Calmaria Ante Procellam
The Calm Before the Storm.
Aurelia wasn’t stupid. She was rather smart, in all honesty. One of the most brilliant students in Durmstrang—after Hyperion and his manic academic streak, of course. She didn’t really know anyone to be capable of rivaling Hadrian when it came to academic innovation. No one else had his brilliance.
No one but Hermione Peverell, of course.
It was a blessing to know that Hermione attends Beauxbatons instead of Durmstrang. If that were the case then the students—especially the blood supremacists—would not survive. The siblings were the literal definitions of viciousness, worse when it came to avenging themselves. But worst of all was their protectiveness of each other, how they would send someone to hell and back just to keep the other safe, just to make sure their sibling was thoroughly avenged. It truly was worse when they were together.
Aurelia’s gaze sharpened as Hyperion captivated McGonagall, his discourse weaving through theories with the fervor of obsession. His papers didn’t just impress—they defined excellence. Research was his fixation, his indulgence. His compulsive nature was no secret; Katya, equal parts exasperated and admiring, often noted it with a sigh that carried more pride than annoyance. He lived and breathed knowledge, and Aurelia recognized the cost of such obsession—fragility, should the wrong string be pulled.
Yet, beneath her aloof facade, Aurelia calculated with precision. Hyperion’s brilliance was undeniable, but brilliance bred blind spots. And blind spots could be dangerous—especially with those like Hadrian and Hermione prowling the same board. Victory, after all, belonged not only to the brightest but to the most observant. Her mind spun through possibilities, strategies, and outcomes—because in a world of intellect and power, foresight was survival.
“She’s brilliant. Not as good as Durmstrang but brilliant.” Genevieve hums beside her, “But she has a tendency to be a bit biased towards her lions.”
“Magical prejudice?”
“No, merely the usual house rivalry. She is Head of Gryffindor, so yes, some bias is to be expected. However, it can be corrected with the proper course of action. I believe… she simply needs broader exposure.” Genevieve whispers, “She strikes me as open-minded—though, of course, that is only my personal observation.”
Aurelia mutters, her eyes glinting with amusement as they flicker toward the Hufflepuff table. Her younger sister, Philippa, stared back—a mixture of disdain and confusion tightening her expression. Sweet little Pippa. Her father’s bastard and living proof of his infidelity, born when Aurelia was three years old, long before he divorced her mother at nine. The timeline was damning, and the irony never failed to delight her.
With a smirk, Aurelia flicked her wand, conjuring a cascade of flower petals above Philippa’s head. The gasps from the surrounding students were almost too easy—an effortless performance, yet one sure to earn her sister’s simmering ire. Delicious.
“Don’t play.” Genevieve’s voice cut in, sharp and disapproving. Her attention shifted briefly to Cecilia, whose focus was on calming Theseus—his fingers clenched tightly around hers. He trembled, his breath quickening, every flicker of stray magic from the crowd scraping against his nerves like static. The shifting auras, the mingled emotions, the crackle of spells—it was all too loud, too bright, too much. Poor boy, Aurelia thought, more attuned to magic than even Hyperion. A gift, until it became a curse—his mind drowning in a flood of sensation, the world an unbearable assault on his senses.
“Focus your Occlumency, Theseus,” Genevieve urged, her tone gentle but firm. “It’ll steady you.”
“Thes?” Cecilia mutters, taking his plate and promptly segregating his food, cutting them into almost symmetrical pieces before handing it back to him. “Eat, please? You barely ate anything during breakfast.”
“S-sorry… it… it ain't like the ones back home. ‘Course… Durmstrang ain't home, but…” Theseus trails off, his words halting as he picks at his food, fingers twitching with barely contained tension. “It’s… it’s not the same. The bloody castle… it doesn’t feel right t’me… Don’t… don’t you lot feel it too?”
Aurelia blinks, watching Theseus closely, his discomfort palpable even from where she’s sitting. His hands tremble slightly as he pushes his food around the plate. She knows what he’s feeling before he even says it—his energy is different today. Trying desperately to cope, even as he speaks through it like it’s not affecting him.
“Not like you, love.” Aurelia drawls, her voice light, too light, trying to distract him from his own thoughts. "But yeah, even without your sensitivity, we get what you mean. Hogwarts isn't Durmstrang… it will never be.” Her eyes stay locked on him, a flicker of something almost... concerned behind her bored expression. It’s only a flicker, barely a shadow before she masks it again. She can't help but worry about him, not openly, but it's there, a quiet hum in the back of her mind.
“D’you… d’you think Theo’s doin’ all right? This place… it’s not as free as Durmstrang, but… it does feel more alive. Like… like the castle’s—” Theseus chokes, his voice faltering with something Aurelia can’t quite understand, something raw that cuts through the usual calm façade. He shudders, and it’s enough to make her pause, her eyes narrowing again. "The castle’s alive. Sentient. Knows we’re here. Inside her walls. I… I don’t like that. Don’t get how you lot find it comfortin’—walls that actually watch you. I ain’t sleepin’ with that knowledge.”
Aurelia exhales slowly, noting the way Theseus reacts to the very walls around them. It’s like his entire being bristles at the concept of sentient walls, as if he’s too sensitive for the very magic that clings to the castle itself. She doesn’t feel it the way he does, but his discomfort is so painfully obvious it’s almost suffocating. Hogwarts, she thinks, is alive in a way that unnerves some and comforts others. It doesn't comfort her, but she doesn't have the same… sensitivity as Theseus. And she wonders if that’s why everyone else here seems so bloody relaxed about it. They like it. They’re at home in this living thing. She wonders if Theo feels the same way.
She gives him a casual glance, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, but there's no mistaking the concern in her eyes that she tries so desperately to hide.Aurelia’s voice dipped into a low murmur, smooth and measured, “Be patient. Die Heimat wird bald nahe sein. Also halte dein Herz fest und deinen Verstand geschützt.”(Home will be close soon. So keep your heart steady and your mind shielded)
The soft cadence of her german was steady, a shield and a promise. She dabbed her lips delicately with a napkin, her gaze sliding back to Hyperion with calculated ease.
Their eyes locked. No words—only a silent accord. Time to go home. Rising in unison, the familiar rhythm between them felt almost inevitable.
Dumbledore’s voice, grand and hollow, droned on—a sermon on unity and acceptance. Amusing, really, how the man who preached open-mindedness was blind to his own prejudices. Magical affinities, after all, were just another excuse for wixen to cast judgment.
The air shifted as Roksana herded them from the hall. The cheers and farewells crashed around them, but Aurelia didn’t indulge in the spectacle. Let the crowd bask in their illusions. Cecilia, on the other hand, turned with a dazzling smile, her charm rippling through the onlookers. It was a simple thing, that smile—simple, and devastatingly effective. Aurelia’s lips curled. Yes, Cecilia and Genevieve truly were gems, polished and waiting to be wielded.
“Rion?” Aurelia quickly pauses, halting in her steps as she turns to the end of the hall, their exit, and sees the usual group of representatives waiting for them. But her eyes immediately zeroed in on a weathered man with bright eyes, gleaming silver like stars. She notices how Hyperion has stopped as well, staring at the man who looked to be on the verge of tears.
“That your godfather?”
“Sirius Black, Lord of House Black… Yes.” Hyperion murmurs, humming a soft tune. She knows that look on his face. That expression of conflict, silently debating on what to do. Most people wouldn’t have noticed but two years of spending time with Hyperion in walls where he practically climbed out of pure curiosity and spite forced you to learn of his habits.
“Are you going to talk to him?”
“As much as I wish, it would be irksome to do so immediately. He already looks so emotional.” Hyperion sighs, “I better try to calm him down.”
“Best you do. Try smiling—on second thought, don’t. That might make him cry.” Aurelia snickers, “Try waving.”
Hyperion did just that, lazily waving at Lord Black.
Aurelia’s lips nearly curled into a scoff at the sight of the once-feared fugitive, now a lord, unraveling before his newly found heir. She felt a flicker of something close to envy for Hyperion—until she imagined the weight of Lord Black’s suffocating devotion. Too clingy. Too controlling. Her mother, at least, had never clung so tightly. No, Mildrith Avery loved her, but from a careful distance.
The thought of her mother tightened something in Aurelia’s chest. She swallowed it down, her gaze sharpening. Mildrith was undoubtedly still in Iceland—strong, enduring, as ever. The woman who had shielded her from her father’s cruelty, who endured humiliation when he condemned her for birthing a dark witch. A quiet woman, yes, but one who knew when to act. When her father’s wrath boiled over, it was Mildrith who took Aurelia’s hand and fled, though even her family offered only a fleeting refuge.
Hogwarts had been a cage of whispered slurs and cold stares. Slytherin, of course—how fitting. And Philippa, her illegitimate half-sister and bitter adversary, would have likely joined the tormentors, relishing Aurelia’s misery. But Mildrith had shattered that fate, spiriting Aurelia away to Iceland’s chill, where a cousin opened the door to Durmstrang. A new path, a colder, harder one—but hers alone to walk.
“Lia?” Genevieve whispers, “Lia, focus. Something’s happened.”
Aurelia immediately stiffens, her mind snapping out of the haze of her usual messy family thoughts. She doesn’t need to look long to see the change—Hyperion. He’s an arm’s length away from Lord Black, his face unreadable. The usual mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the cocky charm, completely gone. It’s unsettling. She can feel the shift, the way the air around them thickens. It wasn’t just his expression—it was everything. Abbott and Moon are talking fast, their anxiety practically radiating off them.
“Lia, Vivi!”
Theo’s voice breaks through, barely registering as he stops beside them, out of breath. She glances at him, vaguely annoyed that he’s not even trying to hide his discomposure. “Fucking hell, I could feel his magic from the great hall!”
Her body responds before her mind catches up—she flinches, the raw, untamed magic clawing at the walls, a beast desperate to break free. The sensation is almost physical, like the walls themselves are caving in. She can’t help but take a step back, instinctively pulling the others with her.
(Hyperion Peverell. The first time she saw him, he was taking apart a clock like it was nothing. In seconds, that clock became something else entirely. That was the moment she knew: he wasn’t just strange. He was dangerous. He could destroy, create, remake. A volatile force that could bend reality to his will.)
“You know something.” Theo hisses, his tone sharp. “What the hell are you not telling me, Fawley?”
“Don’t call me that, Nott.” She spits the words out, the venom sharp, biting. She watches him—those twitching fingers of his. Every muscle in her body tenses. It’s a bad sign.
(Hermione Peverell. She remembers the first time she saw Hermione. Brilliant. Brilliant and sharp as a diamond, with a mind that could slice through any barrier. She was a walking library—every word from her mouth felt like it was straight from a grimoire.)
Aurelia’s mind sharpens, but Theo’s voice drags her back. She exhales, pushing away the unsettling thoughts. Theo’s part of the circle, she reminds herself. There’s no need to keep everything from him. But… with Hyperion on the edge of chaos, things are different.
“Hermione announced she was coming here.”
A beat.
“I beg your fucking pardon?!”
The surprise in Theo’s voice barely registers; her thoughts are already elsewhere. She’s thinking about the Peverells. The real Peverells. Not like the Fawleys.
(The first time she saw Hyperion wrath—The way he stood there, watching the Falkners wail over the son that dared speak ill of Hermione. How Leopold Falkner thought it would be wise to put his hands on Hermione without her consent. Aurelia remembers the wailing, the pleading, the mess of blood staining the floor.
All the while the boy’s murderer screamed as guards pinned her down—a vengeful lover, they said. A woman who descended to madness at the Falkner heir’s playboy nature. Hyperion had just sipped his wine, Hermione kept close to him. Calm. Controlled. Perfectly in control, as the life drained out of the Falkner boy beneath him. She had stood there, watching. Silent. Calculating. Every inch of her understanding how the world worked through their eyes. It was a game to Hyperion—one that left a lot of people dead, a lot of people broken.
And she’d never looked away.)
The five were quick to hurry forward, rushing towards Hyperion’s side. Aurelia could feel the electricity flicking through the air, triggering her instincts as she quickly turned to Cecilia. “Get Theseus out of here—NOW!”
Cecilia winces, but she doesn’t hesitate and takes Theseus’s hand, pulling him out of the castle before anyone could protest. Theseus Rowle was already hypersensitive to the castle. Hyperion’s magic layering over that would have caused a seizure or maybe some sort of anxiety attack. Nevertheless, the possibilities were dire and he needed to be extracted from the area quickly.
“Rion, what happened?” Aurelia whispers, trying to calm him down. As expected, her efforts are futile and Hyperion continues to give the ministry officials the death stare.
She can vaguely hear the officials and the professors arguing, but she tunes that out to listen to Hyperion. “Harry?”
“They have her.”
“What?”
“The ministry arrested Hermione.”
Aurelia can feel the world crumble.
(Aurelia remembers the first time Hyperion refers to her as aurea mea—my golden, his golden. It was a declaration of protection, of favor, of salvation.)
Marvolo observed the Fawley girl’s attempts to pacify Peverell, though the effort was ultimately futile. The boy looked composed—expression schooled into perfect blankness—but only a fool would believe it. His fury was palpable, unraveling at the seams. The air itself crackled, thick with the biting cold of something ancient and uncontrolled. A volatile blend of ice and lightning surged outward, its presence intoxicating in its rawness. Marvolo had always appreciated power, but even he was not so arrogant as to ignore the warning signs. Peverell was at the edge of something… destructive.
“Harry—Harry, it's okay.” Black was quick to intervene, voice trembling from the sheer weight of conflicting emotions—relief, anger, barely contained desperation. The man was transparent in his intentions. He would soothe, placate, do whatever was necessary to keep his godson from turning that rage on him.
“I'll fix this, alright? I'll go to the Ministry myself and curse Fudge for even trying to go after your sister.”
A predictable move. Black’s loyalty had always been his weakness, a sentimentality Marvolo had long learned to manipulate. The man had colluded with him without hesitation, all for the sake of retrieving his godson. And now? Complications had already arisen. Black would not risk losing the boy again, not when the Ministry had proven itself a direct threat.
“Lord Black—” Moon tried, ever the diplomat.
“Enough of you! What the bloody hell do you mean that Hermione Peverell was arrested on the spot? On what fucking charges?!”
Black’s fury exploded outward, his magic flaring in violent response, intertwining seamlessly with Peverell’s. A dual force of outrage and something far darker. Something lethal.
Marvolo exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting toward the Ministry officials, studying them in turn. Their unease was evident—flickering glances, barely restrained flinches. They knew precisely what kind of danger they had walked into.
“Yes,” he murmured, tone measured, precise. He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, ensuring his displeasure was understood. “I would like to know that as well. As I recall, Hermione Peverell was not declared missing—she formally transferred out of Hogwarts. And unless the Ministry has rewritten the law overnight, I do not recall her committing any crime.”
He already had his suspicions. The Ministry had long since proven itself incompetent, but incompetence alone was not enough to explain such a reckless decision. This was targeted. Deliberate.
“My sister hasn’t stepped on British soil for two years.”
The shift in tone was… unexpected.
Marvolo had heard Hyperion Peverell speak before, not even a week prior. The boy’s voice had been smooth then—suave, charming, pitched just high enough to carry an air of mischievous amusement. A carefully cultivated performance.
But now?
Now, Peverell’s voice was low, rough, unpolished. A blade no longer hidden in its sheath. He wasn’t bothering to disguise the threat. No need for masks when one is ready to kill.
It was fascinating.
And more importantly—dangerous.
“Uhm—we—” Viviana Moon stutters, “It's—”
“This is the second time it has already happened. First, it was Aurelia and me. Now my sister?” Peverell laughs. A performance, undoubtedly. The amusement is too sharp at the edges, too practised. His fingers rake through his hair with the kind of deliberate ease that suggests anything but ease. His teeth—gritted, not bared in any genuine display of humour—betray him.
“Miss Moon, it would be best if you could defend your Ministry properly because this is just getting ridiculous.” His grin widens, but Marvolo recognises it for what it is—a predator flashing its teeth. The boy plays his role well. Too well.
“Your attempts to make international connections might as well be futile, given your Ministry’s tendency to arrest students from different schools.”
There it is. The first strike.
“Mister Peverell—”
“Right now, I’m not speaking to you as a student, Miss Moon.” The boy’s voice is smooth but firm, layered with the weight of something far beyond his years. “I speak to you as Lord Peverell, who has now been inconvenienced twice.”
Marvolo watches as Moon visibly stiffens, her expression a fascinating blend of indignation and thinly veiled unease.
“This is offensive,” Peverell continues, not relenting, “and an embarrassment to your Ministry, which is already the laughing-stock of the political world due to your narrow-minded views.” The eye-roll that follows is deliberately disrespectful, perhaps one of the most contemptuous gestures Marvolo has ever seen. A touch excessive, though effective in its execution. A carefully calculated insult.
Moon flushes deep red, caught between fury and humiliation. Peverell scoffs, arms crossing in a show of casual defiance as his gaze sharpens, pinning her in place.
“I’d like to inform you that my sister is a student of Beauxbatons,” he adds, voice measured but lethal. “This isn’t merely a matter concerning our school but also Headmistress Maxime.”
And there it is—the second strike. The precision of a duellist, each verbal cut placed with intention.
Julius Abbott pales instantly, the colour draining from his face at the mention of yet another prestigious school. The ramifications of the Ministry’s blunder settle upon his shoulders, heavy and inescapable.
Unfortunate.
Marvolo has no particular fondness for the Ministry, nor does he care for their diplomatic standing beyond how it serves his own ends. However, converting potential allies into enemies so carelessly is inefficient. A waste of resources. If Barty’s intelligence is accurate—and it always is—then Hermione Peverell is currently the favoured daughter of Beauxbatons. A prodigy. A girl who has dominated nearly every competition she has entered in the past two years, save for when her only true competitor was her own brother.
The Peverells, it seems, have a habit of being indispensable. Now, with the Ministry having so brazenly offended both, Beauxbatons will undoubtedly distance itself, just as Durmstrang might. A severed connection that may prove difficult—if not impossible—to mend.
Marvolo exhales slowly, his gaze flickering between the boy and the Ministry officials, already weighing the possible outcomes.
Hyperion Peverell had played his hand masterfully. And Marvolo was beginning to wonder just how far he was willing to take the game.
“Rion—Theo.” Fawley chides, her tone sharp with warning.
Marvolo turns his attention to the Nott heir, who radiates the same unbridled fury as Peverell. However, there is a distinct difference between them—one that is both fascinating and telling. Nott is utterly unrestrained, his rage on full display, lacking even the slightest inclination to conceal his murderous intent. If left unchecked, he would no doubt launch himself at the two officials standing before them, tearing through them without hesitation.
“Theodore—Morgana’s tits, calm the fuck down.” Fawley snaps, her irritation only fuelling the tension. “Let Harry handle it.”
“To hell with that!” Nott spits back, his eyes burning with an eerie glow that sends a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd.
Marvolo observes with mild intrigue as Severus steps forward, his expression taut with warning. “Mister Nott, I implore you to settle down!” Snape snarls, though even he looks wary of the young man’s volatile magic.
“You can shove your authority up your arse and fuck off.” Nott’s glare shifts with lethal precision to Moon and Abbott, his voice a razor-edged snarl. “What the absolute fuck is going on in your empty heads? Hermione hasn’t done shit to your bloody Ministry, and I know for a fact that she’s the last person who would commit a fucking crime.”
Marvolo blinks. Well. That was certainly a colourful vocabulary.
“Theodore Nott!” Severus bellows, the sharp reprimand nearly lost beneath the collective shock of such vulgar language.
“Mister Nott—”
“That’s Heir Nott to you.”
Marvolo notes the way Abbott grits his teeth at the correction, though he manages to compose himself before speaking again. “Heir Nott, we do not appreciate such language. Especially—”
“Neither do we appreciate you unjustly arresting Hermione!”
A valid point, albeit delivered with unnecessary theatrics.
“Theodore.”
The single word—soft yet commanding—halts the onslaught of rage instantly. Peverell does not need to raise his voice. He does not even need to look directly at Nott for his presence to be felt. A mere glance is enough to silence him.
Marvolo watches closely, intrigued by the effortless way Peverell wields control. Satisfied that the outburst has been quelled, Peverell turns back to Moon and Abbott, his patience visibly thinning.
“We’ve wasted enough time.” His voice is measured, but there is no mistaking the authority laced within it. “Just tell me the charges, and I’ll handle it.”
Moon swallows thickly. “Lord Peverell—”
“If you don’t comply right now, I’ll simply inform our Headmistresses and have them speak with the ICW about your misconduct.” The shift in his tone is subtle but effective. No longer merely irritated, but weary—disappointed, even. It is the tone of someone who has grown exasperated by incompetence, forced to deal with imbeciles who should have known better. Like a parent who has endured one tantrum too many. Marvolo finds the display remarkable.
“And Theo?” Peverell drawls, as if the matter is already decided. “Go get Ron. The walk will help you calm down.”
Marvolo’s lips twitch. Effortless. This boy continues to surprise him.
“Lord Peverell,” Marvolo calls out smoothly, extending his hand as though sealing an unspoken agreement. “If you wish to see your sister immediately, I will gladly take you to her. It would be best if you heard the details directly rather than await a messenger. Perhaps it would also be prudent to leave your companions here whilst we deal with this matter.”
Peverell meets his gaze, assessing him with the same quiet calculation Marvolo had come to expect from him. There is no hesitation—only a moment of measured observation—before the young lord nods.
“Alright.” Then, he turns to his little entourage. “Aurea mea… stay here for a bit, alright? Make sure Theo doesn’t end up punching anyone. Get Ron so he can meet with Mione once I get her… Then just stick to Roksana.”
Marvolo watches with interest as Peverell pauses, his mind clearly sorting through additional details before continuing.
“And have Theseus placed somewhere quiet. So he won’t be overwhelmed. Maybe have him sit by the lake and meditate.”
“Noted.” Fawley whispers, her expression carefully schooled. “Make sure Hermione is alright.”
Peverell does not so much as blink.
“I’ll drown the Auror who arrested her, and if it was your arrogant cousin, I’ll dangle her by her legs and drop her headfirst onto the floor.” The words are delivered with such deadpan finality that Marvolo nearly smirks. They make no effort to conceal the conversation. Predictable. Arrogant. Deliberate.
“Now, Harry, my boy, that is inappropriate.” Dumbledore frowns, finally deigning to intervene.
Marvolo is vaguely surprised the man had remained silent for so long.
Peverell clicks his tongue, barely sparing the old man a glance.
“Kindly… fuck off, Headmaster. This is a family matter, and you are in no way involved.” With that, he steps away from his little group, already separating himself from them with the ease of someone accustomed to leading. “Let’s go.”
“Harry—”
“Sirius, stop dallying.”
Black brightens at once, all but vibrating with energy as he eagerly follows his godson. He does not hesitate, does not so much as glance at the others. It is almost disgraceful—how utterly transparent his joy is—but Marvolo does not fault him for it. He has seen the lengths Sirius Black is willing to go for his child.
And, really… it is rather remarkable.
They apparate to the ministry with ease, just as Peverell lands with grace that was mastered to perfection. He dusts off the nonexistent grime on his robes, running his fingers through his hair.
“Germany's ministry still looks better than this.” Peverell hums.
“Have you visited many Ministry buildings?” Marvolo inquires, tone light—conversational, even.
“Berlin, Paris, Moscow, Athens, and MACUSA.” Peverell moves through the crowd effortlessly, as if he has traversed this path countless times before. He does not stop, does not hesitate in his direction. Interesting. He knows exactly where he is going. Yet, despite his unwavering pace, he glances back at Marvolo, curiosity flickering in his expression. “Have you?”
“I have only been to MACUSA and the French Ministry at this point.”
“A shame.” Peverell hums, the ease in his voice betraying no real disappointment. “Berlin’s Ministry is remarkable. The architecture alone is worth the visit.” He laughs, smooth and unbothered, falling into small talk as though this were nothing more than a casual stroll. “I’m surprised you’ve limited yourself to so few prospects. Britain already has stable connections with the French and MACUSA.”
Marvolo’s lips curve slightly. How transparent.
“Why would you say that?”
Peverell merely smiles. Not the polite, meaningless gesture of a socialite, nor the cutting smirk of someone trying to prove a point. No, it is something sharper—amused.
“Let’s not pretend I’m a fool, yes? It’s getting tiresome.”
Marvolo exhales a quiet chuckle. “Then I shan’t.”
Peverell is not easily provoked. Good.
“Was it you who dreamed me a mad child begging for attention? No, I think not.” Peverell does not break stride, nor does he flinch at the weight of the conversation. His tone remains light, even detached. His words are measured, deliberate. Marvolo recognises the restraint—an acknowledgment of anger without the foolish impulse to act upon it. “Though I am quite resentful for what you did to my parents, I am not particularly attached. We live, we move on… and besides, what would be the point of revenge when I would gain nothing from it?”
A calculated answer. A deeply pragmatic one.
Marvolo exhales a quiet laugh.
“Again, unexpected.”
He had not anticipated this level of cold detachment from the child born of noble sacrifice. The golden boy, the supposed hero, the child who had survived the wrath of Lord Voldemort by the sheer strength of his mother’s love. And yet… this? This was not the naïve, self-sacrificing boy he had once imagined. No, no… Hyperion Peverell was not the sentimental fool the world had expected him to become. And that last statement… hah!
Peverell sounded so much like a Slytherin that Marvolo could not help but feel something akin to pride—though, truly, he could not fathom why.
“I’m not that brash child anymore,” Peverell sighs, tilting his head, eyes locking onto Marvolo’s with an amusement that should not belong in the gaze of a child he had once tried to kill.
Those eyes—so strikingly green—so very familiar… Marvolo wonders if he should be unsettled. Or if he should be intrigued.
“We're here,” Black mutters, “I'll have them summon the head auror and… what will you two do?”
“Wait.”
“I'll just be here, padfoot.” Peverell flashes his godfather a smile, charming and sweet. And like a fool, Black seems to forget all of that cruelty from mere moments ago. Truly, love makes you blind.
Black scurries of rather quickly, eager to grab Scrimgeour by the ear and demand answers about his pseudo-goddaughter. Perhaps curse someone along the way.
“What will you do once your sister has been released?” Marvolo tilts his head slightly, feigning idle curiosity while observing every flicker of expression that crosses Peverell’s face. He does not ask simply for the sake of conversation—he is probing, assessing the young man’s priorities, his methodology.
Peverell does not hesitate.
“Take her back to Hogwarts to meet with Ron, leave, then perhaps inform our headmistresses about this event. This can’t go unpunished.”
Decisive. Immediate. Marvolo notes how Peverell speaks as though his sister’s release is inevitable, not even entertaining the possibility of failure. It is not arrogance—no, it is something far more dangerous. Absolute certainty.
“And what of the charges?”
“Whatever these idiots spout, it’ll be bullshit anyway. My sister isn’t a felon.” Peverell exhales sharply, rolling his eyes as he drags a hand through his hair. The gesture is careless, but Marvolo does not miss the tension in his fingers, the barely restrained frustration simmering beneath the surface.
Hyperion Peverell is angry. But more than that—he is calculating.
Fascinating.
“What about you?” Peverell asks, turning the scrutiny back onto him. “What shall you do once we depart?”
Marvolo hums, glancing away briefly as though considering the question, though he already knows the answer. “Tend to this mess, most likely. Our Ministry is already in shambles.” He allows a scowl to form, permitting himself to display a fraction of his disdain for the incompetence surrounding them.
Peverell scoffs. “Just run for Minister. It’s easier to deal with the problem that way.”
Marvolo stills.
It is not the suggestion itself that unsettles him, but rather the way Peverell looks at him when he says it. There is no jest in his tone, no trace of sarcasm. Only expectation.
Something unfamiliar curls in Marvolo’s chest—something sharp and uncomfortable. He has never cared for the expectations of others, never been burdened by the weight of someone else’s regard. And yet… Hyperion Peverell is different.
“Is the Golden Boy suggesting that I run for Minister?” His voice is smooth, deliberate. The question is not what it seems.
Are you truly suggesting that I—Lord Voldemort—should govern this country?
Peverell appraises him, eyes sweeping over him with an unsettling level of assessment before he merely huffs, crossing his arms.
“Better you than Fudge.”
Marvolo stares at him, calculating. Perhaps…
“Harry!” Black returns with a confused and angered Scrimgeour in tow. “There's an issue.”
“Another one?” Marvolo sighs.
“Yes,” Scrimgeour looks grim, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. “I was not informed about the two incidents, neither did I order for the arrest of your sister, Lord Peverell. I have checked, and she is indeed in our custody. Currently, Hermione Peverell is in a detainment unit in the building.”
“Then who the hell had my sister arrested? Mine and Aurelia's issue was caused by familial rivalry but Hermione was arrested, for Hecate's sake.”
“I understand. But I swear that this has nothing to do with me. I have discerned what unit she is currently detained in. If you would follow me…” Scrimgeour clears his throat, quickly leading them towards another section of their department.
“I'm going to end up killing someone.”
Marvolo blinks, startled by the sudden parseltongue. Though, from the looks of it, Peverell doesn't seem to be aware that he was muttering in hisses rather than any understandable human language. He swallows thickly, shaking his head.
“Try to restrain yourself.” He hisses back.
Peverell looks him dead in the eye.
“Make me.”