Persephone Descending

Chapter 2: Furia

"The world is my expense, the cost of my desire." --Rage Against the Machine, Sleep Now in Your Fire.

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In the dark chamber, he stood and stared unblinking at the walls.

There was a time when he would not have liked to have seen himself surrounded by so much stone, as it would have seemed to him to be too reminiscent of a tomb--and Voldemort refused to accept that he would eventually die and require such an edifice. Perhaps that was why, when he stood so close to success he could taste it in the air, he made his fortress a crypt so that he would not forget the price of failure.

"My lord," a voice said respectfully, and he raised his eyes to see one of his Death Eaters standing before him, head bowed in deference. "Pardon me for interrupting you, but we have word that the Order is planning on convening in Rotherfield for a meeting tonight, and I wish to discuss our strategy with you."

Voldemort remained quiet, sending his gift out like a flame to lick at the mind of the man who stood before him. There was no subterfuge in the thought--the man who stood before him was exhausted but he was no traitor.

"Do you think it is a trap, Lucius?" he asked, and at his name the man raised his head and met his gaze unflinchingly. Lucius Malfoy was a gifted strategist--if he thought the rumors of a meeting at Rotherfield were an attempt to draw out his forces, then the Dark Lord would listen and act accordingly. Malfoy was a slippery eel, but he had no desire to be sent back to Azkaban, and his loyalty was assured.

"I am almost certain of it, my lord," Lucius said smoothly in his cool, clipped drawl. "If you wish, I shall send out a small force to patrol the area, merely to be certain."

"I wish it, yes," Voldemort said, nodding to his faithful lieutenant. "A moment, please, Lucius," he said, as Malfoy had turned to go and carry out his lord's orders.

"Yes, my lord?" he said carefully, and the Dark Lord watched his face for any sign of resentment, any signal that his trusted soldier was thinking of defection. It was unlikely from Malfoy, who was a fugitive since escaping Azkaban last year. The proud blond wizard faced the Kiss if they were not successful, thus, Malfoy fought his hardest to see that did not happen. Voldemort did not assume Malfoy's loyalty to his family name and position would not trump the cause of pureblood supremacy, regardless of what Lucius said, but that didn't matter to the Dark Lord. He knew Malfoy's trustworthiness was secure so long as he could also look to whatever goals he harbored in the dark husk that remained of his heart.

"Have you located Potter's Mudblood?" Voldmeort asked, something dark in his voice that caused the wizard in front of him to avert his eyes.

"No, my lord, but I have Snape's promise that he shall locate her. She was last spotted in Muggle London," Lucius said with a faint sneer.

Voldemort inclined his head briefly. "Very well," he said shortly, waving a hand. "You may go. Report to me the outcome of this mission tomorrow, Lucius, and I would like to speak with Severus."

Lucius nodded his assent and turned to go, his expensive boots clicking on the stone floor as he walked across the room. Out of curiosity, Voldemort scanned his senior Death Eater's thoughts, finding nothing save a sense of wariness and relief to be leaving the chamber. That did not surprise Voldemort--few could appreciate the cold, remote beauty of his chosen lair.

The Chamber of Secrets.

His other Death Eaters did not like this room either, and like Lucius, they were grateful to leave it when called upon to attend him here. Many had thought he would take up residence in the Headmaster's quarters to gloat over his defeat of that old fool, Dumbledore, but he had not. His place was in the Chamber, where Nagini was able to hide in pools of inky dark water, where he had met the basilisk all those years ago and first understood what he was destined to become.

It had been here where he had suffered his most galling defeat to that Potter brat, stabbed as a memory and conquered by a basilisk fang. Rage curled through him, hot and biting, and ruthlessly he tampered it down. The thought of killing Dumbledore's champion here in the Chamber, while he forced his Mudblood whore to watch made him smile in the darkness, but there was no mirth in the expression. Voldemort had long since lost the ability to smile with warmth.

There were times he looked around his Chamber and thought of the young man he'd once been, who had last breathed in this very room before he'd been forever sent back to dwell in the past. One more thing to punish that dreadful brat for. There was little resemblance now between the young man he'd once been and the being he was now--not even Voldemort was certain he could call himself a man any longer.

I who strive to be a god shall never yearn to be a man.

Voldemort walked around the chamber, pushing his hood off and allowing the cold air to seep even further into his chilled skin. The cold perfection of this chamber calmed him, refocused him--it was the main reason he'd almost lost everything in his attempt to recapture it. Hogwarts was the jewel in the crown of the War campaign, and his Death Eaters had never understood this. They'd come closer to staging a revolt in that period of time, before the castle had fallen, than at anytime over the last six years. If it had not been for the duplicity of Severus Snape, the doors would ever have been closed to them, and he might have found himself alone and abandoned, cast to the mercy of a pitiless fate.

Like her...

Voldemort did not know why she fascinated him, and why he wanted to break her so badly, but the girl had become an unwilling obsession of late. He knew the war had claimed her lover outside the walls of this very castle, and that she cursed him even as she wished for him to kill her. The thought was powerfully arousing--his darker self longed to humiliate and break her, to force her to kneel before him, even as the serpent in him longed to devour her, to feel her life drain away and watch the spark of life fade from her eyes.

It amazed him that the dreams were effective, that she had not struggled to stop him with all the power she possessed. Part of him cursed her for that--I have so few adversaries worth my talent, girl, surely you are capable of more than this--and the other part, that darker part, was filled with a heady, hot rush of triumph that she so easily succumbed. She was slowly unraveling, and he was inching inside of her mind and wrapping around her psyche, like Nagini with a rat she was intent upon devouring. He was proceeding so carefully--twisting around her unknowing mind until he could strike, until his poison slipped inside her and destroyed her as surely as Nagini effortlessly killed her prey.

The War effort required his attentions during the day and often late into the evening hours, but there was always time to visit his sleeping victim and taunt her with the images he wove so carefully in her sleeping mind. He had begun as he had years ago with Potter--the image of a hallway, the inexorable draw to discover what lie at the end--and gradually increased the images until she followed of her own natural curiosity. Yes, you are terrified and fascinated, entranced and repelled....a deadly mixture, that Gryffindor courage with a decidedly Ravenclaw lust for knowledge.

He found himself staring into the pool of water in which Nagini was curled, silent and well-fed, as he remembered their most recent interaction. The previous evening he had allowed himself a momentary weakness and pulled his will back, for the first time allowing her to take the initiative. He had expected many things of her, but he had thought she would kill him. He wondered if she would make him suffer. Would she cast Crucio on him and watch him writhe beneath her with satisfaction? She harbored such anger in that fragile body of hers, such hate...the thought was enticing, and he saw the red gleam of his eyes reflected in the darkness of the water, glowing intensely. She would not have been capable of casting Crucio with any real skill until recently, until he'd had Pettigrew kill her lover ...Voldemort laughed, and Nagini shifted slightly in the water. Like calls to like...

Surprisingly, she had not cursed him, though she could have. No, she had not killed him, though her hate was there, brimming to the surface and threatening to spill over and scald her fair skin. Hermione had not made a move to destroy the enemy who stood before her. What she had done had caused his blood to stir--blood long since turned cold like the serpent he had become--and had increased his obsession with her tenfold.

She had kneeled before him, and bowed her head, as she waited for the fall of his lash.

Hermione Granger was a powerful witch, perhaps the last remaining hope for Potter and his surviving Order of the Phoenix. Harry Potter would fall at his feet for Voldemort refused to accept any alternative, and the last remaining threat would be this Mudblood witch--too clever for her own good, and now possessed with the terrible trait of no longer caring if she lived nor died. But she had knelt before him of her own volition, and that was unexpected.

So long had Voldemort been concerned with the defeat of Harry Potter that it had become an obsessive, single-minded ambition. He knew he was now close enough to taste victory, in regards to that goal.

When that was accomplished, he had thought to kill the Mudblood here in the chamber where he'd been so close to claiming another fair witch's life. To observe the life fading from Potter's brilliant green eyes while he was forced to watch his friend die would have been the sweetest of victories indeed.

Now, with the advent of this new knowledge, Voldemort had decided there was a better way to destroy Potter and to have his victory over the Mudblood who had long tormented him with her intelligence and her cunning. I would have killed that worthless brat long before now had she not interfered. He would kill the boy who was his nemesis, after all, that was his destiny. But after the previous night, he thought it far more fitting if he were to turn Potter's precious Mudblood. He would have her by his side when the time came--not to kill, but to display her and the Mark he would burn on her skin, burn into her soul. He would crown her the queen of this dark and decadent underworld, and he would have her kill Potter.

Only then his triumph would be complete.

He retreated to the shadows of the room and stared into the shadows as he plotted the abduction of Miss Hermione Granger, his breath escaping in a hiss, eyes glowing crimson in the darkness.