Lord Voldemort hurried to Godric's Hollow, but the moment he Disapparated and his feet touched the ground, a phoenix blocked his path.
She was a familiar face; Lord Voldemort had known her since his school days.
Fawkes.
"My apologies, I forgot."
Lord Voldemort offered an apology with the unblushing assurance of a pigeon. Finding herself with no other recourse, Fawkes gave a resentful tug at a strand of his hair.
Following Fawkes by Apparition to a hidden, secluded sanctuary, he found a young girl of about ten years old herding goats.
She had maintained her ten-year-old appearance for thirteen years now, and she possessed a vast store of knowledge, having taught herself numerous spells.
"Little Uncle, you're here."
Lord Voldemort smiled and nodded, taking her hand as they walked over to the small cottage. "How has Anna been feeling lately?"
"I'm much better! Fenit told me I'll be able to begin my next molting very soon!"
Ariana laughed happily. "What brings Little Uncle here? Surely you didn't come to see Anna just for my final molting?"
"Of course not," Lord Voldemort chuckled. "You need to persuade your big brother not to stand in the way of me pursuing my boyfriend."
"Whoa—!!"
Ariana's eyes lit up. "Big Brother and that very handsome older brother are boyfriends too!"
Lord Voldemort: Unable to muster a smile.
Ariana had already undergone six moltings. This seventh and final one, once successfully passed, would allow her to evade Death's pursuit and return to the realm of the living, putting an end to the days when two phoenixes had to take turns guarding her round the clock.
Every single molting was fraught with mortal peril, but Lord Voldemort believed in Ariana. Half of his lifelong happiness was pinned on her.
God help him, being a Dark Lord was dreadfully difficult. If he had known beforehand, he would have left No-Nose behind to do the grunt work; Abraxas was practically worked to the point of insanity.
Lord Voldemort and Abraxas were utterly overwhelmed by official business, to the extent that a young Draco was occasionally dragged in to do heavy labor.
Now Draco was gradually growing up, yet Lord Voldemort had discovered that that cunning scoundrel Abraxas actually wanted to retire!!
Ah, if he could, the Dark Lord himself would love to retire, except that the Dark Lord possessed no heir nearing adulthood!
Lord Voldemort tapped his fingers lightly against the door frame. Fenit was easy enough to deal with—a reliable phoenix—but Goth had slept through his watch several times over the past few years, scaring him into hastily dragging Fawkes in as a substitute.
How could there be such an unreliable phoenix in existence?!
...
Having settled Ariana, Lord Voldemort returned to Voldemort Manor, only to run straight into Abraxas, who was attempting to make his escape laden with official documents and potions.
Lord Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "Abraxas, where do you think you're going?"
Abraxas: "..."
In the end, the Malfoy family head failed to make his escape, though Lord Voldemort didn't fare much better himself; he was cornered by Madam Malfoy and subjected to a thorough, ear-twisting lecture that lasted for ages.
The Dark Lord out in the world: arrogant, domineering, autocratic, cruel.
The Dark Lord in front of Madam Malfoy: meek and submissive.
"No matter what else you're up to, you must keep his basic physical condition above a baseline!"
"Are you even listening to me, Voldy???!"
"Listening, I'm listening!"
Lord Voldemort pulled out a sheet of parchment and a quill, hunching over the coffee table in Malfoy Manor to write with swift, sweeping strokes—looking for all the world like Draco in later years making up for lost homework in the manor.
"Every time you finish, you must clean out his cavity; don't use Aguamenti, use warm water, and pour Essence of Dittany onto the wounds;"
"The handcuffs and shackles shouldn't be left on for more than five hours, and line the insides with velvet fabric;"
"Do not keep the gag on for more than half an hour."
"Prepare three sets of jade inserts—soak one set in restorative solution, one set in arousal potion, and keep the last set properly maintained for backup."
"Don't do it every single day; three times a week is about enough. Wizards aren't witches... wait, isn't he a Potions Master?"
Lord Voldemort's quill never stopped as he merely nodded, only to hear a crisp "Bang!" the next second, accompanied by a sharp pain on the top of his head as Madam Malfoy rolled up the parchment and walloped the Dark Lord.
"You idiot! Make him brew a potion to guarantee his physical health, you fool!"
"Yes, yes..."
Abraxas cowered in the corner of the sofa, not daring to utter a single word in response.
Madam Malfoy glared at him. "Standing around like a statue for what? Go pour Lord some tea!"
"Yes, yes..."
Abraxas made a hasty retreat, leaving Lord Voldemort alone to bear the brunt of Madam Malfoy's fury.
"You can use beef short ribs as a substitute, though that's only for protecting and repairing the mucous membranes. A specialized potion hasn't been developed yet, so you can have him try it."
Madam Malfoy also knew that Lord Voldemort had set his heart on that wizard; if he wanted to torment the man, let him torment him, but why didn't he know how to properly care for him afterward?
Otherwise, while still young—at fifty or sixty—his partner would already be failing. What would Lord Voldemort do when his own physical condition was still at its peak?
Were they going to have a Platonic relationship?
Lord simply had a screw loose in his brain.
...
Lucius had graduated a mere three years ago before being dragged into the Death Eaters to handle finances.
The crux of the matter was that he wasn't just the financial officer; he was the CEO, worked to the bone.
More than once, Lucius had returned home to cry and complain to Narcissa that those Muggle novels in Lord's office were all lies designed to trick the Malfoys. CEO—Chief Executive Officer, meaning one who executes and decides all affairs. Notice the word: ALL!
He had to review countless documents every day, ensuring not a single error crept in anywhere, while coordinating the various departments and dispatching people from time to time to inspect work conditions and workplace morale...
Lucius drew a deep breath and picked up his quill once more.
I! Will! Do! It!
——
By the time Lord Voldemort returned, Severus was still brewing a potion.
"Lord."
Not seeing Severus in the bedroom, Lord Voldemort pushed the door open and walked in. Severus was far more cautious this time, bowing deeply in salute.
He still had not left the cauldron.
Lord Voldemort walked over, glanced down at the potion, and raised an eyebrow. "Wolfsbane Potion?"
"Yes, Lord..."
Severus kept his gaze lowered and his demeanor submissive, looking tame in the extreme. Yet Lord Voldemort knew full well that this was one of the most powerful wizards among the Death Eaters, second only to himself.
The tip of his wand brushed against Severus's handcuffs. With a sharp "clack," the manacles snapped apart, and Lord Voldemort lightly tapped his wand against Severus's shoulder.
"Episkey."
Through the fabric, the immense surge of magic made the spell take effect. Daring not to let down his guard, Severus continued to focus on brewing the potion as if walking on thin ice.
Extinguishing the fire, bottling, labeling... Severus quietly selected a potion bottle with a new pattern. The Dark Lord's potions never bore labels; instead, he would order large quantities of bottles with novel designs, using a distinct pattern for each new concoction.
"Severus," Lord Voldemort sighed aloud, rising from a nearby sofa. Severus whirled around instantly, as if startled, and his hand slipped—failing to keep a firm grip on a potion bottle, knocking another one over.
Severus's pupils contracted, and in a fraction of a second, he dropped to his knees in a standard prostration on the floor. "Lord, I am sorry."
A single cauldron of potion could yield seven or eight bottles, and Severus had merely tipped over one.
Within Lord Voldemort's crimson eyes, his expression grew dark and inscrutable. He walked over, crouched down, gently stroked Severus's hair, and then scooped him up into his arms.
The young wizard was frighteningly thin, standing just a little over five feet seven inches. Lord Voldemort knew he was not yet eighteen and still had another two or three years of growth ahead of him.
"Master...?" Severus curled up in Lord Voldemort's arms as if terrified, uncertain what the Dark Lord intended to do.
Lord Voldemort extracted the potion bottle from Severus's hand, set it on the table, and carried him away toward the bedroom.
"Be a good boy."
Severus, do not disappoint me again.