Chapter 99: Grace and Grimmauld Place
Elian's smile froze for a fraction of a second. Again? He could still picture Xenophilius's bewildered stare and Luna's dreamy confusion after his last improvisation. Well, in for a Knut, in for a Galleon.
He took Mr. Granger's and Hermione's offered hands. Hermione's palm was noticeably warm, and when he glanced at her, a charming blush was creeping up her neck, though she kept her face serenely forward.
Clearing his throat, Elian launched into his now-practiced, entirely unorthodox grace.
"We give thanks to the primordial forces that shaped the heavens and the earth," he began, his voice taking on a solemn, rhythmic tone. "To the celestial guardians and the weavers of fate. For the warmth of this hearth, the bounty of this table, and the fellowship we share. May this meal fortify us against the coming night, and may our bonds be our strongest shield. Amen."
He opened his eyes to find three pairs of wide, startled eyes fixed on him. Mr. and Mrs. Granger looked utterly perplexed, while Hermione's expression was a delightful mix of embarrassment and suppressed laughter.
Elian merely smiled and picked up his fork. "Everything smells wonderful."
The meal that followed was comfortable and filled with easy conversation. The Grangers' cooking was superb—traditional, hearty, and delicious. Mr. Granger, once he recovered from the unusual prayer, proved to be a kind and inquisitive host, asking gentle questions about Hogwarts (carefully avoiding anything too magical for his wife's comfort) and expressing genuine warmth. It was clear they saw Elian not just as their daughter's odd friend, but as a lonely boy they were happy to welcome.
As dinner ended, Elian politely declined Mr. Granger's offer of a nightcap. At the door, bundled against the cold, Mr. Granger clasped his shoulder.
"Elian, you're always welcome here, you know. Any holiday. Hermione doesn't have many friends from… similar backgrounds. We'd be glad to have you."
The unspoken meaning—that they approved, that they saw what was blossoming between him and their daughter—was clear and touching.
"Thank you, sir. The dinner was fantastic. I'd be honoured to visit again," Elian replied with sincere warmth.
Outside, under the starry Manchester sky, Hermione walked him to the garden gate. "If you need anything… you can always owl," Elian said, adjusting the Sling Ring on his finger.
Hermione's eyes followed the movement, gleaming with curiosity. "Do you have more of those? I'd like to learn. The theory behind the spatial manipulation must be fascinating. I feel my magical control has improved."
Elian tapped the ring. "One day, perhaps. But not yet." His expression turned serious, the easy warmth fading. "Hermione, listen. The magic I'm teaching you—Kama-Taj—it's not like Charms or Transfiguration. It deals with fundamental forces. It's powerful, but it's dangerous. You can't rush it. You can't experiment blindly. Promise me you'll only practice what I've shown you, exactly as I've shown you."
He rarely spoke to her with such grave intensity. Hermione understood. This wasn't about keeping secrets; it was about safety. The magic he wielded had a weight, a potential for backlash she'd only glimpsed.
"I promise," she said, her voice quiet and firm. "I'll be careful."
Satisfied, Elian's expression softened. He traced a quick circle. The golden portal swirled open, revealing his dark London bedroom. With a final smile and a wave, he stepped through, and the light vanished.
12 Grimmauld Place was anything but quiet.
From behind a heavily bolted door on the first floor, terrible sounds echoed through the gloomy hall—shrill, pain-wracked screams that devolved into guttural, pleading howls, punctuated by bursts of mad, defiant cursing.
"FILTH! SCUM! YOU'LL DIE A WOLF, LUPIN! IT'S A CURSE, A BLOOD CURSE! AHAHA—AGH! PLEASE! JUST KILL ME! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"
In the drawing-room, Alastor Moody and Sirius Black stood by the cold fireplace, each holding a glass of firewhisky. They listened to the horrific symphony with grim faces.
"Go and tell Lupin that's enough," Moody growled, his magical eye fixed on the ceiling. "Dumbledore will be here soon. We need the bastard coherent."
Sirius knocked back his drink, the burn doing little to ease the tension. "He needs this, Moody. Let him have his hour. Dumbledore won't be here for a while yet."
Moody thumped his wooden leg against the floorboards. "Need I remind you, Black, that this is a Death Eater? The first high-value capture since the snake's return! This isn't about personal vendettas, it's about the war!"
"I know what it's about!" Sirius snapped, his grey eyes flashing. "Better than you! But that thing in there was caught by a schoolboy as a favour. It's not your prize to dictate terms on. Fine. I'll tell him."
He set his glass down with a sharp clink and turned towards the door.
He never reached it.
A soft, familiar voice, laced with gentle amusement, spoke from the shadows near the hallway.
"My dear friends, it seems you are extending a rather… vigorous welcome to our new guest. The neighbourhood might complain."
Albus Dumbledore stepped into the dim light of the room, his blue eyes twinkling despite the surrounding gloom and the awful sounds from downstairs. He had arrived far sooner than expected.
(End of Chapter)
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