The large dining room at Gaunt Manor was bathed in the warm, flickering light of candles, but the atmosphere in the room was quite the opposite—it was so thick and cold that breath could almost be seen in the air.
Seated at the head of the immense dark mahogany table, Lord Voldemort presided over his first grand dinner since his rebirth. With a glass of red wine that looked like blood swirling in his hand, the Dark Lord watched the guests seated along the table with careful and silent amusement.
There was the elite of his army, the self-proclaimed nobility of the wizarding world. He could see the Parkinsons, the Notts, the rustic Macnairs, Crabbe and Goyle, the subtle Averys and Fawleys, and of course, the Malfoys. They all ate with stiff elegance, casting long glances at him with a mixture of terror, awe, and renewed devotion.
As dinner progressed, Voldemort noticed a fascinating pattern in the dynamics at the table. The gazes of almost all the patriarchs constantly drifted, with obvious annoyance and ill-concealed resentment, toward one man in particular: Alaric Carrow.
Unlike the rest, who kept a low profile in the imposing presence of their master, Alaric was leaning back in his chair. He ate slowly, but a broad, almost insolent smile never left his face. He looked at his fellow Death Eaters with overflowing pride and arrogance that bordered on the insulting.
Voldemort took a sip of his wine, quickly deducing the reason. "Envy, probably," thought the Dark Lord. "It's all because of his daughters' engagement to Aurelian." Voldemort found these games of marriage alliances, for which purebloods killed each other, tedious and somewhat incomprehensible, but he understood perfectly well the immense political value that the Carrows had just acquired overnight.
As his gaze swept across the table, it lingered on Narcissa Malfoy. The blonde matriarch had barely touched her food, her attention elsewhere, her piercing blue eyes surreptitiously scanning every corner of the dining room, from the moldings on the walls to the huge windows.
Voldemort curved his lips into a formal, impeccable smile.
"You may speak, Narcissa," Voldemort said, his baritone voice cutting through the sound of silver cutlery and instantly silencing the entire table. "It seems something has caught your interest. I would enjoy hearing about it."
Being the center of attention of the Dark Lord himself, Narcissa startled slightly. As she looked at his face—with its mature, noble, and disturbingly attractive features—an intense blush stained her pale cheeks.
Voldemort smiled slightly to himself. He had noticed the same effect on Bellatrix, on the other witches in his circle, and on almost every woman who looked at him. His appearance had that effect; it was undeniable. His mere presence, combined with his overwhelming power, disarmed them and made them blush like schoolgirls.
"They all react the same way," Voldemort thought with a sudden melancholy. "All of them... except her." The memory of Elaine flashed through his mind again. Elaine had never blushed at his superficial attractiveness or cowered at his power. She was different from all the others; he always felt that she looked directly into his soul, defiant and understanding at the same time.
Narcissa cleared her throat, pulling him out of his strange nostalgic thoughts.
"My Lord, forgive my boldness," Narcissa said in a thin voice, fear still underlying her respectful tone. "It's just that... the design of this mansion is fascinating. I've never seen anything like it. It has such... unusual architecture."
Narcissa narrowed her eyes slightly, looking up at the ceiling.
"And if I'm not mistaken," she lowered her voice slightly before continuing, "I must admit that I remember seeing those crystal chandeliers above the table when I was a child, in one of the halls of the Black House, but I'm sure it's just a coincidence."
A murmur ran around the table. Voldemort shifted in his chair, without losing his composure.
"You have a keen eye, Narcissa," Voldemort replied calmly. "My son, Aurelian, was the one who rebuilt and decorated this place from the ground up. He has rather peculiar taste... more focused on the comforts and efficiency that Muggles have. He has combined our family heirlooms with some... acquisitions."
The open mention of "his son" and the word "Muggle" caused the table to erupt in even more audible murmurs. The Death Eaters exchanged alarmed and confused glances.
Lord Parkinson, a man with a broad face and a stern expression, plucked up his courage. He cleared his throat loudly to make himself heard.
"My Lord... if I may be so bold," Parkinson began, bowing his head. "Is it true, then? Is Aurelian Gaunt... truly your blood son? Many in our circles have long suspected it, given his incredible talent, his surname, and his striking resemblance to you, but... we wished to hear it from your own lips."
Voldemort let out a slow sigh. He was about to respond, to make clear the position of his heir above them all, but someone beat him to it.
"But of course he is, Parkinson!" Alaric Carrow's voice boomed from across the table.
Alaric leaned forward, his smug smile widening until it almost split his face. He looked at the other Lords as if they were ignorant peasants.
"He is the living image of our Lord's genius and strength. And that same boy, the heir to the greatest magic of all time, is officially and legally engaged to my beautiful daughters, Hestia and Flora!"
Alaric's words fell like acid on the table.
The other patriarchs of the Holy Twenty-Eight families frowned deeply. The Parkinsons, the Notts, the Fawleys, and even Lucius Malfoy shot Carrow several glances laden with venom and resentment. The anger that it was not their own daughters or relatives who would secure the lineage and power of their master's son was too bitter a pill to swallow.
Voldemort closed his eyes for a second, brought a hand to his face, and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.
"Death Eaters, murderers, and politicians, reduced to a bunch of chickens fighting over a good match," thought the Dark Lord. It was going to be a damn long meeting.
The tense silence that followed Alaric Carrow's boastfulness was finally broken by Lucius Malfoy. Still pale and sweating coldly from the torture of days ago, Malfoy leaned forward slightly, swallowing hard.
"My Lord," Lucius began, his voice tinged with reverential fear, "Now that you have returned to us in all your glory... What are your plans for the future? What are our orders?"
All the other Death Eaters at the table stopped eating instantly. They fixed their gaze on their master, holding their breath, eager to know what their lord would unleash. They expected promises of fire, blood, and the imminent military conquest of the country.
Voldemort watched them silently. He raised both hands, rested them on the table, and interlaced his fingers with disturbing calm.
"I really... don't know," replied the Dark Lord in a soft voice.
A murmur of pure and genuine confusion rippled around the table. The Parkinsons, the Notts, the Averys... they all looked at each other with wide eyes. The Dark Lord didn't know what to do? The most feared dark wizard in history (according to them) didn't have a new plan for annihilation ready?
Lord Goyle, a huge man of rather limited intellect and blind loyalty, furrowed his simian brow and couldn't contain his bewilderment.
"But, my master," Goyle growled, scratching his head, "what about the war? Are we no longer going to eliminate the filthy Muggles? What will happen to all those disgusting mudblo...?"
Goyle never finished the sentence.
In a split second, the temperature in the great hall dropped several degrees. The candle flames flickered violently before turning a deep black.
A colossal magical pressure, dense and crushing like the depths of the ocean, fell upon everyone present. The Death Eaters clung to the table, gasping for air, feeling as if an invisible hand were crushing their lungs. They found it extremely difficult to breathe.
But Goyle suffered the worst fate.
Before he could utter another sound, blood began to spurt from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. The burly man fell from his chair and sank to his knees, choking on his own blood, his eyes bulging with pain and terror in the face of the magic of an enraged Archmage.
Voldemort glared at Goyle with a look so cold and deadly that it seemed capable of freezing hell itself.
"Never again," hissed Voldemort, in a lethal whisper that echoed in the bones of everyone present.
In his mind, the image of his beloved Elaine flashed with painful intensity. His beautiful, brilliant Elaine, Aurelian's mother. The only woman who had managed to penetrate the darkness of his soul and love him for who he was. Remembering her smile and knowing that these idiots sitting at his table would use such a vulgar insult to describe the blood of the woman who had given him his heir filled him with deep disgust. He would no longer be as he was before; he would become a man Elaine would be proud to love.
"Let no one in this room... let no one in my ranks... ever dare utter that word in my presence again," Voldemort declared, his scarlet eyes gleaming with the promise of slow death. "Is that clear?"
The Death Eaters, still struggling to breathe under the crushing magical pressure, nodded frantically. The Malfoys, the Parkinsons, and the Carrows bowed their heads until they almost touched the table in a sign of absolute submission.
Satisfied with the terror he had instilled, Voldemort relaxed his aura.
The atmosphere returned to normal in an instant. The candles regained their warm yellow glow, and air returned to the lungs of his followers, who gasped as color returned to their faces.
Voldemort looked at Goyle, who was still on the floor, writhing in a pool of his own blood. With a simple, elegant snap of his fingers, the magic took effect.
The blood disappeared from the floor and Goyle's face, returning to his veins. The internal bleeding stopped instantly. Goyle blinked, completely healed, breathing heavily and looking at his master with the terrified submission of a beaten dog before clumsily crawling back to his chair.
The Dark Lord interlaced his fingers on the table again. A charismatic and calculating smile spread across his handsome face.
"The methods we used in the first war were... noisy. Inefficient," Voldemort began to explain, his tone becoming that of a visionary leader. "This time, we will take Britain in a much more... secure manner. A manner that will spare us unnecessary attrition and bloodshed, a manner that will ensure our upcoming large-scale plans."
Lord Avery, still trembling slightly but intrigued by his master's new facet, dared to ask in a whisper:
"In what way, my Lord? How will we take control without a war?"
Voldemort's smile widened, lighting up his features with cold, absolute ambition.
"I will become the Minister for Magic."
The dining room fell silent.
Then, slowly, the Lords' eyes widened. The magnitude, brilliance, and cunning of this plan struck them like lightning. They were not going to destroy the system from the outside; they were going to reform it from within. With his impeccable appearance, natural charisma, and the immense fortune of Gauntcorp behind him, he was almost certain to get the job.
One by one, the Death Eaters' faces transformed. Smiles began to appear on their faces. They nodded fervently, amazed and in complete agreement with their master's new and excellent idea.
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