The Dark Mark has not been seen since the terrorist attack at the Quidditch World Cup, and before that, there had been no confirmed sightings since the end of the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in 1981.
The great and mighty Lord Voldemort was not feeling very great and mighty, not that he would be revealing that fact to anyone.
He paced the length of his quarters. He was living as a parasite off the back of a muggle's head, for fucks sake. They kept a dozen of them in the basement, as each host only lasted Voldemort a day or so. Every step he took to reclaim his rightful power and body - that bloody fucking boy!
Voldemort snarled and the lights flickered and extinguished under his fury.
Potter, the boy, was somehow out-thwarting him!
Their plans had been going smoothly. The World Cup had left the British Ministry and its citizens shaking, and Voldemort had relished in their fear. Barty's control over Alastor Moody and Potter's entrance into the Tournament had all gone according to plan. But then, piece by piece it all crumbled around him.
It would have been best to perform the Necrotic Sacrament during the winter solstice. Voldemort had hoped to use that, combined with the lunar phase, to strip the boy of his magic entirely.
Barty's priority was to keep his position undiscovered and uncompromised. Still, he'd managed to send off an innocuous letter through his spies in the Ministry. Potter had been rescued promptly by the boy's mother and was being kept secure in the castle, every meal tested for contamination. The boy's story was that he hadn't reached Rookwood, who was stationed beyond the edge of the castle's wards to secure him, until the man had sent out curses, as an apparent last resort. But there was no sign of Rookwood. Nor his body.
Voldemort's scrying had revealed that the man was dead, but when? By whom?
He could not put it past his nemesis to be the culprit.
Somehow, probably that great fool Dumbledore's doing, the boy had been trained up proper.
How Dumbledore had trained the boy in the Darkest Arts left Voldemort grasping at straws. It gave him a delighted feeling to realize the old man must be quite desperate to stoop so low as to forgive the use of what his untarnished Light considered unforgivable. But where the hell had the boy learned it? It could not have been from Dumbledore himself, but some third party Voldemort was unaware of.
He had refused to believe the facts of Potter's magic until the dragon.
He'd demanded a copy of memories from the Death Eaters in attendance of the first Triwizard task, and Lucius' had been very forthcoming. Potter had not needed to slay the dragon, but he had chosen to regardless. A challenge that Voldemort had countered. And failed.
The string of attacks on muggle London had admittedly been petty revenge on Potter's elusivity.
But then, and then, and then! The fucking horcruxes!
Voldemort stalked from his room. His score of followers yelped and scurried out of his way in terror. No doubt, the look on his face was fear-inducing. He slinked into the murder cellar. He didn't need all the filthy muggles kept alive. They fell to his power, screams and gasps of pain echoed beautifully in his ears. Voldemort let the addictive caress of the Cruciatus seep into his bones.
Yes, he was mighty and great and powerful. Everyone knew it, everyone feared his name!
But yet, he was down two more horcruxes.
The grip on his wand tightened and the muggles screaming increased tenfold. Their song-like wails of anguish did not hit him with the same joy as it usually did.
Just two days after he'd authorized his most public raid since the World Cup, he'd been enjoying his breakfast, gloating over the terror written across the papers, the whispers of his possible return, he'd felt them die.
First Harry Potter's cursed scar.
Then, the Diary.
The Gaunt Ring had been missing when he'd resettled into Riddle Manor. Which meant that Dumbledore had found it shortly after the Diary.
Most likely the Diadem had been next, as it was located at the school.
The Locket was a complete unknown, having been stolen away by fucking Regulus Black of all people. Voldemort had journeyed to the cave to check on it and had thrown such a fit at the deception he'd needed to replace all the inferi. He'd left the fake there, along with all his traps. Perhaps Regulus had alerted Dumbledore and he had destroyed it already, or perhaps he had not. There was a change the old bastard would go sniffing around and Voldemort vindictively hoped he enjoyed the Draught of Torment.
There was Hufflepuff's Cup, likely still locked away in the Lestrange's high-security vault. With all the direct owners of the vault dead and locked away, it should be safe. Voldemort couldn't get in to check, after all, damn those goblins. But Barty Jr. had mentioned Sirius Black was often at the castle, colluding with Dumbledore no doubt. There was a chance he could persuade the goblins to grant him access. If he knew where it was. Black had been a pain in his ass during the last war and was playing his hand at media darling. It was worth targeting the former auror before he got any bolder.
And then Nagini, his newest addition, his lucky seventh, napping by the fireplace. The only one he could ensure was safe. Never again would she leave his side.
In summary, he could confirm Nagini and likely either the Locket or the Cup. Two more destroyed, two remained. If Voldemort had hair, he would have pulled it out from stress. Potter, Dumbledore, all of them - they would pay. He would remind the world of the meaning of war, of fear. For too long, he had been away. It had allowed his enemies to become confident.
(The Death Eaters whispered that he was becoming desperate. The last shreds of his soul had been shattered, his sanity and stress management along with it. He was what - one-eighth or so left of mortal man? More dead than alive. The Great and Mighty Dark Lord Voldemort was not feeling well.)