The Pureblood Coup

Lilith: Thanks for reviewing again!

Sheherazade: Yes, Draco certainly deserved what he got last chapter!

Blood_Red_Eyes: Same thing…Snape with a cane is awesome. Oh, looking back at old reviews...I am seriously debating putting in a scene where Voldemort/Bella get it on sexually...it might be in the end. If I do, I will use the collar idea. But when I'm done writing I'm adding about ten short scenes to the beginning areas of the story, that I have recently thought up and should be included. And plus hopefully more interactions between the major characters. Ranking in this order: Voldemort/Bella/Cissy/Lucius/Draco/Snape/Fenrir.

Continuation and final installment of….


Chapter Ten: Festival of the Pure-Bloods


On his trip back to the Drawing Room, after spending time surveying the party, Voldemort went down the Main Staircase, and then past another corridor. A gang of Snatchers patrolling the manor for security saw him. As he past the Snatchers, they knelt in their black and yellow uniforms, feeling terrified and awed to get so close to him. Voldemort did not acknowledge them as he past by though, and they continued on their way in another direction.

His stride was muffled over the thick purple carpet, as he past the portraits of Malfoy ancestors along the way. One of them who looked to be from the eighteenth century in a ruffled shirt and a bowed pony-tail addressed Voldemort (not understanding who he is), “Good gentleman…Did you hear of the Malfoy boy’s conniving trick on the quaintest visitors?”

Voldemort snapped slightly in surprise, but then dismissed it with a wave like batting a fly away, a careless air about him for this news. He did not even look at the portraits, so eager was he to move forward with his own plans consuming his mind. He turned right and entered the Drawing Room doors thrown back widely. His wand out, he waved it over the entrance, casting the spell that would make outsiders merely hear a buzzing going on, so as to prevent eavesdropping.

Sitting in front of the marble embossed table, Voldemort waited silently at the head of the table. He took out his pocketwatch consulting and reading the moons and stars etched on its face. He had told them to meet him here at half past eleven, if they were late…

But then three men entered and solemnly saluted, “Hail the Dark Lord.”

Voldemort nodded appraisingly and spoke rhetorically, “You are very nearly late. Take your place, wherever. We have much to discuss.”

Yaxley, Selwyn and Travers took a seat in the straight, high-backed chairs. Yaxley squared his shoulders wondering what the purpose of a meeting during the ‘Festival of the Pure-Bloods’ could be for precisely.

He then stretched out a hand, and selfishly grabbed the crystal cannister of wine left there from before at Voldemort’s prior boardroom meeting concerning Hogwarts. Yaxley poured himself a fresh gobletful of the pomegranate elf-made wine out of his conjured container. Remembering Voldemort, he placed the bottle close to his master.

Voldemort took it and whilst pouring himself his third drink of the night continued, “We must ensure that things remain quiet at the ministry. What was most successful about our take-over of the Wizard world, is the fact that I have done it in the shadows. Silently, and most convenient of all, only a sparse quantity of magical blood was spilt…”

And Voldemort took a measured sip of the wine. “When we find Potter and I kill him, it shall be widely declared to the public at once. In the meantime, the more supporters of Potter we kill, the better. Now…Travers make sure the Prophet posts an advertisement every day for a reward in the capture of Undesirable Number One. We shall make it…ten thousand galleons in prize money.”

“Yes, My lord,” said Travers. This price set for Potter’s head is the equivalent of about ten million in the strongest muggle currencies today.

“And once he is dead…My full reign begins. Potter’s death will be the marker to all those deluded fools, squashing all resistance. The Order of the Phoenix finally meeting its inevitable entropy,” Voldemort said softly, and there was relish in his voice at these thoughts.

“Meanwhile, we continue with the mass executions like the muggle sporting we engaged in this evening.” His tone changed to pragmatism. “We will need... someone to run an organization inside the Ministry of Magic to rid the country of the muggle-borns or mudbloods…Any ideas?”

The three Death Eaters glanced inquisitively at their fellow comrades. Yaxley cleared his throat, and inquired, “As you made me Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, My lord, what role do I have?”

Voldemort looked straight at Yaxley with a knowingness, aware the man was greedy and ambitious, and something like a smile pursed Voldemort’s mouth.

He consoled, “Do not worry, Yaxley. Lord Voldemort provides you a significant niche in the plan.”

“Yet, I am looking for someone in the ministry, who is not a Death Eater. Significant, but not quite one of our people.”

Selwyn bit his lip, looking pensive. “I believe I know just the person, My Lord. Aunt Dolores…Dolores Jane Umbridge, in fact, who is Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. In the past, she has written successful legislation against all the half-breeds, giants, and werewolves. Dolores could be very influential, My lord. She was here, earlier this evening. I wanted to bring her along to this meeting, but I am afraid she left….”

Voldemort decisively replied with some satisfaction, “Then it is settled. The Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge is made head of the newly founded Muggle-Born Registration Commission. She will interrogate the Mudbloods brought in for questioning in a sort of kangeroo style court proceedings…And, you, Yaxley will assist her.”

“Thank-you, My Lord,” grunted Yaxley as Voldemort nodded towards him.

“Her job will also be keeping files on every ministry employee. Their ‘Blood Status’, ‘Family’, and ‘Security Status’ will be monitored. Furthermore, she will write up a document and have a group of assembly workers create pamphlets of the document, thus mailing my propaganda into every wizard home…”

“But, My Lord…Could you describe this Muggle-Born Registration Commission in more detail?” Yaxley said somewhat impulsively.

“It is a survey of the so-called ‘Muggle-borns.’ It will be claimed recent research unearthed the atrocity of the Muggle-borns continued existence, and this research is what spurred the survey. My political puppets, officials including Thickness and Umbridge will send out a plain summons to citizens who do not come from Wizarding families for an “interview”. They will be unceremoniously locked away and later interrogated. At every interrogation all of them are always pronounced guilty of their crime, which is thievery of magic. Afterwards, a Dementor, acting as court marshal, escorts the Mudblood away to be executed through a Kiss. And left to die…..Yet the imprisonment and mass executions will not be publicized.

“So, Travers, keep your eye on the Daily Prophet, making sure this is never mentioned. The public must remain oblivious, as not to horrify them and this also makes the criminals compliant to the purification process, as it is much easier to put a Mudblood on trial when they come willingly….Yet, there are always those who flee punishment, as some won’t appear at their arraignment. They will be caught either by my army of Dementors, my army of Inferi, the Snatchers, or of course, my Death Eaters….”

“How exactly will this benefit the Pureblood race, My lord?,” asked Selwyn, taking a large gulp of his wine.

There could be no mistaking the anger and contempt in Voldemort's voice at his reponse, “Rounding up the Muggle-born enemy sends out the correct message that magic can, and shall only be passed on by a witch and wizard reproducing. These Muggle-borns are a poor example of the weakness, for they are deprived of any genuine magical ancestry. Therefore, in comparison to a Pure-blood they are to be ridiculed as scum. The scum we have always known them as, the rest of the Wizarding World shall finally know as well.”

“The idea is that the Muggle-borns have obtained their magical power, especially their wand, by theft or force. Because of this their wands will be snapped immediately after being brought into custody.... The ministry’s task is to root out these usurpers of magical power, as they dared steal our secrets. Secrets of Pure-blood tradition and pure-blood rightful monopoly on magic. And so…ministry officials like Umbridge will issue invitations to every so-called ‘Muggle-born’ to present themselves to my newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission and they will be rounded up, systematically imprisoned, interrogated and executed.”

“Oh, excellent! This is an excellent method of weeding out those who never should have been granted the privilege to exist in our world, My lord,” added Selwyn arrogantly.

Voldemort did not respond. But he took something from one of his pockets inside his elaborate black dressrobes with the green and silver embroidery and the ruffle like a beard.

After delving inside, out came a small circular object that looked like a marble. Voldemort held it up to the light of the chandelier, examining it like it was a precious coin. It was a large round eyeball with a bright blue iris. He looked through the pupil of the magical eyeball and saw it was still an effective magical device.

Voldemort had taken it the night he and his crew had went after Harry Potter, who was being moved to another location. That night, Voldemort had killed the ex-auror, Alastor Moody. Once they had recovered the body, Voldemort had taken the corpse, feeding it to Nagini and keeping the eye, which for now had served as his latest memento, reminding him of the memory of murdering a victim.

Now, the eye no longer swiveled for it was no longer inhabited by a living being. It was fixed upward, gazing blindly, frozen in time from when he had cast the killing curse. Yet still, it was magical.

Voldemort peered through it, observing its works. Then, he lifted his wand off the table, and smiling with some kind of nostalgic feeling, he transfigured a telescopic attachment to what was once Mad-Eye Moody’s eye.

He then handed it to Selwyn, who took it with surprise. He was puzzled, wondering why the Dark Lord would bestow on him a gift.

“For your Aunt Delores, Selwyn…For her to let them know, ‘big brother is watching’,” Voldemort dramatically explained.

“Certainly, My Lord,” answered Selwyn, and he carefully tucked it away in the pocket of his dressrobes.

Travers took out of his robes a neatly folded copy of the latest edition of the Daily Prophet for Saturday, August 2, 1997.

“Here is how the Imperiused columnists reported your seizure of power…I assure you, it was subtle like you wanted it, My lord.”

Voldemort peered at the paper spread out in front of him, and then smoothed it down. The Daily Prophet showed a huge black-and-white photograph of a man with a sloping forehead and tiny eyes that gave the look that he was a crab, hiding under a rock. It was the Imperiused newly instated Minister, Pius Thickness. The red-slit eyes flashed rapidly, reading the headlines and skimming the main articles.

He looked over an article, reporting Scrimgeour’s resignation, and the induction of the new Minister for Magic. Voldemort then briefed himself on the letters to the editor to see how the wider population was viewing the events. He was pleased to see how clueless they were and the common wizard (who had no ministry job) believed that they were safe, and their opinion that Thickness and the ministry was a fine establishment.

Travers broke the silence tensely, voicing a qualm, as he was scared to divulge to Voldemort, “I must let you know, My lord…A wizard is circulating another paper called ‘The Quibbler’ and -”

“Nobody will believe that riff-raff,” replied Voldemort in a clipped tone, as if it was conclusively positively definite he was right. He was familiar with the Quibbler, afterall. Of course, Voldemort is wrong, as later Xenophilious Lovegood would be threatened and his daughter, Luna imprisoned with Ollivander in the cellar of Malfoy Manor for writing the truth.

Issuing from their feet, suddenly below, was a scream of panic and what was more, sheer agony. It was louder than usual, and after it went on for several seconds. Voldemort rose from his seat.

“Excuse me, while I tend to the prisoner for a moment…” Apparently, Peter Pettigrew had forgotten his task of keeping watch over Ollivander and thus, Wormtail was not present to shut him up, instead. He would have to remind Wormtail of his responsibility at a later date….

Voldemort departed the Drawing Room, and glided down the hall, and the door burst open from the force of his wand. Lazily, he descended the short, narrow staircase and came to another door, which he burst open as well.

There was the kidnapped Wandmaker, huddled in the back corner, still screaming and rolling around. The last time Voldemort had been down in the basement, he had tortured the poor man for the mishap with borrowing Lucius’s wand, which was destroyed because of Ollivander's advice. Yet ever since since Ollivander’s imprisonment, beginning last year, it was seldom that the Dark Lord spoke personally to the old man, or even coming inside the cellar.

Voldemort stood over the desperate man, who was seemingly unaware of his surroundings, caught in some kind of nightmarish vision. It was the trauma of being kept in confinement and isolation for so long that was finally getting to him.

Voldemort jabbed his wand at the wizard and instantly the horrific cries were dispelled. He had cast a minor silencing charm. Ollivander became aware of his environment, and seeing the Dark Wizard standing over him, framed by the light of the ajar door upstairs, he shook convulsively and pressed himself into the wall, as if to protect himself. Ollivander held his bony hands up as if to appease Voldemort.

He laughed a low cackle in response to the man’s behaviour. To Voldemort, Ollivander was just an emaciated, pathetic man lying on a stone floor in a lonely cellar clad in a pile of filthy rags.

“Have you gone senile, Ollivander?…”

And at this taunt at Ollivander’s terror and stress, the prisoner twisted in rags, at the familiar, awful sound of a voice of one his torturers.

“Soon I won’t need to use you anymore, Ollivander. And you know what that means…” It meant Voldemort would finally kill him. Then Voldemort added more lightly, “But I would not even be looking for it, if it wasn’t for you…” He was talking about the Unbeatable Wand, the Elder Wand.

And then Voldemort said sardonically, “I thank-you…” And then, “How useful you are for me, Ollivander. Your theoretical knowledge of magic…Yet, never willing…I am determined to keep you suffering…Death shall not be your release…”

Voldemort then added, as if emphatically, “Sorry…” The utterance of this word, was completely devoid of of true kindness.

Voldemort bent over the water jug, and filled the dry container with impure water, dispensing from his wand.

And then the charm over Ollivander’s vocal cords broke, and he spoke, “I cannot believe I did not see this coming when you were an orphaned boy…I remember when I sold that wand and I remember you…”

Ollivander pointed feebly at the yew wand with a phoenix feather given by Fawkes inside it. Of course, Ollivander had a memory like a steel trap. He remembered every wand he had ever sold. It had been his life selling them.

Voldemort burst impatiently, “My wand is no longer good enough! I am after the Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick, the Unbeatable Wand! For, mastering it will make me unconquerable at last!”

And now, Voldemort stared wildly and brutishly down at Ollivander, filled with a rage from his impatience at not possessing it. Should he torture the man, tonight? See if there was any more information he was hiding?

There had been nothing sentimental in Ollivander’s voice before, there was only bitter regret. He continued, filled with guilt, “IF only I knew what power you would yield…You are a terrible wizard - A terrible man….”

And Ollivander, shook in wretches of agony over the wracking his conscience was undergoing, a mental, rather than physical ailment.

Voldemort’s nostrils flared. “You dare?!…” And then resisting letting out an insane litany of laughter Voldemort went on incredulously, “Terrible at wizardry?!... I? The greatest sorcerer, the most skilled that ever walked into that dingy shop of yours that first time, so many years ago!…And further, I am much, much more than a man.”

“But you wouldn’t understand,” breathed Ollivander, his moon-like eyes shimmering with tears. “A wizard is more than his abilities…,” he wisely retorted. There was a short pause, a few seconds of silence stretched between them.

“Is it really true that Dumbledore is d-dead?” Ollivander then asked miserably. He had heard this mentioned for the first time ever this evening, during Voldemort’s rallying speech, which of course was magnified, booming throughout the entire property.

Voldemort peered down at him. “You heard correctly, Ollivander. Dumbledore’s demise was brought about by myself, of course as we knew it would be in the end. Lord Voldemort finally got to him, as he must. And now Hogwarts, the Ministry and the world is mine…,” chortled Voldemort and he watched with pleasure as Ollivander whimpered to these truths.

“Hurry up and take the water for your filthy veins…,” Voldemort beckoned apathetically.

Remembering how thirsty he is, Ollivander crawled over to the water jug nearby as fast as he could. He waited for the man to drink, because he wanted to ensure he would not die of dehydration. Ollivander lapped up a few deep gulps, and so weak he was, he drank like a dog from a bowl.

And at that, Voldemort cast some kind of spell on Ollivander that knocked him unconscious and would keep him quiet for the next several hours.

*

It took almost five minutes, but the three men were waiting patiently, although they were now standing around the Drawing room. Lord Voldemort entered. They hastily returned to their places.

Voldemort put his hands together, folding them, with his elbows on the table. “Let us go on…with our discussion of the Daily Prophet, the infiltration of the media.”

Voldemort looked at the photograph of Pius Thickness on the front cover. He mused inquisitively, “What is the Minister’s stand against our enemies, then? Do any of you know, if Thickness was a natural advocate of Pure-blood mania, BEFORE he was Imperiused?”

They all nodded affirmatively. “He had already possessed Anti-muggle, Mudblood and Blood-traitor convictions in our favour, My Lord,” Yaxley confidently ascertained.

Voldemort replied, “Good…All the better.”

“And Travers, make sure you get them to publish an article on Monday illustrating speculation that Harry Potter had a hand in the death of his headmaster. This will work, naturally, as there is a lack of evidence regarding the circumstance of his death, and we of course, will use this confusion to our advantage.”

“Yes, My Lord. I’m sure I can get that done,” complied Travers, his long hair in his face, glancing at Voldemort.

“Make the world suspect Harry Potter. And this will multiply the chances he will be captured. For people will want to look for him not only for the reward but also for those who supported Dumbledore. And most effectively this sows the greatest seed of doubt…”

He seemed to be talking more to himself now, in a light, casual style. “And I… I am free to extend beyond the borders…”

“Yaxley, Selwyn, Travers, you are dismissed…” he rang clearly throughout the room in that chilling, high voice.

The men rose, and swept out of the room, Voldemort following suit a second later.


Note: The next scene will have some real craziness again...this time sexual!