A small fire burned in the fireplace of the small woodsman's cottage. A dark, hooded figure sat upright in a shabby armchair in front of its warmth; another knelt beside him. "My Lord," the kneeling figure said in a low, rough voice, "the attack has failed. Potter somehow discovered the plot, and they were stopped. I am told they were only just able to Portkey out in time."
"Excellent," the other hissed. "I could have told the fools it was far too early to attempt an attack on the Weasleys. They haven't yet become complacent enough. Though the very fact that their attackers were able to Apparate so close to the Weasleys' hovel is interesting-very interesting indeed. I had suspected that Arthur Weasley was a nitwit, but this only goes to prove me correct."
"Yes, my Lord," the other said subserviently.
"Now it is time we planned our next move," the silky voice continued. "Take three or four of our best and find a nice young Muggle couple. Preferably one with a small child or two. Make it bloody, Nott, and make enough noise at the end that the Muggle authorities will be called." Long, delicate fingers tented in front of the seated figure, and a small, thin smile was just visible in the darkness of the cowl. "It's time to up the ante," he whispered.
His servant bowed his head and rose, backing silently away. The other did not move as he heard the door open and close. A distinctive wave of power rushed through him as his servant passed through the wards.
"And so it continues," he said to himself in a soft, amused voice, watching the fire before him. "Let us see where this takes us."