Werewolves really were brainless creatures.
Seeing the temporary leader of that pack of werewolf wizards agree so readily, a flicker of contempt passed through Lucius's eyes.
Agreed? Good. Very good. Consider the money payment for your funeral—and for these Death Eaters as well.
Lucius laughed inwardly, so hard he nearly lost control of his expression. He quickly diverted the topic.
"Next, we must discuss our specific plan," Lucius said. "We need to display the power and authority of the Death Eaters, to show those lowly Mudbloods and half-blood wizards our strength."
"We'll just act. Tell us what to do and we'll do it. You make the plans."
The leading Werewolf wizard was already blinded by greed, his mind filled only with the Galleons he expected.
He sneaked a glance at his companions. Seeing the green gleam in their eyes, he suddenly felt uneasy.
He would have to divide the money carefully, or he would be torn apart by his own men.
Thinking back, the werewolves they once won over from Midgard were much easier to handle—they didn't need money at all, just a promise.
Maybe he should recruit them, then use them to get rid of his own disobedient subordinates?
The werewolf wizards all fell into a silence thick with ulterior motives.
Lucius needed only one glance to know they were useless. He turned to the others instead.
"In my opinion," someone suggested, "the Quidditch World Cup is in three years. We could attack the venue then."
"Too long. The Master cannot wait," Lucius rejected.
It wasn't Voldemort who couldn't wait—he couldn't.
His plan was full of uncertainty. Voldemort's appearance at Hogwarts was unnatural. He seemed to be after something there—something that could restore him. Who knew when he might succeed?
By then, Lucius wouldn't have time to act before his own death.
He had to eliminate Voldemort's entire base before the resurrection—leave him utterly alone. Let him see how much chaos he could cause then.
"Then what about attacking St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries?" Goyle's family head offered a terrible idea.
"Shut up! That's where Europe's finest healers are. Do you want us to make enemies of them?" the neighboring patriarch rebuked him.
"Oh—sorry, I didn't think of that." Old Goyle wiped sweat from his brow.
Watching them choose their own graves one idea at a time, Lucius felt a swell of satisfaction, even the urge to break into song.
He smoothed down his excitement and smiled.
"How about attacking Azkaban?" Lucius suggested pleasantly.
"Azkaban?"
The name alone made all the pure-blood patriarchs stiffen.
They had nearly been thrown into Azkaban themselves. If Lucius Malfoy hadn't taken the lead back then, they'd still be suffering in that nightmare.
"Yes, Azkaban," Lucius continued gently. "Our comrades are still there. I'm sure the Master would love to see his loyal servants standing neatly before him when he returns, ready for his inspection."
"Imagine it—when our Master returns and sees every follower united before him. He will not be stingy… not with the power that brings one back from death."
That was enough to sway all the pure-blood heads. They were nothing like those uncouth werewolves—they were noble families who prized lineage...
Of course, they wouldn't mind fifty thousand Galleons either. But unlike those werewolf mercenaries, they were official members. Causing trouble was part of their duty.
Otherwise, imagine Voldemort returning, asking questions—
What? You demanded payment for serving your Master? Do you want to die?
A single curse, and they'd be gone.
So they could only envy the werewolves' payout, but they would never dare to ask. In part to maintain their pure-blood dignity—and in part out of fear.
Not all pure-blood families were truly wealthy. In fact, the only ones prospering were the Malfoys and their two tagalongs, the Goyles and Crabbs.
Otherwise, those two families wouldn't send their sons—their future heirs—to trail after Malfoy's boy.
With the plan set, and after some brief discussion of trivial details, the hastily convened meeting dispersed.
...
Malfoy retrieved twenty thousand Galleons from the family vault and handed it to the werewolves' temporary leader. Then he stood by the study window, watching the jubilant werewolves and the pure-blood patriarchs whispering their concerns as they left. His expression slowly twisted into something feral.
"Lucius…"
Narcissa's voice came from behind him. Lucius composed himself and turned toward his wife.
"Narcissa." He opened his arms and embraced her.
"Have you truly decided?" Narcissa asked, voice trembling as she leaned against him.
"Of course, my dear," Lucius said softly.
"But doing this will doom the Malfoy family. You will die. And the Malfoy family will be destroyed," Narcissa whispered, unable to bear the thought.
Lucius's decision didn't just send the Death Eaters to their deaths—he was offending the Ministry as well.
To provoke both the Dark Lord and the Ministry… as the instigator, the Malfoys could never escape.
"So what? If I can bite off the Dark Lord's first arm, sacrificing the Malfoy family is worth it. I will make that bastard who dismissed my son's life pay for it."
Lucius spoke calmly. "When the time comes, follow the plan I prepared. Leave Europe. No matter how powerful the Dark Lord or the Ministry become, they won't be able to touch you."
"Why don't you come with me? We can start anew somewhere else—build a new Malfoy family!" Narcissa cried, teeth clenched.
"One of us must stay and bear everything. As the culprit, they will not stop until I'm dead. Staying would only drag you down with me." Lucius cradled her face. "Narcissa, I've already lost Draco. I cannot lose you too."
"But I've lost my son. I refuse to lose my husband."
Tears welled in Narcissa's eyes.
"Narcissa…"
"Lucius…"
They looked into each other's eyes and kissed, unable to resist.
Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm silhouette of the two.
But this touching moment was abruptly broken by an unwelcome voice.
"Seems we arrived at a rather unfortunate time, Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy."
...
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