Dumbledore is not stupid. That much has been clear for years. I had always assumed he suspected — the way his eyes lingered on me sometimes, the careful politeness that was never quite warmth. But the rumors were true: he had already begun gathering loyalty into something called the Order of the Phoenix. He would call it a defence of good. I called it a movement that finally admitted there was a threat to be managed.
I smiled when I heard it. Of course he would build an Order. That was a predictable move, and predictability is a resource you can cash in if you prepare the bank ahead of time.
Meanwhile, other accounts moved in our favor.
Itachi's appointment in France arrived as a short, encrypted message in the dead of night. He had taken the office cleanly — not by force, but by craft. He had cultivated ministers, quietly undermined rivals with carefully timed scandals, and then presented himself as the competent alternative whose calm face would steady a shaken polity. The French magical administration bent to his steadiness because they wanted order more than ideology. They wanted a steady hand.
The news broke across my networks like a soft bell. I poured myself wine and read the reports my presses had filtered for me. In the margins of those dispatches I saw lines of possibility: trade routes, diplomatic levers, extradition agreements, the shape of a legal system that could be nudged into our favour. France was ours. That phrase tastes different when you say it aloud and different still when you put the word on paper. Itachi had given us a province of influence, not merely a title.
England, by contrast, was more complicated. The new Minister of Magic was in Dumbledore's pocket — a fact that could have been a disaster if I had not spent years planting a thousand smaller hands in the ministries' gears. The Minister could be persuasive and public and honest; that mattered little when procurement clerks, archival assistants, and licensing clerks quietly forwarded our interests, delayed inquiries, and flagged the right petitions for attention. Influence, not office, wins bureaucratic wars.
I convened a meeting in the library, a smaller, sharper circle than the one we had around the dining table. Orion, Abraxas, Itachi on a secure projection from Paris, Tam at my right, and Arianna — steady, precise — at my left. Nagini lay coiled at the hearth, half-sleeping and wholly content.
"Dumbledore builds an Order," I said, pouring into the ledger of the room the details I had that morning. "He will gather glory and those who crave it. They will be loud, moral, and very visible. That is both a problem and a gift. Visibility paints targets. We will use that."
Orion's face hardened. "They will move quickly to recruit those who can help. Aurors, professors, older contacts. It will be messy."
"Let them," I said. "Messiness is a kind of fertilizer. The Order will pull people into visible positions. We will pull our people into infrastructure. Those who clothe power will not always be the ones who spend it." I watched my lieutenants feel the shape of it. The grin I permitted myself was small and precise. "We have the families. Most of the pureblood houses are already with us. That network is a backbone. It buys us patience."
Abraxas folded his hands. "And the press?"
"I own most of it," I answered. "We will amplify whatever narrative serves us — the fear of Muggle interference, the necessary reforms, the charity drives that mask paramilitary drills. We will applaud rescue efforts we secretly fund and criticise the Ministry's slowness when it suits us. Perception is legislation when repeated enough."
Itachi's projection was still serene. "France will cooperate quietly on logistics," he said. "If you need a corridor, a storage node, or a safe harbor, we can offer it without visible ties. Your British advantage is subtle. Use it. Make Dumbledore's Order work in the light while we build the shadow."
Tam glanced at me, thoughtful. "We must be careful about claims of moral high ground. If we look like amoral opportunists, we lose the public. If we look too humanitarian while removing rights, historians will trace the cost. We must curate the face we wear carefully."
Arianna added, "We will continue recruiting in secret. Professors who are dissatisfied with budgets, Ministry clerks tired of delays, families who want stability. There is no ideology we cannot sell as pragmatism when the right phrasing is used." Her voice was cool. She liked the clean transactions of persuasion.
We mapped the next moves: a charity that would place "emergency aid" teams near volatile wards, training certifications we'd publish in the Prophet and in academic journals, scholarship programs that would funnel select students into ally networks, and a series of staged incidents that would make the Ministry look incompetent in exactly the right places. Each idea was a lever; each lever had an invested asset.
When the meeting broke, I walked the halls of Slytherin Manor alone for a while. The weight of the campaign settled in, not like a cloak but like a plan that had finally been laid on the table. Dumbledore's Order would be loud; it would draw white-hot attention. That would allow us to move where eyes were not watching.
"Let them gather their banners," I whispered to the empty corridor. "Heroes look impressive when the stage is lit. We will move in the dark where the lights do not reach."
Outside, London's smog glowed faintly orange with a sunset. Inside, our work stiffened into motion. The pieces were set. The next act would be the negotiation between fear and order — and I would choose the terms.