Chapter 87: A Message and a Gathering Storm
Elian had spent two days at 35 Carnaby Street in a state of focused curiosity. The Time-Turner, now hanging from a hook on his bedpost, was his primary subject. It was a marvel of magical engineering—or perhaps alchemy—whose origins and principles were lost to known wizardkind. It offered a controlled, short-term rewind of personal time, a one-way trip into the immediate past. He'd hoped, perhaps foolishly, that by studying its magic, he might glean some insight into the nature of time itself, something that could interface with the potential of the Time Stone use he possessed. But after careful, cautious experimentation (he'd gone back an hour to re-read a paragraph in a book, just to test it), he found its magic was entirely self-contained, a perfect, opaque black box. Fascinating, but ultimately unyielding to his understanding.
As dusk deepened into night on the second day, he was about to draw the curtains when a movement in the darkening sky caught his eye. A small, dark shape was growing larger, weaving an erratic, wobbling path towards his window.
An owl.
To a Muggle, it might be an oddity. To a wizard, it was a messenger. Elian watched its approach with growing bemusement and then dawning recognition. This was no sleek Ministry owl or stately school bird. This owl flew with the desperate, lurching determination of a very old, very tired creature. It dipped suddenly, plummeted a few feet, then flapped madly to regain altitude, its flight path a series of jarring zigzags.
The Weasleys' owl, Elian realised with a pang of sympathy. Errol. The ancient family postman, who should have been enjoying a retirement of mice and snoozing in a sunbeam, was still dutifully carrying the post for a family too fond—and too financially stretched—to replace him.
Elian quickly opened the window and leaned out, watching the owl's agonising final approach. What should have been a simple glide and perch became a fraught, stumbling descent. Errol misjudged the distance entirely, overshot the sill, and tumbled head over tail-feathers into the room with a soft thump, scattering a dozen ragged brown feathers.
"Merlin's beard," Elian muttered, hurrying over. He gently righted the dazed bird, who blinked up at him with unfocused, rheumy eyes. "Easy there, old fellow. Your job's done."
He found a small dish, filled it with water, and crumbled some biscuits from his cupboard beside it. Errol needed sustenance and rest before he could even think of the return journey. While the owl pecked gratefully, Elian carefully untied the letter fastened to its leg.
The address was precise in the wizarding fashion: *Third-floor south-facing bedroom, 35 Carnaby Street, London. Mr. Elian Throne.*
He broke the seal—a simple, functional one, not the Ministry's wax—and unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was neat, but showed a slight, spidery tremor.
Dear Mr. Throne,
Arthur Weasley of the Order of the Phoenix sends his greetings.
Headmaster Dumbledore has asked me to inform you that, as your intention to visit the Lovegood residence on Christmas Day was made public in 'The Quibbler,' it has likely drawn attention. According to reliable intelligence, there is a high probability that Death Eaters will attempt an attack on the Lovegood household during the Christmas period.
Please do not be unduly alarmed. Headmaster Dumbledore has arranged for members of the Order to be on hand to provide assistance.
Your friend,
Arthur Weasley
Elian lowered the letter, his earlier academic curiosity evaporating, replaced by a cold, sharp fury that settled in his gut like a block of ice.
Christmas. The Lovegoods. Luna. They were targeting a home, a family celebration, because of him. Because he was friends with Luna, and because Xenophilius had printed the truth. It was a coward's move, designed to punish, to terrorise, and to draw him out. Guilt, hot and immediate, flared alongside the anger. He had brought this shadow to their door.
But the guilt was quickly smothered by a rising, ruthless resolve. They thought they were hunting? They thought the Lovegood home was a trap for him?
A cold smile touched his lips. The System's bonus mission glowed in his mind's eye. [Current Count: 0].
Dumbledore's intelligence network was impressive. This didn't smell like Snape—the Potions Master was too careful to leak every plan, and this felt like a broader, more brutish tactic Voldemort would approve of to test his new weapon and punish dissent. No, this came from another source within the Order's web.
Elian sat at his small desk, pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, and dipped a quill in ink. His reply was brief, just four words penned in a sharp, clear hand:
They come, they stay.
He tied it to Errol's leg once the owl had drunk its fill and looked marginally less likely to expire mid-flight. "Safe journey, old timer," he said softly, carrying the bird to the windowsill. Errol gave a feeble hoot and launched himself into the night, his flight marginally steadier after the rest.
Elian watched him disappear into the London gloom, then turned back to his quiet room. The festive lights from other windows seemed suddenly mocking. He picked up the Time-Turner from its hook, the cool metal warming slightly in his palm. It wasn't a weapon, but it was a tool. And he had others.
He walked to the centre of the room, closed his eyes, and began to run through a series of meditative exercises, visualising his shields, his telekinetic foci, the steps of the Icon Illusion. The gentle hum of London at night faded away, replaced by the inner silence of preparation.
The Death Eaters saw Christmas at the Lovegoods' as an opportunity.
So did he.
"You think you're setting a trap," he whispered into the stillness, his eyes opening, gleaming with focused intent in the dim light. "You have no idea what you're walking into."
The holiday had officially begun. And with it, the hunt.
(End of Chapter)
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