The Pureblood Coup

Thanks for all your reviews last time!

Sheherazade: We will be seeing more of Draco's inner conflict from the last chapter. For I do believe that in DH book, he was experiencing this, just afraid to take a stand against people like his father and of course the Death Eaters.

Note: Sorry, I have had a very busy week. It’s been almost two weeks actually. I will try to write a lot this weekend…I will never give up completely on this story, that is all I can promise. I am roughly 70% through the plot.


Continuation of:


Chapter Eleven: Young Lust


Voldemort was still stewing inwardly over the appalling sight he had just witnessed. He was extremely hot, probably from getting so close to that arid environment of the bathhouse. He was heading for a balcony for privacy and to cool off outside, when he heard several voices. He saw from the backs that some were in black ceremonial robes, obviously Death Eaters. Instinct told him to follow them.

Voldemort strode off near them from the distance, their backs to him, yet he was still invisible anyway. He could tell from the other’s accents that they were wizards invited to the party who were from the far north, where his deceased, Death Eater Karkaroff lived. The others were obviously their English friends, who are Death Eaters.

“Vell, they say he is still in Nurmengard prison to this very day. It used to once be where he put his own political prisoners. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

Voldemort knew at once whom they were discussing. That was the Dark Wizard Dumbledore defeated in 1945, Gellert Grindelwald. Voldemort, like everybody else who mattered in the Wizarding World knew Grindelwald was still alive, held up in Germany to die in what was once his own death camp.

“Do you know Grindelwald attended Durmstrang school?” said another wizard to his English friend, in a friendly voice.

“No, I wasn’t aware…,” answered Jugson, who clearly had an English accent.

“Yes, Grindelwald was in the same class as I was. He was expelled before graduating, in his final year for doing dangerous Dark Arts. And his symbol is forever stuck on the main wall. He did that!…It has proven impossible to remove.”

Someone else chimed in, “When Grindelwald was in power he did things with a wand nobody had ever heard of…Some say he actually did possess the Wand of Destiny, but nobody knows for sure.”

“Well, who made his original wand for him when he attended Durmstrang?,” asked the Englishman, who was Mulciber, thinking this might point him in the direction.

“Gregorovitch. He makes all our wands. Vot happened to your Wandmaker, Ollivander?”

“I don’t know…nobody knows. He left his shop last year without even a struggle…”

Voldemort found it mildly interesting and intriguing that they knew whom Gregorovitch is, the very wizard he was looking for. If only they could tell him exactly where Gregorovitch was living in the north! He was sure he could find out, easily, but it would make the task so much simpler, if he knew precisely which village before his quest. He did not bother to ask them though, for he must not let anyone know he was after the Elder Wand. He must always operate alone.

He turned back up the corridor, lifting the Invisibility spell he had placed on himself, thus appearing. He went out onto one of the many terraces on Malfoy Manor, this one was small with room for only a couple or just two individuals could stand on it.

He halted. He was surprised to see the back of the black oily-hair of Severus Snape already there. Apparently skulking around by himself instead of joining in the party.

“My lord…,” murmured Snape, mindful to remain respectful, as he turned to see who it was, his hooked nose visible from a sideline profile of his tall and thin frame.

Voldemort did not answer, but sighed heavily, the summery night air was not much cooler. Snape did not look at Voldemort, but stared down below towards the Mafoy’s driveway, impossible to see in the dark. Just beyond it strangely hovering shapes were visible around the gates, dementors guarding the perimeter. Snape stared at them gloomily.

Voldemort’s mood was equally dour in it’s own right, his mind nettled with selfish thoughts, and the impatient desire to possess the Elder wand.

Then his thoughts shifted and Voldemort brought up, “I want you to know something absolutely imperative, Severus. Now would be the time to bring it up, given that we are alone.”

“What is it, My lord?” said Snape.

“Once you get inside the headmaster’s office, you will find a glass case with the Sword of Gryffindor. It is not the real copy, rather a fake forged by the Goblin, Ragnuk the First. The real copy is being kept for me in Gringott’s in the Lestrange’s vault. Whatever happens, you must protect the fake sword, so that people think it is kept at Hogwarts. Nobody can ever suspect it is at Gringott’s.”

“Yes. My lord,” said Snape, as firmly as he could, now looking at Voldemort.

Voldemort looked back, his red eyes flashing with a scorching ferocity. Trying to maintain his trust with Snape, he needed to utilize Legilimency to maximum measures, as he always did with Snape, if ever to catch him lying. But Snape’s mind remained blank and calm, his black eyes gleaming back, pale against the darkness, his face like a death mask.

Voldemort, of course was wrong. Snape had been entrusted the Sword of Gryffindor in Dumbledore’s will and was keeping the real copy safe. Snape would later utilize the knowledge Voldemort had just given him here, thus moving the fake sword to Gringott’s, and he would do so without telling Voldemort it was the fake copy, and in the process lie to his master.

After a moment, Snape murmured, “Mars is bright tonight…” as he peered up at the inky blankness of the black sky stretching above them (the Dark Mark had finally disappeared).

“What?” said Voldemort sharply. And now he was looking at Snape, the idea that he was a lunatic not far off.

Snape averted his black eyes from above where he had stared at the redness of Mars gleaming, his head cocked to the left. As he averted his eyes, Snape turned his head to his right where Voldemort was. The red orb was in Snape's black pupils as he looked up into Voldemort's eyes. It was as if Snape's eyes had burned retinas, as they now mirrored his Lord's red ones. Their eyes reflected each other, so that it was like seeing each other face to face quite literally, whilst both men kept their hands resting on the rail.

“Excuse me, My lord. I was referring to what a Centaur told me. Firenze taught Divinaton at Hogwarts and once told me about the brightness of Mars and for what it indicates to the Centaurs. When Mars is bright, it means a great war is coming, within a conflict of all that has gone before, what has yet to be, and that which…inwardly gets in the way.”

“I do not hold Divination to high esteem. Divination is a discipline revolving around luck and chance, two things I detest as they have always thwarted my genius. I certainly shall not permit an ostracized centaur’s knowledge,” discounted Voldemort immediately. “...It is rather unfortunate that we could not recruit the centaurs…But we have the giants, werewolves and several legions of dementors.”

And Voldemort sighed again exasperated, his thoughts going back to the Elder aand, feeling intense aggravation. Yet he couldn’t help but glance up at the red blob of Mars gleaming, and think how maybe this was all written as part of his destiny, albeit a great one. Maybe it was etched out in the heavens, he secretly conjectured.

He inhaled through his pair of slit nostrils and closed his eyes, blissfully, letting go of his nettled thoughts of before. He then popped his eyes open, and threw his head back to the starry sky, with Mars salient.

“This “Festival of the Pure-Bloods” is turning out to be less pleasing to me than I thought it would be, Severus. I know that like myself, you are not enjoying it either,” confided Voldemort to Snape.

Snape seemed to shudder at these words, filled with a sudden surge of fear that Voldemort knew precisely why he was unhappy. Snape's knuckles whitened over the ledge of the ivory stone balcony he was grasping.

“I am sorely tempted to punish my Death Eaters for their ridiculous hedonistic endeavors. For it disgusts me that my elite army behaves with such lewdness and debauchery, and furthermore in MY presence and at MY headquarters.”

“I cannot be seen punishing them for their disrespect. But you Severus....You can go and disrupt the wildness going on in the bathhouse. Get them all out of there. Every last one of them and tell them Lord Voldemort is most displeased and unsatisfied.”

Snape nodded dutifully, and strode out of the terrace, woodenly. He was ready to do this, he just hoped he could accomplish it. Yet he felt somewhat bitter, what with between that morally degenerate monster and Dumbledore, it was always, he. Always he was the man picked for the most taxing missions.