HP: The Duelist of Hogwarts - 429

Chapter 429: A Secret Meeting at Malfoy Manor

“Mr Scrimgeour, I am ashamed that I once thought you were liars. I believed every word Minister Fudge said, but now it seems the real liar may well be the Minister himself.”

“It does not matter,” Scrimgeour replied. “For now, none of us has absolute proof that he has returned. But even without proof, we ought to investigate carefully and prepare for the worst. We should not, out of some deep, instinctive fear, lie to ourselves and everyone else that he has not come back. For ordinary folk, that choice might not be entirely wrong. But for us in the Ministry, for us as Aurors, it is nothing but cowardice and dereliction of duty.”

“Just as you say, Mr Scrimgeour. I believe the Ministry must be on guard. From today, I will follow you and do what I can to prepare for his revival.”

“Good. With you joining us, our strength will grow considerably.”

“You flatter me, Mr Scrimgeour.”

As the young Auror left, Scrimgeour turned to the aide behind him. “How many does that make?”

“The sixth, Mr Scrimgeour. And there are others who want to arrange meetings. They are also younger, all Aurors who joined the office in the last few years.”

Scrimgeour nodded, satisfied. “It is still the young ones. They are hot-blooded, and they still have hopes and ambitions for this world. Only they are not fully in thrall to those pure-blood puppets.”

“Mr Scrimgeour, what about Madam Marchbanks? Are we going to move in support of her side as well?”

“If they ask for our help, we act at once. If they do not, we should not rush in on our own. That may only cause them trouble.”

“Understood.”

The aide fell silent. Scrimgeour lifted his teacup and took a sip, turning over his next steps in his mind.

At this point, the Order of the Phoenix and Scrimgeour’s group were sharing intelligence. The Order worked in the shadows, Scrimgeour in the open. Between them, they had already apprehended a number of new Death Eaters who had joined Voldemort. Unfortunately, those men knew very little about Voldemort’s exact location. They only knew he was planning something, not what or where.

Malfoy Manor, a hidden chamber.

Voldemort sat at the head of the table. Nagini slithered ceaselessly around his chair.

Lucius Malfoy sat humbly on Voldemort’s right, in the first seat. Directly opposite him was Barty Crouch Junior, his expression darker and more sullen than ever. His severed right arm had been replaced through magic, but the new limb was not his original one. It was a silver-white arm, run through with shifting red runes that appeared and faded along its surface. Voldemort had called it his reward, forged with Voldemort’s own blood and Barty’s using a blood-binding curse. Through it, Barty’s link to his master had deepened. Voldemort’s power could now literally flow into him.

From the standpoint of magic, Barty Crouch Junior had truly become Voldemort’s child.

He was the only one Voldemort permitted to speak his name aloud, the only one who knew that name was Tom Riddle, the only one who knew the truth of his origin. Voldemort was special to Barty, and Barty was just as special to Voldemort.

On some level, Barty really did see Voldemort as his father. Their backgrounds and families were so alike it was almost uncanny. As for Voldemort, in his cold, deranged way, he did treat Barty as something like a son. For a man who despised ordinary human ties, it was an extraordinary exception.

So when Snape brought Barty back half-dead, Voldemort had praised him openly. He even eased Snape’s burden somewhat. So long as Snape managed, before the end of term, either to kill Sean or deliver him alive to be killed by Voldemort’s own hand, his task would be considered complete.

Barty flexed his new right hand, admiring it. He liked this arm, woven from his blood and Voldemort’s, more than his original flesh. His gaze ran from the silver-white fingers back to his master’s face. “My Lord,” he said, “the Dementors of Azkaban have replied. In principle they are willing to ally with us, but they still have certain demands regarding their future rights and rewards. For now, we have not reached a final agreement.”

“Greedy,” Voldemort murmured. “But it does not matter. The more greedy the Dementors are, the more likely they are to join us. They have guarded Azkaban for the Ministry for far too long. The prisoners there can no longer satisfy their hunger. We will continue to negotiate. They will be ours in the end.”

He turned his gaze to Goyle and Crabbe’s fathers. “How are things with the giants? How did your talks go?”

At his question, both older wizards flinched. Then they stammered together, “We, we have already met with the giants. They… are quite favourable to the idea of cooperating with us. They cannot wait to…”

“Lies.”

Voldemort gave a lazy flick of his arm. A streak of black smoke blasted both men from their seats. They crashed hard to the stone floor, their fat bodies sprawled in undignified heaps. Laughter, sharp and vicious, broke from the other Death Eaters along the table.

“Crucio.”

“Crucio.”

“Crucio.”

The curses slammed into Goyle and Crabbe. Their screams tore through the chamber as they writhed and rolled on the floor, begging Voldemort for mercy.

Lucius pressed his lips together, then spoke. “My Lord, I think their fear and reverence for you made them foolish. They tried to hide the truth, hoping to deceive the greatest master of Legilimency in the world. Perhaps you might allow them to atone. Of all of us here, no one knows the giants’ situation better than they do.

“Of course, this is only a small, perhaps immature suggestion. The decision, as always, rests entirely with you, my Lord.”