Lord Voldemort had been in Austria three times, now.

The first, when he was just barely in his twenties. He had, like many Englishmen of the day, toured around postwar Europe to see the shattered remains of Germany. He had also, like many wizards of the day (the far superior kind of Englishmen, naturally), visited the great prison of Nurmengard. The allure was almost universal, the prison being not only the site of the greatest duel in wizarding history, but of the greatest Dark wizard of them all. Unlike so many petty wizards, however, the Dark Lord had merely passed through Allied-occupied Austria on a journey to a country much further south.

He remembered, vividly, the cool summer day, staring up at the foreboding black walls of Nurmengard. He remembered half-listening to a group of Slavic wizards complaining about the German Ministry of Magic before the crowd had erupted in a loud, collective gasp. Looking up, he had seen a pale, stoic face staring down at them from the highest tower window. Gellert Grindelwald himself, robbed of his power, had been looking at them all in contempt.

He had felt something close to pity that day, mingled with disgust. Lord Voldemort promised himself that he would sooner die than be a tourist attraction, preferably neither, before setting off for Albania, for the Diadem.

The second time, almost thirty years later, he had passed through the country in agonizing haste. It had been mere hours after the boy had robbed him of his form. The indignancy of his defeat, the sheer humiliation, was almost worse than the pain. He had, once again, passed through Austria on his way to Albania, possessing various European wizards and Apparating closer and closer to the same far-flung forest he had visited in his youth. That visit was not one he liked to think about, if he could help it.

This third time, sixteen years after the second, was different in so many ways. Firstly, he did not intend to pass through Austria. He would go no further than the Alpine nation. Secondly, he came here not as an unformed youth, nor as a disembodied shadow. He was here, matured and victorious and mighty.

Or was he?

Disappointment tainted his journey. The disappointment, the shame of failure. Twice, he had turned a wand upon Harry Potter, and twice he had failed. The first was a failure born of carelessness. The second was a failure of British wandlore. Try as he might to get an answer out of anyone, no one seemed to be able to explain the mysterious power that Potter's wand held. Whether it be his own wand or a normal wand, both seemed to fail him. Only one option remained to Lord Voldemort…

He had, in the search for this one remaining option, visited sympathetic wizards throughout Germany and Austria. His command of the language was shaky at best, but he had discerned the murky history of the Elder Wand's passage from Arcus and Livius to Gregorovitch and finally to Grindelwald. It was a strange experience, meeting wizards who admired his crusade, but did not revere him. They simply thought him an ally in the struggle against Mudblood scum ("Schlammblut" was the Germans' term, and Voldemort much preferred the English). They saw him not as a Lord, but as a comrade.

It made him feel strange. Angry, of course, but also…

Lord Voldemort stood now, once again, before Nurmengard. It hadn't changed in the slightest. Still towering, still dark, still thick with an air of foreboding, one that even Lord Voldemort had to submit himself to. The walls still bore that infamous carving-

Für das Größere Wohl

Unlike his youthful self, Lord Voldemort glided around the fortress walls, unaided by broomstick or magical creature. He had only a vague decades-old memory of Grindelwald's window to go off, but he eventually found it at the top of the tallest tower, narrower than even the entrance to the cave that housed Slytherin's locket.

Through the black iron bars, he could see the withered form of Gellert Grindelwald. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Lord Voldemort only hoped that the old man had not perished in his sleep. He was weak enough to do so…

Voldemort, with a lazy flick of his fickle yew wand, became much like mist and wind, and passed effortlessly through the bars. His eyes never left the feeble man in the corner of the cell. The black smoke of his Transfigured body hissed like Nagini was wont to do, and nostalgia stirred in him.

He landed on the floor with an unceremonious thud of cloth on stone.

Grindelwald's emancipated body stirred underneath the blankets and rolled over. Sunken, mismatched eyes gazed at him wearily. A toothless mouth smiled.

Grindelwald spoke, in a weak voice of mingled German and English.

"So, you have come. Ich dachte das würdest du…one day. But your journey was pointless. Ich hatte es nie."

Voldemort raised his wand. "You lie!"

"Ich lüge nie, du dummer Junge." Grindelwald laughed.

"The wand, Grindelwald!" Lord Voldemort jabbed his wand violently, and the feeble wizard slammed into the bed. "The wand you stole from Mykew Gregorovitch! Do not lie to Lord Voldemort."

"Lord Voldemort?" Grindelwald laughed, and Voldemort's fury surged. "Never in meine wildesten Träume would I have even considered calling myself 'Lord.'"

"Because nothing you have done would have merited the title."

"Because my quest was one of honor, not of power. Everything I did, alles, was für das Größere Wohl." Grindelwald's mismatched eyes stared, for a moment, into somewhere beyond the decrepit prison cell. "Everything…"

"There is no such thing as honor or a greater good. Those are childish fantasies invented by the feeble to justify weakness. The only cause to fight for is power." Voldemort aimed his wand at Grindelwald's heart. "It is for that reason that you lost. Lost to a feeble old fool like Albus Dumbledore, no less."

Grindelwald's skeletal face lit up in anger. "Albus Dumbledore is a hundred times the wizard you shall ever be."

"Albus Dumbledore," a vicious sneer came to Voldemort's face, "was a weak, spineless, paltry excuse for a wizard. He was a blood traitor. And it is by hands that he lies dead and buried."

Grindelwald's face had already been hollow and sunken, but something essential seemed to fade. "Albus is…"

"Nothing but an unpleasant memory. A footnote in wizarding history. The sad old man who stood in the way of wizardkind's true potential, and whose only claim to fame was the defeat of an equally sad man." Voldemort let loose a high, mirthless cackle.

"Wizardkind's potential?" A look of disgust fought through Grindelwald's apparent despair. "You murder wizards by the thousands."

"I murder Mudbloods. I murder thieves and wretched pretenders to wizardry. I murder those who are unworthy of wizardkind's secrets and glories."

"You murder your own. You murder wizards capable of the same talent as you merely for the purity of their blood."

"An impure wizard is no better than a Muggle. You have lived so long, and led such a passionate crusade against the Muggles, and yet you excuse their filthy offspring?"

"The Stummleute are stupid and violent, but only because wizards have not exerted a guiding hand, as is necessary." Grindelwald scowled, "With power comes responsibility. You have cast off responsibility in favor of the blind pursuit of power. That, I feel, is closer to 'Muggle' philosophy than anything else."

Boiling anger rose up in Voldemort's veins. How dare he compare Lord Voldemort to a lowly Muggle? Were he not hiding an important secret, he would be dead on the floor this very moment.

"Where is the Elder Wand, Grindelwald?" Voldemort asked again, pressing his yew wand deep into Grindelwald's neck.

"Ich hatte es nie, dummkopf."

"It would be a shame, I think, to kill such a historical wizard." Voldemort's voice was quiet, barely discernable from the Alpine wind. "But if you do not tell me what I desire, I will have to-"

Grindelwald did not react at all how Voldemort expected. The feeble old wizard began to laugh loudly, mockingly, scrunching up his eyes and wheezing as if he had just heard a joke. "Kill me, then, Voldemort. Ich begrüße den Tod!"

Grindelwald slumped sideways, staring at Lord Voldemort with mismatched eyes. "But my death will not bring you was du suchst. Es gibt so viel, was du nicht verstehst."

This man, this relic of wizard history, how dare he defy Lord Voldemort? Powerless and feeble, he presumed to stand above Lord Voldemort?

"Then I- "

Suddenly, from far beyond his bodily senses, something pulled at Voldemort. Something ephemeral and abstract was tugging at his very presence, beckoning him to return to…to…

He closed his eyes briefly, and Bellatrix's wild face appeared in the darkness.

Voldemort growled as he looked again at the prison cell. Those impudent fools… How dare they call him back to England at a time like this? He had warned them, he had threatened them, that he was not to be called for anything less than Potter. The Malfoys would envy Rowle and Dolohov's punishment if they were mistaken…

"Töte mich, den!" Grindelwald's voice was suddenly commanding, as commanding as he had been in the memories Voldemort had pulled from other feeble old men. "You will not win, you cannot win! That wand will never ever be yours- "

"Avada Kedavra!" Lord Voldemort shouted, righteous fury filling every ounce of him. The old man mouthed something before he rose from the bed and fell, lifeless. The harsh green light was still burned into Lord Voldemort's eyes as he turned to the window.

Though he could not see it with his eyes, he could sense Malfoy Manor's presence. He passed through the bars again, like smoke, and immediately rushed through the icy Alpine skies of Austria.

He flew over mountain and forest and farmland and Muggle city. He passed over what he assumed to be the West Frisian Islands before, finally, he was flying above the North Sea. With a midair turn, he Disapparated into choking darkness. He hurdled though the void, and then…

Lord Voldemort Apparated onto a dark gravel road with a thunderous crack, but didn't hesitate for a moment. He flew forward like a gust of wind, phasing through the iron gates and smashing open the great front doors of Malfoy Manor.

He landed in the drawing room and beheld a strange scene. The Malfoy's great crystal chandelier lay shattered on the dark wood floors. Lucius Malfoy and Fenrir Greyback lay on the ground, unconscious and crumpled. Draco and Narcissa stood, pale and frozen, next to their patriarch, and Bellatrix Lestrange stood alone. His most faithful Death Eater was beside herself, her face blotchy and red with anger, her chest heaving.

And, unfortunately for the Malfoys, there was no sign of Harry Potter.

"My Lord!" she shrieked. "My Lord!"

"Bellatrix…" Voldemort fought to keep the anger from his voice. "Where is Potter?"

"M-my Lord- "

"Where is Potter? Where is he?" Voldemort strode forwards, sniffing the stagnant air deeply, "Did I not tell you that I was not to be called unless Harry Potter was before you?"

Bellatrix was cowering, shaking, heavy-lidded eyes scrunched up in terror. She blubbered uselessly for a moment before Voldemort turned to her kin.

"Draco! Narcissa!" Voldemort scowled at the Stunned Malfoy on the ground. "And Lucius! Of course he is the weakest link of the family tonight! Rennervate!"

Lucius Malfoy stirred sleepily. Lord Voldemort jabbed his wand, and a jet of bright blue light hit the failure in the head. He jumped wildly, his eyes wide and horrified. His hand grasped at his belt, searching for his wand.

"Your wand is shattered in a field in Surrey, if I recall." Voldemort spat. "A problem I was tending to before I was summoned here. Now, I ask again, where is Potter?"

Lucius shivered, eyes bulging. Draco was pale, and seemed close to tears. Narcissa spoke, her voice trembling. "G-gone, my Lord."

"Gone?"

"Y-yes, my Lord. Gone." Narcissa swallowed. "Disapparated."

Voldemort stood to his full height and advanced on Narcissa. "I was under the impression that you could not Disapparate without a wand. I was under the impression that you had the common sense to take his wand from him when he was captured. What happened?"

"H-he stole Bella's wand. The Weasley Disarmed her."

"A blood traitor bested your sister?"

Narcissa nodded, breathing shakily.

"And you did nothing?"

Narcissa bowed her head in shame, trembling.

"The House-Elf."

Voldemort whipped around to see some of Bellatrix's haughtiness having returned. She spoke with disgust. "Malfoy's House-Elf Apparated into the dungeons and saved them. He crashed the chandelier, my Lord. Disarmed my sister and Disapparated with Potter."

Bellatrix's words echoed for a moment. Lord Voldemort stood very still, turning his wand in his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice was deathly quiet, and somewhat strained. "So…you are to tell me that my most faithful, most trusted, most fearsome Death Eater was overcome by blood traitors and a House-Elf?"

Bellatrix did not move. If she had expected any recognition for telling her Lord the details of Potter's escape, she no longer did.

Voldemort turned and pointed his wand at Draco. "Crucio!"

Draco fell to his knees, screaming, face contorted in agony. His mother shrieked, trying to hold her son close amidst his thrashing. Lucius stood there trembling, too scared to take his eyes off his master for even a moment.

"My Lord!" Bellatrix screamed, in shock rather than anything else. Voldemort turned his wand to her with a roar of fury. She, too, fell to the ground in pain.

"Once again, you have failed me! Once again, the teamwork of Lestrange and Malfoy has failed Lord Voldemort!" Voldemort screamed, pointing his wand at Lucius and slamming him into the wall with a pathetic thud. "What must I do to get this family to produce results?! And where is Wormtail?!"

No one answered. Bellatrix and Draco were screaming in pain. Narcissa and Lucius were petrified. Voldemort repeated, "Where is Wormtail, Lucius?"

Lucius was silent, sweating profusely, eyes bulging. Voldemort flicked his wand violently, and Lucius ducked like a filthy Muggle. "Accio Peter Pettigrew!"

A series of thuds resounded from the floor below, steadily drifting upwards. Something limp slammed into the walls of Malfoy Manor before it rushed into the drawing room and fell to the floor at Voldemort's feet. Peter Pettigrew's corpse, purple-faced and rigid, lay in front of its former master.

Voldemort howled, and watched as Narcissa and Lucius joined their kin in pain. Their agony was barely a hundredth of Voldemort's rage. How could this happen? The Malfoys had promised that their manor was a fortress, that escape was impossible for even Harry Potter. Voldemort had not put his complete confidence in them, of course, but they had been bested by a House-Elf. How had they managed to fall this far? How had he, at one point, considered Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange to be his best and brightest?

If there was a theme to the first years of his rebirth, it was that the Voldemort of the past was an utter fool. Those he had trusted were inept, and all his considerations were for naught. Of all the anger in Malfoy Manor tonight, the most turbulent was directed inwards.

"Lord Voldemort does not tolerate incompetence, Malfoy!" Voldemort slashed his wand at Lucius, and a deep cut appeared along his forehead. Blood dripped down his face. "Lord Voldemort does not tolerate it! Especially not from a man who has failed so often and so extravagantly!"

"M-m-my Lord…" Lucius moaned. Voldemort jabbed his wand at his face, and he flew back as if punched. A family heirloom, a bronze bust of some distant Malfoy, flew off a shelf and began slamming itself into Lucius's bloody face repeatedly.

"And Bellatrix! How I trusted you! I once called you my most faithful, my most treasured servant!" Voldemort waved his wand in a wide arc, and Bellatrix's back bent to the point of breakage. "And yet you, again, fail to defeat an unexceptional teenage boy! Again you fail because of adolescent luck!"

Bellatrix sobbed, crying ashamed tears. At least, unlike Malfoy, she wasn't begging mercy. She knew that she had failed.

"Narcissa! Draco! You two are pureblood wizards, but what were you doing when Potter stood here victorious?" Voldemort Cruciated them both. "You shame your blood! You shame your name! But what else could I expect from the boy who had to run crying to Severus Snape to kill Dumbledore for him?!"

As Voldemort's admonishment echoed though the cavernous drawing room, the family of failures writhed on the ground. He was panting, breathless by virtue of his anger. He was angry at them, angry at Potter, angry at Grindelwald, angry at himself.

He had trusted the untrustworthy, and failed to intimidate Grindelwald. He felt as if he might burst into ashamed tears like Bellatrix, if he had any tears to shed. Once again, the Elder Wand dangled out of reach, like it had for all these months. And now his only lead was dead, rotting in the highest tower of Nurmengard.

And so, with several violent slashes and jabs of his yew wand, his only faithful servant in this house, perhaps his only faithful servant left in the world, the failures were punished. If there was any consolation to Lord Voldemort's night of losses, it was that the Malfoys' screams of agony were music to his ears.

Author's Note: "Stummleute" essentially means "silent people", referring to how Muggles are unable to cast spells (i.e they are "silent" in spellcasting matters). It's not perfect, but you work with what you have.

Chapter Two should be up in a few days. Criticism and comments are strongly, strongly encouraged.