Chapter 115: The Dark Lord's Calculations
The air in the drawing-room of Malfoy Manor was cold, thick with the scent of dust, despair, and burnt incense. The few lamps guttered low, casting long, dancing shadows that made the assembled Death Eaters look like spectres themselves.
A hooded figure knelt before the high-backed chair where Lord Voldemort sat, his snakelike face pale in the gloom. "My Lord," the Death Eater rasped, his voice like dry leaves scraping stone. "The Gurg has sent word. The giants are prepared. They await only your final command to march."
A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the room.
"The brutes remember their place," sneered a voice from the shadows.
"They know where true power lies."
"Better than those snivelling werewolves. A useful hammer, at least."
Voldemort's thin lips stretched into a smile that held no warmth. "Their loyalty is… pragmatic. They remember the taste of conquest I offered them. They hunger for it again." His red eyes glinted. "And Dumbledore? He sent his pet half-breed to whisper sweet nothings of peace, no doubt."
The kneeling Death Eater nodded. "The gamekeeper, Rubeus Hagrid. He and the Beauxbatons headmistress came with gifts. Ever-Fire. They were… encouraged to leave."
A low, cruel laugh escaped Voldemort. "Ever-Fire. A pretty trick. But giants do not fight for pretty tricks. They fight for blood, for territory, for the right to crush their enemies into the mud. Dumbledore, in all his wisdom, still believes in appealing to the better nature of things that have none."
He leaned back, the news clearly pleasing him. It had been a bleak winter—setbacks at Hogsmeade, the catastrophic loss of his werewolf pack, the capture of Greyback. But this, the giants' commitment, was a solid victory. A blunt, brutal force to add to his arsenal.
"The dementors grow restless," the Death Eater continued. "Their allegiance to the Ministry weakens by the day. And the Acromantula colony… the old king, Aragog, is dying. The swarm will be leaderless soon."
"Patience," Voldemort whispered, the word a serpent's hiss that silenced the room. "All in its time. The pieces are moving. The wizarding world grows fat and blind under Fudge's delusions. Soon… soon, we will remind them of fear."
His gaze swept the room, lingering on the fervent, worshipping face of Bellatrix Lestrange, who twirled a strand of her wild black hair, her eyes gleaming with manic devotion.
"Bellatrix," he said softly.
She stilled instantly, her entire being focusing on him like a sunflower to a dark sun. "My Lord?"
"Prepare yourself. The time approaches for you to retrieve what is mine from the Ministry."
Her breath hitched. "The prophecy, my Lord? The crystal ball?"
"Yes." Voldemort's smile returned, thin and terrible. "I can feel the Potter boy's mind… fluttering. Dumbledore has him learning Occlumency, a crude defence. But the connection remains. And with it, the path to the Department of Mysteries grows clearer. You will fetch it for me."
Bellatrix sank into a deep, trembling curtsey, ecstasy written on her sharp features. "It will be my honour, my Lord! I will tear the place apart stone by stone!"
"I know you will, my dear Bella. You have always been my most devoted."
The other Death Eaters watched with a mixture of jealousy and relief—jealousy of her favour, relief that the dangerous task was not theirs.
The conversation, inevitably, turned to the other thorn in their side.
"And the new problem, my Lord?" a voice dared to ask from near the fireplace. "The Throne boy? He has cost us dearly."
A ripple of angry agreement followed. The name 'Elian Throne' was a curse among them now, a symbol of humiliation and inexplicable power.
Voldemort's expression did not change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. "The anomaly," he murmured. "He is a curiosity. A puzzle. But a puzzle is a distraction when the prize is within reach." His red eyes narrowed. "The prophecy is the key. Once I hold it, I will know the full measure of this 'new Child of Prophecy'. I will know if he is a true threat or merely a flicker in the dark. Then, and only then, will I decide his fate. For now, he is beneath my direct notice. Let him play his games at Hogwarts. Our eyes are on the Ministry."
It was a dismissal, and the Death Eaters understood. Their Lord was focused on the grand strategy: the giants, the dementors, the prophecy. The strange Muggle-born was a secondary concern, to be dealt with after the foundations of their victory were laid.
But as they bowed and began to disperse, Bellatrix lingered, her mind already racing with plans for the Ministry raid. And Voldemort stared into the dying fire, his thoughts not on giants or prophecies for a moment, but on the description of golden shields and impossible portals. A curiosity, yes. But one that, if the prophecy willed it, might need to be crushed with overwhelming, terrifying force.
He had no idea that the 'distraction' was not waiting to be dealt with. It was preparing to walk into the heart of his new alliance and rewrite its allegiance with a language giants understood far better than diplomacy: absolute, undeniable power.
Back at Hogwarts, the mundane rhythm of school life continued. Elian was heading towards another torturous hour of Defence Against the Dark Arts under Umbridge when a voice called out from a intersecting corridor.
"Elian! Hey, wait up!"
He turned. It was one of the older Weasley brothers, his Prefect's badge glinting on his chest, a look of urgency on his freckled face.
(End of Chapter)
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