Chapter 26:
***
Voldemort stood at the head of the long obsidian table in the Ministry’s highest chamber. The newly claimed seat of power that had once belonged to lesser men who mistook titles for authority was now openly his. His reflection stared back at him in the polished surface alongside the gathered shapes of his inner circle, all of them silent, all of them waiting and all of them wrong.
The coronation had gone precisely as planned. Efficient. Bloodless, for the most part. Entire governments bent the knee or broke beneath it, and those that chose the latter were swiftly corrected. Europe was his. America followed in quiet compliance. Asia fractured, then yielded in pieces. The world, or enough of it to matter, now rested in his grasp.
And yet...
His fingers tapped once against the table, a soft, arrhythmic sound that caused more tension in the room than any shouted command ever could. They knew him well enough to recognize that sound for what it was, a leak in the control he so carefully maintained.
“Report on the search for Potter and his army?” he said, his voice smooth, measured, and entirely devoid of the irritation that coiled beneath it.
They spoke in turn, none interrupting, each waiting for the last to finish before stepping forward with their piece of nothing.
Yaxley inclined his head slightly.
“Search teams in Scotland report no activity, my lord. The locations we identified were abandoned. No signs of recent use.”
“France and the Low Countries are the same. We tracked three suspected cells. All empty. Cold for weeks, perhaps longer.” said Rookwood.
Dolohov’s voice came next, rougher, edged with irritation.
“Eastern Europe has yielded nothing. No supply lines, no recruitment, no movement we can exploit.”
Travers adjusted his stance, hands clasped behind his back.
“We intercepted communications in the Balkans. Outdated. Irrelevant.”
Selwyn spoke after him, precise and clipped.
“There have been no incidents in Asia, my lord. No disruptions. No unusual magical signatures.”
A brief pause.
Nott’s gaze flicked up, then down again.
“No sightings in any of the magical preserves. No missing beasts. No people hiding out in them.”
Avery hesitated just long enough to be noticed.
“No rumors either, my lord. Nothing beyond what was already known.”
The silence that followed stretched thin.
Macnair cleared his throat, then spoke plainly.
“My lord… nothing has happened all summer.”
Voldemort’s head tilted ever so slightly, the motion slow, deliberate, as though he were examining a specimen under glass.
“And none of you see a problem with that?” he said, the words falling into the room with more weight than any curse.
Four months. Four months of silence. Four months of preparation. Four months in which a boy who had already demonstrated a capacity for destruction that bordered on the absurd had been allowed to vanish from the world entirely, along with an army that had not existed before and now did. An army that had been forged in the span of weeks and had already struck blows that should have been impossible.
His gaze swept across them, one by one, measuring, judging, finding them wanting.
“You all saw the damage that boy did in the course of a month by his lonesome, with only a handful of soldiers at his back,” he continued, his voice gaining a quiet intensity that pressed against the edges of the room. “Now he has hundreds. Hundreds, whom he has had four months to train, unseen by the world. How do none of you see the threat that poses?”
There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough for someone to make the mistake of filling it.
“My lord, they are almost all children.”
The words hung there, fragile, doomed.
Voldemort’s lips curled, not into a smile, but into something far sharper.
“So was he,” he said, the memory rising unbidden, unwelcome, and far too clear. “So was he when he did all of this. Have you all learned nothing about the perils of underestimating children?”
His fingers stilled against the table.
“Three were enough to keep us on our toes for a year,” he went on, each word measured, deliberate, cutting. “Three. Now there are three hundred, and they could be anywhere in the world. Why am I the only one worried?”
They shifted, exchanging glances that they thought he did not notice. He absolutely did, the shared weariness of those who believed the war already won.
Another spoke, more cautiously this time.
“We have quadrupled the guards at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. The new train is saturated with your Death Eaters, and the carriages themselves have been reinforced with goblinsteel plating. If they have been waiting to attack the students when they return to school, we will be ready for them.”
Voldemort closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to show restraint. The effort of containing the surge of irritation that threatened to spill over into something less controlled.
“You all just do not understand,” he said quietly. “None of you were there.”
His eyes opened again, and they were colder now.
“Nobody is left who remembers what I was like,” he continued, softer still, the words more to himself than to them, though they heard them all the same. “What we were like.”
The glances they shared this time were not subtle. They were weary, indulgent, the looks given to a ruler who had begun to see ghosts where there were none.
“My lord,”Severus began, speaking for the first time since the meeting started, “the world is yours. All of Europe and America is yours. Much of Asia and the Orient is within your grasp. Africa and the rest of the Americas are hardly defensible. You have won, and you have scared them all into hiding. It is far more likely that they have scattered to the winds, as individuals in hiding or small cells that will prove a nuisance, to be sure, but no real threat. We will hunt them all down in time.”
It was clear to Voldemort that he choosing each word with care as he paused.
“For now, it may be best to focus your efforts on consolidation.” Severus
Voldemort exhaled slowly, the sound almost a sigh, though he would never name it as such.
“Take me to Platform Nine and Three Quarters,” he said at last, the decision made, inevitable. “That is their most likely place of attack.”
They obeyed.
***
The platform had been transformed into a fortress in all but name. It had wards layered upon wards, guards positioned with military precision. The train itself a gleaming serpent of steel and enchantment. They had gone all out, alternating the color scheme of different carriages with house colors. Green and silver followed be red and gold followed by blue and bronze followed by black and yellow. Before repeating.
And the locomotive itself? Practically a rainbopw of red, green, blue and yellow.
Voldemort stood among them in his new attire, the robes of Supreme Mugwump draped over the tailored suit of the Minister of Magic. The symbols of his power made visible for all to see, and they did see him, the students as they passed, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror and something else besides. Many had something closer to reverence now that dissent had been so thoroughly excised from their world.
He made a show of smiling and waving. Now that he actually had a public persona he was going through the training necessary to make the most of it.
There were no Muggleborns among them. The absence was as complete as it was unremarked upon. Their stares should have pleased him. They did not. His smile was feigned.
He watched them board, one by one. He watched the doors close, watched the train prepare to depart, and felt nothing resembling satisfaction. He felt only the persistent, gnawing certainty that something was wrong, that something had been missed, that he was standing at the edge of a trap he could not yet see.
The train departed. He flew after it, following it all day to Hogwarts itself.
No attack came.
He did not remain.
Disillusionment wrapped around him as he took to the air, rising high above the countryside. He was a silent shadow trailing the armored serpent as it cut its way north. His attention was everywhere, his senses stretched, searching for the slightest disturbance, the smallest deviation from expectation.
The entire day passed in peace.
Fields gave way to hills, hills to forests, forests to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, and still there was nothing. No ambush, no sabotage, no sign that the enemy he alone seemed to perceive had any intention of revealing itself.
The train arrived. Students disembarked. The newly rebuilt station stood intact.
Nothing happened.
He landed beside Hagrid just beyond the station. He jumped at his arrival, before glaring.
“Ruby.” Voldemort greeted with a curt nod.
“Tom.” Hagrid answered, mirroring his nod.
It was the strangest thing. Coming from Hagrid, his birth name never bothered him.
“I will be joining you in the trip across the lakes. I’ll take the back.” Voldemort told him.
Hagrid grimaced.
“Why?” he dared to question the dark lord.
“For their protection you oaf. New get!” Voldemort snarled.
Hagrid shrugged and went on his way.
He collected the first years and guided them to the boats, loading them up and taking the lead boat. Voldemort took the rearmost and followed. They arrived in the underground dock beneath the great hall and the little ones disembarked. Again, without incident.
Voldemort followed them and walked past the terrified eleven year olds into the great hall. Again, whispers and stares of all from the students as he approached the table and took his seat. He was between Minderva and Severus.
From there he attended the sorting and opening feast as a special guest, instead of in the headmasters chair beside him like he longed for.
Maybe Severus was right? Maybe his paranoia was unfounded. Perhaps Potter had taken his new army and simply vanished. A hitherto unknown private island belonging to the Blacks in the mediterranean? A warded off land in the Sahara or Antarctica where he would never find them? These ideas were absurd, but not half as absurd as the craziness of Potter’s life.
He allowed himself to relax, and enjoyed the feast flooding his mind with memories of his first one at his one and only true home. He entertained himself with daydreams of being left to live in peace by Potter to enjoy his rule, taking over the seat Severus occupied.
***
Patong Beach, Thailand.
Krit lay back in his chair, one arm draped over his eyes where he could admire his newly acquired dark mark.
The sun pressing down on him, the heat settling into his skin in a way that felt earned. Music played faintly from somewhere behind him. Laughter and voices from thai families and foreign tourists completed the absolute peace of their vacation.
He smiled at his two bodyguards and their skittish glances along the hundreds of people along the beach.
“Relax,” he said without looking. “Nothing’s going to happen here.”
To his left, Somchai snorted
“You said that in Bangkok.”
“And I was right,” Krit replied. “We’re still here. And we won our prize. The Dark Lord is pleased with us and our wallets are full. Will be for a long time.”
Lek didn’t answer. He never did much talking. His eyes moved instead. Watching the crowd without turning his head.
Krit shifted slightly, lowering his arm.
And saw her. It was hard to miss all of that long, red hair.
He sat up.
She stood out immediately, groin-deep in the water, the sunlight catching on her skin, freckles scattered across her shoulders, a yellow sarong tied loosely at her waist over a matching bikini. She turned slightly, the water moving around her legs.
A little chubby, but in that curvaceous way european women could manage but local, petite Thai girls never did.
Krit smiled.
“I’m taking a dip,” he said, already standing.
Somchai looked at him.
“Want us close?”
Krit shook his head, brushing sand from his legs.
“Stay here. Try to relax!”
Lek’s eyes flicked toward the water, then back to Krit.
“Don’t take long.”
Krit waved him off and stepped into the water.
It lapped at his feet, then his calves, then his knees as he walked forward. Steady and hurried, he felt like the king of the world after taking his first kills the weekend last and being accepted as a Death Eater. And the newly found confidence told him he could have this woman if he just reached out and took her. No imperius necessary.
He passed a couple standing off to the side.
Too pale. They stood close together, unmoving, staring out over the water and looked utterly drunk in their slackjawed state.
Krit glanced at them briefly, a thought crossing his mind about sunburn, about how stupid tourists could be, and then he kept walking.
They didn’t matter. She did.
He stopped a few steps away from her, close enough now to see the water clinging to her skin, her long hair damp and sticking to her shoulders.
“Hello,” he said, his English smooth, practiced. “What is your name?”
She looked up at him, then down again.
“Su,” she said shyly.
Krit smiled wider.
Her eyes moved to his arm.
She stepped closer, reaching out without hesitation, her fingers brushing against the mark.
“I like your tattoo,” she said.
Krit let out a soft laugh.
“Thanks. Just got it. Hurt a lot.”
Her fingers traced it, slow, curious.
He watched her, amused. If only she knew how much it had cost him.
She looked up again.
“Can I have it?” she asked.
Krit laughed properly this time.
“Why would you want to ruin such beautiful skin with such an ugly tattoo?” he said. “Besides, you have to be in an exclusive club to get one.
She didn’t smile.
“Oh no,” she said.
Something in her voice shifted.
“I don’t want one of my own.”
Hands closed around his face. Cold, clammy, dead hands. Four of them, gripping tight, fingers digging into his jaw, his cheeks, forcing his head back before he could react.
His body jerked. Too late.
“I want yours.”
***
Susan let go of the man.
What remained of him collapsed into the water with a wet, heavy sound, the surface breaking around the ruin of his body as the pair of inferi continued their work They tore into him with the savagery of starving dogs.
The water around them turned red and bits of flesh or gore floated past her as another wave came in. they spread out in ribbons that unfurled outward. Thin at first and then thicker, darker, the tide carrying it away in slow, drifting currents that stained everything it touched.
She stepped back from it, the blood already coating her legs, her hands, her torso, the yellow of her sarong lost beneath it as it clung to her skin in slick, crimson sheets. It cascaded off of her thighs in ribbons that could be mistaken for her hair.
The severed arm was still in her hand, fingers still interlocked with hers. The mark was still visible on the severed limb as the inferi behind her continued to tear the rest of him apart, the sound of it lost beneath the sudden rise of screaming.
The muggles showed the usual hysterics of seeing such a thing. Women grabbed their children and men covered them as they fled. The beach erupted into chaos as people stumbled over one another in their haste to escape, voices raised in panic, confusion and horror at what they were seeing and could not understand.
She waded forward, leaving the water, leaving the spreading red behind her as it washed off in streaks, dripping from her body back into the sand, each step leaving a mark that the tide would erase soon enough.
The target's two bodyguards were already moving, rising from their chairs and reaching for their wands.
Draco and Dudley appeared behind them before they could raise their wands. The disillusionment fell away as the Draco stepped forward, wand already raised, and Dudley shrugged off the invisibility cloak in the same moment, his arm extending, the pistol steady in his grip. Both of their weapons already pointed at the heads of the two guards.
A single shot from Dudley’s luger and piercing charm from Draco’s wand was all it took to drop both of them before they’d even stood up.
Susan nodded at them raised her wand.
“Morsmordre!”
The mark bloomed above them, vast and green and undeniable, the skull and serpent forming in the sky for all to see. Every fleeing Muggle would have the image burned into their memory.
She lowered her wand.
The crack of apparition split the air, and then she was gone.
***
Dubai, United Arab Emirates.
Bass pounded through the bus, shaking the seats, the walls, the glass. Amir lounged back against the leather, one arm draped over the girl beside him, drink loose in his hand as the lights of the city streaked past outside.
He grinned.
“Turn it up,” he called.
Someone whooped and the volume climbed.
The girl laughed against him, leaning closer. She smelled of perfume and sweat. Across from him, Rashid sat dour. He never did smile. But he also never turned down a drink or woman.
Amir leaned back, satisfied as his woman for the evening tipped a glass to his mouth for him to take another sip of taquila.
The bus swerved and the contents of the glass covered his face as he and the girl in his lap went flying.
A horn blared. The driver shouted something in Arabic. Then the impact came.
Metal shrieked as the bus slammed into something smaller. The entire vehicle lurched sideways, bodies thrown in new directions, drinks spilling, the music cutting out all at once.
Then a third impact and fourth as more unseen vehicles crashed into the bus. What, had they driven a red light into an intersection?
Rashid was already moving.
“Up,” he said.
Amir reached into his coat for his wand, preparing to apparate away. But then he felt the telltale pressure of wards being erected. This stopped being an accident and was now very clearly an attack.
Farid pulled out a portkey free and clenched it but nothing happened.
Rashid swore under his breath.
Amir looked outside to see if it was the authorities growing a pair or something worse. It was something worse.
The enemy were already there. Dozens of them surrounded the party bus. Men and women forming a tight perimeter around the bus, rifles raised by some, wands drawn by others. The rifles were strange to see.
He opened his mouth and raised his arms as if to surrender
They fired before he could utter a word.
Gunfire tore through the bus, deafening and relentless relentless. Glass exploded inward and metal screamed as rounds punched through it. Spells following in clean, practiced bursts.
Rashid dropped first. A shot took him through the head before his wand cleared his sleeve.
Farid raised a shield but it shattered instantly. The first volley hit him full in the chest and threw him back into the seats, his body going limp before it landed.
The girl beside Amir screamed as she went down too.
He turned toward her and something slammed into him. It felt like a sledgehammer and he felt his body drop. It punched through his chest, tore the breath from him, his lungs collapsing into a wet, choking gasp as the world tilted.
Padma stepped through the wreckage as the last shots faded. The smell of blood and burned magic thick in the air,. With her wand steady in one hand, she searched for the target.
He was on his back with his eyes wide in unfocused confusion. His chest rose in shallow, broken motions as blood pooled beneath him, spreading across the floor of the bus in dark, uneven waves.
Malcolm followed on her left, rifle still raised, scanning for movement while Dean moved on her right, wand at the ready. Both of their expressions tight but controlled.
Padma knelt beside the dying boy, her gaze dropping to the mark burned into his arm. The twisted symbol was stark against his skin.
She took his arm in her free hand.
He tried to speak but she didn’t listen.
Her cutting curse came down cleanly at the elbow, slicing through flesh and tendon in a single practiced motion. The severed limb fell away as the connection broke, the magic tied to it snapping with it.
He died instantly. Such is the fate of any Death Eater once the dark mark is removed.
Padma rose, the arm still in her hand, blood dripping from it in slow, steady drops onto the floor. She stepped back out into the open night, the city still alive around them, distant sirens beginning to wail as people realized something had gone wrong.
She raised her wand.
“Morsmordre.”
The mark erupted into the night sky above Dubai, vast and green and impossible to ignore. The skull and serpent hanging there for all to see, for every Muggle who looked up to carry with them, a message they would never understand and never forget.
Padma lowered her wand. Many cracks of apparition later and they were all gone.
***
Paris, France. Eiffel Tower.
Lavender Brown stood at the edge of the platform, one hand resting lightly against the cold iron as she watched the man in front of her watch his family die, his wife and parents hanging just beyond the railing where he had strung them himself, the ropes biting deep into their throats as their bodies jerked and twisted in slow, helpless motions, shoes scraping uselessly against open air while their hands clawed at nothing.
The rope around his own neck held him in place, tight enough to remind him it was there, loose enough that his feet still found the metal beneath him, every panicked shift of his weight pulling it tighter, every desperate movement bringing him closer to the same end he had forced on them.
She let it continue.
The sounds were the worst part, the wet choking, the broken gasps, the fading struggle as strength gave out and bodies slowed, then stilled, one after another until they hung motionless against the night sky, the wind moving them slightly where their own efforts no longer could.
Lavender released the spell.
The Imperius lifted and the man came back to himself all at once, his scream tearing out of him as he surged forward, hands grasping for the railing, for the ropes, for anything that might undo what he had just witnessed.
The noose snapped tight.
His voice cut off into a strangled gasp as the rope dug into his throat, his hands flying up to it, fingers clawing at the fibers while his body strained forward, held exactly where she had left him.
Lavender tilted her head, watching him with quiet interest.
“Why are you so bothered?” she asked, her tone light, almost curious. “This is exactly what you do to other people.”
His eyes found hers, wide and unfocused, grief and rage and disbelief colliding in them as he tried to speak, tried to force words through a throat that would not allow it.
He lunged.
Piers fired.
The shotgun blast echoed through the iron structure, both kneecaps disappearing in a violent spray of bone and blood as his legs gave out beneath him, the rope taking his full weight in an instant and tightening hard.
His hands clawed at it, movements frantic at first, then weaker, his body jerking unevenly as the pressure crushed his throat and cut off what little air he had left.
Seamus stepped forward without hesitation, catching the marked arm and holding it steady as his wand flashed, the cut clean and immediate as the limb came free at the elbow.
The man’s body jerked once, then went slack, the rope creaking softly as it held him beside the others.
Seamus dropped the severed arm into Lavender’s hand.
“Didn’t feel like waiting,” he said.
Lavender took it, the weight familiar, the Dark Mark still visible against the ruined flesh, and turned toward the edge of the platform as the wind picked up around her.
She raised her wand.
“Morsmordre.”
Green light tore into the sky above Paris, the skull and serpent forming high over the city, vast and unmistakable, hanging there for every eye below to see.
Lavender lowered her wand, stepped back, and joined the others as magic gathered around them, the pull of apparition taking hold.
They were gone a moment later.
***
Tazyrkistan, Somewhere in the Altai Mountains
Harry breathed deeply, letting the ice cold water enveloping him work it’s magic. It froze him to the bones, and focusing on his breathing he resisted every shiver and allowed him to focus on the pains of his body faded with every minute he lay there.
The alarm chimed and Harry’s eyes open. The only light in the room came from beneath him and a lamp on the desk nearyby where Cresspool sat.
The latter turned off the alarm and switched on the overhead lights.
Harry rose slowly, water spilling over the edges as he sat up, rivulets running down his torso, across the ruined lines of his body.
“It is time for your meeting, my lord,” Johnathan Cresspool said from his desk, his tone measured and professional, as though he were announcing the hour rather than interrupting a ritual.
Harry stood up and stepped out of the bath without answering, letting water pool at his feet and evaporate from some charm. The cold air hitting him all at once, sharp against wet skin.
Cresspool approached, robes folded neatly over one arm, the respirator held carefully in the other.
Harry took them.
The fabric clung slightly as he pulled the robes over his shoulders, leaving the front open. Still damp, still dripping, the weight of them settled into place as naturally as armor. He chose not to cast a drying charm so that he might warm up naturally. He placed the respirator over his mouth, the familiar mask sealing over his face with a quiet hiss, the soft rhythm of assisted breathing following a heartbeat later.
Barefoot, shirtless beneath the robes, water still trailing from him in thin lines across the floor, he stepped out of the clinic.
Neville and Viktor waited just beyond, already prepared.
“Let’s go,” Harry said.
The corridors of the old outpost stretched out ahead of them. It was all stone and steel reinforced by newer work. They were in the medical and logistical side of the facility. From the clinic, to the accounting office – which had more to do with tracking supplies and people than actual money - each area alive with his followers.
They made their way to the garage. The word failed to describe the place. After all, it had once been a garage for planes and tanks before Grindelwald took it and sealed the place away. And now, thanks to the resurrection stone, the old dark lord had bequeathed it to him. All of said vehicles were still there, though also in disrepair. For now.
Hundreds stood within. They snapped to attention as one. The sounds of boots striking forming a chorus.
Harry walked forward to the back wall and admired the new trophies.
Nearly a dozen of them, severed cleanly at the elbow and pinned in place with bayonets and knives driven through the palms. The Dark Marks on each one was displayed openly.
Lavender Brown drove another blade through the newest addition, securing it to the wall with a sharp, final motion before stepping back, turning, and joining the others. Her posture snapped into the same rigid attention.
Harry reached the raised platform.
The throne awaited him. It was a solid wooden chair that once sat in the office of some big wig. Harry chose it because it resembled the headmasters’ seat at Hogwarts minus the gold and glitter.
He sat and leaned back, admiring his standing army. Muggles, muggleborns and purebloods alike. From both Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Azkaban. There were hundreds more out there scattered to the winds.
“So,” Harry said, his voice filtered through the mask, calm, even, carrying easily through the hall. “What else is on our agenda for the day?”