Chapter Text
Lord Voldemort had everything, yet it felt as if he had nothing at all. The revered Minister of Magic ruled over a country filled with devout followers and besotted citizens who obeyed his every word as if it were law—as it should be—like the sheep they were. Any and all enemies of his were either dead, withering away in prison, or so overcome by fear they couldn’t even dream of acting against him. He had the blonde, pureblood heir of the Malfoy family in his bed: the perfect eye candy to hang off his arm in public and more than willing to quench his desires in private. The boy was so complacent and eager, though nowhere near the level of his pathetically submissive consort, Harry Slytherin.
Voldemort sneered at the thought of that worthless boy daring to carry the name of the Noble and Ancient House of Slytherin. However, the boy had his uses. Gifted to Voldemort by the Potter family—who had begged on their knees, tears streaming down their faces and ruining his carpet (a carpet he later burned in disgust)—Harry was a symbol of defeat. His parents were left to rot in a cell in the highest level of Azkaban, forgotten and helpless. Their capture marked the end of the rebels who had foolishly raised their wands against their Lord, thinking they stood a chance of reclaiming the wizarding world. The memory never failed to make the Dark Lord smirk with satisfaction. His marriage to the Potter boy had solidified his status as the supreme ruler of the British Wizarding World and crushed any further attempts to steal his crown. It didn’t hurt that the boy was the most gorgeous creature to walk the earth—a shame there was absolutely nothing inside that pretty little head of his.
Yet, despite all his accomplishments, a gaping hole remained in Voldemort’s chest, aching for more. No matter what he did to fill the void, it sucked everything up like a black hole, only growing larger and consuming his every thought and action. When he was younger, it had been easy enough to hide the emptiness, blending in seamlessly with his peers and charming anyone who looked his way. But with age, the void wore on him, making his actions more erratic and impulsive, breaking down what little sanity he had left. Of course, at this point, all his followers and subjects were snugly wrapped around his finger, so his change in behavior posed no threat to his power. But Voldemort prided himself on his superior intelligence and emotional control, and his recent instability left him feeling vulnerable for the first time in decades. The worst part? He had no idea how to resolve it.
His musings were interrupted by a soft yawn, followed by small, delicate fingers wrapping around his torso. The Dark Lord turned his attention to the pretty boy snuggling closer to his chest, smirking slightly.
“Good morning, my Lord,” Draco Malfoy sighed. “I hope you slept well.”
“Of course,” Voldemort replied. “How could I not after your performance last night?” The boy blushed a bright red, reminding Voldemort of a tomato. His smirk widened as Draco buried his face in his Lord’s chest, embarrassed. The boy made it far too easy to tease him.
“What’s wrong, love? You were so eager to please me just a few hours ago. Where did that confidence go?” the Dark Lord asked, planting his face in his would-be consort's hair. Draco mumbled something into his chest, but Voldemort didn’t care enough to listen.
“Let me remind you, hm?”
~*~
The Dark Lord walked gracefully into the throne room, his robes billowing behind him like a Dementor’s cloak. He passed rows of his knights kneeling on the floor, their faces turned toward his throne. As he reached his seat, he turned to face them. The knights bowed, pressing their palms and foreheads to the floor, waiting in reverent silence as their Lord sat. Not a single one dared to breathe until Voldemort spoke.
“Rise, my ever-faithful Knights of Walpurgis.”
The knights lifted their heads, straightened their backs, and remained kneeling, their eyes fixed on their one and only God.
“Severus, report.”
Severus Snape rose, pulling out a scroll and reciting his weekly update on the wizarding and Muggle worlds under Voldemort’s dominion.
“Your consort still hasn’t been found. Many suspect he was kidnapped by an enemy country seeking to exploit you.”
Voldemort resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As if holding his disgusting darling husband hostage would somehow compel him into action. If anything, Voldemort wanted to send the perpetrator flowers for ridding him of the nuisance. The only reason he kept the case open was to address the lack of proper defenses surrounding his home and to punish the audacity of anyone who dared to steal what belonged to him.
“All of our proposed bills passed in the recent Wizengamot meeting. The heir to the House of Clay has also taken up his lordship and claimed his seat in the Wizengamot, which was surprising given the family had moved out of Britain over a century ago.”
Voldemort recognized the name, having met the young man two weeks prior during an immigration interview he had conducted personally. With so few seeking to immigrate to Voldemort’s Britain, he oversaw such matters himself to ensure no spies infiltrated his realm. The Clay heir had claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots after losing all his family. Finding no deception in the man’s words, Voldemort had approved his citizenship.
“Grindelwald was found dead in his cell in Nurmengard three days ago. Cause of death: old age, exacerbated by numerous illnesses acquired during his imprisonment. Tests confirm it was indeed Gellert Grindelwald’s body—not an Inferius or someone under Polyjuice. Additional checks for the Draught of Living Death came back negative.
“In the Muggle world, there have been recent disturbances. Three villages were decimated by Fiendfyre. The Muggles believe they were normal fires, as the flames were extinguished before any investigators arrived. However, magical traces confirmed its true nature. Aurors are investigating.”
Voldemort quirked an eyebrow. While he had legalized Dark Magic, it was strictly regulated to maintain order. Fiendfyre, in particular, was restricted to use by hit wizards, aurors, knights, and others with his personal authorization, under strict protocols. Few dared commit crimes against Voldemort, given the example he had made of the Order of the Phoenix and other rebels. The laws he imposed were surprisingly fair but unyielding. Acts like these were exceedingly rare, and it wasn’t the Muggles’ deaths that concerned him—it was the defiance of his authority. Voldemort smiled cruelly, sending shivers down the spines of his knights. Perhaps capturing this criminal would momentarily satiate the endless hunger within his dark, twisted soul.