The world had irrevocably changed. The calendar pages had turned with a grim, relentless speed, marking the passage from the fragile, tense peace of 1939 into the open, brutal conflict of 1940. Our small council at Castle Starborn had been meeting constantly, a silent, unseen force gathering intelligence and laying the groundwork for a resistance that was now more crucial than ever. The Muggle world, as Henry had grimly predicted, had fallen into full-scale war. My magical resonance sensing, a constant, low-level hum in the background of my awareness, registered the escalating violence, a dark, pulsing energy that radiated from the European continent, a malevolent magical reflection of the Muggle battles.
On the Muggle side, Britain and France had finally declared war on Germany. The fight for control of the Atlantic Ocean became a daily, terrifying reality, as Muggle submarines, their metal hulls imbued with what I sensed were subtle silencing charms from Grindelwald's forces, began to sink British merchant ships. Then came the true horror. In May of 1940, the German war machine, with Grindelwald's magical forces as a silent, invisible partner, turned its full might on France and the smaller surrounding countries. The news reports, both Muggle and magical, were a litany of terror: of German tanks and soldiers, their advance aided by powerful confusion charms and disillusionment spells, tearing through French defenses.
The magical world, now inextricably linked to the Muggle one, was fighting its own war. The French Ministry, overwhelmed and outmatched, had been left to face Grindelwald's full power alone. Their pleas for aid, desperate and urgent, were being directed to the British Ministry, which, under the leadership of Minister Fawley, was choosing to hide behind a veil of isolationism. The official line was one of neutrality, of a desperate belief that if Britain stayed out of the conflict, Grindelwald would leave us alone.
My anger, a cold, burning ember in my chest, had been simmering for weeks. It finally erupted into a controlled fury when the summons for another Wizengamot session arrived. The agenda was simple, but its implications were devastating: to debate a formal, final response to the French Ministry's repeated pleas for magical aid. I knew what this meant. It was a formal opportunity for the Wizengamot to give an official, resounding "no." A betrayal.
The morning of the session, June 14th, 1940, was a grim, sunless affair. The air was heavy with an oppressive, tangible despair. I did not use the Floo. I did not use the Apparition point near the Ministry. Instead, I Apparated to a small, hidden alleyway a few streets away, my Draconic stealth charms at full power, and walked to the Ministry, my senses on full alert. My magical resonance sensing felt the sheer, palpable weight of fear that emanated from the Ministry's walls. The wizarding world was terrified.
The Wizengamot Chamber was a cauldron of anxiety. The members were not bickering this time; they were a collective of frightened, desperate individuals, their faces pale, their eyes wide with a terror that was not yet fully named. Minister Fawley, his face gaunt and pale, sat on the high podium, his shoulders hunched with a fear that seemed to consume him. Madam Marchbanks, her expression grim but resolute, took her seat as Chief Warlock.
"Order! Order!" her gavel slammed down with a resounding finality, the sound echoing through the tense silence. "We are here today to discuss a matter of utmost gravity. The French Ministry has, on several occasions, requested our magical support in their war against Grindelwald's forces. Minister Fawley has, to date, declined to respond, in line with our policy of official neutrality. We are here today to debate whether we should continue with this policy, or if we should, as a magical nation, provide aid to our allies."
The debate began, and it was a horrifying display of political cowardice and self-preservation. One Wizengamot member after another rose to speak, their voices trembling with fear.
"We must not get involved!" one lord shouted, his face red with a panicked desperation. "This is not our war! We must protect our own borders! If we send our magical forces to France, we will be leaving our own people undefended! We will be inviting Grindelwald's wrath upon us! We must remain neutral!"
Another lord rose to speak, his voice a quiet, rational plea for sanity. "We have ancient pacts with the French. They are our allies. They are our brothers and sisters in magic. If we abandon them now, in their hour of greatest need, who will stand with us when our time comes? We must send them aid! It is our duty! It is our honor!"
His words were met with a wave of terrified murmurs. The fear was a tangible, living thing in that chamber, a cold, suffocating blanket that seemed to sap all the courage from the room. I felt my Draconic core, usually a controlled, quiet wellspring of power, begin to hum with a low, simmering rage. This wasn't politics anymore. This was a moral rot. This was cowardice in its purest form.
I stood, my hand raised, my voice clear and steady. "Madam Chief Warlock. I wish to speak."
Madam Marchbanks nodded, her gaze fixed on me with a flicker of both hope and trepidation. "Lord Starborn, you have the floor."
I rose to my feet, my magical resonance sensing amplifying my presence, projecting an aura not of aggression, but of cold, unwavering conviction. I did not need to shout. The chamber fell silent, every eye fixed on me, waiting for my words.
"Esteemed members of the Wizengamot," I began, my voice steady, betraying none of the internal fury I felt. "I have heard many of you speak of neutrality. I have heard you speak of protecting our own. I have heard you speak of leaving France to its fate. I tell you, this is not neutrality. This is cowardice. This is a moral abdication of our duties as a magical nation. And it is a strategic error of a magnitude that will haunt us for a generation."
I paused, letting my words sink in. "Grindelwald is not a man to be appeased. He is not a man to be negotiated with. He is a predator. And he is a predator who has found an ally in a Muggle dictator, a man who has no concept of honor, no concept of treaties, no concept of borders. He is using Muggle armies as a shield, to hide his own magical purges, to eliminate his enemies. He is using the chaos of the Muggle world as a cover for his own tyranny."
"And you, in your fear," I continued, my voice now a cold, hard diamond, "are giving him exactly what he wants. You are isolating yourselves. You are abandoning your allies. You are telling him, in no uncertain terms, that you are weak. You are telling him that you are afraid. You are telling him that you will do nothing as he carves up Europe, as he eliminates your friends and your allies, as he builds an army that will one day, inevitably, come for us. You are building a magical wall around Britain, and you are inviting him to simply knock it down."
My words were met with a stunned silence. I had said the unthinkable. I had given voice to the truth that they were all trying so desperately to suppress.
"The time for neutrality is over," I declared, my voice now ringing with a fierce, unwavering conviction. "The war is here. The battle is for our very soul, for our very principles. We must not abandon our allies. We must not abandon our friends. We must not abandon our honor. We must stand with France. We must send them aid. Not because it is safe, but because it is right. And we must show Grindelwald that we are not afraid. We must show him that we are a nation of honor, of courage, and of strength."
I sat down, the chamber still in a state of stunned silence. I had spoken my mind. I had laid bare the truth of our situation, and I had challenged them to rise above their fear. I had done all I could.
The rest of the session was a blur of arguments and debates. The fear was still there, but my words had given a voice to a different sentiment, a sentiment of courage and honor. The vote was called, and the results were a heart-wrenching defeat. The motion to send aid to France was struck down. The Wizengamot, in its fear and its cowardice, had chosen to abandon its allies.
I left the chamber with a heavy heart, the weight of their decision pressing down on me. As I walked out of the Ministry, I was no longer just a voice of reason. I was a symbol of defiance. I was a man who had spoken the truth in a room full of cowards. And I knew, with a certainty that was as cold and hard as a diamond, that the real war was just beginning.
NEXT WIZENGAMOT SESSION
The vote to abandon France had been a wound, a self-inflicted betrayal that festered in the heart of magical Britain. The days following that abysmal Wizengamot session were a blur of grim news. Muggle reports spoke of the fall of Paris, of the swift, brutal advance of the German army. Magical whispers told of Grindelwald's acolytes consolidating their power, of the French magical community being systematically disarmed and subjugated. The silence from the French Ministry was deafening. Our small council at Castle Starborn was a hive of frantic, desperate activity. Henry was working tirelessly to establish a clandestine communication channel with his Muggle friends, a perilous bridge between our worlds. Lady Longbottom was mobilizing a network of safe houses for French magical refugees, a humanitarian effort to mitigate the damage. Lord Black was compiling lists of Grindelwald's known collaborators and strategizing a campaign of magical sabotage. My own work was a constant cycle of training, research, and intelligence gathering, preparing for the inevitable. The unspoken understanding between us was that the British Ministry, in its official capacity, was now a useless, paralyzed entity. The war would be fought by us, from the shadows, without their blessing.
But then, an unexpected and crucial shift occurred. The Ministry, once a bastion of bureaucratic inaction, began to show signs of internal fracture. The vote on France had been a political earthquake, and the aftershocks were proving to be cataclysmic. Minister Fawley's policy of "neutrality" had been a hollow lie, a veneer of control that was now cracking under the weight of his own fear and incompetence.
The summons for the next Wizengamot session arrived a week later. The agenda, a single, grim line, spoke volumes: "A Motion of No Confidence against Minister of Magic Hector Fawley." My magical resonance sensing registered the palpable, buzzing energy of a political coup, a fierce, desperate desire for change. It was a faint glimmer of hope in a world that was rapidly descending into darkness.
The morning of the session, June 21st, 1940, was a cold, grey affair. The air was thick with a tense, oppressive quiet. I chose my attire with a deliberate, cold precision: my dark, understated Wizengamot robes, a simple statement of purpose. I did not use the Floo. I Apparated to a secluded, pre-designated alleyway near the Ministry, my Draconic stealth charms at full power. My senses were on full alert, every shadow and corner meticulously scanned. The atmosphere in the Ministry Atrium was a stark contrast to the previous session. The fear had been replaced by a quiet, simmering anger, a cold, hard resolve.
The Wizengamot Chamber was a hub of hushed, tense conversations. My magical resonance sensing felt the raw, unbridled energy of a brewing political storm. Minister Fawley sat in his chair, his face a mask of utter devastation, his eyes wide with a terrified, hunted look. He was a man who had lost his power, and he knew it. His fate had already been decided in the backroom deals and hushed conversations that had been taking place for the last week.
Madam Marchbanks, her expression grim but resolute, rapped her gavel, the sound echoing through the tense silence. "Order! Order! Esteemed members of the Wizengamot. We are here today to vote on a motion of no confidence in Minister of Magic Hector Fawley. The motion has been brought forward by a number of senior Wizengamot members, and it is a matter of utmost gravity. We will now proceed with the debate. I will allow for one speaker in favor of the motion, and one speaker against. Is there a member who wishes to speak in favor of the motion?"
A lord, one of the most senior Wizengamot members, rose to his feet. His name was Lord Mulciber, a pureblood who had, until now, remained largely silent in our debates. His voice, when he spoke, was cold and precise, devoid of emotion. "Esteemed members. Minister Fawley's leadership has proven to be an unmitigated disaster. His policy of 'neutrality' has led to the isolation of our nation, the abandonment of our allies, and the systematic subjugation of our French magical brethren. He has shown a profound lack of courage, a profound lack of foresight, and a profound lack of leadership. He is not a man who can lead us through this war. He is not a man who can protect us. He must be removed from office. I ask you all to vote in favor of this motion."
He sat down, his words a cold, damning indictment. Fawley, his face pale and haggard, rose to his feet, his shoulders hunched with a visible, crushing weight.
"I... I have done my best," he stammered, his voice trembling with a desperate fear. "I... I have tried to protect you all. I have tried to keep us out of this war. This... this is not a magical war! It is a Muggle war! We must not get involved! We must... we must protect our own!"
His words, once a powerful mantra of self-preservation, now sounded hollow and pathetic. He was a man who had lost his nerve, and he was, in his own way, a tragic figure. He had been a man of peace, but he had been thrust into a war that he had no idea how to fight. He sat down, a broken man.
The vote was called. It was not a surprise. The motion of no confidence was passed with a resounding, overwhelming majority. Fawley, his face a mask of utter despair, was no longer Minister of Magic. The room, which had been a cauldron of tension, now exhaled a collective sigh of relief. The first stage of the coup was complete. The second stage was about to begin.
"Now," Madam Marchbanks announced, her voice a strong, clear bell in the tense silence. "We must choose a new Minister of Magic. We have three candidates who have put their names forward. They are Lord Alastor Moody, Madam Dolores Umbridge, and Mr. Leonard Spencer-Moon. We will now hear from each of them, and then we will vote on who will lead us in this time of great peril."
My magical resonance sensing registered the auras of the three candidates. Moody, a known hardliner, an Auror with a reputation for ruthless efficiency, radiated a cold, hard magical energy. Umbridge, a senior Ministry official with a reputation for a stifling, bureaucratic control, radiated an oppressive, cloying sweetness that was far more sinister than Moody's coldness. And then, there was Spencer-Moon. A junior Ministry official, a man of quiet, unassuming competence. His aura was a calm, steady light, a faint but distinct resonance of a quiet, unyielding courage. I knew, with a certainty that was as cold and hard as a diamond, that he was the right man for the job.
The debate began, and it was a whirlwind of political posturing and self-serving rhetoric. Moody spoke of a strong, militarized Ministry, of a ruthless, uncompromising war against Grindelwald. Umbridge spoke of a new era of bureaucratic control, of a strict, unyielding adherence to Ministry regulations. She was, in her own way, a terrifying figure, a woman who believed that the war could be won by a mountain of paperwork and a complete control of the populace.
And then, it was Spencer-Moon's turn. He rose to his feet, his shoulders straight, his face calm and resolute. "Esteemed members of the Wizengamot. I will not promise you a quick, easy victory. I will not promise you a war that can be won with a mountain of paperwork or a ruthless, militarized force. I will not promise you a war that can be won by a man who is afraid to fight. I will promise you only this: I will lead you with courage. I will lead you with honor. And I will lead you with a fierce, unwavering commitment to a world where both magical and Muggle people can live in peace. The time for neutrality is over. The time for indecision is over. The time for fear is over. The war is here. And we must fight it. We must stand with our allies. We must send them aid. We must show Grindelwald that we are not afraid. We must show him that we are a nation of honor, of courage, and of strength."
His words, simple and honest, were met with a wave of shocked silence. He had said what they all needed to hear. He had given them a voice for their courage, a name for their enemy, and a path forward. He had given them hope.
The vote was called. It was a close one, but it was not a surprise. Leonard Spencer-Moon, a man of quiet, unassuming competence, was the new Minister of Magic. The room erupted into a fresh wave of relieved, hopeful murmurs. A new era had begun.
I rose from my seat, a faint smile on my face. The first part of the coup was complete. The second part, the real work, was about to begin.
Minister Spencer-Moon, his face calm and resolute, took his place on the high podium. "Esteemed members of the Wizengamot," he said, his voice strong and clear. "I thank you for your faith in me. I promise you that I will not betray it. The war is here. We must fight it. We must stand with our allies. I will immediately draft a new law, a law that will allow for a voluntary magical reinforcement of France. We will not abandon our allies. We will not abandon our friends. We will not abandon our honor. We will stand with France. And we will show Grindelwald that we are not afraid."
The room erupted into a fresh wave of cheers and applause. I watched as the Wizengamot, once a cauldron of fear and inaction, now became a force for courage and honor. The change in command had been a crucial one. A new era had begun.
I left the chamber with a sense of quiet triumph. The official, bureaucratic Ministry was now aligned with our clandestine, shadow resistance. The two halves of the magical world were finally, irrevocably, united. The war was here. And we were ready. The real work was just beginning. The Unseen Hand, having found a new, official ally, was now ready to move from the shadows into the light. The fight for France was about to begin.