The Dark Lord was pleased. His plans had been followed to the letter. As he had instructed, the Muggle stronghold had been raided, emptied off all its precious information, and all within the building had been brutally murdered. The building itself had been permanently scarred by the magics released within its walls and then left a haunted, hulking shell for Muggle authorities to find. Lord Voldemort knew what he had set in motion, could see the chess pieces gliding across the board just as he had intended.
His people had done well. Likely, they had delighted in being set upon those weaklings, allowed to destroy and ravage at will. Stacks of microfiche and paperwork had been removed to a distant field where it had been torched until nothing but ashes remained. The Dark Lord had no need for Muggle secrets. Perhaps this was a prideful mistake, but no one would be foolish enough to suggest such a thing.
The wheels were turning now. Forcing the Ministry to deal with the mess was only the first step. There was plenty of time. He would move his pieces further still, dig into the roots of his enemies and plant information until something grew of it. Perhaps, he would allow them to think he had plans to attack again, civilians this time, children even. The details were unimportant. First, he would let this move cause its damage. Later, he would move again and force his enemies to fight on both fronts. Then, well, then things would really get interesting.