The Saturday morning sunlight filtered through the dense forest on the outskirts of London, scattering into dappled patches of gold across the grass.
A gentle breeze carrying the fresh scents of flora and earth brushed across the grassy slope of a steep hill half a mile from the main road. In the distance lay rolling hills and a gently meandering stream, surrounded only by a few thick red oaks and waist-high briar bushes—so quiet that the chirping of birds sounded remarkably clear.
A broad, deep-red checkered picnic blanket was spread across the lawn.
Wearing a sunhat, Mr. Granger slumped deep into a folding canvas chair, cradling a thick volume of dental clinical case reports, his eyelids drooping lazily. The residual effects of the potent Confundus Charm from the previous night had left him languid and slow; assuming he was merely exhausted from long hours at the clinic and in need of fresh country air, not a shred of suspicion crossed his mind.
Jerry stood beneath a red oak, both hands tucked into his overcoat pockets, his boots treading the soft turf.
He had certainly not accepted Mrs. Granger's enthusiastic invitation to join this picnic to play the part of a guest in some heartwarming family weekend.
At three o'clock this morning, Old Nott and Lucius had already mobilized their private infiltrators buried within the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, covertly smuggling a massive shipment of modified high-pressure explosive micro-needles and short-range shield plates into the subterranean armory on the fifth basement level.
The second reading of Bill 14 in the Wizengamot was scheduled for next Wednesday; cornered by the universal conscription faction, those ruthless old patriarch of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were fully prepared to drag the Ministry down with them in a bloodbath.
And Jerry required an ironclad, unquestionable alibi.
Once the black market detonations and the armory raid erupted next week, whether it was Dumbledore or the Aurors of the Department of War Operations conducting the investigation, the farthest their inquiries could reach would be that Jerry Rosier, a fifth-year Slytherin, had spent the entire weekend having tea and barbecuing with Gryffindor's model student Hermione Granger and her Muggle parents in the countryside.
"Jerry! Stop standing over there like a stone statue! Come over and give me a hand!"
Hermione's voice drifted over from the picnic blanket.
Today she wore a pale yellow short-sleeved blouse, her thick golden-brown curls gathered into a ponytail behind her head, radiating crisp efficiency.
Jerry strode over, the soles of his boots rustling softly against the grass.
Hermione was half-crouched on the blanket, unpacking heavy insulated food containers and fruit platters.
Seeing Jerry approach, she pointed to a cooler box of chilled sodas and two large, unopened gift cartons of magical souvenirs, fine beads of sweat glistening across her forehead.
"You came over at the perfect time—listen to this."
Hermione wiped her brow, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.
"About the Wartime All-Star Quidditch Invitational Draco mentioned this morning... when I was taking inventory in Warehouse Three of the underground workshop earlier, I suddenly remembered something."
Jerry sat down cross-legged at the edge of the blanket, picked up a soda bottle, and casually popped the iron cap off with his thumb with a crisp snap.
"Speak."
Jerry took a swig of the cold soda.
"Several of Madam Padma's trading agents had four entire warehouses of unsold tournament souvenirs gathering dust!"
An exceedingly sharp, greedy spark danced in Hermione's eyes—a commercial fervor cultivated entirely from co-managing the underground workshop alongside Jerry.
"Inside are twenty thousand gilded broomstick badges, five thousand luminous Bludger toys, and thousands of holographic team posters! When the cup was cancelled, the entire stock was written off as bad debt in Gringotts' collateral vaults. I bought out the entire inventory for a pittance of two thousand Galleons!"
Hermione flicked Jerry's knee firmly with two fingers, her tone overflowing with excitement.
"Now that the All-Star Invitational is resuming, we don't need to spend a fortune manufacturing new merchandise from scratch! I'll head back to the workshop tonight and have the house-elves erase the old dates on the badges, then stamp our surplus micro-ward arrays right into them using the compression press! We'll rebrand them as 'Wartime Limited-Edition Defensive Commemorative Badges' and jack the price from five Sickles straight up to three Galleons each! We can liquidate every scrap of that warehouse junk in one go!"
Looking at the brilliant-eyed Gryffindor model student calculating profit margins more ruthlessly than a Gringotts goblin, Jerry let out a low chuckle.
He reached out, cupping Hermione's rounded chin, pulling her face close to his.
"Hermione, this cutthroat profiteering of yours would make even Old Nott bow down in respect."
Jerry gave her tender lower lip a sharp, playful nibble.
Hermione let out a proud huff, her legs swaying in her denim jeans as she exhaled a sweet breath against his ear.
"Once we buy the copper stock from Diagon Alley's black market tomorrow, I'm pulling an all-nighter in the workshop stamping arrays. When that time comes... you have to join me in our usual spot."
Before her words could settle—
A thick plume of white smoke suddenly billowed from beneath a colossal oak tree thirty to forty yards away.
"Jerry! Hermione! Come help Mum light the fire! Why won't these charcoal briquettes catch?!"
Mrs. Granger's voice—steeped in mature, sultry allure—rang out across the open meadow.
She stood beside a portable black-iron barbecue grill holding metal tongs, wearing a skin-tight floral sundress.
The fabric of the sundress was paper-thin, clinging tightly to her voluptuous hips and outlining her massive, firm breasts that threatened to burst free of the bodice.
A narrow apron tied around her waist concealed the apex of her thighs, yet left her long, shapely, pale legs bare in the sunlight.
Hermione rose to her feet, dusting the grass from her trousers, glancing at her dozing father beneath the tree before looking at her flustered mother in the distance.
"I'll carry the sliced lamb skewers over. Jerry, go help her light the charcoal—she's hopeless with a Muggle flint."
"Alright."
Jerry answered, dusting off his coat, strolling over toward the grill with his hands in his pockets.
The barbecue setup sat between two massive oak trees, completely shielded on the flank by a wall of dense, head-high wild rose briars—forming a total visual blind spot from the folding chairs. Only rolling smoke from the charcoal drifted upward through the foliage into the sky.
The moment Jerry stepped past the briars,
Mrs. Granger spun around.
The flustered, helpless act on her gorgeous, mature face vanished in a fraction of a millisecond!
Replaced instead by the ravenous, predatory hunger of an insatiable vixen!
Tossing the metal tongs aside, she reached beneath her apron and pulled down a canvas sunshade beside the grill, blocking the remaining angle of sight completely.
"Jerry... you're finally over here..."
Her lips parted slightly, exhaling hot breath scented with ripe grapes.
Striding forward on her long, fleshy legs, she closed the distance in two paces!
Without warning—
The tall, voluptuous woman reached out with both pale hands, grabbing Jerry roughly by the shoulders, using the cover of the briars to pull her body flush against his lean frame!
Her heavy, pendulous breasts mashed flat against Jerry's chest through the thin floral fabric, radiating scorching heat!
"Mrs. Granger..."
A wicked smirk played across Jerry's lips as he slipped a hand around her firm, voluptuous waist.
"Is this the attitude you take when asking for help with the fire? The charcoal hasn't caught, yet the fire inside you seems to be burning out of control."
"Shut up, you little pervert!"
Mrs. Granger whispered a coquettish scolding directly into his ear.
Her wet, tender tongue licked firmly across the shell of his ear, leaving a glistening trail of moisture.
"Hermione interrupted us under the dining table last night... I went back to bed and dreamed about this monstrous cock of yours all night long! Now that I finally put that dull husband of mine to sleep and sent Hermione away for skewers... if you don't feed me full today, don't even think about getting a single bite of roast beef!"
Before her sentence had even finished—
Her tall, curvaceous frame dropped smoothly to the ground before the rough oak trunk!
Her floral dress spread out across the turf like a blanket, her massive, rounded buttocks settling over the grass in an enticing curve.
Her pampered, soft hands reached with practiced precision straight for Jerry's waistband!
Click!
The buckle snapped open crisply!
Yanking the zipper down, she pulled hard with both hands!
Riiip!
The zipper tore open to the bottom!
Boing!
A thick, purplish-red meat pillar sprang free from his waistband!
Bulging veins coiled madly across the forearm-thick shaft; the swollen coronal head bobbed twice in the open air, scalding pre-cum leaking generously from the slit to smear directly onto Mrs. Granger's face!
Filtered through the oak leaves, the morning sun illuminated the monstrous cock, making the contrast between his slight build and massive member starkly obscene!
A violent spasm of craving clenched deep within Mrs. Granger's pelvis.
Parting her lips, she dragged her tongue hard across the coronal ridge, scooping every drop of pre-cum into her mouth and swallowing it down.
"So huge... God... what a magnificent monster..."
Cloaked in the thick charcoal smoke from the grill, she knelt on all fours upon the soft grass.
Stretching her mouth to its absolute limit, gripping the base of the shaft with both hands, she plunged her head down toward Jerry's groin!
Gulp!
A brutal, unsparing deep-throat impalement!
The swollen coronal head tore past her lips, plunging straight into the depths of her tender throat!
Gargle!
Her cheeks bulged outward, stretching the pale skin of her face into two round mounds! Tears of pressure prickled in her eyes, yet her hands clamped Jerry's thighs in a death grip, dragging herself upward against him!
Slurp! Squelch! Slurp! Squelch!
Thick, wet, filthy sounds detonated between the briars and the oak trunk!
Casting aside every shred of Muggle decorum, Mrs. Granger sucked the teenager's monstrous shaft like a starving wolf behind the smokescreen!
Copious saliva mingled with his pre-cum, spilling past the corners of her mouth to soak her apron and dress!
Leaning back against the rough oak bark, holding his cold soda in his left hand, Jerry rested his right hand atop Mrs. Granger's dark hair.
Threading his fingers into her roots, he forced her head down!
"Sucking pretty hard, aren't you, Mrs. Granger?"
Jerry murmured casually, exhaling a wisp of mint smoke.
"Aren't you worried your darling daughter might walk over with the skewers and catch her mother kneeling in the grass swallowing her man's cock?"
"Gulp... swallow... why should I care..."
Mrs. Granger popped her mouth off with a wet snap, dragging a glistening string of saliva through the air.
Her eyes were flushed red, white froth clinging to her lips as she tilted her face up with uninhibited lust.
"If she sees... she can watch... call her over to suck it with me! This monster of yours... I can't take it all by myself anyway!"
With that, she clamped her arms around his legs and buried her face flush against his pubic bone again!
Slurp-slurp!
Rapid sucking echoed loudly through the foliage!
Right at that moment—
From thirty yards away, Mr. Granger's groggy voice drifted over:
"Jean! Is the charcoal lit yet?! I'm getting a bit hungry!"
Behind the oak tree!
Mrs. Granger shuddered violently!
The sheer taboo of having her husband call out while she choked on her young lover's cock sent her magic surging out of control!
Beneath her dress, torrents of scalding pussy juice flooded her thighs, drenching the grass beneath her knees!
Rather than pulling off, she accelerated her throat's bobbing tempo into overdrive!
Gulp! Squelch! Gulp! Squelch!
A tempest of wet squelches raged!
Standing beneath the tree, Jerry listened to Mr. Granger's shouting, a ruthless smirk curling across his lips.
Clearing his throat, he called back in a clear, composed voice:
"Mr. Granger! It'll be ready in a moment! Mrs. Granger is 'guiding' me on the fire right now!"
"Splendid! Thanks, both of you!"
Mr. Granger replied, before slumping back into his daze under the charm.
Beneath the oak branches—
Hearing Jerry's calm reply drove Mrs. Granger completely wild!
Her long, voluptuous legs trembled uncontrollably on the turf, her hands clamping Jerry's knees as she swallowed the thick iron rod down to the very base of her throat!
Her tongue lashed frantically over his coronal slit!
Jerry pinned her head down, driving his hips upward in the morning sun!
Thrust!
A precision strike straight into her throat!
"Mmmph—!!"
Mrs. Granger choked out a muffled, ecstatic whimper from the depths of her neck!
Boom!
A torrential flood of scalding, thick white cum detonated from Jerry's tip!
Blasting straight down Mrs. Granger's throat and flooding her oral cavity!
Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!
Her eyes rolled back, her throat convulsing in violent swallows, forcing the potent, magical fluid down into her stomach!
Excess cream overflowed her lips, dripping over her chin and chest!
The shattering climax left the mature woman sprawling limply across the turf, her thighs spasming as her soaked cunt squirted puddles into the soil!
A moment later,
Jerry pulled his cock from her lips with a soft pop.
Zipping his trousers and buckling his belt, he resumed the look of a slight, composed teenager.
A flick of magical spark from his fingertip ignited the charcoal in the grill with a crackle, flames roaring to life.
Panting heavily, Mrs. Granger wiped her mouth with her apron, smoothed her soaked dress, and staggered to her feet on trembling legs.
Just then, Hermione emerged from the other side of the briars carrying two platters of lamb skewers.
"Mum, is the charcoal ready?"
Hermione asked.
Bracing herself against the oak trunk, her face flushed crimson, Mrs. Granger picked up the tongs and shot Jerry a knowing, decadent glance, her lips curving into a satisfied smile:
"All ready! The fire... Jerry stoked it until it's blazing hot!"
The morning sun bathed the meadow; the smoke drifted away, leaving their alibi utterly immaculate.
Inside the deep subterranean wine cellar of Malfoy Manor.
The racks previously holding expensive vintages had been shoved into the corners, clearing a vast open space.
In the center sat a dozen heavy wooden crates with their lids pried open, packed to the brim with hardened shield plates, high-pressure explosive micro-needles, and high-frequency magic disrupters shipped from Hermione's workshop.
Under the dim wall lanterns, several figures stood silhouetted in the shadows.
Lucius Malfoy paced before the crates holding his walking cane, his leather soles clicking rapidly against the damp flagstones.
He picked up an explosive micro-needle no larger than a fingernail, scrutinizing the microscopic runes etched along the tip.
"Old Nott, this is the heavy gear Jerry supplied us?"
Lucius scoffed, driving the needle into the oak edge of the crate with a sharp thud.
The tip sank half an inch into the wood, emitting a faint scorched scent.
"Are you certain our men won't be pinned to the floor by the Auror patrols the day Bill 14 hits its second reading?"
Perched on a nearby stone bench, Old Nott squatted with a narrow dagger, scraping the dirt from his fingernails. He didn't even look up at Lucius's skepticism.
"If you don't understand it, shut your mouth, Lucius."
Old Nott's voice was as raspy as grinding dry timber.
He drove the dagger into a stone fissure, snatched up a shield plate, and slapped it into the lining of his robes.
"I tested this in the black market shelter last night. The Impediment Jinxes and Stunners cast by those Department of War Operations rookies felt no different than a flea bite. Jerry built this batch specifically for point-blank room clearing. You just slip this micro-needle into an Auror's collar..."
Old Nott made a crushing motion with his fingers, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.
"Crack! Everyone in the corridor gets blown into bloody pulp by high-pressure magic! Once Bill 14 passes, all twenty-eight seats of the Sacred Families in the Wizengamot will be stripped by the conscription faction! If you don't want your private guards and manors confiscated, we have to cut the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's retreat next Wednesday!"
Measured footsteps echoed from the marble stairs.
Patriarch Greengrass and Patriarch Bulstrode descended one after the other, each carrying a thick roster.
"The private forces mobilized across the Twenty-Eight families are fully assembled."
Greengrass tossed the roster onto a wooden crate, adjusting his coat.
"Two hundred veteran flyers and mercenaries with frontline kill licenses, all dressed in unmarked coats purchased off the black market. Old Nott, are your black market conduits cleared?"
Old Nott stood up, dusting off his trousers, hands on his hips.
"Customs has been handled. Cassiopeia stamped the clearance permits this morning; all three import channels are open. Half the spirit herbs and bone-knitting gel from Old Europe stays with us, and the other half gets marked up three hundred percent on the black market! The frontline Aurors are starving for potions; as long as we hold the medicine, those old fossils in the Order will have to crawl to us to negotiate!"
Lucius turned, striking his cane heavily against the stone floor.
"Dumbledore will not negotiate."
Lucius's gaze turned frosty as he kicked aside a loose pebble.
"Word from the hospital wing last night says Dumbledore moved Potter into a classified training ground. The Order has no intention of compromising on the bill—they are preparing for a full purge!"
"A purge? With what army?"
Old Nott sneered, stuffing a box of explosive micro-needles boldly into his pocket.
"Once the Quidditch Championship betting pool opens next week, the attention of hundreds of thousands of wizards will be glued to the pitch. Draco knocks Potter off his broomstick up above, while we tear up Law Enforcement's deployment orders down below! By the time the dust settles, even with the Elder Wand in hand, Dumbledore won't be able to turn the tide!"
Meanwhile,
In an underground safehouse of the Order of the Phoenix on the outskirts of London.
The air was heavy with the pungent scents of medicinal potions and cheap tobacco.
A massive, detailed map of the wizarding world hung upon the wall, densely annotated with red and black magical lines marking frontline rifts, supply routes, and Ministry departmental troop distributions.
Moody stood before the map, his wooden prosthetic clumping heavily against the floorboards.
His grey overcoat was riddled with holes, thick white bandages wound around his neck.
Bang!
Moody slammed his fist into Diagon Alley on the map!
"Old Nott and Malfoy's dogs are stockpiling munitions!"
Moody's gravelly roar shook the inkwell on the desk.
"Intelligence from War Mobilization this morning! The three shipments of spirit herbs seized by customs last week were diverted straight into Malfoy Manor's cellars! Seventeen patrol squads on the front lines have been deprived of hemostatic gel for three full days! Those pureblood parasites want to drain the blood of our frontline soldiers just to line their own vaults!"
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood on the other side of the desk, dressed in wide, dark tactical robes.
Bracing his hands on the table, he stood as immovable as an iron tower, his expression unyielding.
"The date for Bill 14's second reading in the Wizengamot has been locked."
Kingsley tapped the fifth basement level of the Ministry on the map.
"The universal conscription faction and the neutral purebloods struck a private deal last night. The moment Bill 14 passes, War Mobilization can legally seize all security authority across the Ministry. Lucius is recruiting mercenaries in secret to blockade opposing members from entering the chamber on voting day."
The wooden door pushed open.
Margaret Brown walked in carrying a stack of casualty rosters, her stern face devoid of warmth.
"Potter's training has begun."
Margaret spoke crisply.
"Albus personally laid anti-magic wards across the mountain training grounds. Potter's tactical Transfiguration and high-speed obstacle evasion are progressing swiftly. However, frontline reports are grim... pureblood price-gouging on the black market caused frontline assault brigade casualties to jump twenty percent over last week."
"We cannot wait any longer!"
Moody spun around, his wooden leg thudding as his hand clamped the blackwood wand at his belt.
"What is Albus hesitating for?! The purebloods have outfitted even their guard dogs with black-market alchemical gear! Yesterday my inspection squad at International Cooperation was dismantled barehanded by that fifth-year brat Jerry Rosier! If we let them coordinate between the black market and the Ministry, once Bill 14 passes, the front lines are finished!"
Kingsley raised a hand, motioning for Moody to stay calm.
"Albus is not hesitating."
Kingsley drew an embossed golden invitation from his pocket, slapping it onto the center of the desk—the very notice for the "Wartime Special Quidditch All-Star Invitational" Draco had acquired.
"The pureblood families want to use this tournament to divert public scrutiny and generate cash flow for their private armies. Old European investors gave the Wizengamot an ultimatum. We cannot halt the restart of this championship."
A lethal gleam flashed in Kingsley's eyes.
"However, we can turn this tournament into the purebloods' graveyard."
Margaret frowned: "Kingsley, what do you mean?"
"War Operations has selected six battle-hardened veterans from the front lines."
Kingsley crossed his arms, radiating tactical dominance.
"All of them will take the pitch disguised as All-Star players! Stadium security will be seized entirely by Auror battalions! The moment the purebloods play dirty on the pitch or in the underground betting pool, we uproot Malfoy and Nott's agency rights on the spot!"
Hearing this, a savage grin cracked across Moody's scarred face.
He gripped his wand, weighing it in his rough palm.
"I'll round up the frontline lads immediately! This time, before the eyes of all Europe, I will smash that Malfoy brat's broomstick into kindling!"
Deep in the shadowy alleys of Diagon Alley.
A fine drizzle fell from the sky, soaking the cobblestone paths slick.
Draco wore a black overcoat, hands in his pockets, stepping out from a concealed alchemical shop. Behind him, Hermione wore a hooded raincoat, hauling a heavy black leather chest packed with refined copper and raw alchemical stones.
"Pick up the pace, Hermione."
Draco halted, glancing back down the alley with his trademark smirk.
"Those War Operations watchdogs circled the block three times today. If I hadn't brought the Malfoy anti-detection cloak, this copper would have been impounded as 'wartime contraband' hours ago."
Hermione wiped the rain from her hood, glaring at him.
"Drop the pureblood heir attitude with me, Draco!"
Hermione stepped over a puddle, her tone razor-sharp.
"If it wasn't to expand the range of the disrupters on your tactical coat to fifty paces, I wouldn't be trudging through these filthy alleys at dawn! The house-elves in the workshop are waiting on this copper to stamp commemorative badges!"
"Fine, fine, Boss Granger."
Draco took the heavy chest from her hands with effortless ease.
"As long as the array runes you give me burn Potter's broom into scrap metal next week, every Knut of your workshop dividend will land in your vault."
The two turned toward the main thoroughfare.
Behind a red brick wall around the corner, the faintest splash of wooden boots echoed through the rain.
Draco's eyelid twitched!
In a fraction of a millisecond, the physical combat instincts drilled into him by Jerry in the underground arena took over!
No hesitation!
No wasted words!
Flicking his wrist without drawing a wand, his waist drove his leg forward, the propulsion micro-arrays in his boots detonating!
Boom!
A low sonic crack exploded in the alley!
Draco streaked like black lightning across five paces! His hand clamped around the throat of the shadow behind the wall, yanking outward!
Splash!
A figure in grey War Operations robes was dragged from the shadows, slamming heavily into the muddy puddle!
A young Auror in his early twenties, clutching a glowing red tracking wand!
"Malfoy! You dare assault an Auror?!"
The young Auror struggled, pinned by Draco's grip.
Draco stood over him, grinding his boot heel directly into the Auror's wand-wrist!
Crack!
The sickening grind of bone accompanied the Auror's shriek!
"Assault?"
Draco looked down at him, an icy sneer playing across his pale face.
He pulled out the inspection exemption pass stamped by International Cooperation, slapping it against the Auror's face.
"Open your eyes and look! I hold a wartime procurement permit signed by International Cooperation and Logistics! What do you think you are, tailing a Malfoy in broad daylight? Crawl back to Kingsley and Moody, and tell them that if they want to search Malfoy goods, Dumbledore had better bring the warrant himself!"
With that, Draco kicked the Auror rolling through the mud.
Hermione watched from behind, not batting an eyelid.
She checked her alchemical pocket watch and snapped the cover shut.
"Let's move, Draco. Jerry is waiting in the workshop to inspect the stamping results; don't waste time on War Operations small fry."
Draco picked up the chest, dusting the water from his coat.
"Let's go!"
The two elite young combatants disappeared down the alleyway without looking back.
Under the twin pressures of inter-realm war and internal power struggles, the wizarding world had been stretched to the breaking point.
Inside the secret workshop on the third basement level of Hogwarts.
Blazing redstone furnaces illuminated the entire chamber crimson.
The air was dense with the scents of molten metal and mint tobacco.
Jerry stood on the observation balcony, hands in his coat pockets.
Cigar clamped between his lips, his dark eyes watched the production line where dozens of house-elves worked at breakneck speed.
Tens of thousands of gilded badges and miniature protective arrays were being stamped out in rapid succession, clattering into crates in steady rhythms.
On the side wall hung a massive black cloth.
Marked in white chalk were detailed deployment maps for both the second reading of Bill 14 on Wednesday and the opening match of the Quidditch Championship.
"The pureblood families positioned their mercenaries at customs and the third basement level of the Ministry."
Jerry exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, tapping his fingers against the iron railing.
"The Order shoved their Auror battalions and frontline veterans into stadium security and patrols. Both sides think they'll devour the other next Wednesday."
Hermione walked up the steps, shedding her wet raincoat, tossing the chest of copper onto the table.
She stepped beside Jerry, resting her hands on his arm, leaning against him, looking up at his face.
"And what about you, Jerry?"
Hermione's voice was hushed, carrying absolute devotion.
"The purebloods are ready for mutual destruction; the Order wants a total purge. Next Wednesday... whose side do we stand on?"
Jerry wrapped an arm around Hermione's waist, squeezing her hipbone firmly.
Looking down at her flushed face, a ruthless, bloodthirsty smirk curled across his lips.
"Us? We stand with neither."
Jerry took a drag of his cigar, blowing warm smoke across Hermione's forehead.
"Let the purebloods' heavy weaponry tear through the Aurors' lines, and let the Order's frontline veterans bury the pureblood mercenaries. Once both sides beat each other's brains out in the Ministry and on the pitch..."
Jerry pointed down at the mountains of gold Galleons and betting contracts stacking up on the floor below.
"We only need to collect the gold, and then... take command of every rule over the ashes."
The alchemical furnaces blazed, stretching their shadows long across the stone.
A tempest destined to shatter the old order of the wizarding world was quietly gathering in the dark.