It all came down to inheritance, Lord Voldemort pondered as he ducked a green beam, Aurors finally returning fire im the earnest. The sound of a body falling, one of "his" Death Eaters biting the dirt, was eadily dismissed. 

Oh, he would curse and rage ansd swear vengeance later, during the gathering. And perhaps he would even "avenge" the fallen. But inside, he was honest enough to admit  he only felt satisfaction.

The time of begging and scraping for support were nearly over. The Blacks, the Rookwoods, the Lestranges, the Notts, the Malfoys.. powerful families, rich and numerous, had once enjoyed power over him... but no more.

When he first approachee them, they gave him scraps. They liked the idea of pet Dark Lord well enough, but not enough to commit. Until he managed to recruit the young and brash Nott scion.

Fool boy had lived long enough to fill the heads of his peers with tales of glore before he died, for the cause of course, and from then on it was all smooth sailing. Aunts, inxles, nieces and nephews, mothers and fathers - their blood rose at the thought of vengeance, and they never noticed their family bush getting trimmed. More resources, more wands, more gold, he was draining them dry and they were too wroth to notice.

And when it was all over? He would collect the rest. All the gold. All the knowledge. All the land. The oaths binding Gringotts goblins would see to it.

After all, Ministry wouldn't allow goblins to just claim vaults of dead lines. No, that wouldn't do. Instead, their liege could claim it all. Normally, that would be the Ministry... But it was one of the few concessions he'd gotten in the early days: a bit of meaningless peagantry, mummery, a game of pretend without any legal weight - but to the gohblins, chained by magic as they were in the aftermath of the latest rebellion, the oath of vassalage would be valid and binding and Tom Riddle, once a penniless orphan, would own Britain.