Dream

Chapter 13

Voldemort surveyed the scene below him with a mild sense of satisfaction.

His army was growing steadily. Granted, its growth was unlike its previous incarnation - those glory days where the Death Eaters had recruits joining their rank with an almost fanatical fervour on a daily basis; those halcyon days, when wizarding families considered it a matter of familial pride to be associated with the Dark Lord, whose politics ensured the continuance of the Old Ways, which was slowly, but surely being eroded by the influx of lesser wizards who believed that dalliances with muggles and muggle lifestyles was 'progress' for their society.

Voldemort sneered. Muggles? Progress? He'd lived with those monsters for most of his young life and muggles were not progress - if anything, they were a regression; a species of the primate family that were particularly vicious and small-minded. And Voldemort knew muggles first-hand. Ironically, his own father was a muggle. The orphanage he grew up in was filled with muggles. Madam Wilcoft, the matron of the orphanage, was a muggle. He had yet to meet a muggle who was the equivalent of a wizard. Muggles were insipid, pathetic, powerless creatures - prosaic, with neither beauty nor poetry.

Muggles, simply, were not magical.

Mean-spirited, vile creatures, muggles were puffed up with their own petty achievements. The light bulb? How could that compare with the cleaner, transportable light energy of a first-year lumos spell? Could their modes of transportation compare with a simple Apparate? Or even a Portkey? Were muggles able to travel through time? No! How much more efficient was magic, compared to those polluting muggle machines, which often failed because of their reliance on an external energy source such as fuel or electricity - not to mention all the various sub-parts of the machine that can and will go wrong. He'd not only read, but seen for himself the devastation that muggle pollution caused to his beautiful Yorkshire countryside, how the pristine natural world was now scarred with so-called 'muggle progress'. Bah!

Muggles were never an enlightened species, often self-destructing, and taking the rest of the planet with them!

Far better were the Old Ways, long before the Age of Enlightenment and the Industrial Age. It was the Renaissance that started this slippery slide into empowering the muggles - that period marking the start of 'enlightened' wizards taking the guise of muggles, associating with them, teaching them to read and record, hoping to lift the creatures so similar to themselves into a higher plane. And where did that lead? Were muggles able to overcome their vile blood coursing through them? Of course not! Muggle history surely attests to their blood lust and selfish ways. Muggles were nothing more than dressed up brutes, far worse than grubby goblins and their rebellions. Muggles kill without cause, without reason; muggle children were vicious in their taunts, their bully tactics - or had the magical community forgotten all about the atrocities of the muggles' Holocaust? Have wizarddom so easily forgotten the persecution of wizards since time immemorial, over all cultures, over all the Ages? Do wizards truly believe that the key to peace in wizarding society is co-existence with the very creatures that will bite the hand that feed it? Hadn't history taught them enough that the heart of a muggle is envy and hate?

Time and time and time again, wizards have sought to 'help' muggles in their weakness. Certainly in the area of healthcare, Mediwizards - 'healers' - have gone about muggles, healing them with magic, bringing relief to their need. These wizards have also taught muggles simple potion brewing, utilizing the lesser magical properties of plants - but to what purpose? Instead of expanding in their healthcare knowledge by building on what they have been taught about these herbs, muggles have turned these natural healing plants into addictive substances, profiteering off other muggles for their own benefit, with nary a thought to the destruction of their fellow creatures' health. Such thoughtless, heartless creatures! And to these, the wizarding society must co-exist?

Not if he had anything to do with it!

Voldemort knew that his methods were less than orthodox, but why should more humane methods be employed to these animals? And if he were to carry out his plans, and wizards had to be casualties of this war, what did that signify? A few must fall for the many to benefit. It was imperative for the Old Ways to be reinstated. The end justifies the means.

Seeing that the Specialist Instructor had set the Death Eaters an assignment to complete, Voldemort turned to walk down the spiral staircase to the class below. He had to motivate his troops. It will not be an easy war, but they need to know what they were fighting for; and it was not about vengeance against a well-meaning old coot nor a guileless young boy. The war was for the future of all wizardkind.

Stopping at the foot of the stairs, he surveyed his Dark Army. Truth be told, he was glad that there was an increase in strength. Numbers meant that the success of this campaign would undoubtedly be swifter, greater. It was unfortunate, really, that unlike previously, where he could recruit his Death Eaters more openly, explaining his vision for the wizarding society through dinners in the Old Families and drinks and smoke in wizarding gentlemen clubs, his unexpected banishment by a mere toddler and the spin by those on Dumbledore's side, had effectively closed this route.

The mindless herds of followers quickly took in the simple story that both Dumbledore and the Ministry of Magic wove. Gone was the truth behind his vision for wizarding UK to restrict muggle contact; replaced instead with the pathetic idea that this coming war was about vengeance.

Harry Potter? What is a Harry Potter against an entire Dark Army? Any one of his Death Eater, each trained to be ruthless killing machine - well versed in the Dark Arts, the Art of Duelling, Poison and Espionage; any one of them could easily do away with the boy at any time.

Stupidly, his enemies believe that his lying low, building up an Army was all for petty vengeance.

'Harry Potter,' Voldemort thought with a snort, a shake of his head and a wry smile. Granted, he himself was shocked that night at Godric's Hollow, when his Killing Curse ricocheted back to him. He hadn't expected that turn of events, of course, but unlike that fool Dumbledore, he did not attribute it to any special magical powers that the toddler might possess.

It was a mistake. An almost fatal mistake, nonetheless, but an error of judgement which he admitted to making. On hindsight, Voldemort should have remembered that magical babies had a natural blood protection. After all, it was for that very reason that magical babies born to muggles were not removed from their families until after their tenth birthday. Otherwise, not only were they unprotected from harm, the adoptive family - be it wizarding or muggle - might suffer undue backlash from the uncontrolled early magic that these children might perform. However, if the magical child were orphaned, and if no blood relative were available to take care of the child, the child might then be safely adopted by a wizarding family.

The irony, of course, was that Voldemort should have remembered that fact - especially since he had spent his own miserable childhood suffering from the lack of protection his muggle father's blood would have endowed him with. He had enough beatings from his early childhood from his fellow inmates at the Greater Yorkshire Orphanage to remind him daily of the fact. And if he ever forgot the beatings he endured in his first ten years, dear, dear old Madam Wilcroft and her discipline rod, were always kind enough to remind him of his place and position, each summer when he returned from his obviously expensive boarding school in Scotland.

'Muggles,' Voldemort sneered in thought, 'Petty, jealous, insipid creatures.'

Of course, that muggle orphanage was no more - Voldemort's mouth turned at the corner - a mystery, really, how the entire orphanage was razed to the ground without a single survivor.

Voldemort's smile grew in wistful remembrance... until his face suddenly hardened.

He should have aimed to kill Lily Potter first, instead of aiming for that blasted child. His bloodlust had blinded him, and on hearing the wailing of the child, he had immediately aimed the curse at him... only to have Lily Potter throwing herself in the direct path of the curse. The curse had gone through her, killing her instead of that miserable, crying boy and rebounded back to him, ripping him from his body.

Stupid mistake.

Not one that he would make again.

He did not die - and wasn't it said that that which did not kill, would only make one stronger? He would triumph again - especially since his enemies were pathetically underestimating him once again.

Voldemort was no fool. He did not spend ten years wandering restlessly, desperately, in the Albanian Dark Forest wasting his time. Contrary to popular belief, Voldemort was patient and he knew that training, strategising, studying his enemy's weaknesses took time. It took him about thirty years to build up his first army, studiously researching warfare and strategies, putting people in place, building his vision piece by piece.

It was not easy, his years of exile in Albania. But he kept his vision, his focus on overcoming his enemies, on his comeback. He knew, just as he knew that he would succeed this time round, that one of his loyal followers would seek him out and find a way to restore him back to his body. Then he would return to his destiny, return to his power and then the wizarding world will once again tremble at the name of Lord Voldemort, and once again understand the importance of ridding their world of the vile taint of muggles and muggleborns.

And what was a mere three years' wait for his Army to expand? The time was coming when his Army will defend the wizarding population against those that seek to destroy the Old Ways once again. These three years, whilst the wizardkind speculated over the rumours of his return - thanks to Potter, he had used the time wisely to regain his magical strength. He still relied on Nagini for her essence to sustain him even in this body, and the truth was he still hadn't fully recovered to his full potency. His body, through the various potions he had his Potions Specialist create for him, had been transformed to be more humanlike, but he still retained the unnerving red reptilian eyes. Until the day he regained his full power, he would continue to look more serpent than man - a fact he kept from even his closest followers, knowing that some in his ranks joined for more prosaic reasons such as a lust for power and vengeance against the arbitrary government system of wizarddom.

Therefore, the true extent of Voldemort's powers was hidden from even his trusted lieutenants. He used Pettigrew - number 3 - to look for books on a wide variety of topics in order to hide his real pursuit - the return of his magic and his old body. Weekdays were spent pouring over the books, brewing potions, sometimes consulting number 7, meditating and exercising his magic. The returns were slow, but he was grateful at least that he was able to return with his full mental capacity. For since he wasn't able to control his Death Eaters by his weakened powers, he was still able to use his powers of manipulation and Slytherin cunning to keep his disciples towing the line.

Number 7... he observed the easy way the man managed his classroom. Unlike number 28 who taught Charms, 7 need not rely on entertaining his students with jokes or charming anecdotes to impart his knowledge. 7 taught his class with a firm authority, which number 13, the Dark Arts Specialist, had better learn. 13 had some difficulties controlling his class, especially those pupils who felt they knew better than their instructor, and feedback from the troops was that 13 was disorganised in preparing and imparting his lessons.

Voldemort observed the way 7 recalled his students from their assignments. The various pairs took turns reporting their findings to the rest of the class.

Keeping an eye on the rather mundane class reports, Voldemort thought back to that night in the cemetery - ironically, the place of his rebirth. It was a gamble he took, knowing the energy drain the Dark magic cast to return him into a bodily being would be on him, to use whatever little power he had in casting the Cruciatus Curses, the Imperious Curse, giving Wormtail a new hand and duelling with Potter. But it was a gamble he had to take, and which he'd won. It was imperative that his remaining Death Eaters - his lieutenants really, were reminded of his immense power prior to his magical banishment. They needed to believe that they were backing a powerful Mage. If they knew that it was all just a Muggle illusion and sleight of hand...

Voldemort smiled.

And thanks to that Potter brat and the myth that that fool Dumbledore created...

True, he was thwarted by Potter when he set out to steal the Philosopher's Stone. However, the weak-minded fool that he had inhabited then was as much to blame for as his weakened state. But he did not die then, did he? As far as he was concerned, his not dying meant that he was able to seek another way of returning. Although, truth be told, he was very sore that he wasn't able to get his hand on the Stone - it would have made his return all the easier.

He had heard young 103's report about Potter's second year victory over his schoolboy diary, and the report had amused him greatly. No doubt, Dumbledore would see it as confirmation of Potter as some sort of special magical crusader, a... hero against the big, bad, Lord Voldemort. He snorted. That Tom Riddle was merely a memory, albeit magical memory, but only a memory nonetheless. For Potter to have had to struggle so hard - even having to bring out the Sword of Gryffindor in order to subdue his memory and that docile, biddable, lonely Basilik... not quite the powerful wizard, was he now? Tom Riddle the boy trapped in that journal had not even the full power of Voldemort!

Voldemort's mouth curled at the corner.

Ah yes... he had great fun his final year as a Head Boy. All the sweeter since he was officially of age, and needn't go back to that miserable orphanage after his seventh year. The sweet anticipation of throwing off the yoke of being under the authority to Dippet and Wilcroft was exquisite, and it had allowed him some fun in devising that prank against the goody Gryffindors and that pesky Transfiguration professor that resulted in him receiving yet another school award and the House Cup for Slytherin that year, in addition to his Medal for Magical Merit for his unheard of achievement at NEWTs.

Yes. His boyhood pranks had revisited Hogwarts in Potter's second year. But that was all it was - a mere boyhood prank. And it wouldn't take a great wizard to overcome a non-entity, a mere memory, and that of him as a boy. Surely Dumbledore could have banished that memory easily without sending the boy Potter into what could have been his doom.

Voldemort shook his head with a sly smile.

Little did Dumbledore suspect that the resulting Potter-myth actually helped him convince his lieutenants to return to his cause. The irony was delicious. He had launched into his theatrics, his dramatics, his story-telling that night in the cemetery. And like a master puppeteer, he had manipulated his audience to see him duelling with the boy. He was convinced that fourth year syllabus at Hogwarts would not have changed much, and there was a good chance that whatever spell he cast would easily defeat the boy. In the off chance that the boy was able to hit him with a mortal blow, he was sure his Death Eaters surrounding the two of them would take matters into their hand and kill the boy.

Either way, he would win.

As expected, the Cruciatus brought Potter to his knees, but the energy expended caused his Imperious Curse to be less effective. Potter was able to break it without much difficulty. What he had not counted on, was the coincidence of Potter holding a brother-wand, which as any wizard scholar worth his salt would know, would cancel out the other - even the Adava Kedavra. For a time, he was afraid - he knew that the power coursing from the joint wands was actually in control by Potter, and if his Death Eaters were to cast any spell then, it might release a surge of magical energy rivalling the Hiroshima atomic bomb. And then, Potter's stronger magical energy began to drain his wand's fast fading power, which he had feared would happen. When the energy cage had faded, he had allowed Potter to escape, for in that split second in the magical cage, he realised that to feed the Potter-myth would be sending a Trojan horse back to Dumbledore. Potter would report all he knew, and in the time-honoured exaggeration of boyhood, Potter would report that Voldemort was back, stronger than ever.

Voldemort smiled. It would never occur to the vainglorious boy that he was not such a powerful wizard himself; even bumbling Norman Crabbe would be able to cast a powerful enough Killing Curse to wipe the boy out.

The ensuing media stories as a result of Potter's exaggerations had thrown wizarding UK into panic and chaos. Potter had named his Death Eaters, but the stupid boy forgot that it was his word against upstanding members of the society. Moreover, Voldemort had no intention of making his presence known - at least, not until he had regained more of his strength. He would bide his time. He would bide his time, and strike when he deemed the time was right. And, with the passing of each Death Eater meeting, the time was nearing.

Voldemort paused his musings and returned to observing the training before him.

"There are 3 potions on the desks in front of each of you. Each is a poison using a different base. This," the Specialist trainer indicated the potion on the right, "is a snake venom poison. When introduced into the bloodstream, snake venom will accelerate tissue death."

The Specialist looked at the masked students before him and continued, "To prevent poisoning by snake venom, you test for the poison with the Revelus. Snake venom based poison will reveal itself as a green tinge. Cast the Revelus now."

The room was filled with voices casting the Revelus over the first vial. Few were successful in the first try.

Voldemort signalled the Specialist, who walked over to his Lord Commander.

"Master?" the Specialist bowed low in greeting.

"7," Voldemort replied, "I'm pleased with your work - your trainees have shown progress in their use and detection of poisons. Of course," he smirked, "the threat that our Potions Specialist will test their knowledge without them knowing the when and the where naturally keep them on their toes."

"Indeed, my Lord," 7 replied with another short bow.

"Good work, 7. You have pleased your master, and will be well rewarded."

"Thank you, my Lord. I am merely carrying out my duty for the greater cause."

Voldemort nodded and smiled paternally at 7, then asked, "How goes the night-vision potion, 7?"

"I will be able to ready the prototype by the end of the month, Master. The potion requires a brewing period of a month, but it will undoubtedly be an apt addition to our celebration of Halloween."

Voldemort laughed. "Indeed, it would, 7. Indeed, it would. I have no doubt in your considerable potions skill - you are our resident Potions Specialist, after all. Moreover, I only work with the best, and you are the best."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Carry on the good work, 7."

7 bowed low once again and continued his instructions to the trainees.

~*~

TBC.