Total Victory?​

Lord Voldemort strolled between the broken Hogwart’s doors, cloak fluttering behind him.

Yet, a small part of him seemed to almost mourn the smashed ramparts and slashed portraits. Hogwarts had been his home, it had been…

He shook his head, sneering at such sentimental weakness. This was his moment of triumph. His greatest victory.

Yes. He felt a slow a cruel smile spread across his lips as he entered the ruined Great Hall.

His loyal Death Eaters bowing before him, the blood-traitors and mud-bloods cowering in a corner? This was as the world was meant to be.

Or mostly cowering before him. One fool was still on his feet, face red with anger. Voldemort struggled to place him for a moment, then the name came to him, echoing in his head. Weasley. Ronald Weasley.

“You! You…” the boy had tears running down his face. “Harry… mum… dad… how could you… you bastard… I’ll..” He was practically sobbing now… “Kill you… kill you…”

Voldemort slanted his eyes ever so slightly, and one of his Death Eater’s stepped forward, blond hair escaping from behind his mask as he bowed his head. “A Weasley, my Lord. Blood Traitors all, and poorer than dirt. His parents died when…”

Voldemort waved a dismissive hand, and the man fell silent. Instead, the Dark Lord slowly circled the boy, feeling an odd surge of interest flicker in his breast.

“A Weasley?” a slicing motion with his wand and the boy’s body was frozen, stretched unnaturally and painfully as Voldemort turned back to his Death Eaters. “His parents were traitors, yes. But Lord Voldemort is not without mercy to those pure of blood…”

He turned back to the straining boy. “With your blood? You could be great, if you wished. There can be a place for you, if you but bow your head and take me as your Lord.”

For a long moment there was a tense silence in the hall and Voldemort dared to hope the boy would see reason and realize too much pure blood had been spilled already this day.

Then the boy’s face twisted up in a rictus of hate, and he spat. He SPAT like some muggle savage, right at him.

Red hot rage twisted through Voldemort. He felt his blood boil and his skin was porous with anger. “You DARE? You… Crucio!”

The boy let out an ear splitting shriek, body arching and convulsing.

Voldemort wiped at his face in disgust, and felt his rage building still higher rather than abating. That this boy dared reject him? Sully HIM?

“Crucio!” he hissed again, watching as the boy’s tendons bulged and his very bones cracked from the force of the curse.

“Please! No!” Some bushy-haired witch was surging forwards from among the prisoners. “Please! Leave him alone, don’t…”

Voldemort flicked his wand again and sent the annoying chit flying into the nearby castle wall with a crunch.

There was a gasp from the prisoners, and even his Death Eaters seemed surprised.

Why they seemed so shocked, Voldemort could not say. They had seen him do far worse. Why should this surprise them? The oddness, this sense of wrongness, it made him angrier. Another growl and a wave of his wand had the red-headed boy, now a twitching oblivious mess, crumpled at his feet.

He tired of these games. The defiance. The confusion. Slowly, Voldemort raised his wand, aiming it at the boy. “Avada…”

“Wait!”

Voldemort growled tilting his head as yet another one of the troublesome prisoners surged forwards.

He knew her. Minerva McGonagall. She looked oddly frail as she stepped forwards, her face etched with grief, but eyes devoid of fear.

Voldemort tilted his head, studying the professor for a moment. “Ahh. Our new headmistress.”

There was no hope in the old woman’s eyes, and Voldemort could respect that. There was only grief and a hard iron will.

She raised a desperate hand towards him. “Please. I beg you, if anything in you remains that still…”

Voldemort felt an irrational surge of confusing anger at the familiarity, and he slowly started to raise his wand.

And for just a moment a look of despair entered the old woman’s eyes. Then she straightened her head and her spine, and continued in a cool tone. “I apologize, my Lord. Please… may I speak?”

Voldemort felt his anger slow at the sign of submission. That was all he wanted after all, his proper respect. He waved his hand for the old-witch to continue.

“My Lord.” The Witch’s face puckered like she had eaten something sour, but then she continued. “You have won.” Her eyes flickered to his face for a moment, and whatever she saw there caused her lips tightened still further. “Won completely. We beg your mercy now.”

For some reason he could not say, Voldemort found it hard to imagine this proud woman begging. The thought of it seemed to both annoy and please him. But perhaps it was only fitting for one so proud to bow before his own might?

“You would beg Lord Voldemort’s mercy? After daring to defy his will? On what grounds?”

The woman bowed her head. “Not for my own sake my… my lord. But these?” She swept her hand to the children huddled behind her. “They have done you no harm. I ask… I…”

She paused again and then, with a force of will that was clear even to Voldemort bent her knees into a curtsy. “I ask mercy and understanding of you my Lord. And pledge my loyalty if you will… if you will spare them.”

Still Voldemort hesitated as he felt a wave of uncertainty.

His hesitation was broken when one of his loyal Death Eaters stepped forwards. Snape, a voice in his head whispered.

“My Lord?” The Death Eater inclined his head. “If I may. The students are young still. They have erred, but there is still time to… correct… the lies they have been told.”

Yes. Voldemort nodded to himself. They were the future of Magical Britain. There was merit to that. Snape always spoke with cunning. The bastard. His loyal servant. His…

Voldemort shook his head, ignoring the murmur of concern from among his followers. “Very well. Let it not be said Lord Voldemort is not without mercy.”

For a second, the old professor and the students behind her looked up, hope in their eyes.

It made Voldemort feel disgusted. He dared not show weakness. Mercy, but also strength. “Yes. You may spare those of pure-blood. Dispose of the rest.”

“No!” McGonagall made as though to reach out and grab him, but one his Death Eaters stepped forward, a curse on his lips that sent the old woman staggering to the side.

In front of him, the students were gasping in disbelief, and one of them was crying.

Voldemort ignored them all, stepping over the prone and half-forgotten red-headed boy as he strode from the hall. Behind him, he could hear his Death Eater’s advancing to see his will done.

And yet, Voldemort found it hard to focus on the chaos he had left behind. Something felt off, and he couldn’t put his fingers on what it was. He found himself wandering the corridors of Hogwarts, old memories from long ago distracting him.

The castle had always held special meaning to him, a place of refuge and safety for those of magical blood. A place of adventure? And in his restlessness, he found himself wandering past his old haunts and classrooms. The solitude was good for him, and even the portraits seemed to flee before him, seeking other frames.

Then, suddenly and without warning, he stopped. In front of him hanging on the wall was an old mirror. Nothing magical about it at all. And yet. It seemed to accentuate that feeling of *wrongness* he had been struggling with.

He studied the mirror. The messy dark hair, the red and gold tie, the knobbly knees. Something didn’t seem right about the image in the mirror. For an instant, his eyes, normally blood red, flashed a brilliant green.

Lord Voldemort stumbled in surprise at that. Then straightened again. A trick of the mind. His eyes were a steady red again.

Slowly he marshaled his thoughts and gave his head a shake, feeling the uncertainty fall to the side.

He was Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord in his moment of victory. He had no equals and no room for doubt.

Yes. Suddenly he felt like himself again, a dark smile carving across his lips.

Doubts banished, Lord Voldemort absentmindedly flattened his fringe over the lightning-bolt scar on his head.

He did not look back at the mirror as he turned back towards the Great Hall. And now his strides were filled with confidence and his mind with plots and plans.

All was as it should be.

 

1472 words

 

Spoiler

Good premise, though the 'twist' is somewhat spoiled by the prompt. I'm honestly not quite sure how well it would work even without that, but I think it's a neat one-shot regardless.

The way that (initially) some of these hostages looked at Voldemort with HOPE in their eyes was great foreshadowing, if we hadn't already known the twist. Also I admit I did skim down to check the ending, to make sure you used the prompt, so I may not have given the story all the attention it deserved.

Overall a good entry, thank you.