The vaulted chamber of the Magitorium Arcanum thrummed with escalating voices, sharp and overlapping, their echoes bouncing off the polished marble and ornate gilt moldings. Towering high above, the golden wards shimmered faintly, capturing the spectral afterimage of the Dark Mark that had ominously scarred California's skies just days before. Though the skull-and-serpent symbol had long since vanished from the heavens, here in Geneva, its menacing shadow lingered, clinging like a dark stain to every shadowed corner of the chamber.
The scribe's quill danced rapidly across bleached parchment, his hand struggling to keep pace with the torrent of speeches. Delegates packed the crescent-shaped tiers, voices swelling with outrage and indignation.
"This was an assault on our very soil," thundered Ambassador Greaves of MACUSA, his hand slamming forcefully against the carved oak bench. His broad shoulders trembled with barely restrained fury as his voice boomed through the hall. "A foreign power sending its rabble to massacre innocent families under our protection? Do you truly believe America is so feeble that we will silently endure such an insult?"
A surge of murmured agreement rippled through the chamber. From the Spanish delegation, Lady Montoya rose gracefully, her fan snapping shut with a sharp crack that drew attention. "If we allow this transgression to go unchallenged, tomorrow he will test our borders. First Austria. Then France. Then Spain. This was no isolated rogue act—it was a deliberate message, a clear and frightening declaration."
From the German delegation, Minister Adler's voice rumbled low and measured, his words heavy with warning. "A Dark Mark cast above any nation's land is an affront to us all. What prevents him from raising it above Berlin? Above Paris? Above Madrid?"
The chamber swelled once more with a rising tide of noise, the air thick with the electric charge of restrained magic. Then—measured, deliberate footsteps echoed sharply across the gleaming marble floor.
Lord Edwin Selwyn stood, his tall frame casting a shadow over the British benches. His pale hands rested gracefully on the silver-topped cane he wielded with quiet authority. His voice, when it broke the tense silence, was as smooth and sharp as polished glass.
"Esteemed delegates," he began, his tone grave but composed, "Britain mourns deeply for the blood that has been spilled, as any nation of honor must. But we should not rush to judgment." He let the words hang for a moment, allowing the chamber to inhale in anticipation. "This tragedy was not an act ordered by our Ministry, nor was it sanctioned by Lord Voldemort himself. It was, rather, the reckless deed of a rogue cabal—fanatics from your own country." His gaze swept the assembly, heavy with accusation. "American purists who sought to advance a cause they scarcely understand. Their total annihilation is testament only to their folly."
The scribe's quill quivered in his hand, the ink barely steady as he recorded Selwyn's words. Throughout the benches, low murmurs rippled like serpents slithering through dry grass. The delegates exchanged doubtful glances; no one truly believed Lord Selwyn's claim. Fanatics from America? The accusation reeked of fabrication. Yet despite the noise and suspicion, no concrete proof had been produced implicating Voldemort—no testimony from the lone survivor, who had perished before he could utter the Dark Lord's name again, his tongue reduced to ash.
The scribe's eyes flicked upward, falling upon the far end of the chamber where Albus Dumbledore sat draped in robes of deep midnight blue. His long, slender fingers were steepled thoughtfully before his lips, his ancient eyes bright, unwavering, and heavy with unspoken resolve. When the floor was finally yielded to him, the old wizard rose with deliberate calm, his presence commanding silence. Not once did his gaze flicker toward the Prince boy seated inconspicuously beside Lord Arcturus.
"Britain faces dark times," Dumbledore said softly, his voice weaving through the clamoring chamber as if the very walls leaned in to catch his every word. "That much is undeniable. But I must urge caution. The International Confederation was established not to infringe upon sovereign nations, but to preserve a delicate balance among them. If we act rashly, we risk igniting the very war we strive to prevent."
Some delegates nodded gravely, absorbing the weight of his warning; others murmured in disbelief, the tension thickening the air. The Americans bristled with offense, their eyes flashing with unspoken resentment. Madame Delacour, the French delegate, rose suddenly, her pale hair shimmering under the flickering chamber lights. "So we are to accept that this incident was nothing more than the work of reckless American radicals?" she challenged, her voice sharp and unwavering. "Forgive me, Chief Warlock, but I have lived long enough to recognize the scent of deceit when it fills a room."
The British benches stiffened in response, a fragile silence settling over them. Selwyn offered a thin, unreadable smile but chose his silence carefully, his expression betraying nothing.
When the vote was finally called, anticipation hung heavy in the air. The outcome was clear even before the gavel's authoritative strike. Britain would be officially censured, its honor publicly tarnished, yet no further intervention would be authorized. Voldemort's shadow remained, for now, confined—at least on parchment—to the Isles.
The scribe dipped his quill once more, meticulously recording the decree that would ripple throughout the magical world. Censure was imposed, not action. Yet it was the name of the boy Shafiq that would travel farthest, whispered relentlessly by diplomats and murmured in the shadowed alleys of London, becoming a quiet but persistent echo of the day.
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Flashback - Selwyn POV
The night before the council convened, Selwyn was abruptly summoned. The manor's hearth erupted in a flare of eerie green light, spitting him into the cold, shadowed stone chamber where Voldemort sat motionless, like a statue carved from gleaming obsidian. The air was thick with a chilling silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the dying fire.
"My Lord," Selwyn murmured respectfully, lowering himself to his knees.
Voldemort's crimson eyes, sharp and unblinking, fixed on him like twin blades. "You will tell them it was not my hand," he commanded with icy precision. "You will say it was American filth—pureblood zealots acting without sanction. Claim they sought my notice and failed. Do you understand the importance of this?"
Selwyn bowed his head lower in submission. "Yes, my Lord."
"And what of Dumbledore?" Voldemort's voice was silky yet slithered like a knife's edge across delicate fabric, dripping with venom.
"He, too, will urge them to stay their hand," Selwyn replied cautiously. "He does not wish their meddling any more than we do."
A cold, thin smile curved Voldemort's lips—an expression that held the promise of ruthlessness. "Good. Let the old fool tighten his own leash while he believes he binds mine. Britain is mine to claim. The rest will follow… in time."
When Selwyn finally returned to his office, the echo of that unsettling smile clung to him, heavier and more commanding than any direct order ever could.
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The council doors groaned open, swinging wide to release a flood of figures from the Magitorium into the gleaming marbled corridors, as if a dam had ruptured and spilled its contents uncontrollably. Delegates hurried past in a flurry of rustling silks and stiff robes, their voices mingling in urgent murmurs. Threads of French, German, Spanish, and Russian wove into a discordant hum, filling the vast chamber with a charged atmosphere. The very air seemed alive with tension, as though the phantom skull that had once loomed over California now hovered invisibly above Geneva, watching.
Severus moved steadily between Arcturus and Salvatore Zabini, their procession deliberate, stately, and coldly composed. Still, he could feel the weight of dozens of eyes piercing at his back—curious, calculating, measuring. He was no longer the student whispered about in hushed tones back in Vienna. He was the boy who had stood beneath the Dark Mark and lived. That survival had transformed him into a figure both perilous and magnetic, a threat or an asset depending on one's allegiance.
Bootsteps echoed sharply behind them as Damien Greengrass fell into step, his jaw clenched, his expression set hard. Behind Damien, his father maintained a watchful distance, silent but present. "So that's it?" Damien's voice was low, sharp, laden with scorn. "A slap on the wrist? Forty-five dead, wolves unleashed on foreign soil, and they're calling it a misunderstanding?"
"Not a slap," Arcturus replied, his cane striking the marble floor with unmistakable authority, the sound ringing like a gavel coming down on judgment. "A wound. Reputation is currency in these halls, and Britain has just squandered a chestful tonight. But it is not enough. Not nearly enough."
Edward Davis's lined face tightened as he folded his arms, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and anger. "A rogue American fanatic cell? Do they honestly take us for fools?" he demanded, the edge in his voice betraying his disbelief.
"They do," Salvatore Zabini replied coolly, his tone smooth but sharp, like a silken knife sliding beneath the surface. "And worse, they assume we will sit quietly while their Dark Lord turns our families into target practice."
"And the ICW swallows it," Damien muttered bitterly, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "Cowards. We uprooted everything—our homes, our bloodlines, our gold—to stand apart. And for what? To be told to wait while Voldemort plays his games?"
The word hung heavily in the air between them, charged and dangerous. Few in the hall dared to speak it aloud. A couple of nearby delegates glanced sharply at Damien, scandal flashing in their eyes, before quickly looking away as if they hadn't heard.
Severus remained silent, though the urge to break the oppressive quiet thrummed violently in his veins. He wanted desperately to spit Voldemort's name into the chamber, to force them to look beyond the lies Selwyn had poured into their ears. But he knew better. The ICW had shown its teeth only to sheath them again. Without concrete proof, words were wasted—all thrust without impact.
Lorenzo Zabini caught up with them at that moment, Matteo following just a step behind, his presence emanating a silent but unmistakable menace. "Selwyn played his part perfectly," Lorenzo said, his voice calm yet unreadable. "Deny, deflect, displace. And your Chief Warlock—" His dark eyes flickered briefly toward the retreating figure of Albus Dumbledore—"how expertly he shielded Britain with his carefully crafted rhetoric about sovereignty."
"It is a clever ruse," Arcturus responded dryly, a touch of bitterness in his tone. "Convincing the world that inaction equates to wisdom. It's a trick I have often employed myself. But when a house is ablaze, telling your neighbors to stay inside is not prudence. It's cowardice masquerading as patience."
Before anyone could respond, the atmosphere around them shifted subtly. A presence settled over the group like a sudden, chilling gust of wind.
"My lords."
The voice was gentle, refined, and unmistakable.
Albus Dumbledore appeared at the forefront of their small gathering, his movements measured and unhurried. His half-moon spectacles caught the lamplight, causing his eyes to gleam coldly, like shards of ice. He inclined his head in a bow — neither too low nor too high — a gesture perfectly balanced to convey both respect and subtle condescension simultaneously.
"I wonder," he said slowly, "if this is truly the path you wish to tread. Lord Prince. Lord Zabini. Lord Shafiq. Neutrality is a fragile shelter, one that tonight has shown to be perilously thin. Greater storms are gathering beyond these walls. Britain cannot be forsaken."
Ben shifted uneasily, a low growl rumbling in his throat. Alessandro's jaw clenched with such intensity it seemed as though his enamel might shatter. Isadora stood just behind Lorenzo, her storm-grey eyes locked unwaveringly on Severus, though Severus could sense she was absorbing every subtle inflection in Dumbledore's carefully measured tone.
Arcturus's voice cut through the tension like steel scraping against stone. "Neutrality is not shelter, Dumbledore. It is leverage. And tonight, you conspired to blunt it. I am too old for pretty speeches. Spare me yours."
A fleeting expression—regret, calculation, or a blend of both—passed over the old wizard's face. At last, he turned his gaze fully to Severus, speaking in that maddeningly calm and deliberate cadence.
"I would like to believe, Lord Shafiq, that when the time comes, you will remember where you truly belong."
Severus allowed the silence to deepen, heavy and unyielding, before inclining his head slightly. His voice was soft but resolute. "I remember everything, Headmaster. Every word. Every silence."
The air between them sharpened to a near-tangible edge, like a blade poised to strike. For a single heartbeat, Severus's blue eyes locked with the old wizard's black, the wisdom of age confronting the cold precision of youth. Then Dumbledore moved on, his robes whispering softly against the polished marble floor, leaving behind only the lingering scent of lemon drops and the sharp, metallic tang of restrained fury.
Severus exhaled slowly, acutely aware of the steady gazes of his friends upon him, and the Zabinis' measured silence. The game had shifted once more. This time, every move made would resonate far beyond the ancient halls of Geneva.
Night had deepened by the time Severus finally returned to his dimly lit laboratory. The containment vials rested quietly on the workbench, their faint pulses casting a ghostly glow, as if echoing the heartbeat he could no longer feel in his own ears.
Eileen sat by the fire, the warm light flickering across her tired face. Julius was curled against her side, already slipping into sleep. Her eyes, rimmed with red from days of worry, lifted to meet Severus's gaze. "They said you spoke like a lord today," she whispered, her voice thick with a mixture of pride and sorrow. "That you silenced the Council with nothing more than a look."
Severus unfastened the heavy cloak that dragged on his shoulders, the weight of the evening settling on him. "Words are wind," he replied quietly, exhaustion threading his voice. "They did nothing. Dumbledore made certain of that."
Arcturus stood by the hearth, his jaw tight with bitter irony. A dry snort escaped him. "He did indeed. He cloaked Voldemort in diplomacy, and the fools allowed it. Britain leaves Geneva with nothing but a stain upon its pride. But pride, boy, is currency in this world. And tonight, they spent it recklessly."
Julius stirred at the harsh tone, blinking sleep from his eyes as he looked up. His small voice, still heavy with drowsiness, broke the silence. "Did you win, Severus?"
Severus bent down to meet the wide, innocent gaze of his young cousin. For a brief moment, he almost whispered the lie of victory. But the words curdled in his throat, swallowed by the weight of truth. Instead, he murmured softly, smoothing the tangled strands of Julius's hair. "Not yet."
Eileen's voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and trembling with fear. "Then let it end there. Let others fight. You've already proven enough." Her eyes searched his face, desperate for a sign of retreat.
But Arcturus's gaze remained steady and unyielding, filled with a fierce resolve. "He cannot retreat now, Eileen. The Dark Mark has risen over our home. Every eye in the world is upon him. The boy stands at a crossroads—there is no path but forward. He must stand taller, no matter the cost."
Severus turned away from their exchange and faced his bench, where faintly glowing vials of his unfinished work pulsed in quiet rhythm, casting eerie shadows. His reflection shimmered across the polished glass—pale, gaunt, yet unflinching and resolute.
Eva's voice whispered softly in the back of his mind, her tone cool and detached. "The stage has been set. He sought to make you an example, a warning to others. But instead, he has made you the axis around which everything will turn."
Severus's fingers curled tightly around the ICW summons lying unopened on the desk. His voice, low and steady, carried an undeniable steel beneath its calm exterior. "Then I will answer his message in kind. If Voldemort strikes at my blood, I will strike where it hurts him most."
The fire in the hearth snapped sharply, sending a spray of sparks into the darkened room, as if the manor itself acknowledged and approved his unyielding resolve.
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