It was a cold, cold winter night. The wind blew freakishly loud, rattling in the chimney and blowing smoke into the room. He coughed, huddled in his cloak, wishing he dared…
But no. He had to maintain appearances, after all, if he was to become the next Dark Lord.
He still wasn't sure he could do it. There was so much to be done—so much he knew he didn't have the stamina or the stomach for, even after Voldemort's example. Or perhaps because of it.
But Voldemort had never had the kind of marvellous servants he had, either. He shifted, trying to get the heat from the fire without being smothered by the smoke. His servants did nearly everything for him, just as real servants did. Just as he had always done for Voldemort….
The door opened and one of his servants crept in. "Master," she said in her servile fashion, her head bowed, "we have finished our preparations. All is in readiness to begin your reign of terror."
"Excellent," he said, pleased to note that his voice did not squeak. "Have we chosen our target yet?"
"Yes, Master," she said, her eyes still downcast. "A large house near Nottingham. It belongs to the family of one of Potter's friends. He will certainly get the hint."
He nodded, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather creep up the back of his neck at the silky pleasure he heard in her tone. "Very well, then," he said. "Carry on."
She bowed deeply and backed away until she was out of the room. When the door had clicked shut, he inched his chair a bit closer to the fire.
It was beginning at last. He pulled his cloak closer about him, chortling quietly to himself. He would have the importance and fear that was due him after a lifetime of being kicked about and despised. He would. He would…