The fire in the Ministry's hearth crackled weakly, casting long, jittering shadows across the stone floor. The silence in the holding chamber was deceptive — every flicker of torchlight whispered of war.
Lucius Malfoy stood like a ghost of his former self — fine robes hanging off narrow shoulders, silver-blond hair disheveled, eyes dimmer than the Ministry's dying flames. But something ancient still glinted behind that exhaustion. Something primal. He had clawed his way out of his own collapse. Now, he burned for something more than pride.
Across the room, Severus Snape remained seated, legs crossed, gaze sharp, fingers interlaced like he was holding the last pieces of himself together.
Their eyes locked.
"You shouldn't be here," Snape said flatly. "You should be recovering. Or grovelling."
"I'm not here to be forgiven," Lucius answered, stepping further into the cold chamber. "I'm here because Dumbledore's planning something. And you—" his voice caught, "—you're the only one clever enough to see it before it kills us both."
Severus tilted his head.
"And what of Voldemort? I suppose your broken loyalty to him doesn't come into play here?"
Lucius's lips curled, not into a smirk, but a bitter line.
"The Dark Lord doesn't forgive treachery. But I'm not grovelling at his feet anymore. He's not the only serpent on the board."
Severus stood.
The air between them tensed.
Neither moved closer. But neither looked away.
"You gave me to him," Snape said, voice like a blade honed in grief. "You handed me over as if I were nothing."
Lucius faltered — just slightly — then stepped forward.
"I gave you away," he said, "because I thought I could control the game. I thought I could survive without you."
He exhaled, shaking. "I was wrong."
Severus's lip curled, unsure if the sting in his chest was hatred… or something more dangerous.
Behind them, the chamber door opened with a sharp hiss of magic.
Dumbledore stood there, robes deep navy, eyes colder than they'd been in years.
"Forgive the interruption," he said mildly. "But time grows short."
Lucius turned, wary.
"You knew Lillian would strike first," he said.
Dumbledore gave nothing away. "Lillian Potter is many things. Brilliant. Beautiful. But most dangerously… he is precise. He is the fire that burns quietly — until you realize your house is ash."
"Why haven't you stopped him?" Severus asked, voice hard.
Dumbledore's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Because I needed him to believe he was in control."
Lucius stepped forward. "You're playing him."
"I'm using him," Dumbledore corrected, softly. "Just as he uses you."
There was a rustle. A scent. The air changed.
And then — the torches guttered.
The temperature dropped.
Lucius turned, hand on his wand.
But it was too late.
He was already there.
Lord Voldemort stepped from the shadows, silent as rot, tall and graceful and terrible.
His red eyes burned.
"Using," he whispered, repeating the word like tasting it. "Such a bold admission, Albus. I thought you liked to pretend you were above the rest of us."
No one moved.
Dumbledore didn't flinch.
"I see you've returned sooner than expected, Tom."
Voldemort smiled. It didn't touch his eyes.
"I felt the ripple," he murmured, circling the chamber like a predator. "The ritual — broken. The bond — cracking. The puppetmaster — slipping. Delicious."
He turned to Lucius, then Severus.
"And you," he said, soft as poison. "My favorite traitors."
Lucius stiffened, but did not speak.
Severus met his gaze with all the defiance he could muster.
"I have no allegiance left to offer," he said.
Voldemort tilted his head. "We'll see."
His wand twitched — and suddenly Snape was thrown back against the wall, a ring of dark chains snapping into place around his wrists and ankles.
Lucius shouted, stepping forward, wand raised.
But Voldemort didn't even look at him. A flick of his fingers sent Lucius sprawling to the floor, gasping.
Dumbledore raised a hand.
"Enough."
Voldemort turned. "Will you duel me here, old man?"
"No," Dumbledore said. "But I will offer you something you've always wanted."
Silence fell.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Go on."
Dumbledore walked slowly to the center of the room, conjuring an image in the air — Lillian Potter, lit by candlelight, fingers stained with ink and blood, eyes alight with madness.
"He's not yours, and he's not mine," Dumbledore said softly. "But if he keeps playing, we all lose."
Voldemort stared at the projection.
"Then let him burn."
"No," Lucius whispered, pushing himself upright. "Not yet."
Severus, chains burning cold into his skin, looked up at him.
Lucius turned to him, voice barely steady.
"I'm not done fighting. For us."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed.
Dumbledore's voice dropped to a murmur.
"Then the war begins now."
And far away, in the hidden room behind the library fireplace, Lillian Potter opened his eyes.
He had seen it all through the mirrors.
Every word.
Every promise.
Every betrayal.
He smiled.
"The game," he whispered, "has finally begun."
Lillian smiled coldly, the puppeteer's strings tightening ever more. His plan was in motion, and neither Malfoy nor Snape would escape the deadly dance he had choreographed.