for fun, her abusing her subjects, and her bloodlust on the battlefield. He smiled to himself, not a pleasant look. Yes, she would do quite nicely as an ally. He would just have to avoid the influence of her mother, as he had a feeling she would not be quite as sympathetic to his cause.
He spent a few minutes mulling over other Courts and creatures that could potentially be allies, such as the goblin God of the Hunt. He had no idea that vampires were so widespread. From his research, there were only a few outsiders, and weak ones at that, roaming around Europe. Now he realized he should have carried out the research himself, rather than let others contact the vampires, who were, in retrospect, probably outcasts from their courts. And the lycanthropes could be useful also, much more useful and less risky than the likes of Greyback
Then his mind went to the man he saw, with the hooded followers around him and sitting on a throne of skulls. Kemmler, the name came to him unbidden. This time, it wasn't from knowledge Namshiel had imparted to him. This time, he knew this man. He had met him years before, he remembered now. Back when he had been just a student at Hogwarts, he had gone into the restricted section one night. He had been researching dark magic called Horcruxes and had found a book talking about them in one chapter. He had devoured it eagerly, and when he had read all the meager information that was in it, he had flipped into the index to find out where they had gotten their information. The index had said, The Word of Kemmler by Heinrich Kemmler. He had spent years in Hogwarts hunting for the complete book. It eventually led him to a graveyard in Eastern Europe, in 1945. The war had still been raging then, and he had only been able to sneak away because Assistant Headmaster Dumbledore was out of the castle, and Headmaster Dippet was easily tricked. So he found himself on the outskirts of France, where a large and fresh graveyard had been made. He had heard the thrumming of unmistakable power in the air, and he had realized that he had not found a copy of the Word of Kemmler, but the man himself. He felt satisfaction and stood up to go walk across and meet him, and that's when he noticed that the graves had shifted. He watched in surprise as the ground burst open, and hundreds of freshly lain soldiers surged from the ground. Then, from on the other side of the battlefield, a large group of wizards appeared. Magic began to be thrown around, as the earth shook and the sky crackled. A stray spell hit a tree next to him, and the tree exploded in fire. After that happened, he quickly fled the place, apparating back outside the Hogwarts ground and sneaking back to his dorm, slipping through the tunnel under the one-eyed witch.
Eventually, he learned he had stumbled into a battle between Kemmler and his followers against the Ministry of Magic. After that, the Department of Mysteries had made it a priority to capture and/or destroy as many copies of the Word of Kemmler as it could find. He had searched in vain over the next couple of decades, but success eluded him; the process had been viciously thorough… But now he finally knew that he was wrong. It was not the Ministry of Magic that had been attacking during that night all those years ago, but rather the White Council. This time, the information he pulled up did come from Namshiel. The White Council was a facet of the ICW: They were more battle magic inclined, and they did not use the same type of magic. They used older, more raw, and purer power, channeling through staves and other focus items. Wands were simply too weak for the ancient magic they pushed through them, it would have burned through a wand from the inside out if they tried to use one. But… As he learned more of the information, he realized there was a drawback to it. They were slow. Less delicate. They couldn't cast with the speed or precision that Voldemort could. He remembered that spell that had almost killed him when it had set the whole tree on fire. They had no delicacy. If he was going to send out the fire, he could make it a lot narrower and more precise than that had been. He could lift things delicately, not just throw them. But still, it was interesting. If Namshiel's information was correct, they were very powerful. Someone he would have to look out for.
Then his mind allowed him to go to the one thing he had been avoiding, saving for last. A new image filled his inner mind. A large, impossibly huge wall stretched between two towers higher than skyscrapers. And in the center of that wall was a large, ragged hole. Darkness seethed on the other side of the whole. And from it, came black monsters. They were all misshapen, all different shapes, sizes, and bulks. Some were little more than flailing tentacles, others resembled hellhounds, and others were too terrible to even comprehend. The name for it came to him. The Outer Gates. And these were… Outsiders? Yes, Outsiders. They looked like ferocious allies indeed.
Lowering his mental barriers, he thought of Namshiel. These Outsiders. Could they be manipulated into allies? he asked his new information holder.
Allies, my lord? replied Namshiel, sounding put off at the fact he had been silenced. These Outsiders are called as such because they come from Outside our reality, beyond even the farthest reaches of Creation. They serve things of unimaginable strength and power and are a blight on reality itself. If they got through the gates, they would slaughter anything and everyone they could find before reducing this universe to an all-encompassing, dark void.
So… they would leave me with nothing to rule, as is my birthright, finished Voldemort.
No, my lord. You would not. If you unite the wizarding world as you wish, they would probably come for you first. And in the last century, they have been getting much more active and stronger than they have been in the past.
Voldemort digested this information, pondering what he should do about it. What was the point of being a Dark Lord, if there was nothing left for him? He came to his conclusion and rose from the armchair he had been sitting in. The light was just peeking in the windows, and he was hungry. Striding to the door, he barked out, "Lucius! Get that house-elf of yours to get me some food!"
It was night again, and Lord Voldemort sat at the head of the long table in the drawing room of the manor, sensing as his Death Eaters apparated onto the grounds and strode through the large doors at the entrance of the manor. As they began to file in, some of them paused, their heads rising to look up at the center of the table, where Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy hung suspended. They were cut and bleeding with multiple wounds, and clearly in agonizing pain, though their groans and screams were silenced. Bellatrix came in and sat on his left side, with Severus on his right. She glanced at the Malfoys, then back at Voldemort, a crazy grin on her face as she opened her mouth to speak. He gave her a brief glare, which shut her up immediately.
Once they were all in and seated, Voldemort tapped his wand on the table once, and all the doors and windows slammed shut, and the fireplace smothered. "Welcome, my loyal servants. If you are wondering why our esteemed hosts" - here laughter rang throughout the room - "are at the moment… indisposed, it is because when I returned to this house, with injuries sustained from fighting, they did not immediately come and attend to me. Of course, I recovered on my own, as you can well see." he said in a bemused tone. Once again cruel laughter rang through the room, though it was undercut by nervousness still.
With a wave of his wand, he unmuted the pair and stopped the marrow-inflaming spell he had put on them for the last few hours. The moment they were unmuted, they began to babble together.
"We are so sorry-"
"-forgive us-"
"-never happen again-"
"-We deserved it-"
Their sobs made their talking over each other even more incomprehensible, so he raised his wand threateningly and said, "Enough!" Immediately, their words cut off. From beneath his long white hair, Lucius peered at him upside down in fear, his face shiny with blood, tears, and sweat. Beside him, his wife did the same, blinking rapidly as blood from her cheek continued to pour into her eye. "I shall forgive you, for I am in a good mood tonight. But if this is to happen again, do not expect me to be so kind." With a flourish of his wand, the two bodies dropped to the table. Instantly, house elves appeared, held up the two of them, and apparated them away.
When the Malfoys had been taken away, everyone at the table focused back on Voldemort. He scanned the faces, noting that he saw no one missing. Nodding, he said, "Now that the festivities of this evening have concluded, let us get down to business. Rookwood, what is the update on the ministry?"
"Minister Bagnold remains incompetent as usual. Dumbledore attempts to keep order in the Wizengamot but his efforts have so far yielded no fruit. The blasted Longbottom's killed Wilkes, though. Other than that, nothing much to report, my lord. They continue to be distracted by our giant friends wreaking havoc." Augustus Rookwood then sat back, now finished with his summary.
Voldemort nodded. He had already known about Wilkes, but he hadn't been sure who had killed him. He was glad to have confirmation. He felt his grip tighten on his wand. He had ignored the Longbottoms long enough. He would have them dealt with soon. Calming himself, he put the wand back down and stood up. "There is a new development I must inform you of." Though he spoke softly, his voice carried through the parlor as they all listened intently, shifting excitedly. "As I mentioned earlier, I was gravely injured when I returned from the Potter house. However, there was an item waiting there, for me," he held up his palm and revealed his newest scar to the assembled Death Eaters.
The image of the crown of thorns surrounded by a circle and Latin words were visible to all, burned into, and under, the hand. Slowly, he lowered his hand, closing it up again. Low mutters filled the room, mostly confused. He smiled to himself. Yes, let them be confused. Let it turn to fear. All the easier to control them that way. He then cut off the murmuring with a swish of his hand. Closing his eyes, he thought, Now.
He felt thorns grow on his body, and his skin took on a sickly gray color as he levitated in the air, seemingly without using his wand at all. Raising his wand, he sent out a simple blasting curse. Instead of the normal blue color and just blowing a small hole into the door, the curse shot out with the strength of a subway train, demolishing the door instantly into splinters and making a hole around the jagged door frame. And instead of being blue, it was a reddish-orange color. The smell of sulfur and brimstone filled the room as the Death Eaters gaped in shock at the power of it. While they stared, he twitched his wand again, and with a muttered word the splinters and plaster flew up, and rearranged themselves into a door and wall once more, repaired as if it had never happened. If they had been shocked before, they were even more so now.
Lowering himself to the ground, he felt very tired. But he made sure to hide his exhaustion from the rest of the people in the room. Standing straight up, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. "Not only have I had my magical prowess augmented, I have gained a vast repository of knowledge as well, which has caused me to reconsider our long-term goals," Now the whispers grew uncomfortable, as they watched him with awed but worried eyes. He turned to face them, his voice going hard. "We will not be killing Muggles en masse anymore. It has come to my attention that, as distasteful as they are to us, they can serve a purpose. Of course, that does not mean we will have to breed with the filthy things. Nor allow their half-breed spawn to weaken us." His lips curled back in disgust at the very thought. "But there is a use that they can serve, beyond death."
He held up his wand to the Dark Mark, and slowly touched it, closing his eyes and opening his mind, relaying to his followers the future Namshiel had revealed. He saw the gaping hole once again, the swirling vortex of blackness. The avalanche of creatures bursting forth from it, an endless army of abominations of impossible geometries and shadowy contours soon overwhelms the gleaming guardians' attempts to contain them.
The scene shifted. A titanic battle stretched across an endless, wintery plain. The very air was saturated with magical energy, as beings of myth and legend clashed with the monsters from the abyss. Two crowned women stand back to back, statuesque in their height and beauty and so similar they could be twins, launching gigantic blasts of fire and ice that annihilated scores of monsters at a time. Surrounding and guarding them, a collection of armored trolls and massive humanoid goats mopped up the remnants. But there are more, there are always more creatures. And soon both the guards and the women are overwhelmed - the woman of ice speared through the chest while another creature gorges on her allies remains, the head separated from the body.
Similar scenes unfold elsewhere. A towering one-eyed warrior rides to battle on a mammoth-horned beast, cleaving the monsters as he rides, spear crackling with lightning. An entourage of what look like Vikings follows him, along with black, leathery demonic looking creatures bounding on all fours, with angels flying in the skies above them. They launch themselves at the shadowy monstrosities with manic fury. But it is all for naught, soon they too are consumed. A huge woman, taller than even the giants he works with, clad in bronze armor, shoots a searing blast of red-golden light from her eyeball, cleaving the monsters in half, before one such monster, different from the others and radiating a sword of darkness duels her, using a clawed hand to rip the eyeball out of her socket, then dispatching her. Seven wizened wizards launch a dizzying array of spells and arcane magic from their staffs, twisting and bending and scouring the landscape around them in their crusade to destroy the abominations. Slowly they fall, with the last one speared through the eye by a tentacle, falling to the ground, black staff clattering out of his lifeless hand and rolling away. Across the entire plain, this pattern plays out and soon the entire scene disappears into the darkness.
Another shift. The abominations overwhelm the mortal world. Swarms of these creatures expand across the skies and waters and countries of the earth. All over the world, armies of metal machines, on the ground and in the air, surge forward to meet them, but they fare no better than their supernatural counterparts. Cities all over the world - Paris, Tokyo, Cairo, London - soon lie in ruins. Their buildings and monuments are crushed, their streets soaked in blood and piled with corpses, and their skies full of smoke clouds that blot out the Sun. The few survivors lie hopeless, muttering about the apocalypse and waiting to be picked off.
Shift. Hogwarts falls. The castle is littered with the corpses of children and teachers, and the creatures infest its halls and recline on its spires. Most corpses are unrecognizable, and not even Dumbledore's garish fashion sense can be used to identify him. The Ministry falls, its marble floors soaked with blood, its halls burning with unnatural fire. Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade are graveyards, and the Forbidden Forest is empty of life. The Wizarding World is gone.
Shift. The vortex expands, and something dark and colossal and oozing malice and evil emerge from its maw. This behemoth, this thing, stretches whatever passes for limbs and across Creation, the world darkens. The darkness consumes reality. Then… silence. Utter silence. Then nothing at all. Empty Night.
The vision ended. Though he tried to mask it, Voldemort found himself panting from the effort of projecting his vision into so many minds. Fortunately, he found his followers looking much worse off than him. All around him, pale faces wore expressions of horror and shell shock. Many of them were still gazing absently into the distance as if they were still reliving the horrors of the vision. Some of them had a sheen of sweat, and he could swear one or two had tears in their eyes. In the distance, someone (Yaxley, maybe) wretched violently. Good, he thought with relish.
That seemed to break the spell of silence. "Si-sir? What was that?" asked one of the Death Eaters.
"That," Voldemort replied with deceptive calmness, "was the future. Or a vision of what the future might be if we do not change it." He then went on to explain to the wide-eyed crowd about the Outsiders and what exactly they might mean.
He had disliked this new agenda shift himself, but when he and Namshiel had discussed it, against his greater judgment the Fallen's arguments had made sense. If he wanted to rule, he had to merge himself into this new magical world he found himself in. And in this new world, Muggles served a purpose.
"You are free to leave for now. Continue to sow chaos and fear into the ministry. Rudolphus, Rabastan, Severus, and Bellatrix, stay." He said, finally finishing his long explanation and answering some questions until he got impatient. Sensing his temper, they quickly filed out, except for the four lieutenants he had specifically held back.
He turned to Bellatrix and the Lestrange brothers. Bellatrix was grinning madly as usual and the brothers were looking both excited and nervous at the same time. "I am giving the three of you the task of dealing with the Longbottoms tonight. You may carry out these orders however you wish." He said, watching as a grin spread over the brothers' faces to match Bellatrix's.
With an excited cackle, Bellatrix said, "It shall be done, my great lord." Unlike the rest of his Death Eaters, she had not been shaken by the sudden change in priorities. She was just in it to cause as much chaos and pain as she could. It did not matter what cause she was serving, as long as she was near her beloved master. She turned and beckoned for the Lestranges to follow her as she went out the door to apparate away.
Snape looked expectantly at him, his face severe. He started speaking, his voice slow as to choose the right words. "My lord, I must ask. When you went to kill the Potter boy, did…did Lily…?" His voice trailed off, leaving the question hanging in midair.
Feigning regret and sadness, Voldemort shook his head. "I am truly sorry, Severus. I gave her many chances to surrender, and instead, she attacked me. It was her death curse that wounded me so."
Snape's eyes went wide, shocked that Lily had used something that had been perceived as dark magic in her final moments. He too had been shocked at that moment. Then his face clouded in grief immediately after. His shoulders slumped as he slowly sank back into a chair. "So… she is dead," he said dejectedly. Voldemort did not know his love for this Potter mudblood ran so deeply. He was disgusted, but he hid it. He did not want to alienate his most trusted servant while he was grieving.
After a minute or two, Snape looked up, his face once again composed. "Thank you for doing your best, my lord. It was a foolish fancy, I know, but I loved her still. It hurts to know she is gone. But that is not the only reason you kept me here, is it, my lord?"
"Indeed it isn't, my most trusted servant. I must ask you to not share any of what I am about to share with anyone else." Voldemort responded, making sure his eyes bore down fully into the man before him so there would be no doubt about his seriousness.
Snape nodded smoothly, bowing a little before him. "Of course, my lord. These secrets shall never leave the walls of this room till you deem it so."
Satisfied, Voldemort swished his wand downwards in a cutting gesture and muttered the word, "Aparturum!"
In the center of the parlor, a long shimmering string glowed to life. As the wand whistled downward, the string widened to a doorway hanging above the ground by a few inches in midair. Wind whistled through the doorway, and it opened to a plain of dead or dying grass, the sky streaked with red. Voldemort stepped through it and beckoned with one hand for Severus to come forward. As he crossed the wood and stepped over the glowing bottom of the door, Voldemort took his arm and pulled him the rest of the way. "Severus, welcome to… the Nevernever," Voldemort hissed in Severus's ear as the portal closed behind him with a pop.