While Antonio was sleeping soundly in his room, soone else was very much awake. And not only awake. He was livid. Furious.
In an isolated mansion sowhere in Wizarding Britain, a large hall stood cloaked in darkness despite the dawn approaching close, with the sun just on the horizon.
A small crowd of about twenty five to thirty witches and wizards had gathered there, their faces illuminated dimly only by the pale yellow glow of a few torches strapped to the walls.
At the centre of the hall sat a single wooden chair. Upon it rested a man who seed more wraith than human.
He was tall, body structure skeletal, and pale, with a face that was chalk white and skull like. He was lacking a nose and having slits for nostrils, similar to a snake.
His eyes were red with cat-like slits for pupils, and his hands were long and thin, with unnaturally long fingers.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. Voldemort. The Dark Lord.
Before him, a group of wizards were kneeling with their heads bowing in submission.
In the focus was Rodolphus Lestrange. His face was ghostly pale from fear, and sweat was dripping down his temples. Beside him was kneeling another wizard. The noticeable thing about him was his arm or rather the arm which should have been attached to his shoulder but was missing from its place. The injury on the stump still seed raw and was poorly healed.
"Rodolphus," Voldemort hissed, his snake like voice slithering through the hall, sending chills down every spine.
"I was unaware I had granted you such authority to use my forces for your personal amusent. For a purpose which you designed by yourself. Without. My. Knowledge."
"My Lord," Rodolphus tried to stamr an explanation, but the words had hardly left his lips when a jet of red light struck his chest. The Cruciatus Curse.
Pain exploded through Rodolphus's body. He convulsed violently, muscles seizing under the curse's cruelty and his breathing turned ragged.
Yet through it all, he did not collapse. He remained kneeling, teeth clenched, knowing that if he fell now, worse awaited him.
At last, the tortured ended.
Rodolphus remained trembling, gasping for breath but still kneeling. He had not gotten even montary respite and there had been no ti to recover when another spell erupted from Voldemort's wand, wordless and swift. Rodolphus was sent him hurtling backward.
He crashed into the stone wall with a sickening crack. Bones. A scream tore from his throat. His ribs had splintered under the impact.
"My Lord," an old man interjected desperately as he stepped forward from the gathered crowd.
He fell hard onto both knees, bowing low until his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"Please! rcy. He made a mistake. He will never again presu so much. He will never repeat it."
The old man pleading on Rodolphus' behalf was Reinhart Lestrange. Lord of the Lestrange family and Rodolphus' father.
"Reinhart Lestrange…" Voldemort's voice dripped through the hall, soft yet deadly.
Reinhart braced for the pain of a curse to strike him but Voldemort held back.
Even if he often acted like a madman, Voldemort was far from a fool. He knew very well that his power and influence were not yet fully consolidated. There was a limit to the cruelty his followers would endure from his hand, and he understood that line should not be crossed lightly.
He would have to tighten his net and increase his cruelty slowly. Obedience was like a slow poison for Voldemort. He will build it in his followers, slowly. With patience.
"Tell , Reinhart," Voldemort drawled at last, his crimson eyes sliding toward the kneeling wizard. "What is the most important objective I have tasked each of you with fulfilling?"
"To convince the pure-blood families to join our cause," Reinhart answered instantly, voice tight with fear.
Voldemort did not respond, simply continued to stare, cold and expectant.
"Either by winning them over with words… or forcing them into submission," Reinhart added with a nervous gulp.
"Yes," Voldemort agreed softly. "But there are always so fools who will neither bow out of fear nor willingly align themselves with us. For them, even neutrality is not an option. They actively interfere. They resist."
He leaned forward in his chair, voice dropping to a deadly hush that seed to carry across the hall.
"And what are we to do with such people?" He questioned.
"We… we must wipe them out. Kill them," Reinhart stamred, his voice trembling. Kill the pure blood.
"True." Voldemort's thin lips curled into sothing that was not quite a smile.
"And we were set to accomplish one such mission this very week. But your son…" his red gaze flicked back to Raphael and the crumpled form of Rodolphus, "has brought unnecessary attention upon us."
"If he had succeeded, it would not have mattered. But not only did he fail to achieve what he intended, he lost two of our n and failed to even bring their bodies. Their identities will be revealed. Questions will be asked. Connections sought. All efforts will be made to track us down."
Voldemort's voice dropped even lower, each word slicing through the silence like a blade.
"His foolishness could jeopardize everything we are building."
Raphael remained silent. There was nothing he could say. His son had made a mistake, a grave one. Losing two n and leaving their bodies behind was not sothing that could be covered up, no matter how desperately he might wish it.
"But I am willing to overlook this transgression," Voldemort said at last, and a visible wave of relief passed over Reinhart's face.
"Thank you, my Lord," Reinhart breathed, bowing his head low.
"But now it will be you who completes this task," Voldemort continued, his tone deceptively smooth.
Reinhart nodded. He understood perfectly well what the Dark Lord ant. To eliminate the fools who were resisting him. Though he did not yet know the target's na, he knew it would be made clear soon enough.
"Prepare a squad of eight wizards, Reinhart," Voldemort ordered. "You may choose any n you deem fit."
"You will strike exactly seven days from now."
"My Lord," Reinhart said again, inclining his head in acceptance.
Then Voldemort's red eyes glittered dangerously. "Are you interested in knowing the na of the person you will be hunting, Reinhart?"
"Yes, my Lord," Raphael Lestrange answered, his voice strained. He would have to kill a pure blood after all.
A cruel, slow grin spread across Voldemort's pale face, sending a shiver through all present as he prepared to reveal the na.
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