noveltune Chapter 337 Lucius's Self-Saving Strategy
Chapter 337 Lucius's Self-Saving Strategy
Chapter 337 Lucius's Self-Saving Strategy (5.4K) (2/2)
Draco Malfoy was squeezed at the edge of the crowd, his pale face flushed from the atmosphere around him. He waved a small Bulgarian lion flag. Although they had lost, Krum's feat had won him the admiration of many young wizards, including himself.
Just then, a large hand wearing a dragon-skin glove gripped his upper arm, which was waving the flag, with irresistible force.
Draco turned around in surprise, meeting his father Lucius's gray eyes, which held no smile.
"Father?"
"Come with me." Lucius's voice was low, almost drowned out by the surrounding noise, but the command was clear. He didn't explain much, but exerted pressure with his eyes while cleverly blocking the view of others with his body, and pulled Draco toward the exit of the private box.
"But, Father, it's not over yet—there's still the awards ceremony—" Draco struggled, not wanting to miss the end of the celebration, and even less wanting to be dragged away like this in front of everyone, which made him feel ashamed.
"Now." Lucius's tone became more forceful, and his fingers tightened.
He didn't give Draco a chance to continue arguing, almost forcibly leading him away from the cheering crowd, through the back row of officials and nobles who were still complimenting each other and drinking champagne, nodding smoothly and politely to a few people who noticed them, as if he were just taking his son away temporarily.
As soon as he stepped out of the private room and into the relatively quiet corridor, Lucius quickened his pace.
Draco was being dragged along, stumbling along, full of grievance and confusion: "Where are we going?"
'
Lucius did not answer, but kept a tense expression and his sharp gaze swept across the corridor.
They soon arrived at a makeshift Floo Network junction managed by the Ministry of Magic, where several green fireplaces were operating for use by officials with urgent matters.
There weren't many people here; only two tired Ministry of Magic employees were registering.
"Mr. Malfoy?" one of the employees recognized him.
"My son is feeling unwell and needs to return to the manor immediately." Lucius's voice returned to its usual cold and arrogant tone, leaving no room for argument, as he shoved a heavy little bag into the other man's hand. "Arrange the fastest route, directly to the fireplace in the Malfoy manor's living room, now."
The employee weighed his money pouch in his hand and immediately nodded: "Of course, sir, I'll connect you right away." He waved his wand and pointed to one of the fireplaces.
Draco panicked completely: "Father! I'm not feeling well? No! I'm fine! I don't want to go back now! The match has just ended, and there are still so many people outside—" He could vaguely see the continuous cheers and magical lights coming from the direction of the camp.
"Quiet, Draco," Lucius interrupted him, turning to his son with a stern look that held a strong warning and a hint of barely perceptible anxiety. "Do as I say. Go home immediately, stay with your mother at the manor, and don't go anywhere else. Wait for my news. This is not negotiable."
The flames in the fireplace suddenly turned emerald green.
"Go in," Lucius commanded, placing his hand behind Draco's back.
Draco looked at his father's face, which appeared particularly cold and unfamiliar in the green flames, and all his resentment and anger were suppressed by a sudden chill.
My father had never been so firm and—eager—on such a matter.
He gritted his teeth and, before his father could push him, stepped into the flames, speaking his destination in as steady a voice as possible: "The living room of Malfoy Manor!"
A flash of green light, and his figure vanished.
Lucius stood there, watching the fireplace flames return to their normal orange-red color. A few seconds later, he slowly exhaled a barely audible puff of stale air.
He straightened his cuffs, his face regaining its impeccable indifference, as if he had merely seen off an unimportant guest.
As Lucius Malfoy stepped back into Box One, the captain of the Irish team was receiving the gleaming Quidditch World Cup trophy from Minister Fudge on the Quidditch pitch.
The deafening cheers, the rousing national anthem, and the spray of green and gold confetti filled the entire space, and everyone's attention was firmly fixed on the podium in the center of the stadium.
He silently returned to his original position, his face bearing the perfectly timed, approving smile of a victor, or rather, of the celebratory atmosphere the authorities needed at that moment, as if it had never left.
No one cared about his brief disappearance.
Fouché, beaming, waved to the camera, basking in the glory of being the host country's minister; in the boxes, officials and dignitaries either applauded, raised their glasses to celebrate the "complete success" of the event, or took the last moments for social pleasantries.
Even the waiters' movements of refilling wine never paused for a moment because of his comings and goings.
Lucius's grey eyes calmly swept over every face in the box, each one radiating excitement or satisfaction, quickly assessing them.
Very good, no probing glances, no unexpected incidents.
His departure and return were like a drop of ice thrown into boiling water, instantly melting away without leaving any trace, without causing any suspicion.
His gaze finally cut through the noise and landed on the entrance to the private room, as if he could see through the wall to the next room with a completely different atmosphere.
Harry Potter, the Weasleys, Professor McGonagall, and Jim Lynch, who always unsettled him—they were probably celebrating at that moment, or, in Lynch's style, perhaps just observing calmly.
His gaze refocused on the celebratory private room before him, his gray eyes revealing a cold clarity.
"Nott, Carlo, Avery—those idiots' move is tonight, the arrow is on the bowstring. Although I passed the message to Lord Reggie long ago, all I got was silence. What are the Hangmen waiting for? Or is this tacit approval, or—a test?"
Knuckles unconsciously brushed against the cool silver surface of the snake-head cane inside the sleeve.
"Even if I wanted to distance myself from those former colleagues who only knew how to act recklessly and couldn't see the bigger picture—the Malfoy family tree, its roots have been intricately intertwined with that ancient quagmire called 'pureblood' for centuries. Every breath, every transaction, every marriage—is a binding rope. To extricate myself now? Easier said than done. Not only would I immediately become the target of everyone's criticism, but I might also find myself caught between two sides, falling into the abyss."
Outside the window, the magical light from the camp's celebration illuminated half of his pale face, flickering between light and shadow.
"In that case—tonight, Malfoy will probably have to temporarily follow the wave that is about to rise."
"I need to show those people that Malfoy is still among them—"
"Thank goodness..." His gaze seemed to pierce through distant space, landing on the ancient manor in southern England, protected by layers of magic. "Narcissa and Draco, stay in the absolutely safe fortress. Away from any possible impact, away from any unexpected sights. If they are safe, the Malfoy family still retains its bloodline and its future. As for me—"
As the awards ceremony drew to a close, fireworks rose into the sky once more, dazzling the night sky.
The atmosphere in the private box reached its climax. Lucius raised his glass with everyone, a perfect smile on his lips, and saluted the direction of the arena. Every movement was impeccable.
The fireworks of the awards ceremony faded into a final, brilliant ember in the night sky, and the thunderous cheers were gradually replaced by the noisy murmur of people leaving.
The dignitaries in the penthouse suites also ended their socializing, said their goodbyes, and prepared to return to their respective tents or leave using their key cards.
Lucius Malfoy gracefully stepped out of the box with the flow of people, shook hands with Minister Fudge one last time, and wore an impeccable, slightly tired, satisfied smile, as if he were just an ordinary nobleman who had thoroughly enjoyed a wonderful game and was preparing to return to his estate to rest.
He politely declined the invitations from several officials to continue drinking and calmly joined the crowd that was slowly moving out of the venue.
The Ministry of Magic set up guidance and crowd control measures around the stadium, but the departure of hundreds of thousands of wizards was still slow and crowded.
The air was thick with the lingering scents of excitement, alcohol, and fireworks, a cacophony of laughter, arguments, and children's cries in various languages. Lucius skillfully used his height and presence to maintain his own space within the crowd, his steps measured and his gaze calmly sweeping over the faces still basking in the afterglow of the match.
As he left the brightest area of the main stadium and stepped onto the paths leading to different camp sections, the crowd began to disperse.
He turned onto a relatively quiet, dimly lit path, flanked by dense bushes used for partitioning off areas.
He stopped, seemingly checking a watch that wasn't actually on his wrist, but in reality, he was quickly scanning his surroundings with sharp eyes.
After confirming that no one was paying attention, he quickly slipped away and disappeared into the shadow of a particularly dense bush nearby.
Almost as soon as the shadows engulfed his figure, he skillfully rolled up and put away his expensive dark green robe, like a shed snakeskin.
Instead, he wore a thick, unremarkable black robe with a deep hood, drawn from a sleeve that had been enchanted with a Seamless Stretch spell. He shrouded himself in pure darkness from head to toe, even replacing his signature snake-headed cane with an ordinary black wooden stick.
At that moment, the elegant and dignified Lucius Malfoy vanished.
Emerging from behind the bushes was only a silent, swift, dark figure that blended into the night.
He no longer followed any of the main crowds, but instead, like a ghost familiar with the way, he deliberately slipped through the narrowest and darkest gaps between the tents, avoiding the groups still reveling and drinking and the patrolling Ministry of Magic guards.
He seemed to know the layout of the camp like the back of his hand.
Finally, he stopped in an area far from the main road and near the edge of the forest.
The tents scattered here are even more dilapidated and sparse, like corners temporarily used to store miscellaneous items or house low-level workers.
His target was one of the old, unremarkable, and even slightly crooked canvas tents, with no decorations or signs at the entrance.
He didn't knock, but simply ran his finger swiftly across a specific spot on the tent canvas. The tent flap at the entrance silently parted slightly.
He slipped in sideways, and the curtain immediately fell.
The inside of the tent was much wider than it appeared from the outside, clearly due to a spatial expansion spell.
There was no comfortable furniture here, only cold ground and oppressive air. In the flickering light of the magical torches, a dozen or so figures, also clad in black robes and hooded, had gathered. They stood or crouched silently, the air thick with a chilling atmosphere of tension, excitement, and violence. No one spoke; only heavy breathing and the rustling of fabric filled the air.
Near the only rough wooden table in the center of the tent, three figures dressed in black robes stood and discussed in hushed tones.
One of them was tall and stiff, representing the Nott family; another was slightly hunched, his fingers nervously twitching, a characteristic of the Avery family; and the third stood silently with his arms crossed, exuding a cold aura, belonging to the Carlo family.
Lucius's arrival instantly silenced the whispers and rustling sounds inside the tent.
All the men in black robes, including the three in the center, turned towards the entrance. Despite their hoods obscuring their faces, a silent...
Assessments of status and power permeated the air.
Lucius neither went to the center nor mingled with the crowd on the periphery.
He walked steadily to a spot inside the tent that was neither obviously dominant nor lacking in overall command—a small patch of dry ground in the shadows near the supporting pillar. He stopped, turned to face the group, his movements carrying an unspoken composure and distance befitting the head of the Malfoy family. He didn't speak, but simply raised his arm, shrouded in his black robe, slightly, gesturing for the people in the center to continue.
Old Nott seemed somewhat pleased with Lucius's "low-key" arrival, which lessened the pressure on him to nominally "chair" the meeting. He cleared his throat, and his magically altered, hoarse, distorted voice rang out again: "Malfoy is here too. Time is of the essence; finalize the deployment." He maintained his dominance as much as possible. "Group One, marked: Disrupt the central Floo network nodes, creating massive delays and panic. Group Two, marked: Set fires at the border between the Irish supporters' camp and the Bulgarian supporters' camp, instigate conflict, and divert attention."
"Group Three, marked: the edge of the camp, the Roberts family's cabin, the Muggle administrator. The mission is to make a memorable lesson." A cruel pleasure crept into that twisted voice. "To make all the scum who mingle with Muggles, and those who have forgotten which side they're on, see clearly the true order and—fun—of this world."
At that moment, Lucius's voice came from the shadows.
"Don't kill those Muggles. Torture them, make them scream; that will be more effective."
Representative Nott paused for a moment, seemingly somewhat surprised that Lucius would speak up at this moment.
"—Adjust as Malfoy suggested." Representative Nott finally agreed in a hoarse voice, his tone devoid of emotion. "Spare their lives, but let their screams echo throughout half the camp."
"Put on a mask."
A rustling sound rang out as the men in black robes pulled out metal or wooden masks of various shapes, all with a ferocious or eerie style, and put them on their faces, completely concealing the last possible feature that might reveal their identities.
"For the Dark Lord!" the leader said in a low voice, raising his fist.
"For the Dark Lord." A jumble of suppressed, distorted voices echoed from behind the mask.
"Action!" Nott's hoarse voice overlapped in his mind and in reality.
One by one, masked figures in black robes filed out, like drops of ink falling into the night sky, quickly dispersing and disappearing into the intricate shadows and clamor of the camp.
With the mask on his face, blocking out the outside world's view, only then did a slight ripple appear on the cold lake in Lucius's heart.
"This is the limit I can achieve tonight," he calmly assessed in his mind.
Since that night, when the executioner appeared in the manor hall like a ghost, crushing all defenses with absolute violence, turning the so-called "choice" into the only way to survive, forcibly breaking his own spine—no, forcibly putting a collar around his own neck.
He then began to spend countless Galleons and use clandestine channels to collect all the fragmentary information about the hangman.
"A ghost that appeared suddenly during the war, only to vanish just as quickly afterward. His entire saga, from the moment he came into view, is a relentless hunt for notorious, brutal dark wizards. From the mid-to-late 1970s until the eve of the Dark Lord's downfall, the list is chillingly long. The Ministry of Magic even secretly rejoiced that this mysterious force 'helped them eliminate many troublesome targets.'"
He moved silently with the other men in black robes, but his thoughts raced.
"I sat in the study at Malfoy Manor, staring at that long list for a long time. Nott and Carlo only saw the power and mystery of the hangman, and only thought about using or resisting him. But what I saw was a kind of—underlying rule."
Outside the tent, the night breeze was slightly cool.
The outline of the target cabin was faintly visible in the distance.
“Every single person on the list, without exception, is a wanted criminal publicly by the Ministry of Magic, with undeniable crimes. And what is their most common, and most prominent, characteristic?” Lucius’s gaze, peering through the visor of his mask, locked onto the dim light from the hut’s window. “Human lives. Behind each name hangs at least several, even dozens, of wizards’ or Muggle’s lives. This was not unusual in that bloody era, so no one ever made that connection.”
"But what if—this is the gallows's invisible bottom line? What if his selection of targets isn't based on bloodline or personal grudges, but rather on the amount of blood stained with—the blood of those deemed innocent by the magical world's authorities?"
This conjecture sent chills down his spine, yet it remained logically and coldly self-consistent.
The hangman's obsession with "order" and his exploitation and control of "chaos" may be based on some kind of colder "purification" criterion that he himself has set.
"Then, the life and death of these Muggles tonight will become a touchstone that is insignificant yet potentially crucial." He gripped the wand in his sleeve.
"Torture, intimidation, creating chaos—that's all within the rules of the game. But if you directly add a few Muggle lives to your hands—"
He didn't want to gamble on that possibility.
Especially given Lynch's close relationship with Harry Potter and his apparent close ties with the pure-blood traitors, the Weasleys.
"I suggest sparing their lives. This aligns with Nott and his group's desire to create a terrifying effect while minimizing the risk of crossing that potential red line. Nott agreed, and the others will follow suit," Lucius calmly analyzed his actions. "If the gamble pays off, everyone's happy, and it's in everyone's best interest. If it pays off—it's just a few Muggles surviving by sheer luck; for me, for the Malfoy family, there's no loss. But if the gamble pays off—"
Beneath the mask, the corner of his mouth twitched extremely slightly; it wasn't a smile, but a cold, calculating arc.
This might be the tiny, yet potentially crucial, "correct" thing he managed to quietly secure for the Malfoy family in this suffocating predicament.
Lucius followed the figures belonging to "Group Three" and silently crept towards the edge of the camp, in the direction of the Muggle administrator's family.
His steps were steady, his heartbeat calm, as if he were performing a tedious but unavoidable official duty.
The jet-black mask reflected a cold luster under the occasional flashes of magical light.