Sans Serpens

Prologue - Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Voldemort's fury was becoming less and less contained with each piece of bad news he received from his "loyal" followers. About halfway through their monthly reports he decided to start casting multiple Unforgivables on every successive Death Eater that disappointed him with their information. Another Inner Circle member stepped forward preparing to report and bowed dutifully before the Dark Lord. After preliminary security spells were cast to keep their conversation private, Voldemort signaled for the cloaked figure before him to begin.

"Arise, Lucius, " the Dark Lord ordered wearily. Ever the puppet, thought Voldemort, as the elder Malfoy stood; I just can't wait to finally trim the "strings" to which he so desperately clings.

"Yes, my lord," responded Malfoy, hesitant to say anything else until he was addressed to do so, lest he suffer the wrath of a very obviously infuriated Dark Lord for being disrespectful. Too many nights he had made that mistake, and learned the hard way to never intentionally upset his leader.

"How many of my faithfuls have rejoined my service from Azkaban? Specifically, how many sane ones?" he casually asked, already anticipating that he would not like the answer. The recent breakout, although it brought Lucius and the Dementors to his side, was not as beneficial to the cause as Voldemort hoped. Many impulsive Death Eaters decided to make the event a public spectacle by dueling the attending Aurors and officers of Magical Law Enforcement that were serving as security, losing their lives in the process. An inside source alerted the Dark Lord that at least half of his followers that escaped from their cells were either killed, or injured and subsequently captured by a second team of Aurors that arrived shortly after the alarms sounded. Fudge was unusually quiet on the subject, and refused to allow the Daily Prophet to question him when they showed up at the half-empty prison hours later. Of the others that survived and successfully returned to his service, he suspected that quite a few would have already become insane after decades of solitude and deprivation at the prison.

"A fair few answered your summons this evening, but after some interrogations I've concluded that only... only twenty are competent enough to be trusted."

"Unacceptable!" Voldemort raged. He cast the Imperius mercilessly and mentally "directed" the man to use his wand to cast the Severing Charm. On himself.

"Sectumsempra!" the man growled through gritted teeth. The man could no better resist the Imperius than an overweight person could resist chocolate chip cookies. When the curse was ended by the Dark Lord, the broken man lay on the floor, panting from the effort of trying to throw off the curse, blood flowing in rivulets from his left hand where the carved initials "L. V." could be found.

"You are of no further use to me tonight. Clean yourself up, and commence with the raids as planned. Do not disappoint me again, or you will suffer far worse than you have ever done in my presence." He paid no more attention to Malfoy as he slowly crawled towards the adjacent room, the only space for miles where it was safe to Apparate.

Voldemort dispelled the security charms surrounding his throne and the wide platform on which it stood, and stared out of his narrowed eyes into the fearful, timid faces of the remaining members of the Inner Circle. All those left in the room were meeting his gaze, save for one witch. She had isolated herself from the rest of the group and secluded herself in the shadowed corner, her violet eyes staring intensely at the neighboring wall, periodically illuminated by the dim firelight of the torch secured above her head.

"Tiaret, step forward," he impatiently commanded the lone witch. She gracefully approached the platform, still artfully avoiding eye contact, gave the customary bow and rose again without first waiting for permission. That was her first mistake of the night.

"Crucio," he reprimanded, causing the young witch to silently spasm and convulse in agony on the stone floor, refusing to let her screams to betray the pain she was in. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her screams. The curse was so strong that she could feel her scars burst open and bleed afresh. After what she would describe as an eternity had passed, the curse was removed and she once again heard the Dark Lord's disembodied voice mere feet above her body.

"Maybe next time, Mudblood, you will deign to keep proprieties in mind, and bow correctly before your Master!" He hissed imperiously at Tiaret, causing her to shakily mutter an apology before she regained her composure and stood again, as graceful as she could considering that she had just endured the Cruciatus, and lowered her head respectfully to await further instruction.

"Forgive me, my Lord, for my momentary weakness," she added meekly. She knew why she was summoned and was glad that she was fortunate enough this time to be able to deliver some pleasing news to her Master, even if she didn't have much to report.

"Did you retrieve the object I asked for?" he inquired, with more than just a hint of curiosity in his tone. He tried to mask the emotion, but he had been waiting for this particular artifact for years, and now that Tiaret was on his side, he was much closer to acquiring it than ever before. Needless to say, he was riddled with suspense that he may finally own the one weapon that could bring down the Boy-Who-Lived. Even Dumbledore and his "Magus" that he was mentoring could no longer stand as an obstacle in his plan to rid the world of its impurities once he could secure it.

"I have acquired it, though at great personal cost," she replied evenly. She had nearly been killed, twice, in the procuring of the object and was determined not to leave his presence empty-handed. Hopefully this mission would earn her more respect in the red, slitted eyes of the Serpent King.

"You will be sufficiently compensated, if it has not been damaged somehow on the journey. Bring it forward, and take care to keep it well covered." The anticipation was tense; he had not but once glimpsed it, but it had been so long since that he had forgotten what it looked like. He sadistically smirked to hide his inner smile. Lord Voldemort does not smile. In public.

She slowly ambled forth, a limp evident in her walk, and knelt before the Dark Lord. With care, she removed the package from a concealed pocket in her robes. It was delicately wrapped in a fine crimson silk cloth, and glowed slightly from underneath its covering. It held a perfect spherical shape and was no bigger than a grapefruit in size. Who knew that something so small could be the undoing of a well organized, self-sufficient Wizarding society comprised of thousands of people? No one but the Dark Lord held that knowledge. A tremble was apparent in her arm; a side effect of the Cruciatus being that normal motor function becomes impaired for up to three days after the curse is cast. She raised the bundle to her Master's expectant hands, recoiling briefly when his icy fingers brushed across her own. She retreated back to her previous position on the platform and watched for a reaction, though with Voldemort, it was guaranteed to be a subtle one if she noticed it at all.

"I am greatly pleased with your efforts. But on to other pressing matters. How is the training proceeding with the new recruits?" he asked conversationally. He had recently implemented a new program, with Tiaret as its leader, to teach new initiates the basic techniques of combat, using both Dark Magic and Muggle weapons to defeat an opponent. It had progressed for a month already with no problems, and the initiates were becoming quite proficient in both methods.

"They are learning well, though sometimes their behavior can be quite troublesome. It's difficult to teach when they refuse to respect what little authority I hold over them, my Lord. They... they attack like cowards, whenever I turn my back or fall to the ground, and I won't deal with it any longer," she spoke boldly, keeping her eyes downcast, away from the penetrating (and Legilimizing) gaze of the Dark Lord.

"You have my explicit permission to do whatever becomes necessary to keep them under your control. I should also have a talk with them personally to insure that it will never happen again." He smirked, the same smirk one would see on your local psychopath preparing to strike.

"You are dismissed, but first I wish to express my extreme disappointment in your inability to manage a group of sixteen-year-olds. What word can I use to convey it?" he mock-questioned, the look on his face clearly reflecting the "calm before the storm."

"Ah, I know just the word for it: CRUCIO!" he cursed, and his maniacal laugh echoed off of the circular stone walls, as the woman crumpled below him gasped for air between screams.

One thousand miles away, Harry Potter awoke in a cold sweat at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, visibly shaken, but not as bad as the poor soul who had lived through two consecutive Cruciatus curses from the most powerful dark lord in a century.