"Idiots! Imbeciles!" the blonde man raged as he stalked back and forth.
The hooded figures knelt, heads bent submissively, nearly shaking with fear. He did not even look at them. He was far too angry.
No, not angry. Livid.
"You had them," he said, every word clearly enunciated and laced with venom. "You had hundreds of wizards, all together at the same house. And how many did you manage to kill? How many?"
There was silence except for the clomping of his boots across the wood floor of the cottage.
"Fifteen!"
They flinched violently as his voice echoed in the small room.
"Fifteen wizards and witches killed, out of nearly two hundred! And not a single Mudblood amongst them! And not only did you fail to capture the one we sought, you failed even to find our target until it was too late!"
His cloak flared as he turned at each wall to pace back again. Nobody spoke. Nobody dared. They knew the consequences if they did. He spared a half-moment of satisfaction for that, at least. He had them trained to obey, if not to succeed.
He stopped, breathing heavily. The black robe nearest him twitched slightly, but not enough to be said to have flinched. This, too, pleased him. Fear was useful; but the ability to stand one's ground in spite of fear was even more so. He decided to spare them.
"We will start again," he said more calmly. "We will start again, and we will be thorough. We will find out where our target goes, and when, and with whom. We will track every move. We will learn habits, pleasures, weaknesses, and strengths. And then, when the time is right—we will at last be successful."
He surveyed the roomful of bowed heads and allowed his lip to curl in disdain. They were useful, he supposed, as fear was useful, but like fear, their use was exceedingly limited. "Get out of my sight," he growled.
Every head bent forward to touch the ground before the figures scrambled to their feet and shuffled quickly out the door, still in absolute silence. He watched them go. Fools, he thought with loathing. Not a single one of them who can think for themselves.
The door to the cupboard opened and another man stepped out. His cowl was down around his shoulders, and his dark hair seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. "You handled that well," he observed dryly.
"I do not need commentary from you," the blonde man growled. He clutched his walking stick so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"Of course not." The dark-haired man glided toward him. "But I was not being sarcastic, My Lord. Your current plans will indeed come to fruition. I have Seen it."
The blonde man paused in the midst of swinging round to pace some more, and turned back to face the other. "You have?"
"Indeed. Just as I Saw the failure of your other plans."
The voice was gently rebuking, but the blonde could not take offence. In fact, he coloured at the memory of the warning he'd received and ignored. "Yes, yes," he said. "But you know that this time we will succeed?"
"I am certain of it." The dark man—the Seer—bowed his head. "In my meditations this afternoon, I Saw the capture of the one you seek. There is no question; their Seer will be yours."
The blonde allowed a small smile to creep across his face. "Excellent," he purred. "And you will tell me when the time is right?"
The dark-haired man's face lost expression for a moment, and he spoke in an odd, dense voice: "The Boy Who Lived relies upon the Fire-Haired One, who Sees all. The Fire-Haired One will turn the tide for good or for evil. The Dark Lord of All must control the fire, lest it burn and destroy him."
It was the same prophecy that had led them to this place, this time, this fight. And now it was to come true. The blonde threw back his head and laughed.