Parkinson

At that moment, Voldemort, whom the Prime Minister so deeply feared, was sitting in the lavishly decorated hall, watching a replay of Owen Harris's speech on Television. Then the news commentator aired interviews they had conducted afterward with several ordinary wizards. Seeing those ordinary wizards' undisguised goodwill and lavish praise for Owen, the armrest under Voldemort's hand turned to ash and fell to the floor.

You-Know-Who simply rose to his feet. His side had achieved pitifully few successful operations. What method could he use to strike the Harris family hard in return? Relying on those useless fools was almost no help at all; if he acted personally, he would be more likely to play right into their hands... Voldemort suddenly stopped moving. The summoning spell Allen had used in their duel reminded him that there was, in fact, a suitable target—one that would certainly be able to fulfill his wishes.

His hand pressed down on the Dark Mark on his arm. Very soon, one black-robed figure after another appeared indoors, waiting in silence for his orders.

"Next, you are to gather knowledge related to devils, especially information on the Devil Grand Duke Allen Harris encountered during the Triwizard Tournament." Voldemort raised one pale, large hand and waved it outward, saying with rare magnanimity, "Now that those Aurors are patrolling everywhere, you cannot move smoothly. Then go to other countries. Bring me back some Mudbloods. Those devils like collecting souls—capture more of them, and when the time comes, sacrifice them to him and satisfy him... I need to conduct a transaction with that Devil Grand Duke."

Voldemort lifted his gaze and looked into the distance, as if the Harrises who filled him with hatred were right there. His voice was very soft, yet filled with cold, cruel killing intent. "While you