The Dark wizard paced up and down the long room, his followers standing back against the ornate walls watching him. He could feel their fear, fear of him, but he ignored them. How dare the boy? How dare he feel sorry for him? It was ridiculous that the child he had orphaned would pity him. As if he were a pitiable figure! He was the greatest wizard alive, and he would soon prove it to all, muggle and wizard alike.
But how had the boy fought him off? No, it couldn't have been the boy; it had to have been a trick. It must have been Dumbledore. The old man was smarter than he looked; he always had been. There was no way a mere child could have forced the Dark Lord out of his head and caused such pain to the invader. At the memory of the agony that possession of the boy had caused him, Voldemort paused and flung out his wand hand at random, casting the cruciatus curse on one of his Death Eaters, inconsiderate of which one he struck. Momentarily distracted from his fury, he watched the masked man convulse in pain.
Call me weak, will you, Harry Potter? He fumed silently. I'll show you. Everything you've been through up until now will seem like a stroll through your puerile Honeydukes compared to what's coming. You will lose everything. And perhaps now was the time to get rid of a certain meddlesome headmaster as well. Voldemort smiled at his followers. Who needed friendship with such devoted slaves? "Lucius," the cold high voice said, "you have a son, don't you? A son who attends Hogwarts?"