Plagued Logs

He had dosed Daphne's evening tea with a sleeping potion strong enough to keep her comatose for any disruption.

In the basement of the house Daphne hung delicately in the air, unconscious and unaware. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her arm to him. Slowly and deliberately, he had pressed the tip of his wand into the Dark Mark seared into Daphne's skin.

It wasn't a general call. He had summoned one man to his side. Rodolphus Lestrange had appeared before him, wary and untrusting.

It hadn't taken long to discover that Rodolphus' own ambitions had lead him to attempt to fill the gap his master had left in the wake of his death. Rodolphus had always aimed high, and now he had power so close he was loathed to return to his role of servant. Why should he? This half trace of his master was weak and small. It had no power in his voice, no height or aura of supremacy. This was an echo and nothing more.

Rodolphus underestimated the spirit that inhabited Stephen's body and he paid dearly.

He had bound him and devoured every memory from Rodolphus Lestrange's mind. He had gorged on images of Voldemort standing amid his followers, summoning thralls to his bidding and commanding a reign of terror. He swelled with every remembered image and sound.

There was so much of him now, but it still wasn't enough. He was still weak; a sliver of himself. He needed more. And he needed to make sure there was no chance of his prey escaping him. He needed a trap.