The air in the Wizengamot Hall seemed to grow thicker and thicker as Magnus Riddle stood there, radiating a silent force that bent thoughts and gazes. The subtle movement that was beginning was nothing more than the polite instinct of the old magical houses: an approach disguised as courtesy, driven by fear and opportunism.
The first to approach were the traditional families. Their costumes were worthy of bygone eras, with hand embroidery in silver and gold threads, wands carved with family crests and eyes full of hidden intentions.
The Bones, ancestors of Magical Law, came first. Amelia Bones, still young, led the group with a stern bearing. Her eyes regarded Magnus with genuine respect, though caution gleamed in her eyes. Behind her, the old Bones watched with grim expressions, muttering among themselves.
Then came the Greengrasses. Augustus Greengrass, the patriarch of the family, was dressed in dark green velvet with a gold chain across his chest. His cold eyes studied Magnus as if calculating the weight and usefulness of his presence. His daughters, delicate in appearance, kept their heads bowed, as was etiquette.
The Abbotts approached next, smiling with studied kindness. They were known for their deep Hufflepuff roots and their love of tradition. Magnus responded to their greetings politely, but not enthusiastically. He could feel the weight of their intent: whispered alliances beneath gentle smiles.
The Flint crest came forward with stiff steps. A thin leader, his eyes deep and cruelly watchful, inclined his head stiffly. There was no warmth there, only a cold acceptance of Magnus's greater strength.
Of the Yaxleys, a burly figure stood out, offering an exaggerated bow. His eyes, however, were narrow and treacherous. Magnus held his gaze for a brief moment longer than necessary—a silent warning that his nature was seen and remembered.
The Prewett family came like a whisper from ancient times. Robes embroidered with golden lions, eyes that held memories of bravery. There was something honest in the Prewetts' bearing, an integrity that, though worn by time, still shone shyly.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, tall and imposing even in his youth, represented the Shacklebolts with unmistakable dignity. He made no attempt to flatter Magnus. He merely inclined his head respectfully. Magnus reciprocated with a slight nod—an exchange of silent acknowledgement between warriors.
The Rosiers approached, old and dark-eyed. A family marked by ancient ties to dark magic, they tried to hide the shadow that surrounded them under sweet words. Magnus greeted them with a lukewarm smile and cold eyes, as if he could see the invisible bonds on their wrists.
The Carrows' presence caused an almost physical discomfort. Their greetings were oily, hissing, and laden with a forced submission that sickened Magnus. He responded with impeccable coolness, but he made a mental note that any alliance with that family would, in the future, be a rust on the armor.
Among them all, few shone. Few still remembered what true nobility meant.
The atmosphere grew progressively more claustrophobic as more families approached: Macnair, Avery, Selwyn. Each brought their rehearsed compliments, their empty promises, their gazes that weighed like blindfolds.
Magnus answered everyone.
Politely.
Coldly.
With the noble detachment that Phineas Nigellus Black had taught him—the art of being polite without offering, of being present without belonging.
His eyes traveled around the room as he exchanged greetings. He observed rings of ancient coats of arms in trembling hands, capes embroidered with insignia that no one remembered anymore. He saw the hunger for relevance in many, the silent struggle against oblivion.
The tapestries that covered the walls whispered old stories of battles, duels, broken alliances. Magnus felt each thread tugging at his own heart, calling him to remember that power is ephemeral without purpose.
Sometimes his eyes would fall on the old portraits that decorated the top of the hall. Gentlemen from bygone eras, solemn figures who, perhaps, still recognized in him the spark that was missing in most of those present.
Time dragged on in slow waves.
With each greeting, Magnus's inner irritation rose like a black tide. But his expression remained untouched, like an unbreakable sphinx.
He knew the game.
Did you know that those who kneel easily also betray easily?
When finally all the greetings were made, Magnus was ready.
His eyes, now hardened by the full realization of the decay before him, turned to the only group still waiting on the sidelines.
The Malfoy Family.
And it was then that her heart, so carefully protected throughout the ceremony, pulsed with something different: recognition.
But that was a matter for the next move in their silent game of observation and decipherment.
The board was set up.
And Magnus Riddle, the Pride of Slytherin and true heir to the Ancient Magic, already knew where to place his first pieces.