His Sovereign

Voldemort knew.

He discovered the truth the moment Snape lay dying in the Shrieking Shack, choking on his own blood and writhing in agony from Nagini’s venom. In those final, fleeting moments, Snape’s occlumency shields shattered, and the Dark Lord tore through his memories like a dagger cutting through silk. There, buried in the potions master’s mind, Voldemort unearthed the damning conversation with Dumbledore—the secret that was meant for Harry alone.

“The Horcrux I hadn’t intended to make,” Voldemort whispered as he withdrew from Snape’s broken mind. His voice was low, laced with malice, yet tinged with wonder. “This changes everything, Nagini.” With a sharp flick of his robes and the Elder Wand in hand, he disapparated, taking his penultimate Horcrux with him.

Harry rushed to Snape’s side, even as the professor’s blood pooled beneath him, staining the wooden floor of the shack. There was no saving him; they both knew it. Snape’s breaths came shallow and quick, his pale lips trembling as he struggled to speak.

“He knows… Take—” Snape gasped, his voice rattling, his pale fingers weakly gesturing to the tears rolling down his cheeks. “Take them.”

Harry collected the vial of shimmering memories, holding it as if it might burn him. The vial felt heavy in his grip—a flask containing truths that would condemn him.

“I failed you, Lily,” Snape murmured, his voice breaking as he exhaled his final breath.

Harry barely registered Hermione’s sharp intake of breath or Ron’s stunned silence. “What does he know?” Hermione’s voice trembled, her wide eyes fixed on Harry’s, dreading the answer.

They ran to the headmaster’s office. Together, they climbed the spiraling staircase …until they reached the pensieve glimmering in the dim light, a silver mist swirling as Harry poured Snape’s memories into the basin.”

When they emerged, the weight of the truth bore down on Harry like a physical force.

Dumbledore’s voice echoed in his mind: “The boy must die.”

The boy who lived—kept alive only to die at the right time. And now, that time had come. Harry stared at his reflection in the glowing pensive, emerald eyes fixed on the scar on his forehead.

Ron and Hermione’s embrace broke through his stupor, their arms encircling him in a desperate, suffocating hug.

“There has to be another way,” Hermione sobbed, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Ron’s silence was deafening, but the tears trailing down his freckled cheeks spoke volumes.

Before they could formulate a plan, the walls of Hogwarts trembled with the force of explosions. Dust rained from the ceiling as the thunderous sounds of battle echoed through the castle. The Death Eaters had returned, and this time, Voldemort was with them.

The trio raced through the castle, dodging rubble and flashes of green light that illuminated the corridors with an eerie glow. Screams of students and the clash of spells filled the air, a symphony of chaos and destruction. The floor quaked beneath their feet, and Harry’s breath came in ragged gasps as he led his friends to the frontline.

“We have to get to the snake!” Harry shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. He didn’t check to see if Ron and Hermione were behind him; he could hear Hermione’s frantic cries to stop.

“Harry! Wait! We have to think this through!” she called.

“There’s nothing to think about!” Harry shot back, spinning around to face them. “Our friends are dying while we just stand here and—”

“Mate, listen to her,” Ron cut in, grabbing Harry’s arm. The motion made Harry stumble, but it wasn’t Ron’s grip that unbalanced him. It was the Sorting Hat lying at their feet, its frayed brim spilling over a glint of silver.

Harry’s breath caught as Voldemort’s chilling voice echoed through the air, amplified to an unnatural volume.

“You would let your friends die for you, Harry Potter?”

The voice slithered into their ears like poison.

Ron snatched up the hat, his expression grim. With one last glance at his friends, the trio sprinted toward the entrance gates.

Voldemort stood at the heart of the carnage, his pale visage illuminated by the flickering flames that consumed parts of the courtyard. Blood streaked the cobblestones, pooling around his feet and staining the hem of his robes. Nagini coiled protectively beside him, her eyes gleaming with malice.

“Enough bloodshed,” Voldemort declared, his voice resonating with an eerie calm. He extended a hand, long and skeletal, toward Harry. “Come now, and this will all be over.”

The battle slowed, fighters on both sides turning their attention to the tableau unfolding at the center. Harry clenched Malfoy’s wand in a white-knuckled grip, meeting Voldemort’s crimson gaze. His legs trembled beneath him, but he stood firm.

Then—an arm wrapped around his neck. He froze, recognizing the touch immediately. Bushy hair brushed his face as Hermione pressed her wand to his throat, her hand trembling.

“If you come near, he dies!” Hermione screamed, her voice shaking but resolute. She gave Harry’s arm a warning squeeze to stay still, and that’s all Harry needed to know she had a plan.

Voldemort’s eyes widened, then narrowed in dark amusement. His lipless mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, stepping forward, each movement deliberate, like a predator toying with prey.

Before anyone could act, the silver gleam of the Gryffindor sword slashed through the air. Ron’s swing was swift and deadly, severing Nagini’s head in a spray of venom. The snake’s lifeless body thudded to the ground.

Voldemort’s scream pierced the air, raw and unhinged. The ground shook with the force of his magical rage, sending tremors across the Hogwarts grounds that made everyone’s steps falter in place. The Dark Lord’s composure shattered, he raised the Elder Wand and fired a burst of green light into the sky. The Dark Mark burned brighter, casting the courtyard in an eerie glow.

“Capture them!” he roared, his voice filled with fury.

The Death Eaters surged forward, ignoring Harry as they grabbed hostages from the Light side. The courtyard was a storm of chaos—screams, the crack of disapparition, and desperate cries for help.

“No!” Harry shouted, his voice breaking as he lunged forward. “Ginny!”

He watched in horror as Rodolphus Lestrange disappeared, a fistful of Ginny’s red hair clutched in his hand.

Voldemort’s eyes met Harry’s across the blood-soaked battlefield. His voice was low, a growl filled with venomous certainty.

“Foolish boy. You will be mine in the end.”

And then he was gone.

The silence that followed was unbearable. The courtyard, once a place of laughter and learning, was now a graveyard. The survivors stood in shock, their faces pale, their eyes hollow.

Harry fell to his knees, his heart pounding in his ears. The weight of Voldemort’s parting words bore heavy on his mind.

Then, like a ghost, Voldemort’s voice filled the grounds again:

"You have resisted bravely, but your efforts have brought only ruin. The blood spilled tonight could have been spared, had you but acknowledged the inevitable. Lay down your wands and come to the table. Let us draft terms to cease this war. I offer you peace… and their lives.

“But hear me, Harry Potter—you must come to me willingly, for your surrender is the key to their freedom. Refuse, and the weight of their fate, and the fate of all who follow you, will rest upon your shoulders. The time has come for reason. Choose wisely."

All the treaty needed was a signature. One swirl of ink from Shacklebolt, another from Voldemort, and Harry’s fate would be sealed.

They marched through the Forbidden Forest, the air heavy with July’s oppressive heat. Sweat clung to Harry’s brow, his wild, dark hair plastered to his forehead, but the scar beneath it burned with an intensity that made the heat feel inconsequential. There was no hiding the lightning-shaped mark—no point in masking the destiny that had been etched onto his skin before he could even speak.

Harry stood beside Minister Shacklebolt at the center of the clearing, the dense wall of trees looming like silent spectators. Behind him, Ron and Hermione gripped his arms tightly—a gesture meant to comfort, their silent promise that they were with him to the end. But to Harry, the touch felt suffocating, a reminder of how trapped he truly was. He’d chosen to surrender himself, yet the choice had never really been his.

“Don’t fight them, Harry,” Hermione whispered, her voice trembling despite the calm she tried to project. Her fingers pressed into his arm, as though she feared he might disappear if she let go. “Please… just don’t make it harder on yourself.”

Anger swelled in Harry’s chest, a heavy, burning weight he couldn’t shake. She said these things out of love, he knew that. But love didn’t make the chains any lighter. “I can’t just give up,” he growled under his breath, the words sharp and bitter.

“Mate.” Ron’s hand clapped onto his shoulder with more force than necessary, his tone edged with frustration. “She’s right. You’re not doing this alone—stop acting like you have to.” The grip lingered, firm and unyielding, as if Ron thought he could physically hold Harry together.

Harry clenched his jaw and turned his head away from them, his gaze fixed on the clearing ahead. Anger coiled in his chest, but the guilt was worse. They were only trying to help, to stay by his side, and yet every word and touch felt like another chain tightening around him.

Hermione’s nails dug lightly into his sleeve—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him of her presence. Ron’s hand shifted on his shoulder, an awkward pat that betrayed his unease. They were here, and they cared. Harry wished it didn’t feel so much like a noose.

Dozens of Aurors and Ministry officials formed a wide perimeter around them, their wands drawn and eyes darting nervously into the shadows. The witnesses were not here for formality but to ensure Voldemort and his followers kept their end of the bargain. Among them were over twenty Healers from St. Mungo’s, prepared for the worst—there was no telling what condition the hostages might be in when they arrived.

Shacklebolt placed a firm but gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder, his deep voice low but steady. “I’m sorry, Harry. I wish there was another way.”

Harry glanced up at the Minister. For a moment, the grim lines on Shacklebolt’s face softened, and Harry saw not a leader but a man weighed down by impossible decisions. He nodded once, the lump in his throat making it impossible to speak.

The clock was ticking, each second dragging like an eternity. They were set to meet Voldemort, his followers, and the hostages at noon, and only one more minute remained. Harry’s life was about to end, and the bastard couldn’t even bother to show up on time.

He glanced at Ron and Hermione. Hermione’s lips were pressed into a tight line, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Ron’s jaw was clenched, his freckled face pale and set in a grim expression of defiance. Neither spoke; there was nothing left to say, but their presence alone was enough to steady Harry’s nerves—just a little.

The waiting was unbearable. Months cooped up in Grimmauld Place under constant surveillance had worn on them all. Harry’s mind flickered back to those days, to Shacklebolt’s relentless questions about the Horcruxes and the moment they’d been forced to admit that Harry was the final one. After that, everything had spiraled out of their control. The adults had taken over, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to stew in their own anxieties, powerless to do anything but wait for the inevitable.

Voldemort had taken 108 hostages, most of them children. The sheer number was too much to ignore, too many lives to write off as collateral damage in the name of the greater good. Even if Harry sacrificed himself, even if killing him destroyed Voldemort for good, there was no guarantee the Death Eaters wouldn’t continue their reign of terror. They had to be dealt with another way.

The negotiations had dragged on for months. Minister Thicknesse, compromised by his lingering ties to Voldemort’s regime, had initially led the talks, but the demands in his drafts were unreasonable—proof of his divided loyalties. By early June, Shacklebolt had been appointed interim Minister of Magic, and the burden of ending the war fell to him.

Voldemort had been anything but cooperative. His demands were outrageous, cruel, and designed to humiliate. Yet, somehow, the Ministry had managed to whittle him down, trading concessions like chess pieces until a fragile agreement was reached.

Harry shifted uneasily, his trainers crunching against the dry forest floor. It felt wrong to be here, in this place, bargaining with the devil himself. The oppressive quiet was broken only by the rustle of leaves overhead and the occasional sharp crack of a twig snapping underfoot.

He swallowed hard, glancing sideways at Shacklebolt, whose face was set in an expression of grim determination. Beyond the Minister, the Aurors stood at attention, their grips on their wands white-knuckled. Hermione and Ron gripped him tighter, but none of it made Harry feel any safer.

The clearing grew colder, the shadows darker, as the final seconds ticked away. Harry shivered despite the heat. He tightened his grip on the wand in his pocket.

Voldemort was coming.

The distinctive cracks of Apparition shattered the silence, accompanied by multiple footsteps echoing through the clearing. Harry’s eyes flickered toward the approaching figures, scanning the crowd of Death Eaters and hostages, searching for the skeletal form of Voldemort.

Instead, leading them all was a cloaked figure. His stride was confident, almost leisurely, and his pristine viridian cloak shimmered faintly in the dappled light of the forest. Only a crooked grin was visible through the shadows of the hood. He was tall and imposing, his presence commanding in stark contrast to the cowed hostages and sycophantic Death Eaters trailing behind him.

The group stopped meters away, and the figure raised an arm, signaling them to halt. Harry’s mouth felt dry, his knees weak, and he hoped no one noticed the tremor in his hand. Hermione, sensing his distress, switched her grip from his arm to threading her fingers with his, squeezing tightly. The silence that followed was deafening.

“There’s Ginny.” Ron’s sharp intake of breath drew Harry’s attention to the hostages. His eyes darted to the back of the crowd, where they were restrained in chains, surrounded by Death Eaters with wands trained on them. Ginny stood at the edge, Rodolphus Lestrange gripping her arm in a bruising hold. She sported a black eye, and though she struggled, he tightened his grip, shaking her roughly.

Her damn Gryffindor pride.

Harry’s instincts screamed to act. Next to him he felt Ron lean forward only to be halted by Hermione’s strong grip. Harry’s own feet shifted forward, ready to lunge toward Ginny, but a mocking voice cut through the clearing like a blade.

“Eager to join us, Harry?”

The cloaked figure’s voice was smooth, cold, and dripping with malice. Every word wrapped around Harry like a tightening noose. His gaze snapped back to the figure as the man reached up, pulling back his hood. The clearing seemed to hold its breath.

It wasn’t the serpentine face of Voldemort that emerged but Tom Riddle. Older than the version Harry had faced in the Chamber of Secrets, he now appeared in his mid-thirties, his face unnervingly flawless—handsome, even, with sharp cheekbones and dark curls that framed his pale skin. But his eyes betrayed him. Crimson and unrelenting, they burned with a cruel intensity that no amount of physical perfection could conceal.

Snickers rippled through the Death Eaters as Harry stared, transfixed. Shacklebolt stepped in front of him protectively, but the gesture felt almost laughable given what they were about to do.

“Release the hostages,” Shacklebolt demanded, his voice firm despite the tension in his jaw.

More laughter erupted from the Death Eaters.

“Straight to business, Kingsley?” Voldemort’s voice oozed mockery. He gestured to himself, spreading his arms with theatrical arrogance. “And here I thought you might appreciate the effort I’ve put into my new look. The proper appearance for the ruler of wizarding Britain, don’t you think?”

His crimson eyes never left Harry. They traced the familiar messy hair concealing his scar, lingered as if savoring the mark that bound them, and settled on Harry’s emerald green stare with a cold, possessive hunger. Harry’s stomach churned under the weight of that gaze, the air around him thick with malice, suffocating and vile. Revulsion surged through him, a visceral disgust at the grotesque intimacy of being studied by the monster who had haunted his life. Yet, even as the bile rose in his throat, he stood rooted, refusing to look away.

“Not until the treaty is signed,” Shacklebolt retorted. Percy Weasley stepped forward, offering the hovering parchment to the Minister.

The treaty hung in the air, tauntingly suspended between the two parties.

“Wait here,” Shacklebolt muttered to Harry, his hand briefly steadying him before striding forward. Voldemort mirrored the motion, exuding an air of unhurried authority, his movements graceful and deliberate, as if even the act of walking was calculated to demonstrate his control. The treaty—thin and unassuming for the weight it carried—hovered in the air between them, a silent promise of peace that demanded a terrible price.

Harry had finally been allowed to read it that morning before coming to the clearing.

In exchange for his unconditional surrender to Voldemort, the hostages—over a hundred innocent lives, most of them children—would be released unharmed, and the war would end. The finer details of governance, Voldemort’s new title as Sovereign, and the role of the Death Eaters as a "Royal Army" felt irrelevant to Harry. What mattered was that his sacrifice would save lives and bring an end to the chaos, even if it meant walking willingly into Voldemort's grasp, sealing his fate for the bloody greater good.

Boiled down to one brutal truth: his life was the price for peace.

He let his gaze wander to the hostages—figures he recognized from Hogwarts, their faces pale and gaunt, their clothes still stained with blood and grime from the battle three months prior. Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Cho Chang, Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey. Even Filch. Each of them bore marks of their captivity, bruises and cuts that told of suffering Harry couldn’t fully imagine. Bellatrix Lestrange stood near the front of the line, her lips twisted in a maniacal grin as she yanked a battered student up by his hair. The boy’s face was swollen beyond recognition, but his whimpers of pain were clear.

A sick wave of guilt washed over Harry, strengthening his resolve.“Enjoying your time as Minister, Mr. Shacklebolt?” Voldemort’s velvety voice broke through the silence, dragging Harry’s focus back to the center of the clearing.

Shacklebolt met Voldemort’s mocking tone with a glare, his composure barely concealing his contempt. “I suppose we’ll be seeing each other weekly, My Lord,” he spat, his mockery dripping from the honorific.

“Why, of course,” Voldemort replied, his lips curving into a chilling smile. “Weekly meetings with the elected Minister of Magic are stipulated within the terms of our agreement. Isn’t that right, Lucius?” The Death Eaters behind him erupted in jeers, their laughter echoing through the clearing.

Kingsley remained unmoved, though Harry could sense the tension in his posture. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Voldemort already had plans to prevent Kingsley’s official election once the treaty’s terms were finalized. After all, Lucius Malfoy had been the one to negotiate the agreement in Voldemort’s stead, while the Dark Lord had hidden away like a coward. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if a Malfoy found himself in charge of the Ministry within weeks.

Shacklebolt ignored the jeering and stepped forward, his knuckles whitened as he gripped the treaty, the fine tremor in his hand barely noticeable, but there. The quill hovered just over the blank line that would seal Harry’s fate. Harry held his breath, the sound of the quill scratching across the parchment echoing in his ears.

The treaty shifted, the quill floating across the space to Voldemort. The Dark Lord’s long, elegant fingers curled around the black-feathered quill, his movements slow and deliberate. He had barely pressed the tip to the parchment when Shacklebolt interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade, “Your full legal name is required for the treaty to be binding.”

For a moment, Voldemort’s mask slipped, a low growl escaping his throat before he smoothed his expression into a sinister smile. “It is of no consequence,” he murmured, his gaze snapping back to Harry, burning with cruel amusement. “In the end, I get exactly what I want.”

The quill scratched once more, Tom Riddle’s signature sealing the agreement. The treaty vanished with a flash, leaving the clearing cloaked in a silence so thick it felt like the world was holding its breath. Harry’s knees threatened to buckle under him, but Hermione’s hand squeezed his arm, grounding him.

“Harry,” Shacklebolt said softly, motioning him forward.

Every instinct screamed at Harry to stop. To turn back to Ron and Hermione—to cling to them for one last moment, to beg for more time, to fight against the cruel finality of what was about to happen. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything but the shallow rasp of his own breathing.

He took a tentative step forward. His legs felt leaden, his body moving on sheer willpower as dread clawed at his insides, cold and relentless.

With each step Harry took, another prisoner was released. Shackles clicked open, and one by one, they staggered forward, their freedom restored. Mediwizards rushed in, their frantic whispers filling the space as they carried the weak and injured away. Their urgency seemed surreal, distant—as though they were moving in a different world from Harry’s slow, deliberate march.

Cries of gratitude rose behind him—“Thank you, Harry Potter!” “Our savior!”—but he didn’t turn. Not even when a child’s choked sob cut through the chaos, raw and piercing. His gaze remained fixed, unwavering, on the lone figure waiting at the heart of the clearing.

Voldemort stood motionless, a dark pillar against the chaos. His viridian robes seemed to shimmer like liquid shadow, catching what little light filtered through the canopy above. That terrible, serene smile had not left his face. His crimson eyes burned with an almost unnatural intensity, fixed entirely on Harry, as though nothing else in the world mattered.

The distance between them grew smaller, yet every step felt like crossing a chasm. Harry’s breath came faster, shallower. His scar pulsed faintly, a low, insistent thrum that matched the rhythm of his pounding heart. The ache wasn’t sharp—not yet—but it was enough to remind him of what connected them. What cursed him.

By the time he reached Shacklebolt, Harry felt as though he’d been walking for miles. He stopped, standing just an arm’s length from Voldemort. The warmth of Shacklebolt’s hand brushed against his shoulder, grounding him for a fleeting second. The Minister gave him one final, sorrowful nod before stepping back, retreating to the relative safety of their side.

Harry’s breath hitched as his gaze flicked past Riddle to the last hostage still restrained—Ginny.

“What about her?” Harry croaked, his voice hoarse as he took a step back.

Riddle’s smile turned razor-sharp, his crimson eyes darkening with malice. “It’s up to you to set her free,” he hissed, his voice low and velvety, extending his arms in an expectant embrace.

Harry’s stomach churned violently, the space between them dwindled, the air grew colder, the chill sinking into his bones, but his skin burned where Voldemort’s gaze lingered on him. His hands trembled at his sides, curling into fists, his nails digging into his palms as if the pain might anchor him.

Riddle stepped forward to meet him, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring its victory.

Riddle’s arms curled around him in a grotesque parody of comfort. His body stiffened as the long, skeletal limbs wrapped around him, pulling him flush against the older man’s chest. The faint scent of decay clung to Voldemort’s robes, mingling with something sharp and metallic. Harry felt his stomach lurch, bile rising in his throat, but he forced himself to stay still.

Long, spidery fingers tangled into his hair, yanking his head back with cruel possessiveness. Harry’s breath caught as Riddle leaned closer, his cold breath brushing against Harry’s ear.

“My… precious… soul,” Riddle whispered, his voice a soft, silken dagger. “You’ve played your part so well.”

Harry’s muscles screamed to move, to fight, but he was frozen, held in place by Voldemort’s unnaturally strong grip. His eyes darted frantically past the looming figure to the hostages behind him.

Ginny had broken free of Rodolphus’s grasp. She was sprinting toward them, her hair flying behind her, her face streaked with tears. Her arm stretched out, fingers outstretched, reaching desperately for Harry.

“Harry!” she cried, her voice cracking with desperation.

Riddle’s gaze shifted lazily toward her, his expression twisting into a look of amused cruelty. “Ah,” he murmured, tilting his head to the side as if admiring the scene. “So much fire, even now.” He traced Harry’s jawline softly before suddenly gripping his chin, forcing him to meet those cold, unyielding crimson eyes. “Let her watch,” he hissed.

Harry’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as he struggled against the wave of emotions threatening to consume him. Ginny was so close—her fingers extended, reaching towards them. But Riddle’s grip didn’t falter.

“Your fight is over, Harry,” Voldemort whispered, his voice low and venomous, curling around Harry like a serpent. “There’s no one left to save you now. You were always mine. From the moment I marked you, you belonged to me.”

As he spoke, Riddle’s long fingers ghosted over Harry’s forehead, his thumb brushing against the lightning-shaped scar with deliberate care. The contact sent a jolt of searing pain through Harry’s head, forcing his breath to hitch. Riddle’s crimson eyes burned with cruel satisfaction as his touch lingered, possessive and mocking.

Before Harry could respond, the familiar pull at his navel wrenched him backward, tearing him from the clearing. He reached blindly for Ginny, his fingers brushing empty air.

The last thing he saw was Ginny’s anguished face, probably reflecting his own, and her outstretched hand inches from his.

Her scream echoed through the void as the clearing disappeared in a blur of shadow and light.

Treaty for Establishment of Magical Governance and Constitutional Monarchy

Preamble Recognizing the devastation wrought by the ongoing conflict in the wizarding world, this treaty seeks to establish a framework for peace, governance, and coexistence between all magical factions in Britain. By mutual consent of all parties involved, the following terms are agreed upon:

Article I: Governance of the Wizarding World

• The Ministry of Magic shall serve as the sole governing body of wizarding Britain, with authority vested in an elected Parliament and a Minister of Magic.

• The Minister of Magic shall be chosen through democratic elections, ensuring representation for all members of the wizarding community.

• Legislative powers, including the ability to make and pass laws, shall reside exclusively with the elected Parliament.

Article II: The Role of the Sovereign

• Lord Voldemort shall assume the title of Sovereign of Wizarding Britain, holding an advisory role within the government.

• The Sovereign shall maintain political neutrality and shall not publicly advocate for or against any legislation or candidate.

• Weekly private Audiences shall be held between the Sovereign and the Minister of Magic to discuss government matters. The Sovereign retains the right to advise and warn the Minister as deemed necessary.

Article III: The Sovereign’s Royal Army

• The Death Eaters shall be recognized as the Sovereign’s Royal Army, acting solely in the interest of magical Britain and only with the joint consent of the Sovereign and the Ministry of Magic.

• It is the Royal Army’s main duty to protect the Sovereign.

• The Death Eaters shall not interfere with legislative or electoral processes but shall instead focus on uniting and protecting the magical community.

Article IV: Community Unification

• The Sovereign and his allies shall advocate for the cultural preservation and unification of wizarding Britain under wizarding ideals, provided these efforts remain non-legislative and non-coercive.

• The Sovereign’s influence, derived from his wealth and support within the pure-blood community, shall remain limited to cultural initiatives and community-building efforts.

Article V: Conditions for Peace

• In exchange for the Sovereign’s agreement to return hostages and cease all hostilities and claims to direct political power, the following terms must be met:

  A. The immediate and permanent disbandment of the Order of the Phoenix.

  B. The full and unconditional surrender of Harry James Potter to the Sovereign, Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Ratification and Implementation This treaty shall take effect upon the fulfillment of the conditions outlined in Article V. All parties agree to uphold and abide by the terms herein to ensure lasting peace and stability in the wizarding world.

Signed on this day, July 31st, 1998:

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister of Magic

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Sovereign of Wizarding Britain