By the time the first muffled booms reached the ballroom, most of the guests had already departed for the evening. Only the Prince and Shafiq family's closest allies remained—the Greengrasses with their sharp political minds, the Patils who controlled key trade routes, the Davis family with their ancient bloodline connections, and a handful of other trusted business partners whose loyalties had been cultivated over decades. The formal dinner had concluded hours ago, the elaborate seven-course meal now just empty plates whisked away by house-elves. The last of the evening's dancing was fading into memory, couples having shared their final waltzes, and the grand ballroom now carried only the hushed warmth of intimate, winding conversation among old friends and allies.
Then the tall glass windows suddenly lit with the violent flare of spellfire. Brilliant flashes of green and red cut through the darkness outside, casting wild, dancing shadows across the perfectly manicured gardens. The orchestra, positioned on their raised platform in the corner, faltered mid-note as several musicians froze with their instruments halfway to their lips.
"Keep playing," Eileen commanded, her voice cutting through the air sharper than any wand could slice. The musicians jolted as if struck by lightning, their eyes wide with terror, but years of training and the authority in her tone compelled them to obey. They fumbled back into a trembling, unsteady cadence, their fingers shaking on strings and keys. The music covered little of the chaos erupting outside, but it slowed panic's inevitable rise among the remaining guests.
Eileen held up the small, rune-etched sphere clutched in her palm—the emergency Portkey that had been prepared for exactly this scenario, its surface warm with its own contained magical pulse. It was a single-use tether, crafted by the finest artisans and powerful enough to transport everyone left in the room, but only once. The timing had to be precise, calculated to the second, or they would lose their only chance of escape.
"Aurora, Kiera," she said quickly, her voice deliberately low but steady as steel. "Help me gather them. We keep together. No wandering, no one gets left behind."
Aurora immediately crossed the polished marble floor to the Patils, her practiced diplomatic smile somehow managing to soften their mounting fear even as explosions continued outside. Kiera moved with equal purpose, ushering the Davis family closer with gentle but insistent pressure, her experienced hands firm and reassuring on their trembling shoulders.
At the center of it all stood Julius Prince, only eleven years old but bearing the weight of his family's legacy on his narrow shoulders. His young face had gone pale as parchment, but his jaw remained set with determined courage that belied his age. He stood protectively beside his mother, his small fingers clenched so tightly in the rich folds of her midnight-blue gown that his knuckles had turned white.
"Eyes on me, Julius," Eileen murmured, her voice steady despite the chaos erupting beyond the ballroom walls. She crouched briefly, her emerald gown pooling around her as she met his wide, frightened gaze. "You're safe. But if I give the word, you hold this Portkey with both hands and don't let go. Do you understand?"
The boy swallowed hard, his small throat working against the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. He nodded with fierce determination, though his hands trembled as they hovered near the ornate silver compass she had pressed into his palm.
The other families clustered near the emergency Portkey station, their elegant evening wear a stark contrast to the terror etched across their faces. Nervous whispers rippled through the group like a disturbed pond, heads turning sharply toward the grand ballroom doors as the muffled cracks of curses echoed through the manor's thick walls. Each distant explosion sent another wave of panic through the gathered guests.
"An attack?" Lord Greengrass muttered, his usually composed face drained of all color, beads of perspiration forming along his receding hairline despite the evening's chill.
"Here? On American soil?" Lady Davis whispered urgently, her jeweled fingers clutching her husband's formal robes with white-knuckled desperation. "Surely they wouldn't dare—"
"Who would dare strike a Prince estate?" Lady Patil's voice trembled like autumn leaves, her protective hand tightening around her young daughter's shoulder as the girl pressed closer to her mother's side.
No one answered. No one could. The orchestra's music stumbled over missed notes, instruments falling silent one by one as the musicians abandoned their posts. In the heavy silence between the faltering melodies, a single name crept into the air—spoken in gasps, in horrified whispers, in bone-deep dread that seemed to leech the warmth from the very room.
Voldemort.
The gardens of Prince Manor burned in the darkness.
Shattered lanterns lay scattered across the manicured grass like fallen stars, their enchanted flames now guttering in pools of spilled oil. Ancient hedges, carefully cultivated over generations, stood split and blackened by raw spellfire, their leaves curling and smoking in the night air. Marble statues that had watched over these grounds for centuries now lay toppled and cracked, their serene faces broken against the earth they had once gazed upon with timeless dignity.
The screams of wolves and men alike tore through the night, a cacophony of pain and fury that drowned beneath the thunderous roar of curses splitting the air and the relentless pounding of blood in Severus's ears. His heart hammered against his ribs as adrenaline surged through his veins, every sense heightened to razor sharpness.
The enemy had come in overwhelming force—over forty-five strong, a small army descending upon the manor like a plague. These were no common thugs or desperate Death Eaters seeking glory. Masked mercenaries moved with lethal purpose across the battlefield, their black robes billowing as they advanced with movements sharp and disciplined, trained to kill without hesitation or mercy. And with them prowled fifteen werewolves, heavy iron collars gleaming at their throats as they were unleashed like hunting hounds upon their prey. Voldemort had sent not mere chaos but calculated precision: professional killers meant to overwhelm even the most fortified wards through sheer, brutal numbers.
But the ancient wards of Prince Manor had held against the assault, humming with power that thrummed through the very stones. And the defenders were far from helpless prey.
Severus cut through the battlefield like a blade given flesh, every strike measured and merciless, honed by years of survival in the darkest corners of two wars. His smoke-born spears materialized from shadow and mist, impaling mercenaries in pairs with sickening wet sounds as the conjured weapons found their marks. A crystal vial burst at his feet with deliberate precision, releasing a spreading slick of alchemical acid that burned with unholy green fire, eating through protective shields, flesh, and bone alike with shrieks that echoed across the ruined hedges and sent nearby enemies stumbling back in terror.
A massive werewolf lunged from the darkness, yellow eyes blazing with bestial hunger and foam flecking its muzzle. Severus snapped his wand upward in one fluid motion, transfiguring the beast's own saliva into molten lead even as it sailed through the air toward him. The creature hit the ground screaming, a sound that was neither fully human nor animal, its jaws fused shut by the burning metal, powerful body thrashing in agony as it clawed uselessly at its sealed muzzle.
To Severus's left, Alessandro's curses cracked through the night like lightning given voice, each spell precise and devastating as it found its target. Ben fought like a tavern brawler unleashed upon a battlefield, his wand crackling in one hand while a wicked curved knife gleamed in the other, blood streaking his face in dark rivulets as he roared his defiance at any who dared approach. Behind him, Evie stood as his unwavering anchor, her spells steady and unerring, methodically felling any enemy foolish enough to attempt circling her husband's position.
Lorenzo Zabini commanded his Shadows with lethal calm, their movements a choreographed dance of death as blades and wands moved as one unit. Each strike was deliberate, calculated—no energy wasted, no mercy shown. Matteo Ricci fought at his side, vicious and efficient in his brutality. When one mercenary broke formation and tried to flee toward the estate's outer walls, Ricci's curse caught him mid-stride, the sickening crack of severed spine echoing as the man crumpled before he'd taken his fourth step.
And Isadora—storm-grey fire incarnate—stood at Severus's flank like an avenging angel carved from marble and flame. Every precise flick of her wand sent another enemy tumbling to the blood-soaked earth. When a massive wolf launched itself at her throat, jaws snapping with feral hunger, she twisted with fluid grace. A chain of white-hot flame erupted from her wand, wrapping around the beast's neck like a molten noose. She yanked it sideways with ruthless strength until its spine snapped audibly, the sound sharp as breaking kindling. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc across her pale cheek, droplets gleaming like rubies against porcelain, and she did not so much as blink.
For twenty brutal minutes, the once-pristine garden transformed into a slaughterhouse. The air hung thick with smoke, screams, and the metallic tang of spilled blood.
When the last mercenary finally collapsed in a twitching heap, his life ebbing into the churned soil, silence crept back in fits and starts. Only the distant crackling of dying flames and the occasional groan of settling debris broke the unnatural quiet. The manicured grass lay scorched black, reduced to ash and char. The ornate marble fountain had cracked down its center and run red with blood, its cherubic figures now grotesquely stained. Bodies—nearly forty in total—lay broken and twisted in the dirt like discarded dolls. Fifteen wolves, their fur matted with gore. Twenty-five mercenaries, their weapons scattered uselessly around them. The ground itself seemed to shudder beneath the overwhelming weight of so much death.
Severus stood at the center of the carnage, dark robes billowing around him like shadows given form. His sleeve had been torn open to reveal pale skin beneath, one hand blackened and blistered where a particularly vicious curse had grazed him. Blood streaked his sharp jawline in dark rivulets, but his obsidian eyes burned with merciless calm. Not relief. Not triumph. Just the steady, unyielding acceptance of violence done in service of survival.
One lived. Barely.
He knelt in the churned dirt, hands severed at the wrists, the stumps sealed in blackened flesh where fire had cauterized the wounds. The metallic stench of burnt skin and blood hung heavy in the air. His mask lay in two jagged pieces beside him, revealing a jaw clenched with such desperate fury that crimson leaked between his gritted teeth. Severus loomed over the broken figure, his black robes billowing like storm clouds, wand tip pressed firmly against the vulnerable hollow of the man's throat where his pulse hammered erratically.
"Who sent you?"
The mercenary coughed violently, blood bubbling up from his lips and spattering onto the ground. His eyes rolled back, glassy and unfocused, consciousness slipping away like water through cracked fingers. But the Veritaserum coursing through his veins burned like acid on his tongue, an unforgiving compulsion that forced his throat to work against his will.
"The Dark Lord… Voldemort…" The name tore from his ruined throat, his voice cracking and splintering like broken glass grinding together. "He wanted you dead. All of you. Prince. Shafiq. Zabini. Greengrass. Patil. Davis." Each name fell like a death knell. "Every fence-sitter caught in the middle." His chest heaved with labored breaths, ribs likely cracked beneath his torn robes. "No more neutrality. Only ash and bone."
Severus's wand pressed harder against the man's throat, the tip beginning to glow with barely restrained magic, but before another word could be extracted, a strangled cry erupted from somewhere nearby in the darkness.
Another mercenary, lying motionless among the debris and assumed dead, suddenly convulsed. Still barely clinging to life, he forced one final, desperate spell through his ruined throat. His wand, clutched in trembling fingers, flared brilliant emerald against the night sky. Green fire erupted upward, splitting the darkness like a wound, arching high into the star-scattered heavens before unraveling into a shape that turned every stomach present—the serpentine skull of the Dark Mark, a snake curling obscenely from its gaping jaws, casting sickly light over the carnage below.
The Dark Mark blazed above Prince Manor, its serpentine skull casting sickly green shadows across the moonlit grounds.
"No!" Matteo Ricci roared, his voice cracking with desperate fury. His curse erupted from his wand like lightning, hitting the masked caster with the force of a sledgehammer. The Death Eater's body crumpled and twisted as the magic tore through him, his dying scream cut short before the final syllables of his incantation could fade. But the damage was already done—the Mark hung suspended in the night sky like a brand of ownership.
Gasps and cries of terror echoed from the ballroom as the sinister symbol flared brighter, its malevolent glow visible through the manor's enchanted glass windows. The elegant gathering dissolved into chaos as guests recognized the mark's meaning. A piercing scream rose from one of the witches inside, her voice carrying the hysteria that gripped them all.
Isadora turned slowly, her storm-grey eyes fixing on Severus with an intensity that made his blood run cold. There was no pity in her gaze as she looked upon her son. No maternal fear for his safety. Instead, her expression held the cold calculation of someone reassessing a chess piece—and something far sharper, more dangerous.
Not a prodigy to be nurtured. A weapon to be wielded.
A weapon that Voldemort had just marked with blood, claiming it as his own.
By midnight, the dead had been cleared from the blood-stained grounds, their bodies wrapped in conjured shrouds before being portkeyed away. The captured Death Eaters were dragged into the reinforced holding cells beneath the estate, their masks torn away to reveal faces both familiar and foreign. The wardkeepers' reports arrived in swift succession, each one confirming what they all feared: Voldemort had struck openly on American soil for the first time.
Arcturus stood before the shaken crowd in the great hall, survivors still bearing the dust and smoke of battle on their formal robes. His voice rang out like iron striking steel. "This was not an attack on my house alone. It was an attack on neutral ground, on the sovereign soil of this nation, on every ally gathered here under truce. Voldemort does not distinguish between families—pure-blood, half-blood, or otherwise. To him, you are prey or servant. Nothing more."
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of realization. Then Lorenzo Zabini stepped forward, his deep voice carrying across the hall, grave and steady despite the ash that streaked his dark skin. "The Zabinis stand with the Princes. With the Shafiqs. With every house here who values freedom from tyranny."
The Greengrasses raised their voices in immediate agreement, their usual political caution burned away by the night's violence. The Patils followed, their melodious accents thick with emotion. One by one, families declared their unity, the weight of the moment reforging old bonds under fire and creating new alliances from shared blood and terror.
The night had begun as a celebration of new unions and old friendships. It ended as a rallying cry for war.
Above them, visible through the great hall's enchanted ceiling, the Dark Mark still smoldered against the stars like a festering wound, its venomous green glow staining the sky and casting sickly shadows across the assembled faces.
And Severus Shafiq knew, with the cold certainty of prophecy fulfilled: Voldemort's war had just leapt across the ocean.
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