Chapter 98: The Dark Lord's Wrath
"How long?"
The question slithered through the oppressive silence of Malfoy Manor's dining hall. No one dared to breathe too loudly.
Lucius Malfoy, his face pallid, withdrew a delicate silver pocket watch. "It has been almost two hours, my Lord."
"Two hours." The voice was a soft, deadly hiss. "Fenrir Greyback has been gone for two hours. And not one of you thought to investigate?"
CRASH.
The magnificent crystal chandelier above the table exploded into a million glittering shards, raining down on the cowering Death Eaters. No one flinched, but the fear in the room thickened.
Bellatrix Lestrange, her eyes alight with a fervent mix of terror and excitement, leapt to her feet. "My Lord! Allow me! I will see what has become of that mangy dog!" In a swirl of black robes, she Disapparated with a sharp crack.
Voldemort's bone-white fingers drummed a slow, menacing rhythm on the polished wood. "Disappointing," he murmured, the calm in his voice more terrifying than any shout. "My faithful servants grow timid. A child, a boy of sixteen, troubles you so? It wounds me." He looked around the table, his red eyes lingering on each masked face. "Where is the ferocity that once made the world tremble? It seems only Bellatrix retains her spine."
The assembled Death Eaters sat in frozen humiliation. They were not inner circle. They knew their lives were currency to the Dark Lord, spent on a whim. To speak now was to risk being made an example.
Voldemort's gaze drifted to the great snake Nagini coiled beside his chair. His long fingers stroked her scales, a gesture of bizarre tenderness. His mind, however, was elsewhere. A fascinating development had recently occupied his thoughts—a faint, new thread in the psychic tapestry linking him to Harry Potter. The Horcrux, that sliver of his own soul festering in the boy's scar, was stirring. Through it, he'd caught fleeting, blurred images not his own. And Snape reported Dumbledore was teaching the boy Occlumency… to shut him out. How delightfully ironic. That connection, a vulnerability, could be turned into a weapon. Perhaps it was the key to retrieving the prophecy that haunted him…
This pleasant thought soothed some of his ire.
Another crack announced Bellatrix's return. Her face was twisted in a gleeful sneer. "My Lord! The filthy scavengers failed! All dead! Greyback is gone—vanished!"
Voldemort's hand stilled on Nagini. A silent, mirthless laugh shook his thin shoulders. "Hah… of course. Low creatures for a low task. And the prophecy child? He escaped their clumsy paws?"
"It would seem so, my Lord!" Bellatrix cackled. "Good riddance to that rubbish! They never deserved to stand in your shadow!"
Voldemort's mood seemed to lift, as volatile as a storm at sea. "You are right, Bella. Their absence merely cleanses our ranks." He turned his chilling smile on Lucius. "Lucius. It is Christmas. Let us have the feast. We shall celebrate… the removal of inferior stock."
Lucius, feeling the icy weight of his master's gaze, waved his wand hastily. Platters of sumptuous food appeared on the long table, conjured by unseen house-elves.
Voldemort rose, raising a goblet of blood-red wine. "My loyal friends," he intoned, the words oily and false. "Our first Christmas since my return. I am… pleased to have you with me once more."
A ragged chorus rose from the table. "To the Dark Lord!"
Bellatrix's adoration was a palpable force. They drank, and the macabre Christmas dinner began.
But behind Voldemort's composed facade, cold fury and sharp curiosity warred. Twelve of his followers—cursed, violent, grown wizards—had been neutralized. By a boy. Had the Order intervened? Lucius's report after Hogsmeade had spoken of strange, wandless magic, of close combat with discs of light. Was it truly so potent? Could a new form of magic resist a dozen wands?
Unconsciously, his obsession was shifting. Harry Potter remained a thorn, a symbol, a piece of his soul. But Elian Throne… he was an enigma, a variable, a challenge. The mystery of his power was a lure Voldemort found increasingly difficult to ignore. He longed to dissect it, to understand it, and then to either possess it or reduce its practitioner to ashes. The 'new prophecy' was becoming far more interesting than the old.
444 Lily Street, Stone District, Manchester.
The atmosphere was a world apart. Warm light, the smell of roast turkey and herbs, and the quiet hum of a happy home.
Elian sat at the Grangers' dining table, which was laden with delicious, normal, wonderful food. Mr. and Mrs. Granger beamed at him, their earlier worry replaced by delight at their daughter's obvious happiness.
Mr. Granger, ever the gracious host, smiled warmly at Elian. "Elian, as our guest, would you do us the honour of saying grace?"
(End of Chapter)
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