If the tension at Hogwarts was full of vitality, then hundreds of miles away in Wiltshire, the tension at Malfoy Manor carried a rotten, suffocating mustiness.
Night fell, and rain poured down.
The manor's exquisite wrought-iron gates were knocked on again and again, as figures wrapped in black cloaks hurried through the curtain of rain and entered the mansion that had once symbolized glory and power.
They were Death Eaters.
Or rather, they were those respectable people who had once escaped trial, only to be plunged into fear by the Dark Lord's return.
The hall was brightly lit, but the light brought no warmth whatsoever. Instead, it illuminated the pallor and apprehension that no one could hide.
Avery, Nott... these heads of pure-blood families, so high and mighty in ordinary times, now stood stiffly beside the long table like a group of primary school children waiting for a lecture from their teacher, not even daring to breathe loudly.
Their eyes kept drifting toward the tightly shut black door at the end of the hall.
It was the door leading to the master's study.
"Lucius,"
Avery finally could not bear it any longer. He approached Lucius Malfoy, who had just emerged from that door, and asked in a trembling voice.
"Is the master... is the master still busy?"
Lucius Malfoy looked more exhausted than ever before.
His eyes were sunken, and his once meticulously groomed platinum hair looked somewhat dry, but his back remained ramrod straight, and he wore a restrained, arrogant false smile.
It was a disguise, and a survival instinct.
"Of course, Avery."
Lucius leisurely adjusted his cuffs and spoke in a condescending tone.
"The master is conducting... exceedingly profound, exceedingly great magical research. It is in preparation for utterly crushing Dumbledore and that Holmes."
Remembering his master raging