The First Strike
Private Lounge, Diagon Alley
Tucked away in an unsuspecting alcove stood The Veil and Chalice, a sanctuary where words held more weight than wands, and where society's influential members shaped wizarding Britain’s fate in hushed secrecy. Away from the Ministry’s watchful eyes and the looming specter of war, alliances were tested, deals struck, and futures decided—not in grand chambers, but in the careful cadence of whispered negotiations.
Seated in a plush leather chair within one of its private lounges, Cyrus Greengrass swirled the amber liquid in his glass with deliberate ease, his posture that of a man in complete control. Across from him, Ryam Macmillan and Gerald Abbott studied him with guarded expressions, their drinks untouched, their silence expectant. Neither was the type to make the first move, not when the stakes were as high as they were now.
It was Abbott who finally spoke, his voice edged with wary curiosity.
“You’ve been busy, Lord Greengrass. Speaking with those who prefer silence. Stirring whispers where there were none before. It makes a man wonder what it is you seek.”
Cyrus offered a knowing smile, setting his glass down with a measured clink against the polished wood.
“A fool waits for the storm to break. A wise man ensures he is the one guiding the winds.”
Macmillan let out a low hum, his fingers tapping idly against his glass. “Neutrality has served us well thus far. You’re asking us to abandon it."
Cyrus shook his head. “I am telling you it is no longer an option. The Dark Lord tightens his grip with each passing day, and the Ministry flounders in response. How much longer do you believe we can remain on the sidelines before the war forces our hand?”
Abbott exhaled sharply, rubbing his chin. "And what would you have us do? Align ourselves with Dumbledore? Entrust our future to a man who plays his pieces close to the chest, expecting trust without offering the same in return? A man who would see tradition cast aside in pursuit of his greater good?"
Cyrus chuckled, the sound low and amused. “No. I propose something far more substantial.”
He let the weight of his next words settle over them before he spoke again.
“A new force is rising. One that values both tradition and strength. One that will not see our heritage consumed by war but refuses to stand idly by while our world crumbles.”
A flicker of interest passed between his guests. Abbott leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed. “And what exactly does this force intend to do?”
Cyrus met his gaze unflinchingly. “Ensure that wizarding Britain does not fall into ruin. The war cannot be won by reckless defiance alone. The Ministry needs a leader who understands that this is not a game of diplomacy. That we do not endure war—we win it.”
Macmillan’s eyes sparked with realization, his jaw tightening. “You mean to remove Minchum.”
Cyrus inclined his head. “We all know his leadership is failing. He hesitates while our enemies run rampant. And if we do not act, he will be the end of us all.” He let his gaze sweep between them. “This is why I have come to you. The families who have yet to choose a side still hold sway in the Wizengamot. With the right push, we can ensure a new Minister takes his place. Someone who will lead with decisiveness.”
Abbott’s voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Millicent Bagnold.”
Macmillan let out a low hum, rolling his glass between his fingers. “A pragmatic choice. Bagnold won’t hesitate, and she’ll give Crouch free rein. And Crouch? He won’t waste a second. He’s been waiting for permission to tear the Death Eaters apart—bone by bone.”
Cyrus nodded. “Precisely. But to secure her position, we need votes. I have already spoken with several others who are prepared to support this move, but your voices will carry weight. If you lend your names to this effort, others will follow.”
Abbott drummed his fingers against the table, considering. “And what guarantee do we have that this isn’t just another game? That this force of yours isn’t simply a different hand reaching for the same power?”
Cyrus smiled, though there was steel beneath it. “Because this is not a bid for power, but for stability. The Dark Lord thrives on chaos. If we continue to dither, we hand him victory without a fight. But if we move—if we act decisively—we dictate the terms of the future.”
A long silence followed. The weight of it settled between them, thick as the firewhisky in their glasses.
Finally, Abbott sighed, running a hand down his face. “This is madness. But… perhaps madness is what we need.”
Macmillan, ever the cautious one, exchanged a glance with him before exhaling. “We’ll be there, Greengrass. But if this all comes crashing down, I won’t risk my family to save you.”
Cyrus smirked, lifting his glass in a silent toast. “Nor would I expect you to. But when the dust settles, you won’t regret where you placed your bet.”
They clinked their glasses, sealing their agreement in the quiet way that men of power always had. Across the city, beyond the warm glow of the lounge, the foundations of wizarding Britain had begun to shift. And soon, all would feel the tremors.
Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic
Amelia Bones’ office was riddled with documents and notes, the lingering remnants of sleepless nights spent poring over case files. The soft hum of enchanted quills scratching reports filled the space beyond her door, a constant reminder of the war being fought not only in the streets but within the very foundations of the Ministry itself.
A single enchanted lantern hovered above her desk, illuminating the towering stacks of files detailing raids, disappearances, and murders. Each one a testament to a government struggling to keep control.
Across from her, Sebastian Greengrass sat with the ease of a man accustomed to negotiation, his expression poised, his demeanor calm. He had dealt with many who thrived on political maneuvering, men who disguised their true intentions behind carefully crafted words. But Amelia Bones was not one of them.
She wasted no time.
“You’ve been reaching out.” Her voice was sharp, cutting straight to the matter. “Speaking to families who have long preferred silence over action. That doesn’t happen without a reason.”
Sebastian inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her point. “No, it does not.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands over his knee. “It's easy to see where this war is headed. And if we continue down this path, wizarding Britain is on course for a reckoning.”
Amelia didn’t flinch. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you do.” His voice was steady, measured. “I think you’ve known for a long time. But knowing and acting are not the same thing.”
She arched a brow. “And you believe you have the solution?”
Sebastian’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Not a solution. An opportunity.”
Reaching into the folds of his coat, he withdrew a neatly folded parchment and placed it on the desk before her. His fingers tapped once against the surface before sliding it forward.
Amelia unfolded it carefully, scanning the names written in clean, precise script. Families—influential ones. And beside each name, annotations. Some marked persuaded, others considering.
Her gaze flicked up to his.
“You’re making a move.”
Sebastian nodded. “Minchum’s leadership is failing. His belief in diplomacy—his hesitation—is costing us lives. While he deliberates, the Death Eaters strike. The Ministry stumbles. We react rather than dictate the course of this war. That must change.”
Amelia set the parchment down, steepling her fingers. “And you want my backing to remove him.”
“Yes.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “Millicent Bagnold is the better choice. She understands that a war cannot be won by waiting. With her as Minister, and with Crouch having full authority over the DMLE, we will finally have the means to crush the Death Eaters where they stand.”
Amelia studied him carefully. “And you think the Wizengamot will agree to this?”
Sebastian’s expression didn’t change, but there was something sharp behind his eyes. “They will, once the right voices speak up. That, Amelia, is where you come in.”
A long silence stretched between them. She tapped a finger against the desk, her thoughts already moving three steps ahead.
“If I support this, if I throw my weight behind Bagnold’s rise, I need assurances. I won’t replace a hesitant Minister with someone who will flinch when the real fight begins.”
Sebastian leaned back slightly, his expression turning serious. “You have my word. And more than that, you have the word of a force greater than you realize.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What force?”
Sebastian’s smile returned, this time edged with something far more dangerous. “That, Amelia, will reveal itself in time. But consider this—would my family dare take such a risk, stake our future on a mere gamble? We are aligning with a power that can shift the tides of this war. When the moment comes, I believe you will understand.”
A slow exhale left her lips as she picked up the parchment once more, skimming the names again. The shift was coming. That much was clear.
“I’ll keep an open mind,” she said finally, leveling him with a sharp look. “But if this force of yours proves to be nothing but shadow and whispers—”
Sebastian inclined his head, cutting her off with a knowing nod. “Then I expect you’ll be the first to say so.”
A brief pause. Then, Amelia Bones leaned forward. “I’ll see you at the Wizengamot meeting.”
Sebastian stood, adjusting his coat. “I look forward to it.”
With that, he turned and strode toward the door, disappearing into the dim corridors beyond.
Left alone, Amelia sat in silence, fingers still pressed against the parchment.
The Order
To Lord and Lady Potter,
I write to you not as a stranger, nor as a distant relic of an ancient house, but as a mother who sees the storm gathering on the horizon—a storm that threatens all we hold dear.
Dark times are upon us, and they will only grow darker if left unchecked by current leadership. The events in Diagon Alley have made it clear that the war is escalating, and soon, no family—be they old or new, great or humble—will be untouched by its shadow. I believe it is in the interest of all who stand against this darkness to seek understanding, if not common ground.
Though our families have been estranged in past generations, I hope that history will not dictate the future. The Peverell and Potter names have long been intertwined, and while time has set us on different paths, we find ourselves facing the same crossroads now. I ask for the opportunity to meet with you, to discuss what can be done to ensure that when the dust settles, we do not look back with regret, but with the knowledge that we did all we could to protect those who will come after us.
If you are willing, I would welcome a conversation at a time and place of your choosing. Let us not allow silence to make enemies of those who might otherwise stand together.
With respect,
Daenerys Peverell
Matriarch of House Peverell
The members of The Order of the Phoenix sat around the long wooden table, the usual murmur of strategic discussions gave way to bursts of incredulous exclamations. At the head of the table, Albus Dumbledore sat in pensive silence, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his keen eyes flickering over the faces of his most trusted allies. Before him, James Potter placed a letter upon the table with deliberate care. A name was elegantly signed at the bottom, but it was one that none had expected to see.
Daenerys Peverell.
“The letter arrived this morning,” James began, his usual confidence tempered with something more guarded. “Lily and I were discussing it, but we figured it would be best to bring it here before making any decisions.”
Lily Potter sat beside him, her expression composed, but her eyes betrayed a sharp curiosity. “She wants to meet with us, but she was careful with her words. The letter was… intriguing, to say the least.”
Alastor Moody scoffed from his corner of the room, his magical eye whirring as it locked onto the parchment as though it might sprout legs and attack. “More like suspicious.” His voice was low and gravelly, laced with distrust. “The Peverells have been ghosts for centuries. And now one just waltzes in, claiming to have been here all along?” His lips curled into a sneer. “It reeks of a trap.”
Frank Longbottom, seated across from James, leaned forward with a furrowed brow. “Or it could be an opportunity. If she’s genuine, we might gain another powerful ally.”
Marlene Black (née McKinnon) wasn’t convinced. Her arms were crossed, but her gaze held a calculating edge. “We don’t know that. We don’t know anything about her. Why now? Why approach James and Lily first instead of coming to Dumbledore outright?”
“She mentioned the historical ties between the Potters and Peverells,” Lily supplied. “She’s positioning herself as an old ally, not a new one.”
Sirius Black, uncharacteristically silent until now, leaned back in his chair, an unreadable expression in his grey eyes. “There’s something off about this. Families like the Peverells don’t just disappear. Not entirely. If she’s been hiding, what’s changed to make her step into the light now?”
Dumbledore finally stirred, his voice thoughtful yet calm. “That is the question, isn’t it? From what little I have gathered, she first emerged in Diagon Alley some time ago. There have been whispers—nothing substantial, but enough to suggest she is maneuvering. Watching.”
Moody’s scowl deepened. “Watching for what? A power shift? A weakness? We don’t know where her true loyalties lie.”
Lily glanced at the letter again. “She speaks of standing against Voldemort.”
Moody barked a humorless laugh. “Plenty of people oppose him. That doesn’t mean they’re on our side.”
Remus Lupin, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. “She called Minchum weak in her letter. That’s not a Ministry-approved stance. If anything, it suggests she’s looking for an alternative.”
Marlene’s gaze sharpened. “And what if that alternative isn’t us? What if she’s not looking to join the fight, but to carve her own path?”
A heavy silence fell over the room as the thought settled, unspoken yet undeniable.
Dumbledore sighed, his fingers tapping lightly against the wood. "The tides of change are upon us, and whether we wish it or not, we must acknowledge them. Whatever Daenerys Peverell’s intentions may be, she is correct in one undeniable truth—complacency is a luxury we no longer possess. If she seeks allies, we must determine the nature of her cause. If she seeks to assess us, we must ensure she finds no weakness to exploit."
His gaze shifted toward James and Lily, sharp and discerning. "Fate has a curious way of weaving paths together, and it would seem that Lady Peverell has chosen you as the thread to bridge past and present. Such invitations are never made lightly, nor should they be dismissed without due consideration. If you are both willing, this meeting may grant us valuable insight—insight we can ill afford to overlook."
James exchanged a glance with Lily, searching her expression before nodding. “We’ll do it.”
Lily exhaled slowly, folding her hands in her lap before speaking. “If we do this, we need to tread carefully. She appears intelligent, measured, and clearly strategic. If she has an agenda beyond what she claims, she won’t reveal it easily.”
Dumbledore’s lips twitched in something resembling amusement. “That, my dear Lily, is precisely why I trust you both to handle this delicately.”
Moody still looked unconvinced. “Just be ready for anything.”
He hesitated, then fixed James with a sharp gaze. “Look for tells. How much she gives away, and more importantly, what she keeps to herself. If she’s hiding something, she’ll slip eventually.”
James smirked, but there was little humor in it. “I haven't forgot your lessons old Mad-Eye.”
Dumbledore offered a knowing smile. “Change has a way of revealing more than just intentions. Be mindful not only of what she offers, but what she withholds.”
The meeting adjourned soon after, but as the members filed out, the unspoken question remained—who was Daenerys Peverell, and what did she truly want?
Potter Estate
The Potter Estate sat nestled in the rolling countryside, its wards humming with layered protections that had kept the family safe for centuries. It was a place of warmth. Yet today, a quiet unease settled over the grand sitting room—unspoken questions lingering in the air.
Daenerys Peverell sat with effortless poise, exuding an air of quiet authority. Across from her, James and Lily Potter regarded their guest with guarded curiosity. The fire crackled between them, but it did little to thaw the tension.
James leaned forward, his hazel eyes sharp with scrutiny. “You’ll forgive me for being direct, Lady Peverell, but the world believed your family was gone. And yet, here you are. Why get involved now?”
Daenerys inclined her head, her expression serene. “Because the world stands at a crossroads. I have watched this war unfold from afar, as many others have. But simply watching is no longer an option. To remain silent is to be complicit, and I will not be complacent.”
Lily folded her hands in her lap, her emerald gaze unwavering. “That’s a noble sentiment, but it doesn’t explain why you sought us out specifically.”
Daenerys allowed a small, knowing smile. “Because despite the distance that time has placed between our houses, the Potters and the Peverells share a common ancestry. There is history between us. And history should not be so easily dismissed.”
James raised a brow. “Are you suggesting blood alone should dictate our alliances?”
“Not at all,” Daenerys countered smoothly. “I am suggesting that shared blood makes a foundation stronger, and that we have more reason than most to stand together rather than apart.”
He exhaled, considering her words. “And what exactly does ‘standing together’ entail?”
Daenerys met his gaze evenly. “I stand against those who seek to upend the balance of our world. Voldemort grows bolder by the day, and the Ministry is losing ground faster than it can regain it. We must stop reacting to his moves and start dismantling his foundation.”
James’ jaw tightened at the mention of the Ministry. “If you’ve got a better way, I’d love to hear it.”
Lily shot him a warning glance, but Daenerys merely smiled. “Minchum clings to outdated notions of diplomacy, believing that words will somehow dissuade a man who does not negotiate. Every hesitation emboldens Voldemort further.” She let her words settle before continuing, her voice measured. “Wizarding Britain needs a leader who understands that in war, survival is not enough. One must strike.”
Lily’s brows knit together. “Are you suggesting Minchum be removed?”
Daenerys tilted her head slightly. “I am suggesting that leadership should be capable, not comfortable. And that perhaps, the Ministry needs someone who does not mistake caution for cowardice.”
James exhaled sharply. “That’s a nice way of saying you already have someone in mind.”
Her lips curved slightly, but she neither confirmed nor denied it. “Change is necessary. That much, I think, we can all agree upon.”
Lily studied her carefully. “And how do you intend to enact this change?”
Daenerys took a slow sip of her tea, her next words deliberate. “Carefully. Strategically. With the right alliances.”
James’ gaze sharpened. “And who exactly are these right alliances?”
She did not answer immediately, instead setting her cup down with an almost imperceptible smirk. “You are an Auror, Lord Potter. You understand the value of discretion. Some things are best revealed when the time is right.”
James bristled. “And what, exactly, do you know of my work?”
Daenerys met his glare with an unwavering gaze. “I know that your allegiances lie with the Order of the Phoenix rather than the ministry you work for.”
The silence was deafening. James stilled, his fingers curling slightly. Membership in The Order was supposed to be confidential to keep those involved from becoming targets.
“You’ve done your homework,” he said, his tone edged with warning.
“I make it a point to understand the forces at play in this war,” Daenerys replied, unfazed. “The Order of the Phoenix is a formidable force, but it is not the only one moving in this fight.”
James shot Lily a look, but she was still watching Daenerys, her expression unreadable.
“If you’re asking us to consider an alliance, you must know that we already stand with Dumbledore,” Lily said.
“I do,” Daenerys acknowledged. “And I have no intention of trying to pull you from his Order.”
James frowned. “Then what exactly do you want?”
Daenerys leaned forward slightly, her voice calm but firm. “I want you to see the bigger picture. Dumbledore is a wise man, but even he cannot fight this war alone. If we rely solely on one leader, we are already at a disadvantage. Voldemort does not limit himself to a single plan, nor should we.”
Lily’s fingers tightened on her teacup. “And you believe yourself another leader in this fight?”
Daenerys met her gaze. “I believe that wizarding Britain will need more than just one voice, one vision, to rebuild when the war is won.”
James leaned back, arms crossed. “You’re asking us to trust you when we don’t even know your full intentions.”
“I am asking you to consider the possibilities,” Daenerys corrected smoothly. “To recognize that forces are moving outside the Order’s knowledge, and that when the moment comes, you will have a choice to make.”
Lily pressed her lips together, her expression unreadable. But there was understanding in her eyes. “And if we refuse?”
Daenerys smiled, but it was a smile of knowledge, not warmth. “Then you refuse. And when the dust settles, I only hope that you do not regret the path you chose.”
She stood, smoothing out her robes. “I will not take up any more of your time. Thank you for your hospitality.”
As she turned to leave, she hesitated, then glanced back at Lily. Her voice softened, just slightly.
“We are both mothers, Lady Potter. I know what it is to lie awake at night, wondering if my child will see the world as I hope it to be, or as war will make it. In the end, we all fight for the same thing.”
Lily’s breath caught, but she said nothing.
Daenerys’ gaze turned toward James once more. “Do not mistake my caution for hesitation. When the time comes, I will act.”
With that, she departed, leaving James and Lily in thoughtful silence.
Wizengamot Chamber
The ancient halls of the Wizengamot chamber thrummed with a restless energy, an undercurrent of apprehension running beneath the usual drudgery of political proceedings. Lords and Ladies of Britain's most powerful families filled their seats, expecting another session of veiled barbs and maneuvering. But for a select few, there was growing sense of anticipation. This was the moment, when the past weeks whispers would be given credence, or prove to be more false promises.
Just as the minister stepped forward to begin the session, the great doors creaked open, and the chamber slowly fell into absolute silence.
A lone figure strode through the entrance, her steps measured, deliberate. The sharp click of her heels against the polished marble floor reverberated through the vast chamber, a singular sound that commanded attention. Dark emerald robes, embroidered with silver thread, trailed behind her, the fabric whispering with every movement. She walked as if she had always belonged here, as if the weight of history itself bent to her will.
Cyrus Greengrass remained seated; his expression unreadable. Yet those who had spoken with him in recent weeks caught the briefest glint of satisfaction in his gaze. He did not react beyond the slightest steepling of his fingers, watching. Waiting.
James Potter stiffened the moment his eyes landed on her, recognition flashing across his face. Sirius Black, seated beside him, caught the tension in his friend’s posture. His sharp grey eyes narrowed, studying the woman who had just entered. And then, realization dawned. With a slow, exhaled breath, he leaned back, fingers drumming idly against the table in contemplation.
Across the chamber, Lucius Malfoy’s grip tightened around his silver-tipped cane. His pale features remained composed, but his mind raced. He had anticipated this moment since their encounter in Diagon Alley, yet seeing her now, standing before the entire Wizengamot, he could not help but wonder—what was her true play?
Seated in quiet observation, Albus Dumbledore inclined his head ever so slightly. The ever-present twinkle in his blue eyes remained, but beneath it lay something sharper, more assessing. He had pieced together the truth in mere moments.
The rest of the chamber, however, remained oblivious.
Daenerys Peverell stopped at the floor podium, her violet gaze sweeping over the gathered assembly with quiet authority. She let the silence stretch, unhurried, unwavering.
Then she spoke.
“Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot,” her voice rang through the chamber, smooth yet powerful, every syllable laced with purpose. “I am Daenerys Peverell, rightful heir and matriarch of my house, and I have come to claim my family’s seat in this esteemed body.”
For a single heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then—uproar.
Gasps, shouts, and incredulous exclamations erupted all at once. Some demanded proof, others scoffed at the absurdity of the claim. The chaos swelled, echoing off the chamber’s high stone walls. But through it all, Daenerys stood serene, unmoving, the eye of the storm.
Lucius Malfoy did not join the outcry. His sharp gaze remained fixed on her, an uneasy suspicion taking root.
A voice finally cut through the din—sharp, disdainful.
“Preposterous.”
Corban Yaxley rose from his seat, a slow, measured motion. “The House of Peverell has been extinct for centuries. If you believe you can waltz in here and seize power based on nothing but a name—”
Daenerys did not react. She did not need to.
Instead, she slowly lifted her hand.
Upon her pale fingers, an emerald ring gleamed under the chamber’s enchanted light. The sigil of the Deathly Hallows, etched in ancient silver, pulsed faintly with recognition. A ripple of magic spread outward, an undeniable whisper in the fabric of the chamber itself.
The ancient wards of the Wizengamot, woven to recognize the bloodlines of its rightful members, flared in acknowledgment.
Yaxley’s words died in his throat.
“I do not ask for permission to take what is mine by right,” Daenerys said coolly, her amethyst eyes locking onto his with quiet, unwavering certainty. “The magic of this chamber does not lie. My family’s legacy endures.”
The silence that followed was absolute. From his seat, Arcturus Black, elder statesman of his house, studied her with sharp, calculating eyes before inclining his head slightly. It was not an endorsement—but it was acknowledgment.
The neutrals exchanged glances, a dawning realization between them. This was the force Cyrus Greengrass had spoken of. Members of the Order of the Phoenix instinctively looked toward Dumbledore. He sat with his hands folded before him, impassive, observant, his blue eyes gleaming with quiet interest. He gave no immediate reaction—he merely watched as the pieces fell into place.
At last, Minister Minchum cleared his throat, his voice thin with unease. “Very well. The matter of Lady Peverell’s seat is recognized. Now, let us—”
Daenerys stepped forward, and her presence alone silenced him.
“There is one other matter,” she announced, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The state of our government is untenable. The Ministry, under Minister Minchum, has faltered in the face of rising darkness. Each day, Voldemort grows bolder, and yet we cling to bureaucracy and failed diplomacy while our people die.”
A sharp intake of breath swept through the chamber at her blunt invocation of the Dark Lord’s name.
“Wizarding Britain does not need a leader who treads water while our world drowns,” Daenerys continued, her voice a steady crescendo of conviction. “It needs action. Strength. Leadership that does not cower behind parchment and protocol. That is why I propose a motion: The removal of Minister Minchum from office—immediately.”
Pandemonium.
Shouts clashed, some in outrage, others in stunned agreement. The Death Eater-aligned families scrambled to react, with Lucius Malfoy surging to his feet, his face twisted in fury.
“This is absurd!” he bellowed. “You would upend the very fabric of our government on the word of a ghost?”
But the neutral families were no longer looking at him. They were looking at Cyrus Greengrass. He remained seated, calm, his fingers steepled. But in the dim light of the chamber, the barest trace of satisfaction gleamed in his expression.
The realization hit like a bludger. This had been orchestrated from the very beginning.
Across the chamber, members of the Order of the Phoenix turned to Dumbledore. They had been outmaneuvered. This was no whim, no impulse—this was a calculated strike, executed with perfect precision. Greengrass, Bones, Abbott, Macmillan, and Davis rose in support, making their votes known. Many of the remaining neutrals, sensing the shift in power, followed their lead.
And as they watched Bagnold rise—graceful, assured—they saw the writing on the wall. Dumbledore’s gaze remained impassive; his expression unreadable. But at last, he gave the slightest nod. The Order voted. And just like that, Millicent Bagnold became the new Minister of Magic. Daenerys Peverell simply smiled, inclining her head in a subtle acknowledgment as she took a seat next to Cyrus.
A hush settled over the chamber. In mere moments, the landscape of wizarding politics was turned on its head. Cyrus, always watching, took notice of Lucius Malfoy sitting rigid, his knuckles white against his cane. Mulciber sat next to him, jaw tense.
The Peverell/Greengrass alliance had made their opening move, and for the first time since this war started, Voldemort and his followers were dealt a major blow.
DMLE Headquarters
The war had always been there, lurking in the corners of their lives, but now it had been dragged fully into the open. And with the shift in leadership, hesitation was no longer tolerated. The inside of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement buzzed with a renewed energy. Aurors were bustling about, pieces of parchment were flying throughout the room, and beyond an oak door with a small window, the best of them were gathered together, hovering over a large table littered with reports, maps, and photos.
James Potter stood with his arms crossed, his hazel eyes scanning the large map pinned to the enchanted board at the front of the room. Red marks bled across the diagram of wizarding Britain, each pinpoint a suspected safe house, meeting point, or hideaway for Voldemort’s followers. Some had been confirmed through intelligence gathered from interrogations; others were nothing more than well-educated guesses. But Barty Crouch was no longer waiting for certainty.
“Every single one of these locations is to be hit before the week is out,” Crouch declared, his voice sharp and unforgiving. “No delays, no bureaucracy, no second-guessing.”
He turned to his assembled Aurors, his steel-grey eyes glinting under the floating lanterns. His presence commanded the room, and his sheer force of will was enough to make even the most seasoned officers stand a little straighter. “These filths have operated in the shadows for too long, emboldened by Ministry incompetence and their own arrogance. That ends now. We will drag them into the light. And when we do, there will be no mercy.”
Sirius Black, standing just to James’ right, leaned in slightly. “Someone’s feeling empowered by the new regime,” he muttered, his voice laced with dry amusement.
James shot him a sidelong glance. “He’s not wrong, Pads. We’ve been on the back foot for too long.”
Standing opposite of them, was Evonne Creighton. She was tall for a witch; her long dark hair cascading down the back of her lithe frame. Seemingly absorbed in the briefing, she held a practiced expression of cold focus, a perfect blend of professionalism and restrained determination. She was well respected in the DMLE, considered one of their finest tactical minds.
She was careful to say little as Crouch continued, her sharp blue eyes taking in the placements of Auror teams, the timing of each raid, and which operatives would be leading them. It was all valuable information—information she would pass on to those who needed it.
Crouch turned to James and Sirius to address them directly. “Potter, Black, you’re leading the strike on the Harrowgate safe house. It’s suspected to be a Death Eater meeting point. Lethal force is authorized.”
Sirius gave a sharp nod, though James’ expression was a fraction more serious. “And if we encounter civilians?”
Crouch’s lip curled slightly. “Then I trust you to know where to aim.”
James clenched his jaw but didn’t argue.
A ripple of uneasy energy spread through the room, but no one voiced their concerns. They all knew what this meant. The war had changed, and they had no choice but to change with it.
As the meeting dispersed, Evonne lingered a moment longer, watching James and Sirius as they consulted the map. She made her way over to them, a familiar easy smile gracing her lips.
"Look at you two fast risers. From junior aurors to raid leaders in less than 3 years. Someone must have taught you well." Her smile transforming into a knowing smirk.
Sirius turned to her as he scoffed, "Having you for an instructor actually made me miss Mad-Eye. Got any last-minute lessons for old time's sake, Evie?"
"Call me that again Black and a Death Eater raid will be the least of your worries." She levied a glare at a smirking Sirius, then let out an exasperated sigh as she continued. "I was the one who dug up intel on Harrowgate. It's one of the lesser occupied meeting sites, but be ready for anything. Lily and Marlene wouldn't be too pleased if you idiots got yourselves killed. Especially since you have the little ones to look after now."
James nodded with a friendly smile, "We know. We were trained by two of the best, we'll make it back in one piece."
"See that you do. I'll send over all the details I have on the place. Remember, you aren't just responsible for yourselves this time. You'll have a whole team depending on you to do the job and get them home safely. No funny business, understood Black?" Evonne gave a pointed look at Sirius. "Good luck you two, be safe."
They watched as she left through the oak door, her steps quick as she disappeared down a crowded corridor, likely heading back to her intelligence unit.
"Come on Pads, best let the ladies and Dumbledore know what's going on." James clapped an arm over Sirius' shoulder and the two made their way to the floo station.
Malfoy Manor
The candlelit chamber was silent save for the rhythmic tapping of long, thin fingers against the arm of an ornate chair. Lord Voldemort sat in perfect stillness, his crimson gaze burning as he stared down the assembled figures before him.
The failures of his servants had grown tiresome. They had spoken of the Ministry’s weakness, of its inability to mount a true offense. And yet, here they were, barely two weeks into Bagnold’s appointment, and already Aurors were tearing through their safe houses like fiendfyre through a forest.
His voice, when it came, was soft. Almost gentle. Which made it all the more terrifying.
“The Peverell woman,” he mused, his tone laced with quiet amusement. “She has set this into motion.”
Lucius Malfoy swallowed hard, stepping forward slightly. “My Lord, the Greengrass maneuvering in the Wizengamot played a significant role as well—”
A flick of Voldemort’s fingers silenced him.
“Greengrass has always been a cautious man. He would not have risked such a move alone. No, this was orchestrated by someone who does not fear the weight of history pressing upon their shoulders.”
His gaze swept across the room, taking in the expressions of his assembled Death Eaters—some proud, some fearful, some barely containing their rage.
“They believe they have gained the upper hand,” he continued, his voice almost a purr. “They think because they hold their little votes and sign their decrees that they can dictate the course of this war.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop as his expression darkened. “Let us remind them that law is a fragile thing. That rulership is not granted by parchment and signatures.”
A cold smile curled at the edges of his lips. “It is carved in blood.”
He stood, the movement almost too smooth, too unnatural. His presence filled the space, and a palpable wave of dread settled over the room.
“They wish to fight a war?” he murmured. “Then let us give them one.”
His wand flicked, the shadows stretching unnaturally in response. “Summon them. All of them. We move tonight.”
His supporters were quick to follow his orders, turning to leave immediately, eager to flee his daunting presence. As Lucius, turned to follow his peers, a soft, harrowing voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Lucius. Stay."
The simple command was enough to freeze the blood in his veins. A droplet of sweat slipped from his forehead as he turned to his master.
"My Lord?" He questioned, eyes widening, revealing his fear to all the world.
Voldemort's gaze portrayed a slight amusement, enjoying the power his most basic actions had over others as he stalked toward Lucius.
"My friend, one of my most trusted, I believe I gave you a task of great importance to me, did I not?"
"Yes, my Lord. And I, as your humble servant, have worked tirelessly, devoting my every-"
"Spare me your flowery words and silver tongue Lucius." The Dark Lord interrupted, growing bored of the exchange. "What news, what did you discover? Is there a reason you have not reported back to me on your travels to Romania?"
Lucius was growing more paranoid by the second, his mind beginning to feel heavy from being in the Dark Lord's presence this long.
"My Lord, Severus and I found a few leads, but nothing substantial yet. We wished to present you with certainty, my Lord, not mere speculation..."
Voldemort sneered, his frustration with his followers building again. "And what minor discoveries did you uncover?"
"We believe we have found the gravesite that connects the Peverells to the Targaryens, the last dragon lords of old."
Voldemort’s breath stilled for the briefest moment—then, his lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile.
“Tell me everything.”
???
The countryside was quiet, the rolling hills bathed in the pale glow of the moon. A manor stood proud in the distance, its high walls and ancient wards humming softly in the still night air. For centuries, it had been a place of legacy, of honor. Of duty.
A lone figure stood at its boundry, his silhouette sharp against the night. The soft glow of a wandtip barely illuminating his pale features, but the malice in his gaze burned bright.
Behind him, figures slipped from the shadows, their movements soundless yet oppressive. As one, they advanced toward the manor, their intent unmistakable. A slow, cruel smile spread across his lips, his crimson eyes gleaming with anticipation for the devastation that was about to unfold.