Chapter 592: The Manhunt
Three months.
It had been exactly ninety days since Lord Voldemort's resurrection. In those
three months, Albus Dumbledore had hunted him down four times.
The first encounter took place in a ruined castle on the Bulgarian border.
Voldemort was attempting to gain access to a sealed vault of ancient Dark Arts
manuscripts. Dumbledore had shattered the windows at midnight, and the silver
edge of the Sword of Gryffindor had caught Voldemort across the ribs, severing
half of his arm. The Dark Lord had vanished in a mist of blood, abandoning his
arm and the scrolls.
The second occurred in a deep cavern within the Carpathian Mountains. Voldemort
had summoned the first wave of his returning Death Eaters—only three of the most
fanatical. Dumbledore had appeared at the cave's mouth mid-meeting, sealing the
entire mountain in a massive Freezing Charm before flushing them out with
Fiendfyre. One of the Death Eaters didn't make it out. Voldemort didn't care.
The third was only eleven days later. In a dense forest on the border of Albania
and Montenegro, Voldemort attempted to create a new Horcrux at the cost of a
traveling wizard's life. The ritual was halfway through when Dumbledore emerged
from the timber. He shattered the half-formed soul-vessel, forcing Voldemort to
duel while his magic was still unstable from the ritual. The battle lasted
nearly an hour; Voldemort's left femur was crushed by a stone pillar, and
Nagini's tail was severely scorched by cursed fire.
Voldemort escaped again, but he was limping.
The fourth time, Voldemort hid in a Muggle city. He assumed Dumbledore would
never risk a large-scale magical conflict in a densely populated area.
He was wrong.
Dumbledore spent a week weaving a web of deception—a manufactured "gas leak
emergency"—to evacuate the entire district. At three in the morning, he
descended upon the abandoned factory where Voldemort was hiding. There were no
witnesses to the duel, only a ten-meter-deep crater left in the concrete ruins.
Voldemort had lost half of his face—literally. His new flesh had been scorched
by a unique, unhealable magic, exposing the bone and muscle beneath. The mark
was a permanent, horrific testament to the battle. He chose not to heal it. He
kept the scar as a daily reminder: Albus Dumbledore was no longer the Headmaster
hiding behind the walls of Hogwarts, waiting for prophecies.
Dumbledore had become a madman. And Voldemort suspected there was an even more
dangerous "little madman" standing behind him.
Now, in the depths of an abandoned coal mine in Northern Yorkshire, Voldemort
huddled on a jagged rock shelf. Nagini was coiled at his feet, her golden eyes
fixed on her master.
Voldemort kept his eyes shut.
Four times. Every single time, Dumbledore had found him first. Every single
time, the Headmaster struck when Voldemort was at his weakest—drained of mana,
mid-ritual, or during a sensitive transit. It was as if Dumbledore held a map of
his every thought.
"Again," Voldemort rasped, his voice thick with exhaustion.
For the first time in three months, he felt truly tired. His body had been
repaired three times, and his magic was finally stabilizing in the new vessel.
But the mental fatigue—the suffocating feeling of being predicted and dismantled
at every turn—was driving him toward the edge of insanity.
"How does he find me?! HOW?!" Voldemort roared at the snake, his voice echoing
off the damp stone.
Behind him, two servants trembled in the dark.
"Where is Lucius?" Voldemort hissed, his eyes snapping open.
"I... I do not know, my Master," one of the wizards replied, his right hand
white with terror.
"Someone is selling me out," Voldemort said after a long silence. His voice was
low, but it carried through the mine like a death rattle.
Nagini raised her head, letting out a low hiss.
"It is not Wormtail," Voldemort continued. "He is dead. And the lunatics in
Azkaban—they don't even know I have returned. It is someone close to me. Someone
I asked to rebuild the ranks. Someone who kneels at my feet and swears they
never betrayed me."
He stood up, pacing the floor of the shaft. He limped slightly on his left
leg—the stone spike from the third battle had left his new bone brittle. The
right side of his face was a mask of rigid, charred muscle.
"Lucius was the only one who knew about the Bulgarian vault. It was tied to the
Malfoy estate. The Carpathian meeting? I told him to notify McNair. He did, and
Dumbledore sealed the cave before we could begin.
"The third time? I told Lucius nothing. Dumbledore didn't intercept me then—he
only caught up with me during my retreat, as if tracking my magical signature.
That proves the third time wasn't based on intel.
"And the fourth? Lucius suggested the Muggle city. He said Dumbledore wouldn't
dare use power there. I listened. And Dumbledore blew a hole in the earth
directly above my head."
Voldemort turned to the giant snake, his scarlet pupils burning in the dark.
"He is feeding my every move to Dumbledore. He thinks I cannot see it. He wraps
his treachery in the packaging of 'loyal advice'..." Voldemort's voice turned
unnervingly calm. "Watch, Nagini. I will kill him for this."
The snake let out a dry, rasping sound. Voldemort's lips curled up—half his face
smiled, while the other half remained a frozen snarl of scar tissue. He walked
two steps toward the exit and paused.
"I should have seen it. He pretends to fear the old fool, and the fear is real.
A man with fear is a man who can be swayed. He wants Draco to graduate in a
world of peace. I hear the boy has been quite... well-behaved at Hogwarts. There
is no such thing as 'cheap' loyalty."
Voldemort reached down to stroke Nagini's scales.
"Lucius Malfoy must die..." his voice was like poison dripping into a pool of
clear water.
Suddenly, the distant cry of a bird echoed through the trees outside the mine.
Voldemort stiffened. He scanned the forest, his hand tightening on his wand.
He prepared to flee.
After a few seconds, it became clear it was just a bird. But the tension didn't
leave him. He looked more vicious than ever.
"He'll come again!" Voldemort muttered to himself. "He'll keep coming until he
kills me, or until he drops dead of old age. He's a lunatic."
Dumbledore's psychological warfare was working. Voldemort would never admit it,
but he felt the walls closing in. Failure was an insult he couldn't stomach—it
was more painful than the physical wounds. He found himself dwelling on his past
glories—the days when Death Eaters crawled before him, when the Minister for
Magic begged for a ceasefire.
"The rules must change... after Lucius is gone..."
Voldemort stopped in the center of the mine shaft. He looked up toward the
ventilation shaft leading to the surface. A sliver of moonlight illuminated his
ruined face.
"The Ministry. Is Fudge still in power? It doesn't matter. Ministry officials
are all the same—they fear war, they fear chaos, and they fear losing their
seats. There are some among them who swore oaths to me long ago. They owe me a
debt. It is time they paid.
"Have the Giants cause 'accidents' in the Highlands. Have the Werewolves strike
in the heart of London... make the Ministry busy!" Voldemort barked.
The two servants vanished instantly.
Only a third figure remained—a young, handsome man who had only just appeared
from the shadows. His face was full of a starving, ambitious hunger. He
understood the plan perfectly.
The Ministry would send Aurors to investigate. They would go to Dumbledore for
help. Dumbledore would be forced to split his attention between Fudge, the Daily
Prophet, and the International Confederation of Wizards.
"Go," Voldemort said, gently touching the servant's face. "Find the man we have
inside Hogwarts. He's become a coward these last three years, but he can still
fetch a few names.
"I want information. Any student third-year or above who has shown 'unusual'
traits. Anyone Dumbledore has taken for private tutoring. Anyone who has
manifested magic far beyond their age in class. Give me the list. I will do the
screening myself."
Voldemort turned and began the walk out of the mine. "You will get old
eventually, Dumbledore. I can wait."
Hogwarts.
Dumbledore reached the edge of the school grounds before dawn. The snow had
stopped, but heavy grey clouds still sat low over the spires, wrapping the
castle in a somber silence.
He didn't use the front gates. He circled through the Forbidden Forest and
entered via a side door that had been forgotten by time.
At this hour, the corridors were empty. Dumbledore utilized a powerful
Disillusionment Charm, careful to avoid a certain young wizard who he knew was
prone to waking up early.
The portraits were mostly dozing. Only a bearded old wizard in a frame on the
second floor cracked an eye, spotted the Headmaster, and immediately went back
to feigning sleep.
Dumbledore stood in the shadows for a moment, watching the boy. He watched Sean
practice his Transfiguration, watched him take a measured sip of a potion, and
then watched him sit on the edge of the fountain, catching snowflakes in his
palm as his magic replenished.
Professor McGonagall appeared in the distance, walking toward the boy and taking
his hand. It had been Albus's plan for Minerva to lead Sean's advanced training
while he was away.
Dumbledore allowed himself a soft smile.
The war had begun. But the boy didn't need to know the details yet. He should be
in the castle, learning magic. Dumbledore knew that one day, Sean would ask why.
He would ask what the war was for.
And when that day came, Dumbledore's answer would be ready. If he fell before
Voldemort did, his death would be the answer: a testament to how far an old
wizard would go for the sake of the future.
He slipped away quietly. Sean seemed to sense something, glancing toward the
portrait, but then he simply gave a slow shake of his head.
It had been a long time since the Headmaster had been "home."
"What are you thinking about?" McGonagall asked.
"Headmaster Dumbledore," Sean replied honestly.
"Don't waste your time on him," McGonagall huffed, though there was a hidden
spark of worry in her eyes. "A Headmaster, vanishing for months without a word!
It's irresponsible."
Sean didn't argue. He looked out the window toward the tree-line of the
Forbidden Forest.
The edge of the woods was deep and shadowed in the pre-dawn light. A single ray
of sun managed to pierce the canopy, illuminating the bed of dead leaves. The
morning wind had begun to pick up, making the bare branches clatter against one
another.
Albus Dumbledore stood beneath an ancient oak. His hands were tucked into his
sleeves, and his long silver beard fluttered in the breeze. He wasn't holding
his wand—at least, he hadn't drawn it.
This wasn't a combat stance. This was the posture of a man waiting.
A rustle of leaves signaled an approach. A figure wrapped in a deep-green
traveling cloak emerged from the shadows, his hood pulled low.
Lucius Malfoy stopped five paces away.
He reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing a face that had aged ten years
in the last three months. His blonde hair was still perfectly groomed, but
streaks of white had appeared at his temples. Deep, dark shadows underlined his
eyes.
"Dumbledore," he said. His voice was light, but he couldn't hide the tremor in
it. He cleared his throat and tried again, firmer this time. "You received my
message."
"I did," Dumbledore said. "I believe we should discuss your current...
situation."
Lucius didn't answer immediately. After a moment, he said wearily, "And what
reason do I have to be concerned?"
"You've been discovered, Lucius," Dumbledore said flatly.
"What?" Lucius stiffened.
"Voldemort knows. It is time for you to return to the light." Dumbledore's tone
was identical to his first sentence—unhurried, calm, and absolutely
non-negotiable.
Lucius's face went through three colors in as many seconds—pale, then a flush of
anger, and finally a grey shade of total collapse.
"You..." his voice caught, then he found it again. "You never intended for me to
stay in the inner circle, did you?"
"I used you for as long as it was safe," Dumbledore replied. "But while you were
selling out Voldemort, he was using you as a conduit for his own traps. He
suspects you, Lucius. You know this."
Lucius's lip trembled. Finally, he whispered, "...Yes."
Dumbledore nodded.
"Will you win?" Lucius asked.
"I believe we will," Dumbledore said. "But honestly? I cannot offer you a
guarantee."
Lucius was silent. He stood there, watching Dumbledore's blue eyes—still bright
even in the fading light—for ten long seconds.
"You have done well, Lucius. You have secured a future for the House of Malfoy,
haven't you? Your instincts for self-preservation have always been...
commendable."
Dumbledore scrutinized the man. "Heh..." Lucius let out a short, formal laugh.
"I will tell him that you were my man all along," Dumbledore said calmly,
reading the man's unvoiced fear.
A flicker of manic hope appeared in Lucius's eyes.
"But you must be prepared, Lucius. Your manor... your assets... your
investments..." Dumbledore said slowly. He was confirming the inevitability of
Voldemort's retribution.
"Oh..." Lucius looked pained for a moment, as if his heart were being torn out.
But then he straightened his back, his aristocratic pride returning. "A
necessary investment."
Dumbledore watched him closely. Lucius Malfoy was, if nothing else, a very
shrewd businessman.
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