The Salle de Concorde, the grand chamber of the International Confederation of Wizards, was a marvel of magical architecture—an awe-inspiring blend of ancient craftsmanship for the magnificence and modern enchantments for security.
Its vast circular hall, carved from gleaming obsidian and inlaid with veins of shimmering silver, pulsed faintly with the magic woven into its very walls. The ceiling was an ever-shifting tapestry of the sky, reflecting not just the stars above Geneva but the celestial patterns of different time zones, allowing every delegate to see the constellations of their home region.
Rows of tiered seats stretched in a perfect ring around the central dais, where the stage of the speaker presided. Most of the time, it was occupied by the Supreme Mugwump.
Each seat's leather armrest bore the crest of its nation, the enchanted fabric adjusting itself to suit the comfort of its occupant. Hovering above each row were softly glowing runes, denoting the different factions within the Confederation—Judicial, Diplomatic, Magical Trade, and Law Enforcement—all united under the banner of international cooperation.
Most impressively, woven seamlessly into the chamber's magic was the listening and translation charms of the highest caliber, one made from a famous Greek wizard whose entire magical legacy had been perverted and erased by the modern day magicals. But nobody in the chamber knew or even cared enough to understand this.
It ensured that every wizard and witch present heard the proceedings in their native tongue, thus removing language as a barrier from diplomacy.
At the heart of the chamber, elevated upon the polished stone rostrum, Albus Dumbledore raised his hands, and the hum of conversations stilled. His half-moon spectacles glinted under the floating orbs of luminescent light, and his deep blue robes swirled as he surveyed the gathered assembly.
"Honourable members of the Confederation," he began, his voice effortlessly reaching every corner of the hall. "I call this session to order." The golden gavel before him struck once upon the podium, the sound reverberating through the enchanted walls.
His normally twinkling eyes were shadowed with gravity as he continued, "We are gathered here in the wake of an event that should have been one of unity and celebration, a spectacle of magical skill and camaraderie between nations. Instead, the Quidditch World Cup Final on British soil became the stage for a far graver revelation."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the chamber, but Dumbledore merely lifted a hand, and silence fell once more. He had made up his mind as to ensure that the witches and wizards in this Chamber knew about the danger that was looming.
He only hoped that reasonable minds and tempered voices were still a norm in this Chamber.
"Tom Riddle—who some of you may know as Lord Voldemort—has made his presence known. Before a hundred thousand witches and wizards, he declared his return, flanked by none other than the lost legions of Grindelwald's fallen army. These were men and women imprisoned decades ago in various member countries of our very own body, now freed and standing beneath a new banner." His voice remained steady, yet the weight of his words pressed upon the chamber, firm and insistent.
A few gasps echoed through the hall, whispers breaking out between delegations. The ICW had long debated what to do with the remnants of Grindelwald's forces.
That they had now found a new master was a development few had foreseen. Albus wasn't foolish enough to not know that many of the faces sitting here knew all about this already, not that they would ever admit it, considering that many of the prisoners that had joined Tom had been serving life sentences in their own countries.
Dumbledore continued, "The British Ministry, in collaboration with international allies, is investigating the full extent of this movement. But let me be clear—this is no longer a domestic concern. This is a matter that threatens the peace of all magical nations."
He let the words sink in before concluding, "I place before this council a motion—to formally recognize the resurgence of Lord Voldemort as a threat to global wizarding stability and to discuss immediate measures for containment and response."
The hall erupted into discussions, the echoes of a world on the brink reverberating through the chamber. Dumbledore stood tall at the centre of it all, his face unreadable, waiting for the storm to begin.
Whispers began to turn into hushed debates, and then, clear as a bell, a voice cut through the noise.
"Quelle absurdité!"
The French Minister for Magic, Étienne Dumont, who was also the French delegate to the ICW, pushed himself up from his seat, his immaculate navy robes embroidered with the golden fleur-de-lis of France billowing slightly as he moved. He was a lean man with sharp features and a shrewd glint in his eyes, the sort of politician who measured his words like a jeweller weighed gold.
Albus unfortunately did not know enough about him because the Minister was not one to mingle among his peers. No, he preferred seclusion and extreme independence.
"With all due respect, Supreme Mugwump, I fail to see how this warrants an international crisis," Dumont said smoothly, his voice laced with scepticism. He turned slightly, addressing the assembly at large. "What evidence do we have that this—" he gestured vaguely, "—'Lord Voldemort' is anything more than a British problem? Britain has had its share of dark wizards before. Why should the rest of us assume responsibility for what is clearly their failure to contain one?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber, most notably from their neighbours.
Dumbledore inclined his head, his expression unreadable, but before he could speak, a deep voice rumbled from across the chamber.
"The French Minister has a point."
Niklas Vogt, the German ICW Delegate, was an older man with a heavyset frame and steel-grey hair, a veteran of magical politics. "We are not dismissing the claim outright, but you must understand, Supreme Mugwump, that such an assertion requires more than words. If you are asking us to treat this Riddle as an international threat, we require evidence that his movement extends beyond British soil. Where is the proof?"
From the Japanese delegation, Katsuro Watanabe, a distinguished wizard in formal indigo robes, nodded in agreement. "I second the French delegate's concerns. Japan has had no sighting of this Dark Lord, nor do we have any indication that his reach extends to our territories. Without clear proof of an international danger, I fail to see why the ICW should overstep into what is clearly only a British matter."
The murmuring grew louder as more delegates turned to one another, some nodding in agreement, others frowning in concern.
The British delegate, Elphias Doge rose to his feet, his normally genial face lined with irritation. "This is not just Britain's concern," he countered sharply. "Do any of you believe that the man who rallied Grindelwald's prisoners to his cause intends to stop at Britain's borders? Did Grindelwald himself not begin with one nation and spiral into a war that nearly consumed us all?"
Dumont's lips twitched in mild amusement. "Oh, please. Grindelwald was a different man, in a different time. He sought to overthrow the Muggle world. What does this Riddle seek?"
"Power." Dumbledore's voice was quiet, yet it stilled the air like a struck bell. "He does not seek merely to rule. He seeks dominion over all magic. You may pretend this is not your concern, but he will not pretend that you are beyond his reach."
Vogt exhaled, folding his arms. "Then bring us evidence. We cannot act on mere fear and history."
Elphias leaned forward, eyes flashing. "You want evidence? What about the fact that ten thousand witches and wizards, imprisoned in your countries, appeared within the World Cup stadium? That is not conjecture—that is fact! We all saw them."
"Yes," Watanabe agreed, iIt is terrible that they escaped but what we did not see was any declaration of war."
Doge's frustration was mounting. "Would you rather wait until his followers march into your Ministries before you believe us?"
Dumont gave a non-commital shrug. "Perhaps I would rather wait until Britain has handled its own affairs before demanding we all panic."
At that, Doge huffed, frustration clearly visible on his features. Albus could empathize with him.
"Very well," the Supreme Mugwump said, his voice once again commanding attention. "If it is evidence you require, then evidence you shall have. But I urge you all to consider: by the time a fire spreads beyond its home, it is often already too late to contain it."
The chamber was silent for a long moment, the weight of his words settling uneasily upon the delegates. Albus wished that the discussion continued but it wasn't in his hands.
He shook his head and began speaking again. "The next order of business is…."