Chapter 43: The Best-Laid Plans
The morning of the Hogsmeade weekend dawned grey and heavy, the sky a blanket of damp wool pressing down on the castle spires. In the Slytherin common room, the greenish light from the lake made Draco Malfoy's face look pallid and sharp. He stood by the window, watching students in cloaks and scarves stream out through the front gates, their laughter muffled by the thick glass.
Behind him, Gregory Goyle jumped at the sound of Draco's sudden, brittle laugh.
"What's the matter?" Goyle stammered, a half-eaten pastry forgotten in his hand. "You said… you'd seen that paint in Hogsmeade. That you couldn't get it anywhere else."
Draco turned, a cold, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Hogsmeade Village," he repeated slowly, as if savoring the words. It was perfect. The Gryffindor idiot had practically handed him the solution. All he'd had to do was plant the seed about a rare, fictitious magical pigment Elian supposedly wanted, and watch the fool take the bait, talking about a specific shop. A shop that didn't exist.
"When is the next trip to Hogsmeade?" Draco asked, his voice casual.
Vincent Crabbe, polishing his prefect badge, looked up, confused. "Next one's Saturday. Tomorrow. You're a prefect, how'd you forget?"
"Tomorrow," Draco murmured, his gaze drifting back to the window. "I see. We haven't been in a while, have we?"
Crabbe brightened, thinking Draco was suggesting a trip. "The sweets are still good. Could get some fudge…"
"What? No," Draco cut him off sharply. "This trip isn't for us. It's… inconvenient."
He said nothing more. Normally, discovering a student planning an illegal trip to Hogsmeade would be a prime opportunity for blackmail or detention. But this time was different. This time, he wanted Elian Throne gone. Far away from Hogwarts. And for himself and his friends to be very, very far from Hogsmeade when it happened. An airtight alibi was worth more than a sack of Zonko's jokes.
Elian Throne, he thought, the cold satisfaction settling in his chest. You'll learn what happens when you cross a Malfoy this Saturday.
That night, in the solitude of his four-poster, Draco penned a short, careful letter to his father. The script was neat and precise.
Father,
A reminder that the Hogwarts students have a scheduled visit to Hogsmeade Village this Saturday. I trust all is well at the manor.
Your son,
Draco.
He gave no reason, no explicit instruction. His father was not a stupid man. The timing, the specificity—it was a signal, clear as a beacon. The backbone of the Dark Lord's forces did not need everything spelled out. Draco's only job now was to ensure Elian would be there, a single moving piece in a much larger, darker game. The thought finally allowed him a night of untroubled sleep.
Across the castle, in the Gryffindor Tower, Elian Throne was also feeling a grim sense of readiness. The pieces were in motion. He had dangled the bait, fed Malfoy's pride and paranoia with careful whispers and feigned carelessness. The Death Eaters would have their opportunity. The only one he intended to give them.
A strange, silent tension had fallen over the school in the preceding days. The Inquisitorial Squad, Malfoy's little band of enforcers, had seemingly vanished. No more prowling corridors, no more loud investigations. It was as if they'd been called off. Elian knew better; it was Malfoy making sure the path was clear, ensuring no petty schoolyard squabble would interfere with the larger plan. It was almost considerate, in a horrifying way.
This quiet was mistaken for peace by others. In the Gryffindor common room, bathed in the warm light of the fire, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were making their own plans.
"D'you fancy Hogsmeade tomorrow?" Ron asked, stretched out in an armchair. "It's freezing. I can't be bothered."
Harry, staring into the flames, nodded. "Same. And with the D.A… everyone's improving so fast. I'm running out of things to teach. I should probably spend the time in the library."
"Yeah," Ron grinned. "You, the teacher, need to do some homework yourself. What'll we do when we all know more than you?"
They chuckled, but Hermione, who had been unusually quiet, stirred. She'd been watching Elian lately, noting his quiet intensity, the way his eyes sometimes seemed to look right through the castle walls.
"Actually," she said, her voice firm. "I think we should go. To the Hog's Head. We could use the back room to practice. I'll help you research some new spells, Harry."
Ron and Harry exchanged a surprised look but shrugged in agreement. If Hermione thought it was a good idea, it usually was.
The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows.
The following afternoon, Elian stood in the nearly empty Gryffindor common room. The usual bustle was absent, absorbed by the promise of butterbeer and Shrieking Shack stories in the village below. He looked out the window. The sky had darkened further, a deep, bruised grey promising sleet or snow. Perfect weather for dark deeds.
He touched the cool metal of the Time Turner hidden beneath his robes, felt the familiar, heavy fabric of his Invisibility Cloak over his arm. He could not afford to be careless. This was not a schoolboy's game.
Stepping into a disused alcove, he draped the cloak over himself and vanished. A moment later, with a soft, twisting sensation, he used the secret means granted by the Eye to transport himself not to the bustling main street of Hogsmeade, but to a secluded, wind-scoured hillock overlooking the village's outskirts.
The view was bleak and beautiful. Hogsmeade nestled in the valley like a toy village, smoke curling from chimneys. He spent the next hour in the biting cold, not savoring the vista, but mapping it. He noted the tree lines, the rocky outcrops, the winding paths that led away from the cheerful lights. He needed a place where an ambush was feasible, where the Death Eaters would feel confident, yet where he could control the engagement.
The irony wasn't lost on him. Here he was, meticulously preparing the ground for his own attempted kidnapping. It felt absurd, like arranging the furniture for your own funeral.
I must be mad, he thought, a wry smile touching his lips. Or this is just what it takes to win a war before it starts.
As the short afternoon began to wane into dusk, he had seen nothing. No suspicious figures, no flicker of Dark Magic. A sliver of doubt crept in. Had he overestimated Malfoy's influence? Underestimated the Death Eaters' caution? Perhaps they wouldn't dare strike so close to Dumbledore, even now.
With a deep breath, he closed his eyes. His physical form grew still on the hillside as his consciousness, his astral form, slipped free. As a spectral, invisible observer, he floated over the landscape, senses extended. The world was muted, colors drained to essences, the magical currents of the land visible as shimmering, silvery threads.
Still, nothing.
Just as he was about to withdraw, to return to his body and reconsider, he felt it—a ripple of wrongness, like a drop of ink in clear water. In a dense copse of pine trees a half-mile from the village boundary, the air shivered.
Six figures emerged not from the shadows, but as if the shadows themselves coalesced into shape. They were draped in heavy black cloaks, hoods drawn, faces hidden behind silver masks of stark, inhuman terror. They moved with a lethal, synchronized silence.
And at their head, his pale blond hair visible for a moment beneath his hood before he pulled it tight, his posture one of cold authority, was Lucius Malfoy.
(End of Chapter)
✨If you're enjoying this story, consider supporting me on Patreon —
Patreon.com/TofuChan
💕Patreon members get early access to chapters, bonus content, and voting power on future ideas.💕
Every bit of support helps me write more and faster. Thank you so much for reading! 🥰
✨✨ I'll release an extra chapter for every 5 reviews! ✨✨🥳🥳 For every 100 power stones! 🥳🥳
Lets hit the goal of 100 Patreon Members now for 5 Extra Chapters 💕
We are at 60 members right now.