Avery Manor was smaller than Malfoy Manor.
Much smaller, in fact.
Yet the moment Voldemort arrived, he immediately understood why old pureblood families still spoke of House Avery with a certain degree of respect. Size had never been the true measure of a noble house. Wealth alone was not enough to impress those who had spent centuries guarding their bloodlines and traditions.
Malfoy Manor was a monument to wealth.
Avery Manor was a monument to history.
The difference was obvious the moment one stepped through the doors.
Every corridor contained portraits that were centuries old, watching visitors with the calm confidence of people who had witnessed generations come and go. Every chamber housed relics from another era. Ancient weapons hung proudly upon stone walls, enchanted artifacts rested within glass displays, and heirlooms accumulated over hundreds of years occupied places of honor throughout the manor.
One sword mounted above a fireplace had supposedly been carried by an Avery ancestor during the Goblin Rebellions. Nearby stood a silver chalice gifted by a long-forgotten Spanish wizard king. Several enchanted paintings displayed former Lords Avery, each appearing more arrogant and self-important than the last as they silently observed the world around them.
The manor itself felt alive.
Not because of magic, although there was certainly plenty of that.
It felt alive because generations had lived here. Every hallway, every room, every piece of furniture seemed to carry memories.
As Voldemort walked through one of the galleries, Lord Avery accompanied him respectfully.
"My family settled here nearly eight hundred years ago, my Lord," Avery explained with obvious pride.
Voldemort nodded absentmindedly. His attention had already shifted toward an enormous tapestry hanging across one wall.
The tapestry displayed the Avery family tree.
Hundreds of names stretched across its enchanted surface. Old witches and wizards moved gently among the threads, speaking silently to one another as though continuing conversations that had begun centuries earlier.
His red eyes lingered on the tapestry for several moments before his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Most people had forgotten that the Malfoys were not originally British. Their wealth and influence had become so deeply rooted in magical Britain that many assumed they had always belonged there.
That was far from the truth.
The Malfoys came from France.
Long ago, their ancestors had participated in a failed magical rebellion against the French government. When the rebellion collapsed, the family was forced into exile. They arrived in Britain with little more than their family name, their pureblood status, and the wands in their hands.
They possessed no ancient estates.
No significant political influence.
No centuries-old holdings.
What they possessed instead was ambition.
And beautiful daughters.
Generation after generation, the Malfoys secured advantageous marriages. They married into old families, wealthy families, and influential families. Slowly but steadily, they climbed higher and higher within British magical society.
They were patient.
Careful.
Then came Abraxas Malfoy.
Abraxas had been one of the most capable men Voldemort had ever encountered.
Not because he was exceptionally powerful.
Not because he was a brilliant duelist.
And certainly not because he was a gifted politician.
His genius lay elsewhere.
Abraxas understood people.
He understood money.
He knew that influence created wealth, and wealth created influence. While other purebloods obsessed over old traditions, Abraxas focused on opportunities.
Business ventures.
Foreign investments.
Trade agreements.
Political donations.
Every venture seemed to multiply the family's fortune.
By the time Abraxas reached old age, the Malfoys had become one of the wealthiest families in Britain.
More importantly, they had become one of the most connected.
Then came his greatest achievement.
Securing a daughter of House Black elevated the Malfoys permanently. The Blacks were among the oldest and most respected pureblood families in Britain. Through that marriage, the Malfoys finally gained what centuries of wealth alone could never fully purchase.
Acceptance.
Legitimacy.
Prestige.
Even Malfoy Manor itself was largely Abraxas's creation.
Built through wealth.
Expanded through wealth.
Decorated through wealth.
Everything inside the manor had a price attached to it.
Avery Manor felt ancient because it was ancient.
Malfoy Manor felt impressive because someone had spent enormous amounts of money ensuring it looked impressive.
Neither approach was inherently wrong.
But there was a difference.
Standing near one of the tall windows overlooking the Avery grounds, Voldemort found himself comparing the two estates.
Then, inevitably, his thoughts turned toward Lucius Malfoy.
And immediately his mood darkened.
Because Lucius was not his father.
Not even close.
Lucius was clever.
He was charming.
Educated.
Refined.
Politically connected.
Yet he lacked something essential.
The ability to perform under pressure.
Abraxas had possessed that quality in abundance.
Lucius did not.
The mission Voldemort had entrusted to him should have been completed months ago. Instead, excuses continued arriving.
Every report only deepened Voldemort's irritation.
His fingers tapped slowly against the armrest of the chair where he had seated himself near the window.
The task had not been complicated.
Certainly not by the standards Voldemort expected from one of his most trusted followers.
Yet somehow Lucius had managed to transform a straightforward assignment into an ongoing disappointment.
The memory remained irritating.
"My Lord?"
Lord Avery's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Voldemort looked up.
The older wizard hesitated slightly before speaking.
"My son has arrived from Durmstrang."
That immediately improved Voldemort's mood.
"Excellent."
Avery's eldest son.
One of Durmstrang's most promising students.
Young.
Talented.
Ambitious.
Exactly the kind of wizard worth paying attention to.
Especially with the European Under-Seventeen Championship approaching.
"Bring him to me," Voldemort ordered.
Avery bowed immediately.
"At once, my Lord."
The older wizard departed, leaving Voldemort alone with his thoughts once more.
Toward Hogwarts.
Toward the growing problems emerging within the school.
Rose Potter continued becoming stronger.
Students were learning how to fight.
And somehow, every report eventually circled back to the same individual.
Helios Black.
The mysterious son of Sirius Black.
The boy who constantly interfered with events.
The boy who seemed to know far more than he should.
The boy who repeatedly disrupted carefully laid plans.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed.
Helios Black remained an anomaly.
A variable that refused to behave predictably.
Perhaps the upcoming tournament would provide answers.
Or opportunities.
Possibly both.
Because while most people saw a school competition, Voldemort saw a battlefield.
A place where alliances could be forged.
Where rivalries could be encouraged.
Where talented young witches and wizards could be observed.
And where carefully arranged opportunities could become weapons.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
The game was becoming more complicated.
Fortunately, Voldemort had always enjoyed complicated games.
For nearly two weeks, Voldemort had discovered something he had not expected to find.
Peace.
Not true peace, of course. Nothing so simple had existed in his life for decades. There was no happiness, no satisfaction. Those were emotions he had long since discarded in pursuit of greater ambitions.
Yet there was something close enough that he found himself almost appreciating it.
Every morning began the same way. William Avery arrived at the training grounds shortly after sunrise, wand in hand and determination written plainly across his face. They spent hours drilling combat fundamentals, refining spellcasting techniques, and correcting mistakes. Afternoons were devoted to theory, advanced spellcraft, and magical research. Evenings often ended with discussions of famous duels, battle tactics, and historical conflicts.
The routine reminded Voldemort of another life.
A life that felt as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
There had been a time when he was merely Tom Riddle, the brightest student Hogwarts had seen in generations. Professors had praised him. Students had admired him. Doors had opened effortlessly before him. His future had seemed limitless.
That future had eventually led to immortality, Horcruxes, and war.
Yet sometimes, in quiet moments, he found himself remembering those early years.
William Avery possessed none of Tom Riddle's genius.
Few people ever would.
But the boy had qualities Voldemort appreciated.
Many talented students struggled because they believed talent alone would carry them forward. William understood that improvement required effort. He absorbed criticism without complaint and treated every lesson as an opportunity.
Most refreshing of all, he obeyed instructions.
That alone placed him above many of Voldemort's followers.
Lucius Malfoy preferred excuses.
Bellatrix preferred chaos.
Many Death Eaters preferred hearing themselves speak.
William simply listened and did what he was told.
For someone who had spent years surrounded by incompetence disguised as loyalty, it was surprisingly pleasant.
The training grounds behind Avery Manor echoed with magical explosions as another session neared its conclusion.
William rolled across the grass, narrowly avoiding a crimson curse that scorched the air where his head had been moments earlier.
"Too slow," Voldemort said calmly.
William recovered immediately. Before his feet had fully settled beneath him, three spells left his wand in rapid succession.
A shredding curse appeared first.
A cutting curse followed.
Then a blasting hex.
The sequence was efficient and well executed.
Voldemort redirected all three without effort.
The shredding curse dissolved. The cutting curse flew harmlessly into nearby trees. The blasting hex exploded against a stone wall far beyond the training field.
"Better."
William lowered his wand and allowed himself a brief smile despite the sweat running down his face.
"Thank you, my Lord."
Voldemort studied him carefully.
The boy possessed natural instincts that could not easily be taught. His reflexes were excellent. His magical reserves were substantial. Most importantly, he genuinely enjoyed improving himself.
Many pureblood heirs relied upon family names and inherited prestige.
William relied upon skill.
That made him useful.
Because Voldemort had already abandoned his original plan.
He had originally intended to enter the European Under-Seventeen Championship personally. A Polyjuice disguise. A borrowed identity. A public duel.
Then Rose Potter would die.
No complicated assassination attempts.
Simply a tragic accident during an international competition.
The plan had appealed to him because of its elegance.
Unfortunately, his restored body refused to cooperate.
The ritual that had returned him to life had altered him in ways he had not anticipated. Polyjuice Potion no longer functioned properly. Several transformation potions failed entirely. Magical disguises behaved unpredictably.
Eventually he had adapted.
Adaptation was survival.
If he could not fight Rose Potter personally, then someone else would do it.
William Avery.
Durmstrang's rising star.
And perhaps, if fate proved cooperative, Rose Potter's executioner.
The thought pleased him enough that he allowed himself a small smile.
The morning session ended shortly afterward.
William bowed respectfully before departing toward the manor to clean himself and recover. Voldemort remained behind, enjoying the rare silence that settled across the training grounds.
For perhaps the first time in weeks, genuine optimism touched his thoughts.
Everything was moving into place.
Rose Potter continued growing stronger, certainly, but William was improving at an impressive pace. The championship approached. His plans were advancing.
Then footsteps shattered the calm.
Fast.
Urgent.
Voldemort turned.
A wizard hurried across the grounds toward him.
One of the newer recruits.
A Ministry employee.
Young.
Ambitious.
Useful.
The man reached him and immediately dropped to one knee.
"My Lord."
Voldemort's expression hardened.
"What is it?"
The recruit looked exhausted. Dust covered his robes. His breathing remained uneven, as though he had traveled without rest.
"I saw Rose Potter."
The effect was immediate.
Voldemort became completely still.
The air itself seemed colder.
"Where?"
"The Ministry."
For a moment the answer simply did not make sense.
Rose Potter should have been at Hogwarts.
Attending classes.
Remaining under Dumbledore's protection.
She had no reason to be inside the Ministry.
"Explain."
The recruit nodded rapidly.
"I was monitoring Moody."
Several Death Eaters worked within the Ministry. Watching Order members remained one of their primary responsibilities.
"Continue."
"And Nymphadora Tonks."
Voldemort remained silent.
The man hurried onward.
"They entered the Ministry very early this morning. Before normal traffic began."
Still nothing unusual.
Then the recruit continued.
"They brought a young girl with them."
Voldemort waited.
"But it wasn't Rose Potter."
Irritation flickered briefly across his face.
"Then why are you here?"
The wizard nearly stumbled over his words.
"Because Moody called her Rose."
Voldemort's eyes sharpened instantly.
"Tonks accidentally called her Potter."
Silence settled over the training grounds.
Disguise.
Secrecy.
Rose Potter had entered the Ministry under an altered appearance.
And if Dumbledore, Moody, and Tonks were secretly escorting Rose Potter into the Ministry...
There were only a handful of possible reasons.
Voldemort began walking slowly.
His mind accelerated.
The prophecy.
Suddenly dozens of disconnected observations aligned perfectly.
His expression became genuinely dangerous.
"You're certain?"
"Yes, my Lord."
The recruit looked increasingly nervous under the intensity of Voldemort's gaze.
Meanwhile Voldemort's thoughts raced ahead.
If Rose was there, then Dumbledore had finally acted.
After months of protecting the prophecy.
They were retrieving it.
Today.
Right now.
And if they succeeded, the opportunity would vanish forever.
Once removed from the Hall of Prophecy, the record could disappear beyond his reach.
Voldemort's red eyes seemed to glow.
The prophecy had shaped his entire life.
It had sent him to Godric's Hollow.
It had destroyed him.
It had created Rose Potter.
And now, after all these years, it might finally slip beyond his grasp.
Unless he acted.
Now.
"Summon everyone."
The recruit blinked.
"My Lord?"
"Everyone."
This time there was no mistaking the command.
Avery Manor suddenly felt colder.
Because everyone understood what those words meant.
War.
Author's Note:
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