As Charlus and Dorea sat with Harry, the light of the flickering fire casting shadows across the walls of their study, they couldn't help but marvel at the resilience of their young grandson. It was evident in the way he held himself, despite everything he had been through.
"You're a remarkable boy, Harry," Charlus said, his voice gravely deep, echoing with an authority that commanded respect. His sharp eyes gleamed with admiration, his posture straight as if the very weight of the Potters' legacy settled on his shoulders. "To endure so much at such a tender age... It's a testament to your strength, your character."
Harry smiled shyly, his face flushed, and though his lips curled upward, there was a quiet sadness in his eyes, a shadow of a life that had been anything but kind. "Thank you, Grandfather," he murmured, his voice soft, almost too soft for a boy so full of potential. "But it wasn't easy. The Dursleys... they weren't very kind to me."
Dorea's heart ached at the words. Her gaze softened, the gentle warmth of her presence filling the room like a balm. Reaching across the table, she took Harry's hand in her own, her fingers long and elegant, yet firm with affection. "You're safe now, Harry," she said, her voice a delicate mixture of sorrow and fierce resolve. "We won't let anyone harm you. Not while we're here."
Charlus's expression darkened, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his hands in anger. "No child should suffer as you have," he declared, his voice laced with righteous fury, each word measured with precision. "The Dursleys will regret ever laying a hand on you, I swear it."
Harry blinked, surprised by the fire that burned in his grandfather's eyes. But before he could respond, Dorea's steadying touch on his hand calmed him, and she gave him a soft smile. "You're a Potter, Harry," she said with a soft but unwavering strength. "And Potters are known for their courage, their resilience. That same strength runs through you."
Harry felt the weight of her words, but it was Charlus who broke the silence, his tone shifting to something older, more reflective. "Let me tell you something, Harry," he said, folding his hands before him, his eyes far away as if searching through the haze of time itself. "Let me tell you about the origins of House Potter. It's a story of our ancestors, going all the way back to a man named Aeneas."
"Aeneas?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Yes, Aeneas," Charlus confirmed with a nod, his lips curling slightly as though savoring the memory. "He lived during the Roman Empire, a time of great upheaval. The year was 43 AD, during the Roman invasion of Britannia. Aeneas, a humble potter by trade, was conscripted into the Roman Legion. It wasn't just any legion, mind you, but a special one—one made up of wizards."
"Wait, wizards?" Harry repeated, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
"Yes," Charlus continued, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his voice taking on the cadence of a master storyteller. "Aeneas wasn't just any soldier. He was part of an elite group of wizards recruited to fight against the powerful magic of the Druids in Britain. And let me tell you, young Harry, Aeneas was no ordinary wizard. His skill in combat was unparalleled. He earned the respect of every soldier around him."
Harry's eyes widened. "So, what happened to him?"
Charlus's gaze hardened with pride. "After the war, Aeneas was left with a legacy. He decided to settle in Camulodunum, which you'd know today as Colchester. There, he fell in love with a Celtic witch by the name of Clodagh. She was powerful, but more than that, she was kind-hearted and deeply connected to the natural world. The union of Aeneas and Clodagh formed the foundation of our family."
Dorea's voice was soft but full of love as she added, "It was the blending of their worlds—his martial prowess and her deep connection to nature—that created the foundation of the Potter family. Aeneas and Clodagh built something together. And so began the legacy of House Potter."
Harry listened intently, his mind racing. "So... Aeneas chose the name Potter because of his past?"
Charlus nodded. "Indeed. He chose the name Potter not just as a reminder of his humble beginnings, but because it kept him grounded. It reminded him of the simplicity of his roots, even after he had tasted the glory of battle."
Dorea smiled, her sharp eyes reflecting a wisdom that came with age. "And this is where it all started, Harry. From that humble beginning, our family grew strong. Our bloodline is one of magic, courage, and resilience. From the very start, we were a blend of different worlds—fighting for something greater than ourselves."
Harry sat back, his mind swirling with everything he had just learned. "So our family is all about blending different kinds of magic together?"
"Exactly," Dorea said, her voice gentle yet filled with power. "Your great-grandfather's martial magic combined with the druidic magic of Clodagh. They merged, creating something unique, something that set our family apart. This is what we call Family Magic."
Harry's eyes grew wide with understanding. "Family Magic… so that's what makes us different?"
"Yes, Harry," Charlus said, his tone dropping into something heavier. "Aeneas's magic, forged on the battlefield, gave him strength, speed, and precision. Clodagh's magic, from the Druids, was all about the natural world—about balance, healing, and understanding the elements. Together, their magic was unmatched."
Dorea continued, her expression filled with reverence. "Your great-grandfather's strength mixed with Clodagh's harmony created something powerful, a legacy that has been passed down through the generations."
Harry felt a surge of pride. "That's why we have the dragon on the family crest, isn't it?"
"Exactly," Charlus replied, his eyes gleaming with pride. "The Hebridean Black Dragon symbolizes our family's strength, power, and protection. It's a reminder of our heritage—the fire that runs through our veins. The dragon was chosen because it embodies our spirit, our loyalty, and our unwavering resolve."
Dorea's voice softened with a quiet reverence. "And it also symbolizes our connection to the natural world, Harry. Like Clodagh's magic, the dragon is deeply rooted in nature, a creature of both power and wisdom."
Harry sat forward, his heart swelling with pride. "I can feel it, Grandfather. It's in me, isn't it?"
Charlus smiled, a hint of warmth in his usually composed face. "Yes, Harry. You carry the legacy of the Potters within you. You have the strength, the resilience, and the heart of a dragon."
Dorea nodded, her gaze unwavering. "And you have the potential to be so much more than we ever were. You will carry this legacy forward, with your own strength and your own understanding of what it means to be a Potter."
Harry stood up, his heart pounding with determination. "I want to honor our family. I want to live up to what you've given me."
Charlus placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder, his voice gruff but filled with pride. "You will, Harry. You'll make us proud. Potters never back down from a fight. And neither will you."
Dorea embraced Harry, holding him close. "We know you'll rise to greatness, Harry. You're not just a Potter. You're a dragon. And dragons always find their way."
As they held him, Harry felt the full weight of the Potter legacy settle around him. His journey had only just begun, but with the love and support of his grandparents, and the strength of his ancestors coursing through his veins, he felt ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
—
The grand chambers of the Wizengamot hummed with the quiet murmurs of its gathered members, an air of curiosity and concern rippling through the assembly. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting elongated shadows on the ancient stone walls, as wizards and witches in deep plum robes took their seats, exchanging furtive glances and hushed whispers.
At the center of the room, seated in his elevated chair, Albus Dumbledore observed the proceedings with an expression of quiet patience. His half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, and his long fingers lightly gripped the arms of his chair. He turned his keen blue eyes to Amelia Bones, who stood tall and resolute nearby.
"Madam Bones," Dumbledore began, his voice a careful blend of authority and curiosity. "May I inquire as to the nature of this emergency session? I must confess, the urgency of your summons has piqued my interest."
Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was a woman of firm principles and little tolerance for nonsense. Clad in her crisp, dark robes, she met Dumbledore's gaze with unwavering resolve. "Chief Warlock, we convene today at the behest of individuals who claim to have evidence of grave misdeeds—evidence that demands immediate attention. They should be arriving momentarily."
Dumbledore's expression remained placid, but there was an unmistakable flicker of intrigue in his eyes. "Very well, Madam Bones. Let us hear what they have to say."
A murmur swept through the chamber as the heavy oak doors groaned open, revealing two figures stepping into the chamber with an air of command that sent a ripple of unease through the gathered assembly.
Charlus Potter strode forward, his posture regal, his piercing gaze sweeping across the room as if assessing each occupant for worth. Time had not diminished the power in his stride, nor had it dulled the blade of his voice. Beside him, Arcturus Black moved with an air of cold dignity, his long silver hair gleaming under the candlelight, his piercing gaze as sharp as a dagger.
A gasp rippled through the room, followed by whispers of disbelief. Charlus Potter was alive. The notion alone was enough to send shockwaves through the Wizengamot, for the man had been presumed lost to the world for over a decade.
Dumbledore, ever composed, inclined his head. "Charlus. Arcturus. This is… unexpected."
Charlus fixed him with an arched brow, his voice a deep, commanding timbre. "I imagine it is, Albus. I find it rather unexpected myself—to wake from my slumber and discover that the world I left behind has been driven into the gutter by incompetence and unchecked ambition."
Arcturus gave a quiet, approving chuckle. "Forgive my cousin, Dumbledore. He has only just awoken to the reality that wizarding Britain has been left in the hands of well-intentioned fools. It is quite the shock to the system."
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes dulled slightly. "I assure you, Arcturus, I have always acted with the best interests of our world in mind."
Charlus scoffed. "Ah yes, the best interests of the world. Not necessarily the best interests of individuals, I take it?"
Amelia Bones cleared her throat pointedly, drawing attention back to the matter at hand. "Gentlemen, let us not waste time. You have called this session to present evidence. Kindly do so."
Charlus reached into his robes and withdrew a parchment, its edges sealed with the unbroken crest of House Potter. "This, Madam Bones, is the last will and testament of my son, James Potter, and his wife, Lily Potter. A document that, by all rights, should have been executed immediately following their deaths. Yet, it was instead buried beneath bureaucratic red tape—an obstruction placed by none other than you, Dumbledore."
The murmurs of the chamber swelled into a crescendo of shocked gasps. All eyes turned to Dumbledore, whose expression had turned unreadable, his fingers now steepled in contemplation.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly. "Charlus, I can assure you—"
"No, you cannot," Charlus interrupted, his voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. "You can offer explanations. You can weave a tapestry of excuses. But assurance? That is beyond you, Albus. Not when this parchment exists."
Amelia extended a hand, and Charlus passed her the will. She broke the seal, her sharp eyes scanning its contents. With each passing moment, her lips pressed into a thinner line. Finally, she looked up, her gaze like steel. "This will names Sirius Black as the guardian of Hadrian James Potter and expressly forbids his placement with Petunia Dursley."
A stunned silence fell over the chamber, broken only by the sharp intake of breath from several members. Dumbledore's expression tightened, though his voice remained level. "Circumstances at the time necessitated—"
"Circumstances be damned!" Arcturus snapped, his voice a cold fury. "You ignored a binding magical document and instead saw fit to place my grandson's godson in the care of Muggle filth? A woman who despised her own sister? What justification could you possibly offer for such folly?"
Charlus's lips curled into something resembling a smirk. "Ah, I forget. You must have had the 'greater good' in mind. A phrase so oft repeated it has become a shield for negligence."
Dumbledore inhaled deeply, but before he could respond, Charlus continued, his voice now laden with a fresh wave of authority. "Furthermore, this document contains something else—an irrefutable truth that shatters years of falsehoods. The true Secret Keeper of my son and daughter-in-law was not Sirius Black. It was Peter Pettigrew."
A wave of sheer disbelief rippled through the chamber, punctuated by scattered cries of shock. Amelia Bones stiffened, her fingers tightening around the parchment. "Pettigrew?"
"Indeed," Arcturus murmured, his voice like the cold whisper of a storm. "And unless my information is incorrect, he has been presumed dead for years, leaving the real traitor free while an innocent man rotted in Azkaban."
Amelia's jaw tightened. "If this is true, then there will be consequences."
Charlus met her gaze, his own unyielding. "There had better be, Madam Bones. Justice has long been absent from these halls. I suggest we rectify that."
The chamber sat in stunned silence, the weight of the truth bearing down upon them. The course of justice had been irrevocably altered, and the fate of Sirius Black, Harry Potter, and the very integrity of the wizarding world now hung in the balance.
—
The Wizengamot chamber was thick with tension, the air practically humming with expectation as Madam Amelia Bones stood tall at the center of the gathering. Her sharp blue eyes swept across the assembly, unwavering and fierce, her very posture a challenge to any who might dare oppose her.
"I move," she declared, her voice ringing through the chamber like a blade striking steel, "that Sirius Orion Black be released from Azkaban immediately and unconditionally."
She allowed a moment for her words to sink in before continuing, "The will of James and Lily Potter, the irrefutable evidence of Peter Pettigrew's treachery, and, most damningly, the utter lack of a trial—let alone an investigation—make this not a mere miscarriage of justice, but a bloody farce. We will correct it. Today."
The murmuring began almost immediately, voices rising and falling as members of the Wizengamot exchanged uneasy glances.
At the Chief Warlock's dais, Albus Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his expression one of solemn contemplation. "It is indeed a most troubling matter," he mused, his voice measured and deceptively mild. "To have deprived a man of his freedom without the merest pretense of due process—well, I should hope we are not in the habit of discarding justice when it is inconvenient." His twinkling gaze flickered toward Barty Crouch Sr., whose lips had thinned to a near-invisible line.
From the opposite side of the chamber, Lucius Malfoy rose languidly to his feet, his cane tapping against the floor as he straightened. His face was the picture of refined skepticism, though a glint of unease flickered in his icy gaze. "Madam Bones," he drawled, his tone dripping with carefully measured disdain, "while the evidence presented is, shall we say, compelling, one cannot simply dismiss the matter of the explosion in that street. One cannot overlook—"
"Enough, Malfoy," a cold, imperious voice cut in, silencing the murmurs in an instant.
All eyes turned to the imposing figure of Arcturus Black, his piercing gaze locking onto Lucius with something that was neither warmth nor patience. The patriarch of the Black family, clad in midnight robes of the finest cut, exuded an authority that made even the most hardened politicians in the room sit up straighter.
"If you had spent less time groveling at the feet of a madman and more time cultivating a spine," Arcturus continued, his voice a quiet blade, "you would know that the Black family does not suffer betrayal lightly. My grandson was wronged. That will be rectified. You would do well to remember your place, boy."
Lucius, pale and seething, pressed his lips together in a thin smile. "Of course, Lord Black. I merely sought clarity."
Charlus Potter let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Clarity, is it? Good Lord, Malfoy, if you were any more transparent, you'd be a bloody ghost." He leaned forward, fixing Malfoy with the kind of amused contempt only a man with absolute confidence could wield. "Sirius has been rotting in Azkaban while you lot simpered and preened. If you think for one second that I'm going to sit here and listen to your thinly veiled attempts at damage control, then I'm afraid you're as daft as you are blond."
A ripple of laughter passed through the chamber. Lucius' grip on his cane tightened, but he held his tongue.
Amelia Bones, taking advantage of the moment, strode forward and raised a hand. "Enough."
She gestured sharply, and a clerk hurried forward, placing Sirius Black's wand into her waiting palm. Without hesitation, she flicked her own and muttered, "Prior Incantato."
The chamber fell silent as the ghostly echoes of previous spells materialized in the air.
A stunning spell. A disarming charm. A shield charm. A protective ward.
Not a single lethal spell. Not one curse.
Amelia's gaze snapped back to the assembly. "This," she said, her voice ice and fire, "is the proof you conveniently ignored. A man does not duel with stunning and disarming spells if he is setting out to murder. If Sirius Black had cast the spell that killed those Muggles, we would see it here."
She turned then, her expression a mask of righteous fury, and fixed her gaze on Barty Crouch Sr. "And you," she said, her tone venomous. "You saw to it that a man was thrown into Azkaban without so much as a trial. I conducted a thorough review of your files, Crouch. Would you care to know what I found?"
She paused, letting the tension mount. "Nothing," she spat. "Not a single page. No trial transcript. No investigative report. No evidence. No due process. Tell me, are you proud of that, Mr. Crouch?"
Crouch, for the first time in his career, looked well and truly caught. His mouth worked silently for a moment before he managed, "The circumstances at the time were—"
"A convenient excuse for negligence," Charlus cut in sharply. "And a bloody pathetic one at that."
Dumbledore, ever the arbiter of tempered wisdom, leaned forward. "I believe we have heard enough," he said quietly, yet with undeniable command. "Justice must be done."
Amelia turned back to the assembly. "I move once more for an immediate, unconditional release of Sirius Black. Let us prove that this body still stands for justice."
A moment of silence. Then, one by one, hands rose. Some reluctantly, some with forceful certainty.
The vote was unanimous.
As the decree was finalized, Arcturus Black exhaled slowly, his gaze unreadable. Charlus clapped his hands together, smirking. "Well then. About bloody time."
Amelia's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. She turned to the Aurors stationed by the entrance. "Fetch Sirius Black," she ordered, her voice laced with determination. "And be quick about it."
Justice, at long last, had prevailed.
—
The chamber of the Wizengamot, steeped in centuries of tradition and shadowed by flickering torchlight, had witnessed many a scandal, but tonight it would bear witness to a reckoning. The silence was deafening as Charlus Potter rose from his seat, his expression one of ironclad resolve.
"I hereby raise a second motion," he announced, his voice smooth as aged whisky yet cutting as a well-honed blade. "To remove Albus Dumbledore from his position as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot."
The chamber fell into a stunned hush before erupting into hushed whispers, gasps, and the occasional sharp intake of breath. Across from Charlus, Dumbledore sat with the air of a man who had foreseen the storm but had hoped, perhaps, to weather it more gently. His fingers steepled before him, his expression unreadable behind half-moon spectacles.
"On what grounds, Lord Potter?" Lucius Malfoy drawled, feigning a yawn. "Has the old man stolen your lemon drops?"
Charlus turned to Malfoy with the air of a lion considering whether a gnat was worth the effort of swatting. "Ah, Lucius. How delightful it is to hear from the Ministry's most accomplished parasite. Do be a dear and refrain from interrupting when your betters are speaking."
Malfoy flushed, but Charlus was already striding forward, his sharp gaze sweeping across the assembled members.
"Albus Dumbledore," Charlus continued, his voice cool and commanding, "has, for years, ignored the explicit wishes of James and Lily Potter, placing their son, Harry Potter, in the care of Muggles who treated him as less than vermin. Despite undeniable evidence of neglect and abuse, he did nothing."
A sharp intake of breath came from the chamber. Even those who had previously defended Dumbledore exchanged uneasy glances. Charlus produced a thick file, bound in dragon-hide and filled with meticulously compiled reports of Harry's injuries, each page a damning testament to Dumbledore's negligence.
"These documents, compiled by my wife, Dorea Potter, and Lady Melania Black, detail the litany of horrors endured by my grandson at the hands of the Dursleys. Malnutrition, bruises, untreated fevers, a cupboard for a bedroom—yes, a cupboard, you sanctimonious lot. And yet, Albus Dumbledore, beacon of wisdom, saw fit to leave him there."
Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice as calm as ever, though there was a shadow of something older and wearier beneath it. "I did what I thought was best, Charlus. The blood wards—"
"Oh, spare me," Charlus cut in, his voice silk over steel. "Do not insult our intelligence with vague references to blood magic when you, of all people, know that those so-called 'wards' would have functioned just as well had Harry been placed with any member of his mother's friends. That would include the Bones family, the Longbottoms, and, dare I say it, even the Blacks, who, despite their many eccentricities, would at least have fed the boy."
At this, Arcturus Black, his imposing frame like that of an ancient specter carved from shadow and ice, let out a dry chuckle. "Indeed. Even my most deranged relatives would have at least given the lad a proper meal before attempting to murder him."
Laughter rippled through the chamber, though it was edged with a tension that could snap at any moment. Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging a particularly well-placed chess move.
Charlus pressed on. "Albus Dumbledore's failure to act has placed the last heir of the Potter family—my heir—at risk. The child who should have been raised among magic, loved and cherished as the Boy-Who-Lived, was instead tossed to Muggle bigots like an unwanted stray."
Amelia Bones, who had remained silent until now, finally leaned forward, her voice sharp with barely restrained fury. "Dumbledore, you were aware of this?"
Dumbledore met her gaze. "I believed it was the safest option."
Amelia exhaled sharply, her tone biting. "And yet you, the great defender of Muggle rights, knowingly subjected a child to Muggle cruelty? Tell me, were you planning on rescuing him only when it was politically convenient?"
Dumbledore did not answer immediately, but the flicker of something in his gaze—regret, perhaps—did not go unnoticed.
Lucius Malfoy, seeing an opportunity, leaned back with a smirk. "A most illuminating discussion, but let us not pretend we are shocked. The great Albus Dumbledore has always been rather liberal in deciding whose suffering is a necessary sacrifice."
Arcturus Black, who had been quiet for a moment, now let out a dark, resonant chuckle. "How very amusing to hear a Malfoy speak of suffering when their greatest hardship is being denied more gold. But do continue, Lucius; the room was in desperate need of comic relief."
Lucius bristled, but before he could retort, Charlus raised a hand, commanding silence.
"This is not about political jabs," Charlus said coldly. "This is about justice. Dumbledore's decisions have placed an innocent child in harm's way, and as Chief Warlock, he has repeatedly wielded his influence to obstruct investigations that would reveal the truth. If this body has any integrity left, it will vote to remove him."
Dumbledore's expression remained impassive, though there was an unmistakable weight behind his gaze. He knew.
The vote was cast.
By an overwhelming majority, Albus Dumbledore was stripped of his title as Chief Warlock.
As the chamber erupted into a flurry of movement and noise, Charlus turned to Arcturus, who regarded him with the faintest ghost of a smile.
"I must say, Potter, you do know how to put on a show," Arcturus murmured, his voice like distant thunder.
Charlus smirked. "Well, old friend, when one has spent decades among fools, one learns the fine art of theatrics."
Dumbledore, rising from his seat, met Charlus's gaze. For the first time in a long while, the old man looked truly tired.
"I will not fight this," Dumbledore said softly. "But I only hope that, in time, you will understand."
Charlus's expression did not waver. "Oh, I understand perfectly. You believe yourself the only one who knows what is best. But you, Albus, are not the master of fate. And Harry Potter is not yours to control."
And with that, the reckoning was sealed, and a new era for the Wizengamot had begun.
—
The silence in the Wizengamot chamber was thick with anticipation. Arcturus Black, standing tall and imposing, turned his gaze upon the assembled witches and wizards, his voice a deep, resonant boom that commanded absolute attention.
"I put forth Augusta Longbottom as the next Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot," he declared, his words slicing through the air like a well-honed blade.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the chamber. Across the floor, Albus Dumbledore stiffened almost imperceptibly, though his keen blue eyes betrayed the storm within. He understood immediately—this was not merely a nomination; this was the final move in a masterfully played game of political chess. And he had just been checkmated.
Charlus Potter, standing beside Arcturus with his usual air of ruthless elegance, let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "You look rather pensive, Dumbledore," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "Surely you aren't surprised? Did you truly think we'd allow you to linger here like some relic of a bygone era?"
Dumbledore, ever the diplomat, schooled his expression into neutrality. "Augusta Longbottom is a woman of great integrity and wisdom. It would be unwise to oppose her on principle alone."
Arcturus chuckled darkly. "How very gracious of you, Albus. And yet, one must wonder—where was this wisdom when Harry Potter was left to rot in the care of those Muggle vermin? Ah, but then again, perhaps your own wisdom is only exercised when convenient."
Dumbledore's jaw tightened, but before he could offer a rebuttal, another voice rang out—clear, sharp, and laced with unmistakable authority.
"I accept the nomination," Augusta Longbottom declared, rising from her seat with all the regality of a monarch ascending a throne. "And I do so with a promise: under my tenure, this body will not be manipulated, deceived, or turned into a playground for personal ambitions. The era of whispered schemes and unchecked authority ends today."
If there had been murmurs before, now the chamber erupted into outright discourse. Dumbledore knew the tide had turned, and there was no stemming it.
Charlus, ever the opportunist, leaned slightly toward Amelia Bones. "I do believe we may finally see a Wizengamot worth its salt, don't you think, Madam Bones?"
Amelia, her sharp eyes locked onto Augusta with something akin to admiration, gave a small nod. "A long-overdue correction. Though I expect certain parties in this chamber will not relinquish their stranglehold without protest." Her gaze flicked meaningfully toward the Dark Faction.
Indeed, from the corner where the more conservative and traditionally Dark-aligned members of the Wizengamot sat, murmurs of discontent were brewing. Lord Nott stood abruptly. "If we are to speak of integrity and justice," he sneered, "then surely we must address the matter of those unjustly imprisoned? I move for a full review of all cases tied to the last war, particularly those still languishing in Azkaban—"
"Ah, yes," Arcturus interrupted smoothly, his voice laced with contempt. "A most noble cause, Lord Nott. A pity, however, that the evidence against your Death Eater friends is so overwhelming that even a Dementor would find it excessive."
Laughter rippled through the chamber at that. Even Augusta allowed herself a brief smirk before her expression turned serious once more. "Lord Nott," she said crisply, "the matter of false imprisonment is one of utmost importance. However, let us not conflate genuine miscarriages of justice with transparent attempts to free convicted murderers. We will not insult the intelligence of this chamber by pretending otherwise."
Lord Nott scowled but fell silent, recognizing that he had lost this particular battle.
With the dissent quelled, Augusta took her place at the head of the chamber. "With my appointment settled," she announced, "let us move to another pressing matter. The case of Sirius Black."
Dumbledore's gaze flickered—this, at least, he had anticipated. And yet, he felt the weight of inevitability pressing upon him.
Amelia Bones stood. "Sirius Black was imprisoned without trial, a disgraceful perversion of our justice system. I move for the immediate removal of Barty Crouch Sr. from all Ministry positions for his role in this travesty."
Charlus let out an exaggerated sigh. "I suppose we must make an example of someone. Pity it has to be poor old Barty. Though, given that he's been more concerned with securing his Ministry career than upholding the law, I doubt we'll lose much sleep over it."
Arcturus smiled thinly. "Indeed. Perhaps he can console himself by reminiscing on all the career advancements he made on the backs of the falsely condemned."
The vote was swift and unanimous. Within moments, Barty Crouch Sr. was stripped of his positions, and the fate of Sirius Black was set to be rectified.
As the final motions were passed, Augusta stood, bringing the session to a close. "Today, we have set a new precedent. The days of unchecked power, of whispered conspiracies in darkened corners, are over. We move forward with clarity, with accountability, and with justice. This chamber serves the people, not the ambitions of a select few. And let all remember this day, for it marks the beginning of a new era."
The chamber erupted into applause, though Dumbledore remained seated, the weight of his loss pressing heavily upon him. He had lost the seat of Chief Warlock, lost his influence, and with it, lost the ability to maneuver as he once had.
Charlus clapped a firm hand on Arcturus's shoulder as they prepared to leave. "Well, that was satisfying. Almost makes me want to come back more often. Almost."
Arcturus gave him a wry smile. "We'll see how long this new era lasts before someone else decides to test our patience."
Amelia, walking past them, smirked. "I rather think they'll find this new Wizengamot far less accommodating than the last."
Augusta, now the undisputed leader of the chamber, cast one last glance toward Dumbledore before exiting. "Let them try."
And with that, the doors closed on an era of unchecked power, and a new dawn broke over the wizarding world.
---
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