63 CH63 - Return to the Wizengamot
Two Weeks Later - June 21, 1994
...
An old man looked outside the window of his office, gazing at the mesmerizing sight he had gained the privilege of viewing over half a century ago. A contented sigh left his lips as he enjoyed the rarest of moments: some time away from his intrusive thoughts.
A gentle breeze caressed his face, causing a slight disturbance with everything it touched. Waves formed on the normally still lake before him. Trees swayed, their branches clattering against each other loudly. Pebbles on the shore were sent flying, skidding over one another as they collided.
Although the man had razor-sharp senses, he was still taken by surprise when a pair of talons latched onto his shoulder, and the most melodic voice in the world began to sing. Its aria was uplifting, causing even the coldest of hearts to swell with emotion. However, the man could not help but feel a tinge of dismay, knowing that the arrival of his familiar indicated an end to his peace.
"Is it already time, my friend?" Dumbledore questioned, not quite able to muster the cheery tone he usually spoke with.
Fawkes trilled in agreement, nuzzling his beak against his companion's wrinkly neck in an effort to draw him out of his depressive mood.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Quite right you are! There is no time to dally."
Taking a plum-coloured robe from the back of his desk chair, he swung it around his shoulders. A negligent wave of his wand conjured a brass-framed mirror before him, revealing his appearance, as immaculate as ever. Another flick untransfigured the conjuration, as he turned to Fawkes. "Mind giving me a lift?"
Fawkes warbled in exasperation, and Dumbledore could almost hear what he was trying to say. 'Do you still have to ask?'
Dumbledore looked at him innocently. "Well, it's always polite to check beforehand."
Rather than replying, Fawkes simply took hold of Dumbledore's hands, flashing him away to the middle of the Wizengamot chambers, before disappearing in another instant.
"No need to be so moody," Dumbledore muttered.
Unfortunately, he could spend no more time thinking about his irate ally.
"Greetings, Chief Warlock," the court scribe sat below him bowed.
"Afternoon, headmaster," Auror Proudfoot shouted from the entrance.
"Dumbledore," Madame Bones nodded from his right.
In the brief respite he received from conversation, Dumbledore took the opportunity to sweep his gaze around the chambers, noting its above-average attendance.
It was the day of the summer solstice, and as a general rule, tended to be one of the more exciting Wizengamot sessions. This year held no particularly life-changing news, but the room was still just as packed as it always was.
Dumbledore had only intended to get a glance at all the members present, yet his eyes kept returning to one particular bench...
The man sitting upon it was completely still, but his posture was strong and confident. He held himself with swagger, a swoon-worthy individual in every regard. He was clearly dressed to impress: a traditional black waistcoat paired with a newer style of dress shirt that stuck to his lithe but well-defined frame. A looker from every angle.
His face was large, but with aristocratic features all the way through. Bold edges lined it, centered by a small smirk.
But his eyes...
Oh, his eyes...
They seemed to glow and crackle with power, caging a feral beast within them. When the light hit his irises right, they seemed to be encircled with an outer ring of bright red.
'No... It can't be,' Dumbledore thought with dread.
"Let's get it going, Chief Warlock!" Sturgis Podmore shouted, breaking him out of his thoughts. "We've got a long session ahead of us! I'd rather not miss both lunch and dinner if I can help it."
Murmurs of assent rumbled throughout the Lords, their seats now completely full, Dumbledore noticed.
He attempted to catch sight of the familiar stranger, but he was no longer where he had seen him last. Berating himself internally for his loss of focus, he banged his gavel twice, bringing silence to the gathered witches and wizards.
"I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of this Wizengamot, do hereby announce that this 1994 summer solstice gathering of our wizarding body is now in session," he boomed loudly, the introduction a well-rehearsed act by this point. "As is tradition, I will now open the floor to any house notices or pleas that wish to be made to our esteemed Lords and Ladies."
He was used to saying the phrase after so many sessions, but rarely ever had the opportunity been availed of.
Today, that pattern would be broken.
"I would like to come forth," came a smooth voice from the guest stands.
All heads turned to the source of the noise, including Dumbledore's own.
To no surprise, it was the red-eyed man.
Uncaring about the attention he had brought to himself, the man strode down the steps of the auditorium, the only sound echoing resounding being that of his neatly polished shoes. Coming to a halt at the very center of the room, he pivoted to face the Wizengamot.
"I, Marvolo Slytherin—" he declared to general uproar as he retrieved an item from his pockets, "—ask of the Albionic magic that presides over these chambers, to recognize me as the true Lord Slytherin, restoring my birthright and granting me a seat among this ruling body." As he spoke, a golden glinting ring carved with Slytherin's insignia found its way onto his finger, and an empty chair glowed as it was imprinted with the same emblem.
Silence fell, as everyone recognized that the stranger's claim was genuine, before the fighting began anew.
"Off with his head!"
"The house of one of the founders lives again! This is a glorious moment!"
"Kill him! Aurors, arrest him this instant! The dark lord's reign of terror cannot be allowed to begin again!" a light-sided member shouted frantically.
"A lord is a lord! A legitimate claim cannot be denied, not when it has already been deemed valid by magic!" a dark-sided lord scoffed, as his eyes drank in the sight of the new Lord Slytherin greedily.
Voldemort, however, only cared for one man's reaction as locked eyes with Dumbledore daringly. A grin grew on the dark lord's face as his rival's expression turned stony.
Throughout the brewing storm, the old man had remained completely silent.
'You've had a lot of free rein recently, Dumbledore,' he mentally mocked. 'Has the slack dulled your mind?'
'Ahh, Tom,' Dumbledore sighed. 'You cannot possibly hope to convince these people that Lord Voldemort is a reformed man.'
'Perhaps,' Voldemort hummed, too happy to care about the headmaster's use of his muggle name. 'But Marvolo Slytherin can probably bring his name out of the mud if he plays his hand right.'
'We shall see,' Dumbledore retorted coldly.
'We shall,' Voldemort laughed, a hint of the crazed mania he was so infamous for leaking into his words.
END OF VOLUME 1: ARRIVAL
