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Chapter 80: The Hunting Plan
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Dumbledore paused, his hand hovering over a delicate silver instrument on his desk. "That is a considerable request, Elian. It is not impossible, but I must understand your purpose." He moved slowly back to his chair, his eyes never leaving the young man before him. He had hoped Elian would join the Order, becoming a protected asset within their ranks. Sharing intelligence with an independent operator was a far riskier proposition.
Elian had anticipated the question. His answer was direct, stripped of any pretence. "I intend to hunt them during the holidays. If you have information on Death Eater movements, locations, or identities, give them to me. I will deal with them."
The statement hung in the air, stark and simple. Dumbledore's eyes, usually twinkling with hidden knowledge, sharpened with intensity. The boy was not boasting. He was stating a tactical plan. The memory of the Hogsmeade report—five experienced Death Eaters slaughtered, Lucius Malfoy fleeing in terror—was vivid. Here was a weapon of immense, focused power offering its services.
"Mr. Throne," Dumbledore began, his voice measured. "If you don't mind, I would still appreciate the reasoning behind this… proactive approach. One does not typically seek out such dangerous quarrels on a whim. It is a burdensome path."
A faint, knowing smile touched Dumbledore's lips as he peered over his spectacles. He was testing, probing for the motivation beneath the cool confidence.
Elian met his gaze steadily. "Professor, you know the Dark Lord and his followers have taken a marked interest in me. Leaving Hogwarts makes me a vulnerable target. I prefer to dictate the terms of engagement. Waiting for danger to come to my doorstep is a losing strategy." His tone was calm, analytical. The profound danger of being hunted by the most feared terrorists in the wizarding world was, in his delivery, reduced to a logistical problem to be solved.
Dumbledore was struck anew by the sheer, unnerving steadiness of him. To most, even to many seasoned Aurors, the mention of a Death Eater plot would bring a chill, a flicker of fear. In Elian's voice, there was only resoluteness. It was not bravado, but the quiet certainty of someone who had already assessed the threat and found himself not wanting.
I have still underestimated him, Dumbledore thought, a wave of solemn amazement washing over him. He had recognised power, but this was a mindset, a chillingly practical warrior's calculus.
"Very well," Dumbledore said at length, rising from his seat. He moved around the desk, his robes whispering against the stone floor. "In that case, Mr. Throne, I believe we can come to an arrangement. Let us call it a… collaborative understanding." He extended his right hand.
For the Order, perpetually outnumbered and operating from the shadows, such an ally was not to be refused. It was an unconventional, perhaps morally ambiguous, but undeniably potent opportunity.
Elian stood and took the offered hand. Dumbledore's grip was firm and surprisingly warm. "It's a pleasure to cooperate," Elian said. "Any credible information you can provide, at any time, will be put to use."
There was a quiet eagerness in his words, a hunter's anticipation that did not escape Dumbledore's notice.
Meanwhile, far from the warmth of the Headmaster's office, a chill permeated the drawing-room of Malfoy Manor. The Dark Lord sat in a high-backed chair, his bone-white fingers stroking the scales of the great snake Nagini coiled beside him. His Death Eaters stood in a semicircle before him, a tableau of fear and devotion.
"My Lord… I beg forgiveness," stammered a cloaked figure, Amycus Carrow, his body trembling violently. "The intelligence was flawed… we did not anticipate an Order guard…"
The Dark Lord lifted a hand, the gesture silencing the man's pleas. His high, cold voice sliced through the tense air. "Dear Amycus, compose yourself. Dumbledore's vermin are more prepared than we credited. This failure is not yours alone." The words were magnanimous, but the red glint in his slit-pupiled eyes promised otherwise for future disappointments.
Amycus sagged with relief, muttering thanks. Beside him, his sister Alecto gazed at the Dark Lord with fervent, grateful eyes.
This adoration drew a sudden, grating laugh from the shadows. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped forward, her wild hair framing a face alive with manic fervour. "Two useless fools! Can't even manage a simple piece of information!" she crowed. "Amycus! Alecto! Next time you fail, I promise you will not stand before our Lord at all!" Her voice echoed madly in the high-ceilinged room.
No one dared to challenge her. Bellatrix, fresh from Azkaban and burning with fanatical zeal, held a privileged place in her master's favour. She was a weapon they all feared.
The Dark Lord's thin lips stretched into what might have been a smile. "Bellatrix… my most loyal. Your fire has been missed. Welcome home." He acknowledged the others with a nod. "All of you. Your return strengthens us."
The recent failures had gnawed at him, seeding doubts about the competence and loyalty of his followers. But with his inner circle restored—the fanatics, the ruthless, the truly devoted—some of his irritation eased. He had his instruments again.
"Now," the Dark Lord hissed, his voice dropping. "We turn to other matters. The Potter boy remains a priority. But there is a new… variable. A name spoken with increasing frequency."
"Elian Throne," Bellatrix spat, her eyes alight with interest. "The 'new prophecy child.' A Muggle-born upstart at Hogwarts. Let me deal with him, my Lord! Let me peel the skin from his bones and see what makes him so special!"
"Patience, Bellatrix," the Dark Lord murmured, still stroking Nagini. "Hogwarts term ends soon. He will return to the Muggle world, away from Dumbledore's protection." He turned his gaze to a still, silent figure standing slightly apart from the others, shrouded in shadow. "Severus."
All eyes shifted. Bellatrix's expression curdled into instant, venomous hatred. "Snape?" she snarled. "That traitor? He slithers back to your side, my Lord?"
The Dark Lord's hand stilled on Nagini. "Silence, Bella. Severus's position is of my own design. His value is proven." He returned his attention to the Potions Master. "You will ascertain Throne's precise location in the Muggle world. The address where he will spend his holiday. I wish to know the ground upon which this anomaly walks."
From the depths of his cloak, Severus Snape gave a slow, shallow bow. "It will be done, my Lord." His face was a mask of impassive obedience, revealing nothing of the cold dread that had just pooled in his stomach.
(End of Chapter)
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