The Pureblood Coup

Voldemort left the werewolf and strode with determination through the Malfoy’s garden paths.

“Don’t lay the blame on Cissy. It’s all your fault Lucius,” Voldemort heard Bellatrix say.

Narcissa offered a hand, and Lucius took it, helping her husband up out of the flowerbed where he had just gone through the horrible interlude of being raped and tortured.

“Don’t you dare bring my husband into this. If you hadn’t shown up Draco would be-’”

“Draco is to be with us…and the Dark Lord. I have told you once and I shall say it again: If I had a son I would gladly kill it. If only to gain his-his highest praise. I shall indeed kill Draco, if our Lord so desires it,” Bellatrix explained ruthlessly.

Narcissa shrieked dramatically, “You do not know what it means to love a child then! If I die at the hand of the Dark Lord, I suppose it won’t matter either?!”

Voldemort crept past his two Death Eaters and Narcissa yelling at the top of her lungs undetected in the darkness. Apparently they were having some sort of heated debate turning into a row. Voldemort did not care. It was good that they had arguments. Not to clear the air, no. It was good that they were fighting in order to avoid the chance that they would ever dispute collectively against himself.

“…Just keep away from Draco and stay away from my whole family…BITCH!”

Bellatrix cocked her head almost confused and then said being surprisingly reasonably, “Cissy..I know that I’m a witch. A witch just like you. We’re both from the Pureblood line of-”

“Narcissa did not recapitulate your magical ancestry. She only called you a “bitch” and to that I’ll add, “dumb bitch.” Why don’t you seek out the Dark Lord now, dumb bitch? Perhaps he is need of a blow job?”

Lucius chuckled cruelly. His extra anger and cruelty was a way to return the favor to Bellatrix for taking advantage of him before.

By now Voldemort was past the gate and entering the manor house so he could not hear what was just said.

Bellatrix scrunched her face up and said, “Lucius you know to pleasure the Dark Lord physically is an honor. But what is the highest honor is knowing he has complete faith in me. Our relationship is more than sexual. It is mystical. And I know his soul.” And her brown eyes swam with tears.

“Well then, Bella. I may gladly give up your job of being his submissive. I do not want it,” Narcissa said fiercely. She looked upset enough to go into a tantrum.

“You had better watch your back. You’ve made a very powerful enemy, Narcissa. I am no longer your ally,” Bellatrix responded, suddenly admitting what she really feeling, a jealous rage for Voldemort noticing her sister.

Narcissa’s hand clenched around her willow wand of unicorn. “You are not going to intimidate me Bella!”

But Bellatrix grabbed the scruff of Narcissa’s fushia robes and pulled out her wand. But out of nowhere Bellatrix was disarmed and both women looked around in shock for the source.

Lucius had a wand in his hand. “But Lucius where did you get a wand?,” Narcissa asked dumbfounded.

“Father had left his before his death by Dragon Pox five years ago, and I've just recently got the hang of it.” Lucius would not say in front of Bellatrix how only simple spells were working.

Bellatrix grinned mishievously and backed away, trying to find her own wand through a wandless summoning charm. Mere seconds later it flew out of the tall grasses several yards away and sailed straight into her hand. Being a witch of prodigous skill, she was capable of doing rote magic without a wand.

“Our master taught me that ages ago Lucius…So that I would never go wandless and die in vain for him! Ha! How about an irreversible jinx for threatening my sister?!”

“Bella please! Don’t harm my husband!”

But Bellatrix did not look pursuaded by Narcissa. She raised her wand and about to utter a spell she screamed in fury. Yet again she was disarmed. But not by Lucius or Narcissa in front of her. The source had come somewhere from behind them all.

They watched a shadowy figure emerge out of the woods, moving like they were wounded. Lucius squinted his gray eyes. They were so shrunken it was like he was squinting through sunlight rather than darkness. He was sure he recognized the strange gait but was unable to place it the movements with the identity of the figure.

He came close enough in the meager light of the night sky to be seen, grasping a thick wand. “You woman! You will not succeed. I shall back Lucius in the duel!”

But Bellatrix shrieked peals of laughter, sounding insane as she boasted, “I could take out both of you at once!”

But Greyback growled with his own kind of menacing laugh. “Not when there are those behind me...My Snatchers are waiting to join the fight!”

“There!” Lucius had broke in haughtily. “Greyback is right! You think you can take on over several dozen witches and wizards at once Bellatrix?!”

Bellatrix frowned and blushed with embarrassment.

“You will leave with my dear wife, Bellatrix…”

Bellatrix hesitated.

“Away with you women!” said Greyback agressively.

And Bellatrix put an ameliorating arm around Narcissa and guided her gently out of the gardens back into the house. It was almost like Bellatrix thought Narcissa could not navigate her way back and Bellatrix felt like it was her task to assist her. Yet she still believed she was in charge, and her wand remained out. She still believed she somehow had the upper hand against the couple.

Greyback and Lucius turned away from the direction Narcissa and Bellatrix had left from. Their faces shone as they gazed upwards at the sky in the direction where the moon was, only a slither visible tonight.

“So when is the next full moon Greyback?” Lucius’s query was not meant to be insulting. It was only out of pure curiosity that he asked.

“I wish it was soon friend….It has not been enough to satisfy me until it comes. Not for a few weeks yet!”

Lucius laughed one dry, cold note and pressed his lips together thoughtfully. Yet his mind was not on the moon, rather his own destiny which was so irrevocably linked with that of his wife's. He was wondering what Greyback could do for him, yet he wasn’t going to confide anything to the werewolf just yet.

“I am glad my wife isn’t here anymore Greyback….I can’t stand her. And thank Merlin that dreadful sister of hers left when I told her!”

Greyback arched his neck. He grinned slyly.

“What is it?” said Lucius mildly. Greyback leaned closer as if to get more intimate with the man. Lucius resisted lurching at the strong smell of sweat and blood mingled in the air. He stuck his nose up; thinking how it made sense for it to be Greyback’s smell, for it was practically his signature perfume!

“There weren’t any Snatchers in the woods when I threatened the bitch…They all went home! If we dueled the witch, it would have been me backing you alone…”

Lucius sighed heavily. He was relieved the confrontation with his sister-in-law hadn’t gone any further. “How are things with the units our master assembled? Have they been adequate?”

Greyback decided to be open and confess the truth to him. “Scabior isn't giving me enough power! He wants it all for himself. He's been made the commander - not I!”

“Scabior - unlike you is a full-fledged Death Eater Greyback. I suppose they don’t take kindly to you being of bad blood then?” said Lucius with a cynical, leering smile. It was obvious that just because Lucius conversed with Greyback did not make him his equal.

“Bad blood!” spat Greyback. And he literally spat something like tobacco on the ground. “So what if I am Mr. Malfoy?!”

Lucius argued, “Oh come on! Greyback. You’re Greyback, the notorious werewolf fiend. You can’t expect the Snatchers or us Death Eaters to like you when you’ve preyed on our children.”

“I am quite an interesting find? Ain’t I? Friend?” And Greyback had his lighter humor and mood rekindled. It stroked his ego to hear how famous he was among wizards and witches up and down the British Isles.

And Lucius was staring at Fenrir keenly again, clearly he was contemplating something. “Yes you are…And the perfect man to confide in.” Lucius scoffed with irritation, “For who else do I have?!”

Greyback did not answer and none was expected.

“You see Fenrir, I also had my position usurped. While you may complain the Dark Lord only grants you the uniform, and denies you the Mark and initiation…I am about to be humiliated. Humiliated the way a Malfoy has never, should not ever be treated!”

Greyback stroked his beard and now gazed at Lucius with some definite interest, a spark shined in his yellow-brown eyes.

Lucius gulped and resisted shaking in terror. “It’s my wife – she – she. Greyback, the Dark Lord is forcing me to let him take her! Have her for his pleasure! And not just anywhere but in my old bed...the very bed we consummated our marriage! It is his secret so tell nobody Fenrir. Else you'll be caught disobeying our Lord!”

Greyback’s peppered brows actually rose and he blinked twice before speaking. He was astonished. He had never met Lucius’s wife but he always thought surely whoever Malfoy's wife was she must be a noble lady like that of a queen!

“Of course I shan't if our master forbids it. When?”

“There is to be a celebration this Saturday. After the coup. All are invited…Including you, Fenrir.”

“So I heard,” purred Greyback throatily.

Lucius shot him a questioning look and Greyback opened his wide mouth for explanation. “He – the Dark Lord told me about this. I get one for every tenth!” Greyback spoke impulsively.

“One for every tenth of what?”

“The carnage of muggles….Should be delicious.” And Greyback unconsciously put his fingers into his mouth and started sucking the tips.

Lucius snickered under his breath and Greyback soon joined in with his own laughter.

The two men bade each other good night and went their separate ways.

*

Lord Voldemort had long since left the gardens and gone past the fountain and into a side entrance of the house. Now inside the large, windowless Drawing room he paced to and fro. Up and down he went passing the empty chairs as he thought of his forces getting lined up to where they should be tomorrow.

The Drawing room was expansive in size and scope. He stopped before a fireplace of a good six feet in height and stared into the orange and red flames. He thought just as pensively as he had prior when gazing upon the sunset at the balcony. Yes. He was certain everything would work. Or else.

Yet he could not really envision failure. Never was that a possibility. Not for himself. He turned away from the fireplace and walked the lengthy distance from fireplace to exiting door at the opposite end. The figures inside the portraits stirred and watched the Dark Lord with fixed, haughty stares. The former Malfoys of ages past looked upon Voldemort silently and he did no more than glance at them.

There was a lot to worry about and much left to organize. He was primed for the events tomorrow, his mind running over thousands of details. So much planning had gone into his plans to seize the ministry. If his forces had somehow forgotten some crucial order he’d given, but no. That was unimaginable for he. Failure was not possible. Not for him.

His hand drifted almost idly towards his pocket and he gripped his yew wand. A surge of anger stabbed him inside. He must kill Rufus Scrimgeour. But the others…they should be spared as long as he could quietly get them to comply…He would keep them ignorant and in the dark. They need not concern themselves with Lord Voldemort!

He almost grinned as the grip on the lifeline to his powers tightened. He did not jump when he heard a sudden cry directly below. It barely lasted more than a few seconds when it muffled. Voldemort expelled a breath, a sigh from his mouth with knowingness. Wormtail was checking up on his prisoner of course! It was afterall, the Death Eater’s job to keep him quiet.

He felt a sudden burst of need to know more about something imperative to the quest at hand, the very one he told his Death Eaters he must go on alone. And in a second he was moving out of the room in a hurry.

The doors of the Drawing room burst open seemingly on their own accord, yet it was actually with Voldemort’s mind. He came out to the narrow corridor where a woman was slouched against the wall. She looked up to see her Lord’s pale face, his complexion nearly as waxen as a moon.

“My lord….Shall I accompany you? Are you going to get the rest you need for tomorrow?”

“Bella, leave me! No! I am not in need of rest. Nor shall you be present when that is so!” he screamed. He did not like to hear his servants even imply his need for sleep and any other bodily activities. They were something he secretly wished he could eradicate from himself.

Bellatrix dared one look of mutiny before turning away and scowling only to herself. She stole back down the corridor feeling very much disappointed she would not be in bed with him. A moment later Voldemort followed in the same direction but then made a sudden left turn.

He opened a door and went down a narrow, dingy staircase and came to another plain door. That he opened as well. He was immersed in the darkness of a dank cellar once he descended the last few steps. It was quite the antonym to the opulence and wealth of the rest of the manor.

There was nothing. Nothing except darkness and a pile of rags with a lone figure stretched out on it. The rest of the floor not occupied by the man on the rags was cold and barren. He looked to be shivering. Yet it was probably more from fright.

“W-what do you want from me?” he stammered before Voldemort could speak first.

“Ollivander…Ollivander…You know what it is I seek. I have been tormenting and raking it out of your mind for a year! And you will give it to me!”

“No! I won’t!” the man whimpered somewhat bravely.

He took a step closer and grabbed the old man’s wrinkly face, looking into his moonlike eyes that were positively glowing in the dark.

Voldemort suppressed a laugh and said calmly, with complete certainty, "Oh, but you will. Tonight.

“Tell me about the Elder Wand! Where did it originate?”

Ollivander shook his head in defeat. “There is no definite answer,” he whispered.

“What do you mean old man?!” boomed Voldemort and he spat, “Talk sense.”

“It is a legend. The legend of the Deathly Hallows.”

There was a sparkle in Voldemort’s eyes. His curiosity was piqued. “A legend you say? Like the Chamber of Secrets?”

“Yes. The Deathly Hallows. Three brothers on a journey into the great beyond. One chooses the cloak for complete protection in hopes to never be found. The other chooses the stone with the power to resurrect the dead, and the final brother chose the wand. The most powerful wand ever created.”

“Forget the fairytale! I do not care for the cloak or the stone…” said Voldemort and he dismissed it with a wave of his hand, currently armoured with his own wand. “If even they exist. Where is the actual wand?”

“I do not know! I do not know!” said Ollivander in desperation. “No Wandmaker has ever witnessed such an event!”

And before Voldemort could even issue the curse, Ollivander twisted in his rags and whimpered, anticipating what was to come. “Crucio!”

For an inexorable moment Ollivander’s screams rented the sepulchral atmosphere basement.

With a mere twitch of Voldemort’s hand the curse was removed. “Shall you get another dose of pain? I can and will make this all night if I must Ollivander…Or will you tell me everything you know?”

There was a long pause of suspenseful silence. “Alright…” Ollivander’s spirit finally broke. He felt torn and defeated. “I’ll do it.”

Voldemort looked for once satisfied and he spoke again. “I understand how it is that a wand chooses it’s owner…and that a wand’s power may be transferred from one wizard to another as it did for me with Lucius’s wand…Until it snapped. I punished you for your mishap didn’t I, Ollivander?”

But the Wandmaker refused to answer. He merely stared back at Voldemort with an expression of pure mutiny. He wouldn’t allow Voldemort to push him around as if he had sunk as low as one of his minions. He was letting Voldemort know that if he weren’t forced to, he would not be sharing any information at all.

But Voldemort waited for his answer and Ollivander spoke. “Yes. The exchange may occur as partly or wholly to the one who actually captures it from the original owner.”

“Right…Who has the actual wand in his ownership now?”

Ollivander quaked nervously to this query. “I do not know.”

The Dark Lord’s fiery red eyes bored into the man’s moon-like shimmering ones. “You are lying!” hissed Voldemort. “I am sure of it! You will tell me the truth!” he commanded.

“I am! I am telling you the truth! I am not sure of it!”

“You are lying. You know!” screamed Voldemort, clearly insanely nettled. “Crucio!”

For several minutes Ollivander and Voldemort went through the exchange of Voldemort’s demands that he confess who had the wand and Ollivander’s denial that he knew. Until finally Voldemort seemed to have broken the old man into submission.

“Arrgh! Do not torture me anymore! I-I-”

Voldemort waited with a look of horrible expectancy on his face. In fact his snake-like slits for nostrils with the circular parted mouth looked like the Peverell coat of arms symbol, only inverted. The two lines of deep wrinkles created the sides of the triangle, his slits for a nose were like the wand inside the triangle, and his mouth the circle, which was too low to enclose the triangle.

And it seemed he believed Ollivander was weakening into giving him the crucial piece of information that would actually set him on the quest he hinted at to his men earlier today.

“Yes? What is it?” Voldemort prompted sharply.

“Gregorovitch has the Elder wand,” lied Ollivander convincingly. Immediately Ollivander felt a wave of guilt wash over him with only a twinge of relief for his own safety. Ollivander felt guilt, knowing he was setting this mad man out to go after another person. He should refuse and die. But then again, he knew Voldemort wasn’t going to kill him, well at least not for awhile. That much had already been made clear for over a year.

“Gregorovitch will if I know him well, be studying the secrets closely,” added the prisoner, spreading a rumour to Voldemort, as Ollivander knew in actuality he couldn’t be sure that Gregorotvitch even had the wand today.

“Who is Gregorovitch? Where can I find him?”

“He is the German Wandmaker,” said Ollivander weakly. “In Germany. More specifically than that, I do not know where he resides.”

Voldemort actually smiled. He looked wildly happy, like a beast that had risen. Ollivander couldn’t stop himself; for he was actually smiling too but for a very different reason. The conversation about wands had brought back some of his own fiery passion that he had before he'd being abducted. He felt happier than he had ever felt inside the cellar.

“That wand can make one invincibly powerful…It is almost impossible to defeat someone when they possess the Deathstick.”

Voldemort listened closely to Ollivander’s statement, his attention rapt. His mouth continued to play a delighted sneer and his red eyes were alight.

There was a long look of calculation on Voldemort’s snake-like visage then he asked quickly, “It is safe to assume that one must kill the previous owner to have the wand transfer its powers?”

Ollivander shook his head forcibly. “Abolsutely no!”

And Voldemort began to pout almost like a child as he ranted in a rage; “I MUST kill Gregorovitch to get to the wand!”

“No…” Ollivander moaned miserably. He went on dully almost like he was lecturing, “The history of the Deathstick is littered with the stains of murder. But it is a mistake to kill…”

“A mistake?” retched Voldemort’s voice incredulously.

Ollivander sighed sadly. “Once again you think death is the only answer to seek. It is all YOU seek…” he corrected. Ollivander, with a sudden burst of bravery glowered at Voldemort, his eyes flashing.

“Possessing, actually owning that beautiful wand is not about death. Or at least not in the sense you describe it. It is mastering death that makes you invincible.”

Voldemort, in response laughed ferociously once again, and it sounded dangerous. He leered over Ollivander and mouthed, “You think I have not already defeated death? I have gone further than any on the path to immortality and in the process, I think I already have mastered death!”

Ollivander lurched and stared at Voldemort in horror. Ollivander did indeed understand exactly what Voldemort was implying. “You-You’ve made one?” he asked suddenly feeling weak.

“One! I’ve made six of them!” said Voldemort triumphantly. “There is no reason I have to fear to admit this. For surely…Did you not already suspect it?”

Ollivander nodded silently. Voldemort seemed to be basking in the pain this knowledge was creating for Ollivander.

Voldemort collected his thoughts then went onward softly. “And I will kill Gregorovitch to get to that wand.”

“Once again, you assume death is the only answer to living,” said Ollivander impatiently.

Voldemort retorted sharply, “That wand…The Elder Wand, the wand of destiny, the unbeatable, undefeatable wand, the Deathstick is for me to take for myself alone! I master it and I master everything at last.”

Ollivander shook irritably and with courage argued, “You will never get that wand! It will never do it’s bidding for a-a b-being like you! You will never understand the beauty of such great mystery…The truth. The heart of things…”

But Voldemort was hardly listening.

“Yes…Perhaps I should reward you for your advice,” said Voldemort somewhat sardonically. “Lord Voldemort does bestow his gratitude onto his abettors. How would you like to leave this place Ollivander?”

For a second Ollivander could hardly believe his ears. “Yes. Yes. I would be so happy!”

“You would like to come out and be free I know…But no. You will continue to live in the darkness of this cellar. My reward is simply to bestow to you your continued existence, Ollivander. I can promise that I shall not kill you. You are afterall one of those people whom I need…And when I need you again I shall return…”

And with that, Voldemort swept away up the stairs to the ground floor, leaving a miserable Ollivander in the shadows. The doors closed and he was alone.


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