The chambers of the Wizengamot glowed in quiet, golden light. Everything about the place was designed to intimidate — the high marble benches, the floating torches, the echo of every whisper — but intimidation only works on those who still care about the approval of others.
I stood at the center of the courtroom, composed and immaculate, as Albus Dumbledore presented his accusations. His voice carried calm conviction, but the tone — the righteous one — always amused me.
"Witnesses have seen him, Minister," he said, eyes bright as steel. "They saw him near the scenes of the London fires, they saw him conjure the Mark. I ask that this council issue a warrant for his arrest."
The chamber murmured. I let them. I had nothing to fear here.
The Order of the Phoenix stood beside him — loyal, desperate, idealistic. Some looked at me with disgust; others with fear. Their words, their evidence, their noble hearts — it would never be enough.
Because truth doesn't win in politics. Numbers do.
When my turn came, I didn't shout. I didn't even raise my wand. I simply stepped forward, letting the weight of my titles walk with me.
"Head of the Ancient House of Slytherin," the clerk read aloud."Head of the Ancient House of Emrys."
The murmurs changed tone — quieter, cautious. Even the Minister leaned forward slightly, as though remembering exactly who paid for half his policies.
"Slytherin commands two votes," I said smoothly, "and Emrys commands five. Seven votes, Minister." I allowed a small pause, a polite correction, "Eight, including my personal seat."
A few of the nobles nodded subtly from the benches — allies, old families bound by favor and fortune. They didn't need to be asked which way to vote. They already owed me far too much.
Dumbledore continued, desperate but dignified. "This is not about votes," he said, his voice echoing through the hall. "It is about morality, about the safety of both our worlds—"
"Safety," I interrupted gently, "which I have ensured, while you sit here conjuring words."
A few chuckles rippled through the chamber. The Minister cleared his throat uncomfortably. The case was already dying.
The vote was called not an hour later. It wasn't even close.The verdict: Case dismissed.
I was, once again, innocent.
Dumbledore's face didn't change much — but his eyes did. They burned with quiet fury, not at losing, but at knowing he had lost to something he couldn't fight: politics.
As the benches emptied, I passed him in the hall. The sound of my boots echoed in the marble silence. I stopped just close enough for him to hear me — just close enough for him to feel my smile.
"No one ever believes you, do they?" I murmured.
He said nothing, but I could see it in his gaze — the unspoken vow that this wasn't over. It never would be.
I walked out of the Ministry that evening into a sunset the color of dying fire, the applause of my supporters following behind me like music. The Prophet would print headlines about Lord Slytherin's exoneration by morning.
And by then, while Dumbledore wasted his breath appealing to justice… I would already be planning my next move.
Because wars aren't won by the righteous.They're won by the clever.