Fiat voluntas tua
Let your will be done.
There exist myths, rumours—legends—of such peculiarities in the world. Conspiracies that ensnare the feeble-minded, urging them to chase illusions they can never hope to substantiate. Fools are abundant, as are the falsehoods they so eagerly pursue.
One such myth lingers on the edge of the known world—a group that emerged over a year ago. Their members remain unseen, yet their presence is undeniable.
Some whisper the name “Olympians,” for three of their number have claimed monikers drawn from the deities of Greek myth. Others refer to them as the “Pantheon,” uncertain whether their ranks extend beyond Olympus. Yet to dismiss them as fabrications would be folly, for how can one claim falsehood when blood has already been spilled in their name?
Marvolo has spent months unearthing what little there is to know of them. He elects to call them the Pantheon, an appellation marginally more tolerable than their self-aggrandising claim to divinity. The notion that mere mortals would dare liken themselves to the gods enthroned upon Olympus is an affront—an exercise in arrogance bordering on the delusional. At best, they are a faction. At worst, terrorists emboldened by their own theatrics.
The latest report detailing the havoc in America warrants concern. MACUSA has already extended its trembling hand to its allies, desperate to control the narrative. Politicians are being struck down in public. Their sins and scandals are not merely whispered in corridors but flayed open, projected onto the streets by phantasmal light. And then, by the following day, they are found with arrows buried deep—one in each eye, another lodged in the throat.
He sifts through the files spread before him, gaze narrowing at the conclusion Barty and Antonin have reached.
Apollo. Artemis.
The names scrawl jagged across the parchment. A theory, naturally—one drawn from the assassin’s apparent preference for archery. Among the Olympians, it is Apollo and Artemis who wield the bow, the twin deities of sun and moon striking down their prey without mercy.
Barty, ever the rabid hound, has included a further conjecture—that this is yet another ploy of the one who calls themselves Ares.
Regardless of the particulars, the conclusion is clear. This time, the Olympians have turned their gaze upon America.
The knock at his door is expected, a mere formality. “Enter.”
Barty and Severus step inside, their greetings quiet, postures stiff with tension as they bow before him.
“Nothing yet?”
“No, not a single word about the assassin, my lord.” Barty exhales sharply. “But there are already rallies—Americans demanding that their Ministry cease its pursuit of the assassin.”
“Revolutionists?”
“People wronged by the dead,” Severus corrects, shaking his head. “President Vanderholt is under siege. The Olympians have made their targets clear—those who present a polished façade while bleeding their own dry. Their punishments are precise, methodical. Vanderholt may soon find herself among them.”
“She has no skeletons in her closet,” Barty sneers, the very suggestion an insult. “She’s clean.”
“If she is, she does not seem to think so.” Severus scoffs, narrowing his gaze at Barty. “Lucius has already noted her unease—troubled enough to consider herself a possible target. If not her, then someone in her family. The effect on her would be much the same.”
Marvolo clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “And what course of action has been taken? Lucius remains in America, does he not? Surely, he has gleaned some insight into their intended movements.” His fingers press against his temples, the faintest pulse of irritation settling beneath his skin. “The Pantheon—a fledgling assembly, woefully inexperienced, mere infants compared to us—yet they have eluded our grasp for this long? That is intolerable.”
Barty shifts, restless. He has been this way ever since Marvolo spared him from certain death—fidgety, sensitive, teetering on the edge of instability. But he is useful, the most relentless among them, his predatory instinct making him a formidable hunter. A hound to be unleashed when needed. Dutiful. Loyal. The best, regardless of his flaws.
“My lord,” Barty’s voice is measured, wary. “Perhaps… you should oversee America yourself.”
Marvolo’s gaze snaps to him. Barty flinches, panic flashing across his face.
“’Course not, my lord! No offense meant—none at all! It’s just, well, Lucius is reliable, yeah, but you? You’re far better suited for the task. Makes sense, don’t it? You’d get to assess the situation firsthand, see what’s what in the US, and confirm whether the intel’s legitimate.” Barty’s words tumble out in a frantic rush, his complexion paling, as if he has misspoken. But he has not. He has simply grown too jittery, too paranoid, especially after earning that scar across his face.
“All is well, Bartemius. I merely contemplate the prudence of such actions.” Marvolo drawls, dismissing him with a slow wave of his hand.
Marvolo’s mind sharpens upon the possibilities. The prospect of overseeing matters in America himself is not without appeal, but a competent envoy would suffice. Lucius is already stationed there, awaiting orders—he is the logical choice. Barty is unsuitable, not with the likelihood of Ares lurking in the vicinity. Severus is indispensable at Hogwarts. Black is far too preoccupied, clinging to his godson at Durmstrang like a mongrel guarding its last scrap of meat.
It must be Lucius, then.
“There are no events that require my attendance, yes?”
“None that I have heard.” Severus murmurs. “America has not been able to hold any galas or gatherings as of late.”
Barty snorts, earning a withering glare from Severus. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong, Sevy.”
Severus stiffens, his sneer one of thinly veiled disgust. Marvolo vaguely sympathises—there is little more grating than having one’s given name reduced to a mockery.
“America is hosting one event this year, scheduled for the first week of December. All Ministries have been extended an invitation—ours included. Typically, it is representatives who attend rather than the Ministers themselves.”
“Our Lord does not have the time to wait for December.” Severus scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Aside from that year-end gathering, there is nothing.”
“I find myself in agreement with Severus.” Marvolo exhales, gaze narrowing. “By week’s end, I shall require a valid pretext for my presence in America. Severus, confer with Antonin regarding any representatives soon to be dispatched. My name must be among them.”
He leans back slightly, fingers tapping once against the desk before stilling. “Ensure that it is done. The Pantheon must be brought to light with haste. Whether they prove to be foe or ally, their strength is undeniable—even in the infancy of their formation.”
“As you wish, my lord.” They bow their heads once more, silent dismissal understood without the need for further words.
Severus departs first, followed by Barty, who wordlessly hands over yet another file.
The growing pile upon his desk is a sight he abhors. Yet, when one studies the Pantheon’s movements, it becomes evident—they are no mere vigilantes, no self-styled heroes wielding terror as their blade. No, there is precision in their selection of prey, an unmistakable deliberation in their methods.
From Deveraux’s assassination to the bloodbath between two warring families in Russia—every act has been orchestrated with a singular intent: to carve permanent scars into the very structure of society. A warning. A declaration. An assertion of power so absolute that none may dismiss it.
Like rabid beasts, they tear through the foundation of their enemies, rending the system apart with ease. And yet—no, they are too methodical for mindless carnage. There is control in their destruction, a deliberation that speaks of something far more insidious.
For now, Marvolo identifies four possible members.
Athena—a master of strategy, meticulous in execution. This one does not kill with their own hand but orchestrates accidents, eliminating targets with an almost poetic detachment. The most level-headed of the group, rarely interacting with others, and yet—those few encounters always conclude with the offering of gifts. Talismans. Trinkets. Apparent gestures of protection. Whether these gifts serve as wards or marks, he has yet to determine.
Ares—brutality incarnate. A harbinger of strife, yet curiously reluctant to spill blood himself. Instead, he incites. Manipulates. Turns factions against one another, orchestrating carnage from the shadows. The destruction left in his wake is vast, indiscriminate. Entire battlegrounds fashioned from the ruin of his interference.
Demeter—elusive, insidious. A dealer, a supplier, a silent hand in the black market. This one is a contradiction, a dual force both nurturing and lethal. Their trade fluctuates between the creation of healing elixirs and the manufacture of poisons so potent that death is an inevitability. What compels such variance in their work remains uncertain.
And lastly, the archer—possibly named after one of the Olympian twins. An assassin with a particular flourish, ensuring the cause of their victim’s death is laid bare before the deed is done. An executioner who ensures that the world watches.
The roster is unbalanced—a spectrum ranging from bloodthirsty madness to cold, calculated precision.
Four members of the Pantheon uncovered, and yet none appear to be their leader.
Marvolo has devised several theories regarding their leader’s moniker. If he could identify the name they had chosen, he could predict the framework of their command. There are patterns in myth, after all, and those who willingly assume the mantle of legend do not do so lightly.
He has narrowed it down to three—Poseidon, Hades, and Zeus. The three brothers of the original six.
There is too little information to make a definitive conclusion, but one fact remains immutable.
Names hold power.
And the Pantheon operates within the constraints of the names they wield.
All four identified monikers are formidable in their own right, but their leader—the unseen hand behind them—holds the most dangerous name of all.
The possibilities are endless. Almost sickening, if he must admit.
The Pantheon was… a puzzle. One that he couldn't help but want to tear into and solve even when his fingers started to bleed and his mind fogged. He needed to solve this riddle…
“The Pantheon first made its presence known with the emergence of Demeter in the black market, March 1996.” Marvolo murmurs, the scratch of his quill against parchment precise, methodical. He marks the date, committing it to both ink and memory. “Athena surfaced a month later—though confirmation only arrived then. No concrete record exists of when she truly began operating. The prior deaths of politicians… whether they were her handiwork or mere coincidence remains undetermined.”
April 19, 1996—he inscribes it beneath the first, the movement fluid yet controlled. His eyes darken as he traces the ink, mind already constructing patterns, calculating probabilities.
“Thereafter, Ares emerged.” His voice remains level, though his grip on the quill tightens. “Ivaylo Zhelekov, driven to hysteria, raving about a man named Ares—accusing him of coercion, of engineering the deaths of the House Daskalov heirs. A single act, and the feud erupted into slaughter, both successors perishing in the ensuing chaos.”
Another mark. Another date. The pattern solidifies.
Apollo/Artemis. Appearance confirmed— November 17, 1997.
His quill glides over the parchment, his script sharp, deliberate.
First victim: Geoffrey Sloane. Following victims: Adelaide Laveau, Tristan Gadsden, Maximus Winthorp. Preferred method—arrows. Execution always preceded by public exposure of the victim’s scandals and secrets.
He leans back slightly, gaze sweeping over the compiled records. It is all aligning. Slowly, yes—but inevitably.
His notes will bear fruit. Of this, he is certain.
Now, all that remains is the current god wreaking havoc in America.
“Roan, Lena.” Hyperion sighs, sinking further into the luxurious warmth of his tub—his tub, might he add, a well-earned indulgence after single-handedly securing Durmstrang’s duelling victories three years in a row. Some might argue he didn’t need such a lavish setup, but honestly, why deny himself life’s finer pleasures? He lifts a hand from the water, wrist loose, fingers expectant. A moment later, something cold lands in his palm.
“Good, Roan.” His lips curl, the corners of his eyes crinkling in lazy amusement. “Both you and Lena will be dispatched to assist Apollo with that delightful catastrophe in America.”
“As my lord wishes.” Roan’s voice is smooth, his touch retreating as quickly as it arrived. Efficient. Hyperion appreciates that.
“And you, Lena?” He doesn’t bother turning his head, but he can already picture the way she’s positively beaming.
“I am to assist Apollo in luring targets into view.” The cheerfulness in her tone is almost saccharine. It would be endearing if it weren’t so utterly fabricated. “As you command, my lord.”
“Splendid!” Hyperion flashes a grin, all bright teeth and easy satisfaction. “Stand by in my room for now. Oh, and do be darlings and open the door—I rather suspect Aurelia is moments away from blowing it off its hinges.”
“As our lord commands.” They bow in unison, exiting with a quiet, well-mannered click.
That peace lasts all of three seconds before heavy boots thunder against the floorboards, and his door slams open with a force that rattles the bloody hinges.
“Hyperion!” Aurelia bellows, her utter lack of decorum appalling yet not remotely surprising. She doesn't even have the decency to acknowledge that he is—gasp—naked.
Ah, but how could she, when his grand, wonderful, near-palatial tub demands all the attention? The rose petals floating on the surface, the flickering candlelight casting a soft glow—it is, frankly, an experience. One that he enjoys immensely, even as Aurelia glares daggers into the back of his head.
“Hello to you too, darling,” he drawls, waving a languid hand. He doesn’t need to look to know she’s standing there, arms crossed, exuding the simmering rage of someone about to launch into a tirade.
“What the hell is Apollo doing?” she snaps. “I wasn't informed of you handing out orders.”
“I didn't need to.” Hyperion huffs, running elegant fingers through his wet hair. “Apollo knows when to act without being ordered. She’s efficient like that.”
He sinks deeper into the tub, arms draped over the edges as steam curls around him, thick and heavy in the air. For a long, indulgent moment, he simply stares at it—because really, steam is quite fascinating, isn’t it? How it dances and swirls, fleeting and insubstantial. Unlike Aurelia, who is still very much here, very much frowning, and looking as though she’s contemplating homicide.
Hyperion tilts his head back just enough to catch sight of her, blinking lazily. Yep. That was a face full of murderous intent.
“Why are you even so bothered?” he scoffs, eye twitching ever so slightly at the sheer audacity of her anger. “Apollo is all the way back in America, and you’re here. So what’s got your knickers in a twist?”
“Go burn in the Phlegethon.” Aurelia hisses, all fire and brimstone, as expected. “And for your information, people are saying Artemis is the one doing the killing. Why in the ever-loving fuck do you think I’m annoyed? I’m the one getting the brunt of the blame!”
Ah. So that was the problem.
Hyperion yawns, dragging a hand through the water just to watch the ripples spread. “It’s not so bad. Apollo is doing quite well. Are you upset that your darling twin is outshining you? Jealous?”
“Why the fuck would I be jealous of Luna?” she snaps, scowl deepening. “She’s doing her job. It’s me getting the credit that pisses me off!”
Aurelia stands rooted to the spot, her nails digging into her palms as she flicks a glance at him. Ah, there it is. The momentary flare of indignation, smothered by something far less useful—hesitation. She shuffles back, trying to put some distance between them, but he can’t have that. No, no. That simply won’t do.
He extends a hand, expectant, patient. Understanding.
Aurelia falters for only a second before taking it. She’s trembling, just a little, but that’s to be expected. Nerves, perhaps. She always did let them get the best of her. Hyperion sighs, indulgent, drawing her hand to his lips. A gentle press against the back of her hand, then her palm—featherlight, reassuring. He squeezes, just a bit, just enough.
“I’m sorry,” Aurelia whispers, a frown tugging at her lips. She sounds genuinely regretful, as she should.
“No need.” He insists, tone airy. “You’re just stressed, that’s all. Unearned credit is irritating—everyone gets annoyed over it. But don’t dwell on it too much. I’ve already sent Roan and Lena for clean-up.”
Her body goes rigid, just slightly. There it is again—that nervous little tell of hers. This time, her gaze shifts past him, towards the open door. Roan and Lena stand there, arms crossed in that way of theirs—one behind their back, the other in front. They’re nothing if not consistent.
“Hyperion… is it really safe to rely on your puppets?”
His grip tightens. Just for a moment. Barely a squeeze. Hardly worth reacting to.
Aurelia winces. She’s jittery today, that’s all.
“Automatons,” he corrects, all warmth and kindness. “And yes. They are automatons of my own making, so of course they’re reliable. Do you know any other wizard capable of making them?”
She shakes her head. She doesn’t look at him, though—her attention is on Roan’s flawlessly carved obsidian, its smooth, expressionless face, the segmented joints reminiscent of a mannequin. Then to Lena, its marble form pristine, its masks interchangeable, the delicate ball joints at the wrists and neck giving it an almost… lifelike fluidity. The material is too smooth, too perfect to be flesh.
Aurelia knows that. So why does she look so unnerved?
“Okay, okay. Just… just make sure people aren’t saying Artemis is the one doing all that,” Aurelia murmurs, rubbing at her temples like Hyperion has personally given her a migraine. “It’s not a good look on me, Rion. Especially when I haven’t even gone public like the others.”
“Yes, yes. I will have this rectified soon.” He waves a hand, dismissive, before finally deciding that being submerged in water like some tragic, brooding prince is getting him nowhere. He rises, slow and deliberate, letting the water cascade off him in a way that would probably be dramatic if there were an audience to appreciate it. “Be a dear and hand me that towel.”
Aurelia rolls her eyes. “Arse.” She scoffs but tosses him the towel anyway before standing and patting herself down like she’s the one who’s had a long, relaxing soak.
“Are you sure only Helen and Charon are required?” she asks, back to business, though she still looks vaguely displeased. “Wouldn’t Cassandra be a good match for her?”
Hyperion snorts, wrapping the towel around his waist. “What use does Apollo have for a predictive model when she can do it herself?” Honestly, the redundancy is laughable. “I’d say she’d have more use with Lux or Rae. Maybe Ada, if she needs an escape.”
“I will never get over you calling your puppets by those damn nicknames,” Aurelia mutters, gaze flickering towards the door like she expects something unnatural to skitter out of the shadows.
Hyperion grins. “Fine. I trust your judgement,” she adds, tone reluctant. “Just… just don’t send any of them on my missions unless I ask. I can’t get over Icarus just popping up.”
“Russ is perfectly fine, thank you very much.”
“Sure, sure.” She waves him off, already turning for the door. “I’ll be off now and—get a shirt on.”
Hyperion sighs, long-suffering. “I’m not the one who barged into an innocent man’s bathroom knowing full well he was bathing.” He drawls, already pushing her towards the exit before she can see the two figures bowing so deeply their bodies are practically folded in half.
“Go now. Just brief Genevieve on this whilst I sort out Apollo’s issues. She won’t be happy with others meddling without her approval.”
“Since when did we need Apollo’s approval to interfere?”
“Since I said so.” Hyperion scoffs, shoving her gently out of the bathroom and into his dorm. “Don’t want anyone messing with things that are already going perfectly according to plan.”
Aurelia barely has time to open her mouth before he’s patting her on the back and pushing her the rest of the way out.
“That’s all? Perfect!”
“What—”
He shuts the door in her face before she can finish.
With that taken care of, Hyperion huffs, stretching lazily as magic weaves through the air, his clothes slipping onto his body like they belong there. It’s all very efficient, very effortless—an art, really. The best part? No tedious fumbling with buttons.
He flops onto his bed, nuzzling into his pillows, fully prepared to enjoy a moment of well-earned relaxation… until he remembers Roan and Lena still standing by the door.
Stock still. Waiting.
Their forms are flawless, of course—obsidian and marble, standing there like statues in some grand cathedral. Faceless. Until he decides otherwise.
Hyperion watches them for a moment, considering. Should he change their appearances now or later? They are going to America, after all. Adjustments must be made.
With a lazy stretch, he beckons Roan forward. The automaton obeys immediately, movements crisp, hands tucked behind its back like a soldier awaiting orders.
Hyperion places his hands atop its head, gazing into the smooth, white orbs that mimic eyes.
“Charon, nauta crepusculi et ossium,
Obsidianeus factus, marmore consutus.
Vela ferrum, induito cutem,
Sinito hominem vitam videre ubi nulla fuit.” [1]
Magic crackles at his fingertips. Slowly, Roan shifts, morphing from obsidian and marble to something warm, something human. Skin and bone. Flesh.
Satisfied, Hyperion discards the newly disguised automaton and moves to Lena. Her form is different—more intricate. More deliberate.
Roan is meant to blend. Lena is meant to shine.
His hands cup her smooth, sculpted cheeks, tracing the fine lines of her flawless construction. Unlike Roan, whose features are plain—dark-haired, dark-skinned, light-eyed—Lena requires something exquisite. Something desirable.
He exhales, voice a quiet murmur.
“Helen, pulchritudo in saxo sculpta,
Marmore osculata et crystallo creta.
Mollis est tuus vultus, calida tua cutis,
Sinito omnes qui spectant allici intus.” [2]
Magic hums through the air, and Lena transforms.
Strawberry blonde hair. Soft, delicate features. Blue eyes, just a shade too striking, akin to the depths of the sea. Skin as pale and flawless as fresh cream.
Perfect.
(“Why do you do all this?”
Aurelia’s voice rang with the kind of naive curiosity that made Hyperion wonder why he had chosen her of all people. She wasn’t from the last timeline—hadn’t been part of the carefully laid-out patterns he had once followed. No, she was new. An anomaly. A variable introduced when he decided to start changing things.
Not that it mattered. Everything could be accounted for, even unexpected pieces on the board.
“Because the world is never good,” he hummed, rolling a piece of obsidian between his fingers, watching how the dim candlelight gleamed against its surface.
Before him lay a table covered in potential—adamantine, obsidian, steel. His first choices. The materials that had created his first success. But repetition was stagnation, and he had no interest in stagnation. The next would be better.
“Because this world is doomed, and I want to stop it.”
His fingers curled around the obsidian, but then—something else. A shift in thought. His hand moved, trailing over the array of materials as he considered, carefully, deliberately. Liquid mercury pooled in a vial, thick and silver. He plucked it up.
And then—bronze. Simple. Humble. Weak—unless reinforced. Unless given something more.
Yes. That would do.
“What are you making?”
Aurelia’s curiosity remained blissfully intact, unaware, unshaped. Untouched. A temporary state, really.
Hyperion finally looked at her, and for a moment—just a moment—he considered. Then he laughed, soft and almost warm, though the amusement didn’t quite reach his thoughts.
“You know me,” he said, unfurling the scroll in his hands, letting her see the lines, the structure, the concept. “I create things I like.”
Aurelia’s reaction was irrelevant, but it was amusing nonetheless.
“My faith in humanity is fickle at best. Not after everything I’ve seen.”
Aurelia hugged herself, gaze flickering between him and the diagram as if trying to piece something together. As if she could.
“Is… is that why you’re trying to build this?” she murmured, her voice quieter now. Uncertain.
Hyperion almost pitied her. Almost.
“It’s dangerous, Hyperion,” she warned. Soft. Strange. She was usually louder. More insistent.
He hummed, trailing his fingers along the edge of the obsidian once more, letting the cool, glass-like surface ground him in something real.
“Sometimes,” he mused, “I don’t enjoy the company of humans. And yet, I want company.”
A solution, then. A compromise. A masterpiece.
“This, Aurelia,” he murmured, gaze alight with something she would never quite understand, “is my magnum opus.”
Charon had been the first. Forged from adamantine, obsidian, and steel. A creation not of companionship but utility. A servant meant to clear away the carrion. And he had been perfect.
Now, perfection must be matched.
He exhaled, eyes sweeping over his work, the pieces laid before him like fate itself had arranged them. Then, softly—
“Hello, Pandora.”)
Kharon, born of Nyx and Erebus, a child of shadow and endless night. The Ferryman who lingers at the river’s edge, waiting, always waiting. His price is known, his toll unchanging—silver upon lips, payment in death. No soul crosses without his blessing, no restless wraith drifts beyond without his decree.
O, Kharon, son of night and darkness, harbinger of passage, shepherd of the lost. May the dead come bearing wealth, hands heavy with offerings, lest they wither upon the shore, forgotten, unclaimed.
And Pandora—ah, Pandora. The first of her kind, a creation of divine hands, a gift laced with cruelty. Naïve, wandering, bound by fate’s design. A punishment shaped in flesh and bone, forged by Hephaestus, carved from vengeance itself.
O, Pandora—child of clay and whispered omens, the weight of knowledge pressed upon your fragile mind. Cursed with wonder, shackled by the unknown, you carry a vessel sealed with the ruin of men. May your trembling hands resist the call, may the hush of temptation not unmake the world.
Marvolo’s passage to America is disconcertingly smooth, so much so that it unsettles him—if only for a moment. Luck is not something he places much faith in. Fate is a far more useful concept, but even fate rarely offers such ease without expectation of repayment. Nevertheless, he shall accept what has been given.
Fudge, ever the bumbling opportunist, had been almost desperate to send him as Britain’s representative, eager to parade him before the Americans like some well-bred showpiece. He had practically thrust the position upon him, all the while awaiting some favourable result, no doubt hoping to bask in reflected glory should Marvolo succeed.
He will not disappoint. Not because of any desire to meet Fudge’s expectations, but because he has no interest in failure. Especially not when the Minister is so painfully dependent on those around him.
“Just run for Minister. It’s easier to deal with the problem that way.”
The words echo in his mind, as crisp as the day they were first uttered. Hyperion Peverell. A name that lingers, a presence that refuses to fade. That strange young man—so unnervingly perceptive, so endlessly curious.
It is almost irritating how often Peverell drifts to the forefront of his thoughts. Almost. The man’s reach extends far beyond Britain’s borders, his influence woven into places he should not yet have touched. And so Marvolo wonders—if he steps into an unfamiliar city, will he find Peverell waiting for him? Will the enigma materialise from the shadows purely for his amusement?
The notion is… pleasing. Yes.
He has yet to meet another so fascinating. So singularly compelling.
“Lord Gaunt.”
Lucius’s voice cuts through his musings as the man approaches, ever proper, ever composed. Marvolo acknowledges him with a glance, falling into step beside him as they move through the grand halls of the Congress.
“President Vanderholt is expecting you,” Lucius continues, his tone cool, professional. “She has been troubled as of late, considering one of the victims was discovered to be a former member of our Ministry.”
Marvolo barely inclines his head. “Which one?”
“Maximus Winthorp, third son of House Winthorp—Lady Winthorp’s youngest brother.”
A minor name, but not insignificant. Marvolo listens as Lucius leads him toward the President’s office, while the rest of their delegation is redirected toward their respective MACUSA officials.
“Our involvement stems from the treaty between MACUSA and our Ministry,” Lucius explains smoothly, always thorough, always prepared. “It obliges us to render aid when a citizen—particularly a current or former member of our Ministry—is implicated. Under ordinary circumstances, a smaller delegation would have sufficed. However, the revelation of Winthorp’s true identity has placed Vanderholt in a most precarious position.” A pause. A brief shake of the head. “And, of course, there are already whispers—people claiming the Olympians are responsible.”
Ah. So that is where the matter turns interesting.
“Bartemius has relayed that the Pantheon’s existence will soon become a formal ICW concern,” Marvolo murmurs, his gaze drifting, taking in every detail of the Congress’s architecture, the way the lamplight glows against polished marble. “Any association with them will fall under scrutiny. It has taken the ICW an entire year to assess the threat they pose—utterly laughable, if I may say so. Particularly when one considers that the Pantheon has already butchered members of four European houses and holds considerable sway over the black market.”
His eyes flicker back to Lucius, watching him from the corner of his vision. “The emergence of a fourth member suggests that the Pantheon is now willing to step into the light—if only marginally.”
Lucius exhales, contemplative. “Would it not be better for them to remain hidden?”
Marvolo hums, low and thoughtful. “Not when their ambitions are so vast. Whatever they may be…”
And therein lies the true intrigue. The why.
A hidden blade remains hidden until the moment of the strike. A force like the Pantheon does not reveal itself without purpose.
Which means, whatever they seek, they believe they are ready to take it.
Lucius clears his throat, a subtle prelude to their approach. His movements are precise, composed—an exercise in effortless charm as he guides Marvolo toward the woman awaiting them.
She is younger than Fudge, though not inexperienced. Prim and proper, her every motion tailored to present control, and yet… there. The faintest tremor in her stance, the almost imperceptible tightness around her eyes. A quiet sort of frantic energy, carefully concealed beneath a veneer of authority. Most would not notice. Marvolo does.
“President Vanderholt.” Lucius’s voice is warm, bordering on jovial—flattery worn like a second skin, polished and insincere. A deft redirection of her attention, smooth and practiced.
“I would like you to meet Lord Marvolo Gaunt, the man whom I have been speaking of.”
She blinks, her expression shifting—a brief hesitation before her features brighten by some marginal degree. Ah. The name has meaning to her, then. Dark hair braided back, robes expensive yet modest. A cultivated image. Meticulous.
So unlike Fudge. So perfectly unlike Fudge.
“Lord Gaunt! It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I am Honoria Vanderholt, and I have heard much about you—great things, if I may say so.” She chuckles, extending a hand. He takes it with careful precision, smiling in that measured way that elicits trust. A light squeeze, a fraction of a second longer than necessary, before she releases him.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, President Vanderholt. As you are doubtless aware, I am Marvolo Gaunt.” His words are smooth, practiced—each syllable placed with deliberate intent. “It is an honour to meet you, though the circumstances leave much to be desired. Nevertheless, I am prepared to extend my aid—particularly now that the fabled Pantheon… the so-called Olympians have seen fit to infiltrate your nation.”
Or they were already here in the first place.
It is a reasonable conclusion. Likely, even. A network of such reach, of such efficiency, does not build itself in the span of a year. No, the Pantheon has long since embedded itself in the fabric of global affairs. If he were to hazard a guess… Athena, perhaps, from France. Ares? Northern Europe, possibly. But speculation holds no value without confirmation.
Barty will look into it.
“Thank you kindly, Lord Gaunt. It’s been a rough few days for us all with the deaths of Adelaide Laveau and Maximus Winthorp.”
Vanderholt sighs, and for the briefest moment, the mask slips. Tired. She is tired.
“Was there not a fourth victim? Gadsden was killed before Winthorp.”
“Yes, that is correct, but his death remains under investigation, as Tristan Gadsden was killed at a firing range while practising archery. The usual motif employed by this Olympian is absent—arrows to both eyes and the neck.” Vanderholt frowns, lost in thought. “He's still under speculation since he might not have been a victim.”
“Was there not a public declaration concerning him prior to his demise? Apollo appears to take pleasure in broadcasting the transgressions of his victims—Tristan Gadsden being among them.”
“Which is precisely why his case remains inconclusive. Our Head Auror suspects that the revelation of Gadsden’s scandals may have been orchestrated by someone outside the Olympians.”
She crosses her arms, an amused smile curling at the edges of her lips.
Ah. Clever.
Marvolo exhales a quiet chuckle, tilting his head slightly. Not many perceive when they are being questioned. Fewer still respond with amusement.
Honoria Vanderholt… may yet prove worthy of his regard.
“I daresay I shall rather enjoy working alongside you, President Vanderholt.”
“Call me Honoria.”
“Very well then, Honoria.”
(Deep in the cusps of a castle, moonlit eyes gaze through glass and see red. The thread is thin—an unbreakable thing…)