The month I spent in isolation at Castle Starborn was a period of preparation and paranoia. The initial shock of the ambush had faded, replaced by a low, quiet hum of nervousness, which fortunately was receding day by day. My days became a precise, controlled rhythm of training, research, and perpetual vigilance. The castle's wards were now a living, breathing extension of my own senses, and I could feel the subtle ebb and flow of magic for miles around. Dumbledore's discreet reports confirmed that the Ministry, spurred by his anonymous warning, had tightened Floo security, but the sense of being a hunted man remained. I knew I couldn't hide forever. The war, both the overt and the unseen, demanded my participation.
The summons for the next Wizengamot session had arrived three days prior. The now familiar net of My new and extensive magical sensing had registered its approach from miles away, a faint, familiar Ministry aura. The agenda was, according to the official notice, mundane: budgetary approvals, a review of international trade agreements, and a discussion of the new regulations for Magical Menagerie owners. It was precisely the kind of tedious, bureaucratic session that made me yearn for the solitude of my library, but my absence for a full month had already been noted. A continued retreat would only breed suspicion and, worse, show that Grindelwald's fear-mongering has indeed affected me. It was time to come out of hiding, to make a public show of my resilience.
The morning of the session, November 28th, 1938, was bright and unseasonably warm. The air was crisp, but there was no snow on the ground. I chose my attire with care: simple, elegant dark robes bearing the Starborn crest, projecting an image of quiet authority and old-world gravitas. I felt a palpable shift in my own aura as I prepared to re-engage with the world. The Draconic stealth charms I had perfected for Klarwald were now woven into the very fabric of my movements, a constant, low-level hum of protective and silencing magic that made my presence subtly difficult to pinpoint, even to the most attuned senses.
I did not use the Floo. The risk, however small, was unacceptable. Instead, I Apparated, not directly to the Ministry Atrium, which was a constant flow of unpredictable magic, but to a secluded, pre-designated alleyway a few blocks away. From there, I walked, my senses hyper-alert, every shadow and corner meticulously scanned with my magical sensing. The Muggle world bustled with its own concerns, blissfully ignorant of the magical tensions simmering just beneath the surface. It was a useful, disorienting anonymity.
Upon entering the Ministry, the change in atmosphere was immediate and stark. Ministry workers stared, their whispers following me like a shadow. My magical enhanced sense picked up the gossip: "There he is... Lord Starborn... I heard he was almost killed... The Floo attack... Grindelwald's doing..." The official story was a "generic" attack, but the wizarding telegraph had done its job. The rumors were close to the truth, and my month-long absence had only lent them credibility.
The Wizengamot Chamber on Level Eight was already a hub of hushed conversations. As I entered, a noticeable hush fell over the room. I felt a wave of attention, a hundred eyes fixed on me, trying to glean some secret, some sign of weakness. I held myself with a quiet dignity, my face a carefully constructed mask of polite calm, betraying nothing of the constant vigilance humming just beneath my skin.
My chosen seat was, as before, on the lower tier. As I made my way to it, a few of the more prominent Lords and Ladies approached, their expressions a mix of genuine concern and political curiosity. The first was Lord Longbottom, his formidable presence radiating an aura of unwavering principle.
"Lord Starborn," he said, his voice low and grave. "It is good to see you well. We were all quite concerned by the rumors. The Wizengamot is a different chamber when your voice is absent."
I inclined my head politely. "Thank you, Lord Longbottom. I apologize for my absence. I needed some time for recovery and personal reflection after a… minor incident. It is good to be back." I kept my words deliberately vague, giving him just enough to satisfy his inquiry without providing any actionable information. My carefully woven network of different magicks that I have put around me confirmed her genuine concern, a rare commodity in this chamber.
Next came Lord Fleamont Potter, his kind eyes full of worry. "Marcus, my boy! Thank Merlin you're all right! We heard the worst. A Floo ambush… unthinkable! Who would dare? It's a miracle you survived, son." He clapped me on the shoulder, a gesture of warm, paternal relief.
"Lord Potter," I replied, my voice a touch warmer for his sincerity. "I am unharmed, though the incident was… sobering. I am grateful for your concern. It seems Grindelwald's reach is more extensive than we had imagined. It is a lesson I shall not soon forget." My subtle emphasis on the "lesson" and "reach" was a message for the wider room, a quiet confirmation of the severity of the threat without giving details.
Finally, Lord Arcturus Black approached, his face a severe mask, his cold, piercing gaze taking in every detail of my appearance. He didn't offer condolences or well wishes. Instead, he stopped a few feet away, his expression holding a strange mix of grudging respect and tactical assessment.
"Starborn," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "They say you broke through a heavily warded Apparition trap. They say you fought off a dozen of Grindelwald's acolytes single-handedly. They say you left no trace. A remarkable display of power, if true."
His words, though not a question, demanded a response. My magical resonance sensing confirmed his interest was purely strategic. He was measuring me, assessing my value as an ally or, perhaps, a potential rival.
"Rumors are often embellished, Lord Black," I replied, my own voice even and calm. "But I can assure you, the incident was handled. And I can now appreciate the urgency of the threat we face." My subtle nod to the "urgency" was another piece of the puzzle for the chamber to piece together.
He simply gave a small, distinct nod of his own, a rare gesture from him. "Indeed," he murmured, his eyes lingering on my face for a moment longer before he turned and returned to his seat. It was all the acknowledgement he would ever give.
The session was, as the agenda promised, largely mundane. Minister Fawley, looking slightly less haggard than before, presided over a series of dry, administrative discussions. My magical resonance sensing revealed that many members were distracted, their thoughts still on the ambush rumors, their gazes occasionally flickering to me. The mundane business of government felt absurdly trivial in the face of the encroaching darkness.
The Wizengamot Committee for Magical Menageries presented a new series of regulations for the ownership of dangerous or exotic magical creatures. The debate was surprisingly long, centered on the bureaucratic details of permits, inspections, and insurance. I listened, my mind filing away the key points, but my attention was elsewhere, constantly scanning the magical auras of the chamber, looking for anything out of place, any subtle sign of Grindelwald's influence. I saw none. The chamber was full of worried, self-interested, and conservative wizards and witches, but none who projected the cold, fanatical malice of Grindelwald's acolytes.
The most heated discussion revolved around a proposal for a minor tariff on imported potion ingredients from Eastern Europe. The debate devolved into a predictable squabble over economic protectionism versus free trade. I chose to remain silent, my presence alone making a statement. This was not the time to spend my political capital on such a trivial matter. My goal was to project strength, calm, and an unwavering focus on the real enemy.
After what felt like an eternity, the session was adjourned. The chamber emptied with a slightly hurried feel, everyone eager to escape the tense atmosphere. I did not linger. I exchanged polite, distant farewells, my movements fluid and swift. I could feel the gazes still on me as I exited the chamber, a man who had stared into the face of a dark lord's wrath and walked away unscathed.
I made my way down to the Ministry Atrium, the noise and bustle a jarring contrast to the quiet tension of the Wizengamot. I moved through the crowd like a phantom, my senses on full alert, my hand discreetly close to my wand. This time, I did not stop. I did not speak. I simply walked towards the Floo network.
I did not use it.
Instead, I exited the Ministry through a side door and stepped out into the Muggle world, into the chaotic symphony of a busy London afternoon. The simple act of stepping out onto a public street felt like an act of defiance. I walked quickly, my focus unwavering, Apparating once more from a secluded location to the safety of my ancestral land.
The sense of relief as I landed within the familiar, powerful wards of Castle Starborn was immense. The air here was clean, the magic comforting, a constant, low hum of powerful protection that felt like a shield against the rest of the world. I was home. The day of public performance was over. The private war could resume.
I spent the rest of the evening exactly as I had planned in my head. I made my way to my library, the scent of old parchment and aged wood a welcome comfort. The books on magical history were still on my desk, along with my philosophical essays and my research on Grindelwald's mind-arts. My magical resonance sensing confirmed that the subtle enchantments on them, meant to attract Tom's attention, were still intact, still reaching out like tiny, invisible threads. The unseen hand was still at work, even as I had been gone.
After a quiet, solitary dinner, I retired to my chambers. The castle was silent, the ancient stones holding their secrets close. I stood for a long time by the window, gazing out at the vast, shadowy expanse of my lands, a sentinel in the dark. The Wizengamot had seen a show of strength and resilience today. The whispers would fade, replaced by a sense of reassurance, however false. But I knew the truth. My security was an illusion, a careful performance. The war was coming, and I was in the very heart of it. My solitude was both a prison and a sanctuary, but it was also a forge, shaping me into the weapon Dumbledore needed, and the influence that Tom Riddle would unknowingly encounter. I was done hiding. But I would never again be careless. The night was cold, but the warmth of my castle was assuring.