Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

In the heart of an ancient manor, where every wall groaned under the weight of wealth and history, the grand hall gleamed with opulence. Chandeliers of enchanted crystal bathed the marble floors in silver light, and paintings—centuries old—watched with timeless eyes as guests mingled beneath towering ceilings. Sculptures, tapestries, and relics adorned every corner, each whispering the legacy of old blood.

Tonight was no ordinary gathering. The vast hall was filled with men and women clad in tailored robes, silk, and velvet, their jewelry glinting like the wealth stitched into their veins. Their names carried weight—names that had shaped the British wizarding world for generations.

At the head of the room, seated in an ornate chair carved from dark oak, Lucius Malfoy rose with the practiced grace of someone born to command attention.

"Welcome," Malfoy began, his voice smooth as polished glass, yet carrying the undercurrent of steel. "I trust you've enjoyed tonight's festivities. But now… we turn to the reason we've truly gathered here."

The hall stilled, a collective tension seeping into the gilded air.

"For nearly a year," Malfoy continued, eyes sweeping the assembly, "our families—our legacy—have been under attack. Six coordinated strikes on Pure-blood households. Six tragedies. And all with one thing in common." His voice sharpened. "The perpetrators? Mudbloods."

A ripple of unease passed through the room.

From the crowd, Damian Parkinson stood, his face grave beneath silver-threaded robes. "You're right, Malfoy. The families of Rookwood, Avery, Burke, Fawley, Flint, Nott… all victims of these violent assaults. They've lost not just wealth, but blood. Family."

Another figure, lean and sharp-eyed, pushed to his feet. Lord Avery's voice trembled not with fear, but with restrained fury. "I know the pain firsthand. My brother… gone. Murdered by these filth." His fists clenched at his sides. "We captured one of them—a Mudblood, as expected. Took them to the Ministry, to the Aurors… and what did they do? Dismissed me. Left us defenseless." His lip curled. "So I hired mercenaries. If the Ministry won't protect us, we'll protect ourselves."

A murmur of grim approval swept the hall.

"My condolences, Avery," came a silky voice from across the floor. Lord Rowle rose, heavyset and imposing. "But condolences aren't enough. If we let this continue, we'll be extinct—our power stripped away, our influence eroded. Look around—every year more Muggle-borns swarm our world. It's no longer a trickle… it's a flood."

A woman rose next—the floor creaking slightly beneath her, though none dared snicker. Madam Travers was formidable, both in size and in the vast fortune she controlled. Her bones cracked faintly as she adjusted her stance, but her voice was sharp, unwavering.

"As Lord Fawley said, their numbers grow unchecked," Travers declared. "And with them comes the threat. If we don't act, we'll lose everything—our power, our wealth, our position. The next witch hunts won't come from fearful Muggles… they'll come from within, from these so-called 'Muggle-borns.'"

Her husband, seated beside her like a docile shadow, nodded silently.

Malfoy stepped forward again, the room falling quiet under his gaze. Around him sat the pillars of Pure-blood society: the Crabbes, Averys, Selwyns, Rowles, Yaxleys, Zabinins, Notts, Goyles, Rosiers, Greengrasses, Parkinsons, Traverses, Burkes, Carrows, Rookwoods, Fawleys, Flints… and others of lesser but still notable lineage. The Voles, too, sat among them, their crest gleaming.

Malfoy's voice lowered, commanding.

"It's time we take back what we lost , when the Dark Lord was roaming around no Muddblood had the gall to do these kind of lawlessness ," he declared. "We start small—pressure our shops, our allies, to refuse employment to Muggle-borns. We whisper in the Ministry's ears—no promotions, no influence for their kind. Slowly, carefully, we erode their presence." His eyes glinted coldly. "And those who violate these policies? Stripped of magic, exiled, or sent to Azkaban. As we all know the current Minister is under the influence of Dumbledore and he is very easy to manipulate and corrupt if we announce our support of him. And the Media is also under our control we can proceed with this plan "

A chill gripped the hall as the mention of the Dark Lord's name hung, unspoken but heavy, in the air. The memory of him still curdled their blood.

One man finally spoke, hesitantly. "But… Dumbledore. He holds the power still. The Blood Traitors rally behind him. He'll fight this at every turn."

Malfoy's smile was thin. Calculated.

"Dumbledore's time is ending. We'll chip away at his foundation—first Hogwarts, then the Wizengamot. When he falls, so will their protections. No more sanctuary for Muggle-borns." He paused, voice darkening. "And when that happens, Hogwarts will return to what it was meant to be—a school for our kind. No more Mudbloods defiling its halls."

The room simmered with murmurs of agreement—until a calm, measured voice cut through the fervor.

"Assuming you succeed, Malfoy… what of the international backlash?"

The speaker was Lord Greengrass, seated near the edge of the gathering, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "The International Confederation of Wizards will not ignore this. Trade will crumble. Sanctions will follow. The Muggle royal family, though they play blind, won't stand idle. You speak of reclaiming power, but at what cost?"

Lord Fawley rose sharply, his face flushed. "This is our world, Greengrass. British magic belongs to the families who built it. The Confederation, the Muggles—they have no say in our internal affairs."

Greengrass's gaze turned to ice. "Is that so? Or is your arrogance blinding you to the storm brewing beyond our borders?"

Malfoy's smile tightened. "Or perhaps, Lord Greengrass, your loyalty is compromised. Your sister, if I recall… married the Potter, did she not?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Greengrass's eyes flashed dangerously. His voice, when it came, was cold as frost.

"Tread carefully, Malfoy. My family affairs are not your concern. I've made my stance clear—I oppose your methods. And I will remain neutral in this… campaign."

A pause. Another voice spoke up—a man with striking silver cufflinks and a serpent pin: Lord Vole.

"I, too, will stand neutral," Vole declared smoothly. "My family's trade with America thrives on good relations. The No-Maj bloodlines are woven into their fabric. There's little appetite for your brand of politics across the Atlantic."

Malfoy's lips twitched. "So… neutrality from House Vole, as well." His gaze lingered on Vole, the unspoken challenge simmering beneath polite words.

The hall settled into tense silence, the divisions among them clear now—fractures in the once-unified wall of Pure-blood dominance.

But the night was far from over. And as the flickering candlelight danced along polished marble, it was evident—war, be it political or bloody, brewed beneath the surface.

And the old families? They were choosing sides.