Chapter 27
Voldemort’s body returned to him in a moment of screaming agony. He knew, even as it happened, that something had gone terribly wrong, but it was too late to stop it.
Weakened, he stood on trembling legs, scowling.
At his feet, Pettigrew’s body lay, cold and useless.
Ignoring it, he reached down for his wand, tucked in the robes he’d worn in his frailer state. He twirled it in his fingers, the feel of it familiar and welcome, and felt the rush of power that accompanied it.
With a flick of his wrist, he was clothed in robes made of the very shadows.
A hiss at his feet drew his attention and he looked down to see Nagini. With a hiss of welcome, he lowered a hand, allowing her to slide along his skin, coiling around his shoulders.
Then he turned his attention to Pettigrew.
Even in death, he could be useful.
With one hand, he twisted the limbs to his will, revealing the dark mark inscribed on the inside of the corpse's arm, and with his wand, he dragged the tip along the mark.
The call reverberated through him, sending the rush of thrill through him it always did when he was reminded of the power he held.
One by one, the shadows twisted through the air, alighting in a circle around him, black robes with their hoods lifted, white, bone masks obscuring faces. Every one of them dropped to a knee before rising with a wave of his hand.
“13 years.” He murmured, as he stepped between them all. “13 years since that fateful night, and where were you? Where were any of you?”
He kept his voice whisper quiet, forcing his followers to strain to hear him, and he could all but smell the fear they felt.
He waited for the rush of euphoria of having that power over them - from the taste of their fear - but instead, he felt nothing.
Scowl in place, he spun around, and watched as they fought not to flinch.
He strode forward, grabbing the mask of the closest man and yanking.
“Where were you, Macnair?” The man falls to his knees from the force of the mask being ripped from him, and he gasped. Unsatisfied, Voldemort moved to the next. “Avery.” And the next. “Crabbe.”
He stopped before the last, who stood tall even as the others remained on their knees.
“Malfoy.”
Belatedly, he stole his mask as well, and finally felt some satisfaction when the haughty, proud man was forced to his knees.
“My Lord,” He simpered, not daring to look up and meet his gaze. “If there’d been even a clue that you were alive, I would have-”
“Would have what, Lucius? What would you have done?” Voldemort laughed, the sound empty of humour. With a flick of his wand, Pettigrew’s body was dragged from it’s place and thrown at Lucius’ feet. The flicker of fear was unmistakable.
“Would you have died, Lucius?”
“Of course, my lord.” His voice shook, and still, Voldemort was dissatisfied.
“I think it’s time to remind you all of your place.”
Even as their screams rang through the darkness, Voldemort felt none of the satisfaction. Instead, a sliver of fear made itself known, worming it’s way into his thoughts.
What was wrong with him?