Chapter 101: The Banner of Dumbledore
The air in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place was thick with the lingering scent of Molly's stew and a new, sharper tension. The long wooden table, usually littered with maps and empty butterbeer bottles, felt like a council table of war. Elian Throne was not present, but his actions dominated the hushed conversation.
Dumbledore sat at the head, his face grave, his twinkling blue eyes unusually sombre. Around him, the Order of the Phoenix had gathered, summoned by urgent Patronuses. Remus Lupin sat utterly still, staring at a knot in the woodgrain as if it held some terrible memory. Sirius Black leaned back in his chair, attempting his usual careless posture, but his eyes kept flicking to the cellar door. Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye whirled relentlessly, also fixed on that same door.
"You're telling me," a voice broke the heavy silence, "that he captured Fenrir Greyback? The Fenrir Greyback? The monster who turned Remus?"
A young woman with hair that was, at that moment, a shocked bubblegum-pink, had half-risen from her seat. She slapped a hand on the table for emphasis.
Perhaps feeling all eyes on her, she sank back down, a flush of embarrassment colouring her heart-shaped face. "Sorry. It's just… blimey."
This was Nymphadora Tonks, a member of the Order and a newly-qualified Auror. Her Metamorphmagus talent—the rare, innate ability to change her appearance at will—often reflected her emotions, and right now, her pink hair spoke of sheer astonishment.
"Oh, do sit properly, Nymphadora," Molly Weasley chided gently, though her own hands were nervously twisting a tea towel. With Arthur still recovering at St Mungo's, her nerves were frayed.
Tonks offered a weak, apologetic smile and fell silent. She felt the weight of a particular gaze and glanced up to see Remus Lupin watching her. His expression was unreadable, but a deep pain flickered in his tired eyes. Sirius, beside him, was also studying Tonks with a curious, slightly narrowed look.
"Snape's late," growled Mad-Eye Moody, his normal eye glaring at the door, his magical one doing a full circuit of the room. "As usual. Should we start without him?"
"I don't see why not," Sirius muttered darkly. "He probably enjoys making an entrance."
"Peace," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet but instantly commanding. He placed his hands on the table. "We shall begin. I believe most here are now aware of the extraordinary events of the past twenty-four hours involving our… freelance ally, Elian Throne."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. Seeing no confusion, only grim anticipation, he continued.
He recounted, in precise detail, the attack on the Lovegood home. He described the twelve werewolf Death Eaters, the arrival of Greyback, and Elian's solitary, devastating defence. He spoke of powers not seen in their world: shimmering golden shields that shattered curses, discs of light that cut like swords, a cloak that defied gravity, and portals that twisted space. Finally, he told them of the broken, captive monster now bound in the cellar.
A profound silence followed, broken only by the creak of the house and the faint crackle of the kitchen fire.
Several members who hadn't been on the scene—Dedalus Diggle, Hestia Jones—stared at Dumbledore, their faces pale with disbelief. It sounded like a legend, not a report from the night before. A sixteen-year-old boy had not only survived but had triumphed against one of Voldemort's most feared lieutenants and his pack.
"Albus," Dedalus Diggle finally whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and desperate hope. "This magic he uses… it's entirely different. Is it… is there any possibility that… that he might…"
He couldn't finish, but his meaning hung in the air, palpable and urgent. Could they learn it? That shield that blocked curses? The instant travel? In a war where they were outnumbered and outgunned, such tools would be a game-changer.
Before the thought could take root in others, Dumbledore raised a hand. His expression was kind but utterly firm.
"Dedalus," he said, and his voice left no room for argument. "Elian's arts are his own. They are a profound and personal discipline. If he ever chooses to share his knowledge, we would be honoured students. But it is not a subject for us to broach. It is a gift, not an entitlement. We must respect his boundaries as we would wish our own to be respected."
His sharp blue eyes scanned every face at the table, a silent command. The flicker of hope in some eyes dimmed, replaced by understanding, and in a few, a shade of disappointment. The wizarding world had been static for so long; the idea of a new branch of magic was intoxicating.
"Our role," Dumbledore continued, his voice softening slightly, "is to offer trust and support. He has fought our enemy, at great risk to himself and those he cares for. He has earned our loyalty, not our demands."
Nods went around the table, some more enthusiastic than others. Dumbledore's point was clear: Elian was not a resource to be mined, but a powerful and volatile ally to be respected.
The meeting shifted to other topics—the increased Death Eater activity since the Azkaban breakout, the Ministry's deepening denial, the critical importance of guarding the prophecy at the Ministry. But the spectre of the powerful young man and his captive hung over everything.
Just as the meeting was drawing to a close, the kitchen door swung open with a soft creek.
Severus Snape stood in the doorway, his black robes swirling with the movement. His face was paler than usual, a sheen of sweat on his brow as if he had travelled far and fast. His dark eyes swept the room, lingering for a fraction of a second on the empty space where a certain Muggle-born might have sat, before settling on Dumbledore.
"My apologies, Headmaster," he said, his voice a low bat. "I was… unavoidably detained. The Dark Lord is not pleased. The loss of his werewolves has drawn his eye. He is intensely curious about the one who took Greyback. The name 'Elian Throne' is now spoken in the inner circle."
He stepped fully into the room, the door closing behind him with a click that sounded like a lock turning.
"It seems," Snape said, his gaze finally finding Remus Lupin's, "the boy has not merely caught a wolf. He has waved a red flag before a bull."
(End of Chapter)
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