Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1945
A thunderstorm raged over the turrets of Hogwarts, lightning streaking across the sky like jagged wounds, thunder rolling over the Black Lake in waves. Inside the dungeons, the flickering green fire of the Slytherin common room cast eerie shadows across stone walls and ancient tapestries. The low hum of conversation echoed beneath the crackling fire—students whispered about end-of-year exams, post-graduation plans, and, in hushed tones, the defeat of Gellert Grindelwald just weeks prior.
It was an odd time. The war in the wider wizarding world was ending, yet something strange hung in the air. Unease, like the pause before another strike of lightning.
The door to the common room swung open with an audible creak. The conversations stilled as the Slytherin prefect stepped in, his robes damp and wind-tossed from the storm outside.
"Bulstrode, Bruke, Selwyn, Shafiq," he said, scanning the room with urgency. "The Headmaster is calling you to his office. Immediately."
Four students—three boys and a girl—exchanged puzzled glances, their faces illuminated by the firelight.
Eddard Selwyn stood, brushing dust from his robe. "Do you know why Dumbledore wants us?"
The prefect shook his head. "Didn't say. Just told me to find you—said it was urgent."
The named students gathered their things quickly and exited the common room, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stone as they climbed toward the headmaster's tower.
Minutes passed.
The storm outside swelled in ferocity. Then—
BANG!
The door to the common room burst open, slamming against the wall with a thunderous crack.
Fifteen figures strode into the room, each cloaked in heavy, darkened armor that shimmered like obsidian. Their helmets bore strange sigils. Each one carried a sword sheathed at the hip, and a wand gripped tightly in the other hand.
At the center stood a man clad in draconic armor—its scales shimmering with an unnatural light, edged in crimson. A long cloak billowed behind him, soaked from the rain. His wand was already drawn.
The room fell into stunned silence.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
"Attacking Hogwarts? That's impossible… isn't it?" thought Malcolm Travers, a sixth-year. "No one would dare. Not while Dumbledore is Headmaster."
A girl clutched her locket tightly. "He defeated Grindelwald… Grindelwald. No one's stronger than Dumbledore."
But the aura emanating from the armored man silenced even thoughts. His gaze scanned the room like a predator searching for prey.
"You," he spoke, his voice low but resonant with magical force. "Where are the students of House Bulstrode, Bruke, Selwyn, and Shafiq?"
No one answered immediately. Then a second-year girl, trembling, managed to say:
"Th-they just left. Headmaster Dumbledore called them to his office. A few minutes ago…"
The man held her in his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once.
Without another word, he turned, his guards following silently behind him as they exited through the archway, leaving behind only the echo of their boots and the scent of smoke and steel.
As the heavy silence returned, someone exhaled sharply. It was Tom Riddle, seated by the fire, his wand already clenched in his hand.
A boy named Avery leaned toward him. "What do you think he wants, Riddle? Coming in here like that?"
Riddle's eyes remained on the door.
"I don't know," he said softly. "But one thing is certain—he's powerful."
And in that moment, as another roll of thunder shook the castle, Tom Riddle felt something he hadn't in a long time: anticipation.
This was no ordinary disturbance. This wasn't a foolish stunt or some rogue dark wizard trying to make a name for himself.
This was the opening move of something greater.
And he would be watching closely.
Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts — 1945
The air inside the Headmaster's office was thick with the scent of storm rain and old parchment. Lightning danced beyond the high windows as four students stood before Albus Dumbledore, their eyes restless, their minds trying to decipher the reason for their summons.
Callista Bulstrode's hands were clenched tightly . Marcus Bruke stood stiffly, arms folded but jaw tight. Eddard Selwyn shifted uncomfortably while Idris Shafiq tried, unsuccessfully, to mask the anxiety in his eyes.
"Why are we here, Professor?" Callista finally asked.
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. He paced slowly behind his desk, his usually twinkling eyes dim and grave.
"I ask you all now," he began, voice unusually quiet, "have your families, at any point recently, crossed the House of Blackfyre?"
"The Blackfyres?" Idris echoed. "The armor-makers?"
"I've heard the name," Marcus said. "My father always called them 'war-chasers.' Said they sold enchanted steel to both sides during the war."
Eddard frowned. "What about them?"
Dumbledore stopped pacing.
"There has been an attack. The Blackfyre estate in the Alps has been destroyed. Every known member of the family has been slain… save one. A survivor."
Silence.
The storm outside continued to howl, but the office was still as death.
"Why weren't we told?" Idris asked, voice cracking. "Something like that would be in the Daily Prophet."
"There has been no announcement. No reports. I only received word through the Department of Mysteries, just minutes ago. But that is not all."
Dumbledore looked at each of them.
"The reason I called you here—" he hesitated, and when he continued, it was with a weight none of them had heard before. "—is because all four of your families—Bulstrode, Bruke, Selwyn, and Shafiq—have been found dead."
"What…?" whispered Callista.
"That's not possible," Marcus snapped. "You must be wrong."
"No," Eddard muttered, trying to control his breathing. "That's... it doesn't make sense."
"My mother just wrote to me!" Idris cried. "She said they were visiting Paris—Paris, not fighting anyone—"
"Who did it?!" Marcus shouted. "Tell us who did it!"
Dumbledore's voice was like a knife through the chaos.
"There is reason to believe... it was done under the ancient rite of blood feud."
The students fell completely silent.
Callista stepped back. "That's... outlawed. It was abolished by the Wizengamot centuries ago."
"It was never abolished," Dumbledore corrected gently. "Merely forgotten. Not by all, apparently."
"But a blood feud means—" Eddard began, his voice faltering.
"The winner claims all of the defeated family's possessions," Idris finished, horror blooming in his voice.
"Names. Vaults. Magic. Estates. All of it," Dumbledore said. "If a survivor of House Blackfyre has invoked the rite... then by ancient law, the wealth and legacy of your families now belongs to him if he kill you ."
Callista looked like she might collapse. "No... no, this isn't happening..."
Dumbledore moved around his desk, his tone calming but urgent. "You are safe here. Whatever vengeance was taken against your kin, it ends—"
BOOM!
The doors to the office shattered inward with a thunderous blast, slamming open so hard that portraits fell from the walls. Smoke and rain poured into the room with the howling wind.
Fifteen figures entered, armored in dark steel etched with sigils that shimmered red in the torchlight. Their faces were hidden behind helm and visor, swords at their hips, wands in their gauntlets. They moved as one.
At their center stood a towering figure.
His armor was black-scaled, draconic in form — forged to resemble a beast of legend, complete with curved crimson horns and glowing eyes behind a mask shaped like a dragon's skull. Steam curled from the slits of his helmet.
No words were spoken.
The four students stood frozen.
The armored figure stepped forward until he was just paces from them. His presence pressed against the room like a curse given shape.
He said nothing.
He simply looked at them.
Each student felt the weight of that stare like a blade sliding beneath the skin.
Dumbledore stepped forward slowly, placing himself between the students and the armored man.
"That is enough," he said.
The guards raised their wands.
Dumbledore raised his.
"This is Hogwarts," he said, voice firm and cold as the storm outside. "And I will not let you harm them."
The thunder outside fell silent — as if the storm itself paused to see what would happen next.