Wizengamot Part 1

Hadrian strode confidently into the chamber, every step echoing off the stone walls as every eye turned to him. He felt the weight of countless gazes, some curious, others wary, and a few openly hostile. Despite their scrutiny, Hadrian's posture remained relaxed, his right hand casually resting on the hilt of Bradamante strapped to his waist. He took in his surroundings with a practiced eye, recalling Sirius's advice on who to watch and how the courtroom functioned.

The chamber itself was as imposing as Sirius had described—a vast, circular space, almost oppressive in its architecture, designed to make whoever stood at its centre feel small and insignificant. On either side of the room were the audience seats, filled with a sea of wizards and witches, ministry employees, and an unsettling number of reporters, their quills poised eagerly to catch every word.

Scanning the crowd, Hadrian's gaze landed on three familiar figures seated together: Daphne, Astoria, and Degenbreacher. Daphne's eyes were sharp, studying him with an intensity that hinted at more than just casual interest. Astoria sat beside her sister, wide-eyed and openly intrigued, while Degenbreacher's golden gaze held an edge of approval as if recognizing a kindred warrior spirit.

To the left of the open centre stood the seats of the Dark Faction, known for their traditionalist views, their expressions ranging from disdain to thinly veiled curiosity. To the right sat the Light Faction, or the progressives, who eyed him with suspicion mixed with self-righteousness. And in the middle were the neutrals, the so-called "Grey Faction," whose members often shifted alliances depending on the political winds.

At the highest seat in the room, towering above the others, sat an elderly man with a long white beard and piercing blue eyes—Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. He was no mere Hogwarts professor here; dressed in regal plum robes, he emanated an aura of authority and purpose. Dumbledore's gaze bore into him with a calculating intensity, one that sent an involuntary shiver down Hadrian's spine, though he'd never show it. Something was unsettling in those eyes, a hint of possession mingled with a deep-seated curiosity.

'He's sizing you up,' Hedwig's voice chimed in his mind, her tone laced with faint amusement. 'Careful, or he'll want to stick you on a shelf like one of his knick-knacks.'

Hadrian's lips twitched in faint amusement at her comment, but he kept his expression neutral.

Just below Dumbledore sat a portly man with a flushed face and a green bowler hat perched awkwardly on his head—Cornelius Oswald Fudge, the Minister for Magic. Fudge's fingers fidgeted constantly with the rim of his hat, betraying his nervousness. His eyes darted between Hadrian and Dumbledore, clearly caught between wanting to assert his authority and deferring to the Chief Warlock's silent command.

Beside Fudge sat a woman who looked more toad than human, with bulging eyes and a smile that seemed permanently fixed yet utterly devoid of warmth. Her robes were an offensively bright shade of pink, adorned with a nauseating array of lace and bows. Hadrian had to resist the urge to scratch his eyes out just looking at her.

'That's a toad in human form if I ever saw one,' Oryou's voice drawled in his mind. 'Can I eat her? She looks crunchy.'

'No,' Hadrian replied mentally, fighting the urge to smirk. 'You'll get indigestion from eating toads in pink lace. Not worth the trouble.'

Oryou huffed in disappointment, her amusement rippling through their mental link. 'Pity. She'd make a good snack.'

Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and an infamous enforcer of "law and order," regarded Hadrian with a mixture of contempt and barely veiled malice, as though she already deemed him guilty and was simply waiting for the chance to pounce. The way her eyes tracked his every move gave him the impression of a predator circling its prey—though, in her case, a rather deluded one.

Madam Amelia Bones, standing near the centre beside the court scribe, watched Hadrian with a calculating gaze, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes alight with curiosity and perhaps a hint of admiration. She recognized the power in him, the discipline in his stance. Amelia was no stranger to strength and command, and there was something about the way he held himself that she found respectable, though she kept that thought to herself.

Scattered throughout the chamber were Aurors stationed to maintain order, their eyes vigilant and unyielding. Among them, Hadrian recognized a grizzled figure with a wooden leg, a magical eye that spun wildly, and an expression of permanent suspicion—Alastor Moody, or "Mad-Eye" as Sirius had called him. Moody's mismatched gaze lingered on Hadrian, his magical eye whirring to examine every inch of him, assessing, evaluating. Hadrian had to admit, the man looked like he'd seen—and survived—a lot, and he could respect that.

'That one's got stories,' Hedwig remarked with a hint of admiration. 'I wouldn't mind hearing them one day.'

Hadrian's lips curved slightly, just enough for those observant enough to notice. 'If we survive this circus, maybe we'll invite him for tea.'

Hadrian moved to the centre of the chamber with an air of unshakable confidence, his steps echoing on the marble floor, each one punctuating the silence as he approached. He reached for Bradamante at his side, and in a single, fluid motion, detached the sheathed sword from his waist. The blade remained concealed within its scabbard, exuding an aura of restrained power rather than an open threat.

Standing tall, Hadrian clasped his hands around the hilt, his right hand resting atop the left, holding the sheathed sword vertically in front of him. The tip of Bradamante's scabbard touched the marble floor with a soft, resonant note that rang through the chamber, cutting through the murmur of voices with a clear, almost solemn tone. The sound echoed, a low, lingering hum that seemed to hang in the air, commanding attention without a single word.

With calm, deliberate movements, he straightened his posture, his gaze sweeping over the assembled members of the Wizengamot and the audience, eyes sharp and penetrating. His presence was imposing—still, vigilant, yet radiating an aura of strength and power that demanded respect. There was a solemn dignity in his stance, as though he were a knight standing before a court of old, awaiting judgment but wholly unafraid of whatever might come.

Around him, the reaction was immediate and unmistakable.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, a flicker of wariness crossing his face. This was not the timid boy he'd expected, but a young man who carried himself like a seasoned warrior, exuding a confidence and authority that was both unsettling and impressive. For a moment, Dumbledore felt a chill—a hint of recognition in the way Hadrian held Bradamante. The stance, the calm composure, the penetrating gaze... it was the look of someone who had walked through fire and emerged stronger.

Beside him, Cornelius Fudge shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the hand holding his bowler hat squeezing it a bit too tightly. His round face was flushed, and his small, darting eyes betrayed a nervousness he couldn't quite hide. Fudge prided himself on control and authority, yet here stood a young man who seemed to command the room without uttering a single word, and it rattled him.

'The little man's sweating through his hat,' Oryou chuckled, her amusement echoing in Hadrian's mind. 'Are you that intimidating, or is he just that pathetic?'

Hadrian smirked internally. 'A bit of both, I'd wager.'

Dolores Umbridge reacted with a visible sneer, her lips curling in disdain as she adjusted her pink robes, fingers fussing with the lace trim. Her toad-like face twisted with disapproval, clearly affronted by Hadrian's audacity to enter their sacred hall with such boldness. She opened her mouth as if to say something but closed it again, momentarily stymied by the piercing look Hadrian gave her—a gaze that seemed to cut right through her, freezing her words before they even formed.

'Still, think she'd make a tasty snack,' Oryou muttered. 'Could roast her a bit to add flavour.'

'Let's save that for later,' Hadrian replied, his voice laced with dry humour. 'We'll consider her dessert if this trial goes south.'

Madam Amelia Bones, standing near the centre beside the court scribe, watched Hadrian with a calculating gaze, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes alight with curiosity and perhaps a hint of admiration. She recognized the power in him, the discipline in his stance. Amelia was no stranger to strength and command, and there was something about the way he held himself that she found respectable, though she kept that thought to herself.

Alastor Moody, the grizzled Auror, gave a low, approving grunt. His magical eye whirred, taking in every detail of Hadrian's posture, his weapon, and the calm yet unyielding aura he exuded. "Good stance," he muttered to himself, his scarred face twisting into something resembling a grin. "Not a lad to be trifled with."

In the audience seats, whispers spread like wildfire. Some stared in awe, others with unease. Reporters leaned forward, quills scratching furiously as they tried to capture every detail of the striking figure before them. Even the sound of their scribbling seemed muted in the face of Hadrian's imposing presence.

Among the onlookers, Daphne, Astoria, and Degenbreacher sat quietly, their gazes fixed on him. Daphne's eyes were sharp and analytical, taking in every facet of his appearance and demeanour with a hint of approval. Astoria looked positively captivated, her eyes wide with admiration, while Degenbreacher chuckled softly, a low, approving sound that conveyed respect for the young man's composure.

"Great instincts," Degenbreacher murmured, her golden eyes gleaming as she observed Hadrian's stance. She gave a slight nod, acknowledging a fellow warrior worthy of respect.

Across the room, other members of the Wizengamot shifted in their seats, some avoiding his gaze as though afraid to meet it directly. Hadrian's eyes, unwavering and sharp, seemed to challenge each person to look at him without flinching. Most could not; heads turned away, nervous coughs filled the air, and hands fidgeted with robes and chairs.

'You've got them all flustered,' Hedwig observed, her voice a gentle caress in his mind. 'I think even Dumbledore's a bit unsettled.'

'Good,' Hadrian thought back, his gaze flicking briefly to the Chief Warlock. 'It's about time they see me for who I am.'

Hadrian continued to stand in silence, his face calm and unmoving, yet holding a quiet authority that resonated with the ancient stones of the courtroom. The entire room had fallen into an uneasy quiet, a tension that was both electrifying and unnerving.

And then, Dumbledore's voice cut through the murmurs as he brought down a silver gavel, the clang resounding through the chamber, silencing all whispers.

"This session of the Wizengamot is now in order," he declared, his voice steady, though a flicker of something—perhaps apprehension—lingered in his gaze as he looked down at the young man standing before them.

His eyes scrutinizing him with an intensity that was both curious and wary. The boy standing before them was not the vulnerable child he might have once envisioned. Instead, he saw a young man who exuded quiet strength and confidence, dressed in dark, elegant attire that seemed almost out of place yet somehow fitting in its mystery and poise. The high-collared black cloak rested on Hadrian's shoulders, adding to his imposing look, and his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms adorned with tattoos, caught Dumbledore's eye. The tattoos were intricate and unusual, with hints of a phoenix and a serpent coiled around each arm, both symbols shimmering faintly with magic. But it was the blade at his waist—Bradamante—that sent a chill down Dumbledore's spine. The weapon radiated an aura of latent power, and its presence alone suggested that this young man was prepared for a battle at any moment.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, his voice measured as he began. "Harry Potter."

Hadrian's jaw clenched imperceptibly. He spoke up, his tone firm and clear. "Hadrian Redgrave."

A ripple of whispers spread through the audience, surprised murmurs echoing in the chamber. Even Dumbledore looked momentarily taken aback before he corrected himself.

"Hadrian Redgrave," he amended, a flicker of surprise lingering in his eyes. "You have been summoned here to answer for the events that transpired at the Hotel Alexandria, and to explain the circumstances surrounding the… presence of demonic entities in the heart of a Muggle city."

Hadrian simply inclined his head in acknowledgement, his gaze steady and unyielding, waiting for the first question.