The Wizengamot convened two days after the news broke. Goblin couriers had been discreet, but the Ministry was not built for silence. By the time the purple-robed witches and wizards assembled, the matter was already blazing across every corridor:
House Chronos had returned.
And not just returned—its sole heir was a boy, barely fourteen, who commanded a phoenix that dwarfed Dumbledore's own.
The marble floor of the Wizengamot chamber reflected a restless gathering. Gold chains of office clinked. Murmurs rose and fell like waves. Every family crest—Malfoy, Nott, Greengrass, Parkinson, Shafiq—seemed sharper in the torchlight, their owners sitting taller, hungrier.
Lord Malfoy leaned across the polished desk toward Lord Nott. "The wealth of House Chronos makes my vaults look like a child's purse. Land, goblin-forged heirlooms, wards older than Hogwarts itself. If that boy could be… persuaded…" His silver eyes glinted.
Nott's lips curled in a knowing smirk. "Persuaded? No. Controlled. He is young, impressionable. Attach him to the right family—marriage ties, mentorship—he could restore the Old Blood to its rightful place."
From the opposite tier, Augusta Longbottom's cane cracked against the stone. "You speak of him as if he were a prize beast at market. Do not forget—an ancient house is not yours to seize."
"Ancient, yes," interjected a squat wizard from the Abbott line, "but absent for centuries. Wealth unclaimed breeds ambition. If he does not align with our traditions, he will bring chaos to the balance of the Wizengamot."
The Minister, Cornelius Fudge, cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, yes, order must be maintained! The boy must be welcomed into the Ministry's fold—ah—guided properly. Perhaps an honorary seat for House Chronos under my supervision—yes, that seems fitting."
The chamber erupted again.
Not far away, Lord Parkinson muttered to Lady Greengrass, "If my Daphne were to be betrothed to such a boy…" He trailed off, envisioning ancient vaults joined to his dwindling line.
Others whispered darker thoughts. The Carrows, seated together like carrion crows, spoke of bending the boy's rumored necromantic gifts toward a rebirth of darker ideals. The Lestrange cousins sneered openly, lamenting their incarceration but plotting nonetheless.
For every gasp of admiration at Percy's power, there was a hiss of envy. For every voice calling him a boon, another muttered of a threat.
By the time the gavel fell, no decree had been passed, no law ratified. Yet every wizard and witch left the chamber with a new calculation: House Chronos could tip the balance of everything—old money, old power, old alliances. Whoever gained its loyalty would rule the shape of tomorrow.
And in drawing rooms across wizarding Britain that evening, wine was poured, contracts drafted, and schemes begun. Sons were suddenly polished, daughters were paraded, alliances whispered across firesides.
Because the richest, most powerful boy in the wizarding world had appeared—and the vultures were circling.