Voldemort stormed through his palace, enraged. Two years! Two years. Two long, agonizing years of getting his body back and waiting for the right moment to strike. This was it. He could feel it.
"Lucius!" He thundered. "Bring me Bellatrix!"
Bellatrix. That was what he called the Potter's cat.
Bellatrix. The final horcrux.
Lucius ran in, holding Bellatrix. "Anything else, My Lord?"
Voldemort thought for a moment, fingers in mid-stroke. "Yes," he said. "Bring me Draco."
Lucius bowed and left, in pursuit of his son.
Voldemort thought. Would Draco be the one to do this? Draco, whose loyalty was wavering? Yes, it had to be. None other knew Harry and his army (Dumbledore's Army, was it?) better than Draco. Yes. Voldemort could send a... more faithful follower to make sure Draco does his job.
Draco came running in, a look of worry etched onto his face. "Yes, My Lord?"
"Come closer, Draco."
He flinched, but did as told.
"Now, I have a job for you. Where would Harry Potter and his gang least likely return?"
Draco pondered this for a few moments. "The LeStrange's vault?"
"Perfect. Now, take Bellatrix there."
"Y-yes, My Lord.
Draco turned to leave. "Oh, and Draco?"
Draco whirled back around. "Yes?"
"Kill anyone in your way."