WHO: Lord Voldemort and his marked Death Eaters.
WHEN: March 10, 1976. (Happy birthday, Tim and Remus!)
WHERE: A graveyard in Kent.
WHAT: It's time to show daddy how good you are, DEs.
The Dark Lord was not pleased, though he knew he could have been. (Should have been...?) Malfoy was making an excellent puppet of a Minister. Too proud by far, he knew, but as yet, not so proud that he warranted an Imperius. No, all that Voldemort had needed to do was spend an evening having a little chat with Septimus — illustrating to him, vividly, what would happen should Septimus decide to forget who had put him in his precious seat — to ensure the man's complete obedience. In only a week, the MPA would go into effect, and his Death Eaters could give Britain a true taste of what lay ahead. Bellatrix, he knew, was already preparing his next generation, and his most recent visit to Fenrir Greyback and his pack had been most profitable.
There was much to be happy about, and yet, he was not.
He waited in silence, in a graveyard in Kent, as his Death Eaters appeared around him, one by one. Every month, the ranks of his marked followers swelled, their unmarked brethren more so.
There was much to be happy about, and yet, he was not.
"My Death Eaters," he said, his voice already strained with something otherworldly, the mark of the several Horcruxes he'd already created. "We are together once more." |
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