Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

The grand drawing room of Malfoy Manor was bathed in a soft, golden candlelight. The ceilings stretched high above, like the arches of an old cathedral, and the walls were covered with rich tapestries and priceless artifacts, handed down through centuries. Ornate furniture, upholstered in deep green velvet, rested on polished dark marble floors, with the Malfoy crest proudly displayed over the grand fireplace.

Two figures were in the room.

Lucius Malfoy stood tall by the window, the moonlight catching the pale strands of his long blond hair. His grey eyes were sharp, calculating, as he spoke to the older man sitting across from him. Lord Selwyn, though aged, still held a commanding presence. His silver hair and lined face didn't hide the keen sharpness in his gaze.

Their voices were low, carrying the weight of dangerous schemes.

"The resistance from Dumbledore's side was expected," Lucius began, his voice calm but controlled. "We knew he wouldn't sit quietly while the old order tried to reclaim what's theirs. His foreign connections—those allies from across the continent and beyond—have already started to interfere. And then there's the Hogwarts oversight committee… no surprise he's strengthened his hold there."

Lucius shifted slightly, the soft click of his polished black boots on the floor as he paced. "Some of the old families, traitors to their blood, have come together under his influence. They've slowed us down a bit, but only slightly. The plan to reshape the Ministry is still on track. Our people are in place. Minister Fudge has been useful—a puppet who knows which way the wind blows."

Lord Selwyn leaned forward, his voice rasping. "But the Barty Crouch faction is rising," he muttered. "They want to push Fudge aside. Their ambition is dangerous, but not unexpected. They think they can seize power under the banner of justice, but they don't realize they're dancing to Dumbledore's tune."

Lucius gave a thin smile. "Yes, we'll let them believe their little rebellion means something—for now. They weaken Fudge, but they also distract Dumbledore's allies."

Selwyn tapped his cane against the floor slowly. "It's working. Step by step, the foundations shift. The Ministry grows colder to Muggle-borns. Did you see the latest figures?"

Lucius's eyes gleamed quietly. "I did. Applications from Muggle-borns to Ministry positions have dropped nearly ninety percent. Those few who remain get the scraps—janitorial jobs, manual labor, unimportant roles that keep them out of sight. Their kind no longer feels welcome. They know their place… or they soon will."

Selwyn's expression darkened, his voice lowering. "We must stay vigilant. Dumbledore is clever, but we've been patient. Our influence in Diagon Alley tightens. Those Muggle-born agitators who tried to stir trouble were silenced—our friends in Knockturn Alley made sure of that."

Lucius looked toward the window, staring beyond the glass as if he could see the future. "The cracks widen," he said quietly. "But we must be careful. The Greengrass family and the Voles—neutral for now—are still obstacles."

Selwyn frowned. "The Voles' trade with the American enclaves is too close to Muggle-born sympathizers across the ocean. And Lord Greengrass's ties to James Potter…" His voice curled with disdain. "That blood traitor's reach is longer than we'd like."

Lucius's jaw tightened. "The Greengrasses and Voles nearly match our wealth and power. Their neutrality keeps them safe—for now. But once they show their hand, we strike. Until then, we chip away at their influence. Let them rot slowly, like the Weasleys. Poor in gold, poorer in legacy. Their blood is pure only in name."

Selwyn chuckled softly, but there was little humor in it. "We've seen it before. Great families brought low by pressure. It's a slow poison, but it works."

Lucius nodded. "For now, we stick to the plan. The Ministry bends a little more with every season. Foreign pressure grows, but it's just noise. Let them bark from their distant shores. This is Britain. Our land. Our rules."

For a moment, only the crackling fire could be heard.

Then Selwyn spoke, voice final. "We stay the course, Lucius. Let the resistance rise. Let them hope. Hope makes men reckless. And when they overreach… we'll be ready."

A cruel smile touched Lucius's lips as he nodded. The candlelight flickered against the silver serpent on his cane.

The future belonged to those who took it—by blood, by gold, or by force.

The old grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily, breaking the silence. The fire crackled softly, mingling with the faint hum of ancient magic woven into Malfoy Manor's walls.

Lucius poured himself a glass of aged elf-made wine from a decanter on the sideboard. He offered one to Selwyn, who waved it off with a thin smile.

"You still prefer your mind sharp," Lucius said, swirling the dark liquid. "Wise, considering the games we play."

Selwyn leaned back, firelight drawing the lines on his face. "Games?" He chuckled dryly. "This isn't a game, Lucius. It's survival. The old blood must endure."

He tapped his cane again. "But endurance alone isn't victory. You mentioned the Voles and Greengrasses—neutral for now. But neutrality is just cowardice in disguise. It won't last."

Lucius sipped his wine, thinking over the words. "The Voles hold their ground because of their trade with America. Magical goods, rare artifacts… their business makes them useful to both sides. The Ministry won't move against them openly—not yet. And the Greengrasses…"

His face tightened. "Lord Greengrass's sister married Potter. That binds him to Dumbledore, no matter what he says."

Selwyn's lips curled in disgust. "James Potter… reckless, arrogant, like his father. Worse—loved by fools who mistake rebellion for bravery."

Lucius set his glass down. "Dumbledore surrounds himself with Potters, Longbottoms, Bones—families blinded by sentiment, obsessed with Muggle-born and half-blood 'rights.' But sentiment is weakness. Their resistance fractures from within."

Selwyn's sharp gaze met Lucius's. "Foreign pressure is growing. Americans send envoys under the guise of trade, but they want interference. The French talk about 'equality,' the Germans whisper 'ethical magic.' Soft ideals poisoning wizardkind."

Lucius smiled coldly. "Not here. The Ministry tightens its grip. Our allies in the Wizengamot grow bolder. Muggle-born applications down ninety percent, and the few allowed are given degrading jobs. The rest are pushed aside. Fear does most of the work."

Selwyn nodded approvingly but stayed cautious. "Progress, yes. But Dumbledore isn't idle. His influence at Hogwarts is strong. As long as he controls the castle, he controls the future."

Lucius's eyes gleamed with quiet confidence. "We've begun chipping away at that. Funding cuts, subtle board changes, whispers in the right ears. The castle won't fall overnight, but cracks show even in stone."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We have time, Lord Selwyn. The public is tired of Dumbledore's 'moral crusade.' The war against Grindelwald left scars. People want stability, tradition. We offer that. They'll come to us—or be left behind."

A slow smile spread across Selwyn's face. "Good. Patience is key. Let Dumbledore overreach. Let the blood traitors grow complacent. And when the time comes…" His voice dropped to a whisper, sharp as a blade. "…we take everything."

Lucius nodded. "We will. The old families—ours, the Notts, Averys, Selwyns—we've waited long enough. Britain belongs to us."

Silence fell again, heavy with conspiracy and ambition. The fire burned low, shadows flickering on the walls, as if the manor itself was listening.

Then a faint knock broke the stillness.

A house-elf appeared, trembling under the weight of the atmosphere. "Master Malfoy… a message arrived. From… the Vole estate."

Lucius exchanged a glance with Selwyn, unreadable.

"Bring it," Lucius ordered quietly.

The elf hurried forward with a sealed parchment, wax stamped with the Vole family crest—a silver falcon with a serpent in flight.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Interesting. They rejected yet another marriage proposal."

He turned the letter over in his hand, mind already racing. A cold smile curled his lips.