Chapter Text
Voldemort strode confidently through halls of K’wig Vīsh palace; ancient seat of Demons, rumoured to be the only place on Earth connected directly to Demonic Realms.
At his back were as loyal shadows two elite commanders, Bella and Lucius.
Their only other companion was a small black gargoyle, a disgusting little creature, leading them through a maze of halls and odd rooms. These premises were no doubt designed to trap and confound senses of any misguided fools, idiotic enough to think they can outsmart Demons and attack them on their own land.
No one would leave this wretched place without permission from the reigning Demon Lord.
It was a gamble on Lord Voldemort's part to enter this dangerous domain, but any potentially fruitful efforts to aid the war must be followed through.
Especially the ones to thwart Dumbledore's movement.
After the unfortunate altercation at the Ministry last year — when his comeback was revealed — both sides of war gained strength. And with Minister Scrimgeour's bigoted views combined with loyalty oaths to 'uphold the law' that the ingrate Thicknesse enacted upon his department?
DMLE and subsequently the Auror division were as impenetrable to moles as never before.
It seemed like with Potter's absence and presumed death (so without a fairy-tale, fate-bound hero to save them) the Ministry finally grew a bit of backbone and moderate amount of competence.
Unfortunate, indeed.
It would complicate infiltration but ultimately only prolonged the inevitable defeat and Dark Lord’s ascend to power.
The Ministry will fall into his hands soon enough — by brute force if necessary.
An aggravating amount of time later, the small group arrived at a vast throne room. Dozens of regal looking royals filled the premises; along with creatures of different origins which, curiously enough, lazed among the diverse crowd as if they belonged here. He almost snorted.
What an interesting sight nevertheless. The famed Demon Court — sparing no less than full effort to remain opulent.
The gargoyle disappeared into thin air once they crossed the threshold. Remarkable bit of magic. Illusion perhaps?
They continued in silence into the bowels of the room.
Predictable imperial excellence and excessive displays of wealth permeated all corners of the Courtroom. Baroque gold details were everywhere, complemented by black and white marble flooring. It was a maddening sight but understandable one for maintaining an image of power.
How terribly human of them.
Eventually their trio stood before a lavish gold throne. They gained a bored attention of some of the underlings, scattered around in their near vicinity.
But the central figure — dressed in blood red robes with a cape hiding its features — was sitting right in front of them with no care for the world.
And continued to ignore their presence in favour of conversing with some no doubt snivelling, brown-nosed imbecile. It infuriated him.
Voldemort cleared his throat pointedly. The room finally fell silent.
"What brings Lord Voldemort, armed and unannounced we might add, to our home?" a generic voice rang through the hall with sharpness from the cloaked figure.
Its age or gender were indistinguishable, hidden under the person's robe. Lords of the Demonic Realms — Demon Lords (or Demons in general) were secretive to outsiders, or so they say.
His knowledge on the subject was rather limited precisely because of that.
Voldemort ignored the subtle threat presented; same as the deliberate use of his chosen name. "I seek counsel with the Lord of Demons about the possibility of an alliance between your nation and the Dark Sect in the upcoming war."
"Demonic Realms care not about Wixen wars, mortal."
Voldemort clamped down the urge to sneer at the genderless figure. He was no mortal. Lord Voldemort was immortal, forever walking alongside the lessers of his kind, exacting his will.
But sometimes needs must.
"Resources predetermined and agreed upon as recompense, which will be at my disposal after I've secured victory over the Magical Britain — with your gracious support, of course — would be readied and delegated to your nation's benefit," he offered politely instead.
He felt a piercing stare bore into his eyes even though all facial features of the person were carefully hidden. "And what would the resources be, Lord Voldemort? What morsel could you offer to Demonic Realms which they could not provide themselves — just as they've always done for thousands of years and without presumptuous human involvement?"
Voldemort tilted his serpentine head with a playful smirk. After all, under the extravagant and trickster personas, Demons were straightforward beasts with simple needs. "Abundance of souls, ready to be taken for your perusal."
"You doubt the capability of our Demon brethren to secure what we require for you to offer your gracious help?" the voice hissed menacingly.
"No," Voldemort leered. "But you diligently honour the Decree for Sustainability of Demon Interference issued by International Confederation of Wizards. British domain clause included. Which, as you no doubt already know, regulates Demon's movement in interactions with sentient beings situated on British soil. And that clause is somewhat interchangeable and additional amendments can be added — should it be handled in favour … of the proper cause. Unfortunately for you, it is solely supervised by an ICW representative from the British Ministry of Magic. Recent administrations were quite reluctant to add any changes, were they not? Not for lack of trying by dignitaries from Demonic Realms, of course," he finished and gave the other Lord a predatory smile.
He wasn’t the only one spurned by the old man. It eased his mind some, as any enemy of Dumbledore could become an useful ally by the negative association alone. "Quite unwilling, that one, to sacrifice the so-called innocents, when it costs him nothing," he added as a quiet afterthought.
The old man was thorn in Lord Voldemort’s side for too long to keep his stance hidden.
Preposterous, idealistic coot.
Most ironic of it all? Dumbledore was no stranger to sending his merry band of light extremists to meet their premature ends. With nothing but ostentatious words and a pat of their back — when it suited his needs. But would almost always prevent Muggles of all the non-magical creatures to be safe from harm, just to keep his image of a good grandfatherly persona.
He scoffed inwardly at the image of a twinkling Headmaster.
Appalling reflections…
He paused to build even more suspense. "Did the Supreme Mugwump already plead his sanctimonious crusade for his ‘Greater good’ to you or is he still waiting for an allotted appointment?" he said, crimson eyes shining with mirth and malice laid bare.
The subtle message was clear, Lord Voldemort bows to no one.
Not even his potential allies.
The Demon Lord fell silent for a moment, contemplating his words. "You've come prepared, Lord Voldemort. We will listen to your offer."
The figure stood up. "Follow us."
Voldemort smirked. So far, it was going well.
