THE DEATH OF A KING:
The whisper of scales scraping across skin rang in the only ears in the room to receive the sound. A low burning wood fire crackled and hissed beside the plush chair in which Voldemort sat, unnaturally crystal green eyes closed to the vision around him.
Nagini's heavy weight settled on his shoulders, large head coming to rest atop his hand. She'd grown significantly since he'd acquired her- for the sake of her being a vessel for a piece of his soul. How many had he now? Three? And yet- he needed more. He would split his soul into a million shreds if it meant he could live until the world died with him. A whispered sigh of frustration left his lips- his followers were not doing what they should be. The recent attack from the filth of the world was a heavy indication that they were getting nowhere- fast. And he would need to take matters into his own hands, again. Someone would pay for this dearly. The time was ripe for a good old fashioned murder. "Nagini- I wonder if the Minister misses me," he cooed to the snake beside, lifting a finger to stroke her head softly. The hissed response sounded more like a dark chuckle from the piece of his soul she held. A cloud of dark smoke enveloped him seconds later; before he landed neatly outside of the Ministry. Inside his most loyal dwelled; they had no idea he was coming to pay them a visit after he took care of business. Getting out in the field to do any kind of grunt work sent him over the edge- there was no doubt they would know this the moment they lay eyes on him. For a breath of time, he stood before the entrance in a debate with himself. Elegance had its qualities; but his skin was itching the need to cause a little chaos. A splayed hand crossed his features, bringing forth the golden mask he donned for outings- a statement in itself- the stark black coils on the forehead were serpentine. Much like the tongue with which he spoke. The hood of his robe lifted of its own accord, and with a wave of his wand the doors blew inward with a crash that ricocheted off the expense of marble, straight into the golden statue in the center. The cacophony of screams as he sauntered inside were musical in their own right- and the deaths of those that crossed his path were quick. He had no time for torture- that would be reserved for the man on the throne in the upper floor. The protective spells were weak, easily picked apart as he made his way through the melee of terrified ministry workers and Aurors who had no sense of who exactly they were dealing with. He spoke little, plowed through the defenses until he reached the office in which one of his followers sat. âKeep them away from me,â the muffled voice was commanding. Firm and quick, as he eased into the doors and clicked them shut behind. âMister Hinchum- what a pleasure.â The spell the Minister shot off to repel him was countered by an elegant shield. âTell me, Harold, what do you think of my recent owls? You never replied- I wondered if youâd forgotten me.â The whimper of pain was for naught- a plea to let him live. If Voldemort had any sense of empathy, he might've allowed his continued existence. But empathy there was not- there was nothing but superiority and power; the ever curling need to control and reign. The Minister was just another in the sea of faces that pandered to the lesser. For a time he allowed the rage to bubble and fester until he could use it to his advantage. The Cruciatus Curse required a great deal of emotion to inflict the most damage on the receiver- and he had plenty to draw from. The screams were blood curdling- piercing his ear drums and burrowing down into the core of himself- drawing forth another rise of emotion he hadn't been privvy to in quite some time. Harold curled onto the ornate rug in his office, tears leaking from his eyes as he continued to beg through the torture. Voldemort said nothing- he didn't need to. Rage twisted the face behind the mask- a dark and sinister anger that had been hidden for so long behind a facade of general indifference. The mask was yanked away from his face as he knelt down to become eye level with the simpering man. "Goodnight, Harold Minchum. The world needs lesser of you- and I intend to make that so. You should have feared me sooner." There was a flash of green and the body was still; just as the pounding on the door began. He was gone just as quickly as he'd come- the feather of a black swan left in the pocket of the Minister.