Voldemort moved slowly, casually, in order to give Bellatrix time to carry out the order he had given. They had time, for Aberforth had yet to make any move, or really to show any sort of concern for what was occurring in his pub. He wanted to see if Dumbledore would be foolish enough to attempt to use the portrait, to open the portal into the school and make what he had come here to do tonight that much easier, but he had certainly counted on the old fool's sense of nobility and knew that he wouldn't really leave any of those people behind, whether they were dead or not. He made short work of a sole figure to his left who hadn't moved, out of fear or stupidity, for some time, snuffing his life force quickly and painlessly, for that, assuredly would not have been a fair fight in the least, given the copious amount of alcohol Voldemort could smell wafting toward him when the man finally did move.
He turned back toward the bar, ever patient as he waited for the old man to make his move, watching with a small smirk as Bellatrix perform her duties with such enthusiasm and glee. The fight was put to an halt by the booming voice that sounded loudly all around them. For a moment, just a moment, it was almost as if Albus Dumbledore had entered the room and was speaking through his living brother. That had been one death he wished he could have seen, one he wished he could have done himself, but he would have to settle for killing this Dumbledore, and settle, he would.
When Bellatrix joined him again, Voldemort's wand was already at the ready, aimed at Aberforth as he listened unconcerned to the exchange between he and his follower, a slight snarl curling his lip as the older man injured the Death Eater.
Tom. How he loved when they called him Tom, the name of his filthy muggle father, and one he had abandoned decades ago. It seemed to him as though they were attempting to appeal to his human part, a part of him that no longer existed, a part of him that had never truly existed. It was a pathetic attempt, and one, just as it had done with the eldest Dumbledore, that only served to infuriate him. His face was a solemn mask as he lowered his wand and took a step closer to the other wizard, knowing as dangerous as the Dark Lord was, Aberforth wouldn't strike without imminent threat.
"I wouldn't say that, Aberforth. It is - going well so far," Voldemort replied, taking another step, his voice so low that it was barely audible. He moved quickly, wand rising again with such a speed that Aberforth would have had no time to utter a monosyllable, the familiar red of the Cruciatus striking the old wizard with such force that it knocked him off of his feet. It was almost inhumane the length at which the curse was held, but after several moments the Dark Lord removed it, another flick of his wand toward the girl in the portrait, effectively freezing her in her place.
"Everything ends for you tonight," he said, reaching out and picking up the man's wand and casting it off to the side nearest to where Bellatrix had fallen. "Get up, old man, if your bones will allow it. Die with some dignity. Your sister is watching you."