Ad Mortem Festinamus

Seven weeks, four countries, six cities, fourteen museums, eight art galleries, and uncounted sights later, the beautiful, rich, married couple returned to Wiltshire to live in the bridegroom's stately manor, at least on the weekends. Narcissa enrolled in Artemis College, too, Lucius began to attend graduate classes, and during the week, they frequently stayed in Lucius' old bachelor apartment in London because he wasn't in the mood to endure his father.

Lucius often had to fulfil his duties for the Dark Order, a fact that began to worry both of them increasingly. Being a married man, with his wife waiting at home in their marital bed, Lucius had little taste to spend his evenings elsewhere. Also, he became more and more annoyed with the whole thing. He had tried to accustom to the idea that his master was of inferior standing, but he hadn't succeeded very far. The Dark Lord had even found him out, not reacting too benignly, and warning Lucius what he might do with his gorgeous wife if Lucius thought of telling anybody else. As a first consequence, Narcissa taught him Occlumency to prevent similar predicaments in the future.

Narcissa's initial enthusiasm when finding out that Lord Voldemort was really nobody else but Tom Riddle, the boy that she very nearly had beaten in her OWLs, had quickly worn off, too. Now that she was actually living together with Lucius, she realised how much time he had to invest, and how extremely dangerous the assignments were. What did that wretched man think he was doing? He was a genius, why wasn't he satisfied with straining to become the most powerful wizard by far, some experimental magic, some research?! Why would he send her husband out to battle Aurors just for the sake of it?! Why would he have random people slain for no reason at all?!

She had seen Lucius perform the Dark Arts, he was fantastic. Still she couldn't dispel the concern that he might meet a foe more excellent yet. What if he was injured? Arrested? Or - no, she didn't allow herself to think it. Everything would be fine. Everything was fine, more than just fine. Her life was heaven!

How could she ever have believed that she could live without this man? What a silly girl she had been! He could single-handedly make her feel like losing her mind - literally, single-handed. Not to speak of the rest of him! Ever since their wedding night, they'd take the same position when going to sleep, always. Her husband would be lying on his back, she would snuggle up to him, entwine her legs with his, he'd hold her in his left arm, while his right hand stroked her shoulders and décolleté, she placed her own hand on his belly and her face on his chest. No alterations had ever disturbed this harmonious habit, and most of the time, they also woke up like this again, moving mere inches through the night.

Most of the time. For Lucius was mischievous, and very hot for his beautiful wife, and no matter how much time had passed since they had taken their nuptials, he could have seen no reason for his lewdness to lessen. In his time, he had been infamous a heartthrob, and screwed plenty of girls, so many in fact that he hadn't bothered to count them. None had ever captivated his true interest, none had ever excited more than temporary lust, and he had dumped each and every one of them before the end of a month.

With Narcissa, it was different. He couldn't imagine that he'd ever get enough of her, he had made love to her each night since they had got married, and frequently not only once, or only at night, and he knew he would continue to be aroused by her and if they'd both become a hundred and fifty years. To feel her body quiver under his touch, to see her parted lips, her half-closed eyes, hear the lustful moans and cries, pants and whimpers that he could elicit from her, was everything he wanted. And she was his, his only. No other man's hand had ever touched the whiteness of her skin, the softness of her breasts, nobody else but he had ever thrust into her shrine.

"Get it on, gorgeous," he said with a husky voice, easily lifting her up, making her thighs spread and straddle him. This woman had dragged him into every major museum in Europe, and half of the less important ones too, but clearly she hadn't got the faintest idea that the most beautiful sight by far was herself in moments like this. Her half-closed eyes, beads of sweat on her marble forehead, on her white shoulders that were tense, yet moving so lithely.

"Does my love like it this way?"

"You cannot imagine how much!"

She gave a little laugh and closed her eyes. "Oh, I guess I can."

He gave a little start, biting his lip not to swear out loud. The mark - the Dark Lord was calling him - damn it! Damn him! Such a call didn't mean, 'Hey, it'd be nice of you to come over if it's convenient!' Neither did it mean, 'Take your time and finish whatever it is that you're doing in this moment.' No, it said 'Come here right now, or dare my wrath if you don't show up in the next two minutes!'

Narcissa had been close to a climax and did not bother to restrain from abusing the Dark Lord heartily. She watched her lover summon and don his robes, made him swear to return in the very second he had finished whatever it was they wanted from him in the middle of the night, and kick somebody's butt for her as a small compensation. He kissed her goodbye, genuinely inclined to ignore the call and continue what they had begun, but she wouldn't let him, and promised him in turn to stay awake, regain her strength and reward him as soon as he'd be back.

When Lucius realised what on earth he had left his hot, moaning wife for, he had to muster all his composure. Some petty robbery?! Anyone could do that! Call the bachelors for this rubbish! The master and a dozen of his supporters broke into the house of Dumbledore's brother - but why they'd do that remained unintelligible to Lucius. The owner wasn't even there! And there was nothing worth stealing either! For Salazar's sake, what was he even doing here!

Oh well. Not only had young Tom Riddle made quite a career to become Lord Voldemort - his star was rising still. When he had come back to England after almost twenty years, his skills in the Dark Arts had been unrivalled. Five years later, he was famous, or rather say infamous - he and his followers were close to overthrow the Ministry of Magic, not because they were planning some coup d'état, but simply because they existed. He was hungry for power, not the conventional sort of power - he had no intention to become Minister for Magic, for Salazar's sake. He relished the power he had on the minds of people, even his own supporters wouldn't dare to speak his name. His ulterior motive wasn't mere power though. Nobody but he knew about this motive, not even his faithful Death Eaters, which weren't named so for nothing.

He wasn't afraid of death. He hated it. Death! Death was supposed to be the one matter that could not be conquered, kings and heroes were powerless when facing it. He wouldn't give in like that, like his own mother, simply lying down to die instead of fighting, for life in itself, for her son! And he had already succeeded in vanquishing death. He had been a schoolboy still when toying with the idea already, and he had spent the past twenty-five years very usefully to realise his plan.

It was simple enough. So simple in fact that he couldn't believe that no one before him had tried it! All it'd take was transferring parts of one's soul into separate objects - all right, all right, that bit wasn't exactly easy, but when one knew how to do it... Body and soul belong, living and dying together. So if there was a part of the soul living when the physical frame had died, this frame could be revived, over and over and over. Immortality wasn't that complicated, when one was so talented and crafty like himself.

The first item was his old diary - he held this plain little booklet sacred, as proof of his first attempt on advanced magic. It was the proof that he indeed was Salazar Slytherin's true heir, marked his first victim, showed his ingenuity - how many sixteen year old wizards could implant their memory in a book, eh? None, none! He had gathered gifted wizards around him, the most talented wizards from all Europe, from the most ancient families - but none of them - not one was a patch on him and his talent!

The second object containing a piece of his soul was the ring he had once stolen from his moronic uncle, the one showing the Peverell code of arms. Number three was a golden cup that had once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff and which bore fantastic powers of its own, neutralising poisons, enhancing potions, turning water to whatever substance you willed. He had a couple of other items for this purpose, but he had made it a rule to only use them when he had killed somebody special - his first victim, the useless mudblood girl then, his despicable father, the last Minister for Magic -

He strictly ruled his order, with a tight hierarchy. Naturally, he was the number one. His right hand was Lucius Malfoy, a wizard who distinguished himself for many reasons, his impeccable pedigree, his immense talent, but foremost his will and determination. Then there was this one's sister-in-law, one of the few witches serving him - in truth, she would have been in Lucius' position, if she hadn't been a woman. Women in general were weak, too soft, too easily scared - like his dead mother, that stupid woman! Nothing of this was true in Bellatrix Lestrange's case, but this was a matter of principle. Speaking of women - there had been a time when he had wanted Lucius' wife - Bellatrix' sister - for his collection as well, cleverer than the both of them and incredibly gifted, but she had let down his expectations in her. All her talent didn't make up for her lack of commitment. He had scrutinised her closely, had interrogated her, had shown her what he could do for her development as a witch - but Narcissa had shrunken away. He had seen into her head, had seen her dread, her unwillingness - nay, incapability to do what was necessary, to kill if necessary, and there was no use in having her if she couldn't do whatever he'd ask of her.

There were plenty of better choices, people that were hungry for the opportunities he could offer. His latest acquisition was a young wizard that reminded him of himself when he had been young. Severus Snape - a protégé of Lucius, who was also sponsoring the kid's college education - had a muggle father, too, and a mother that excelled only in her weakness. But the kid was shrewd and crafty, talented beyond the possibilities of much older wizards, with a special knack for potions and curses, and willing to do whatever it would take. How excellent young Severus could have been already if he hadn't fallen into the hands of Albus Dumbledore, the old buffoon! Voldemort was determined to make up for this lack of proper education. This boy would be his masterpiece, his skills would be secondary only to his own when he was through with him!

He knew what to offer to bind his disciples. Some of them were hungry for power, magic or mundane power or both, like Lucius, or Bellatrix. Some were simply - well - perhaps 'adventurous' was the right term. Some were bullies and sadists, relishing the power they could exploit over others. Some were unhappy, unsatisfied, balancing their discontent with the possibilities he gave them, like young Severus, who hated muggles because his father was one, and a nasty piece of work to boot.

He left them to their own ways, only intervening when their actions endangered the order. It was best like this, tying them closer to him still - crimes done in common were a mighty band. He had his people everywhere. There was Augustus Rookwood, for example, a high Ministry wizard. Macnair, Goyle, Avery, Gibbon - all Ministry men that in fact worked for him. Bellatrix and Lucius were so well-respected, they had access to every house and family in the country. Jebediah Jugson sr. was an instructor at Artemis College, incidentally for Defence Against The Dark Arts. Dolohov, from the Russian Embassy. Thelonius Nott and Amycus Carrow, who worked in Saint Mungo's. Yaxley, the Law Wizard, and Canute Rosier, honourable member of the Wizengamot. Maurice Mulciber with his sons Devlin and Sebastian, in charge of some major silver-mines, Thomas Harper, a Gringotts contact, Alecto Carrow, second chief-editor for the Daily Prophet, Mitchell and Gavin Wilkes, heirs to England's most influential publishing house. He had the mightiest werewolf in the palm of his hand, Gorm, the present gurg of the giants, Malocchio, a powerful, 500 years old vampire...

The only spy he still wanted was one in Dumbledore's school. The old bastard was smart, he'd have to give him that - he was actually the only enemy that Voldemort respected. But he would see to it that there would come the day that saw the end of the great Dumbledore, and Lord Voldemort would be dancing on his grave then.

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Para... Arm for war.