Travers's lips were trembling.
He wanted to say something, to argue, to defend the impassioned declaration he had just made.
But Lucius gave him no chance.
"You think you're defending the glory of pure blood?"
Lucius gave a cold laugh.
"You don't even know what weapons your opponents are using. What are you going to defend it with?"
"Your bloodline? Will your bloodline stop a twenty-thousand-volt electric shock?"
"Or are you planning to negotiate with those assembly-line gears using your family tree?"
Travers's face went from flushed to deathly pale.
He swallowed rapidly.
Lucius withdrew his finger.
He stepped back, bent down, and picked up a torn scrap of a page from the floor.
Half a mechanics formula remained on the scrap.
He held it out in front of Travers.
"This is the Dark Lord's absolute will."
There was something in Lucius's tone colder than Voldemort himself.
"If you don't figure out how these gears turn..."
His gaze bored into Travers's eyes.
"I'll stuff you into a Muggle meat grinder tonight."
"I'll flip the switch myself."
"Then I'll tell the Dark Lord you refused the chance he gave you to atone."
That last sentence carried more weight than all the preceding threats.
Refusing to atone meant betrayal.
Those who betrayed Voldemort would not even be granted an easy death.
Not everyone got to enjoy Avada Kedavra.
Travers's knees buckled.
He did not kneel.
He crumpled.
As though his entire skeleton had been pulled out, he slid down the wall to the floor.
He reached out a trembling hand and took the scrap of paper.
Lucius straightened.
He turned to face the entire long table.
To face all the Death Eaters with their heads lowered, afraid to meet his eyes.
The basement air was as cold as iron.
Some invisible pressure