Winky worked tirelessly to promote her finest skills.
She had nearly forgotten how many years it had been since she'd lived like this.
Once, she had been a house-elf praised endlessly by guests. Countless visitors had fallen under the spell of her exquisite cooking. The Crouch household's social gatherings had shone brilliantly because of her, becoming a favourite topic among distinguished wizards.
But those glorious days had left this house more than ten years ago—along with young master—
Winky's thoughts wavered for a heartbeat before she snapped back to attention. She forced herself not to show sorrow. Master had specifically instructed her not to display anything unusual in front of guests today.
Of course, no one truly paid attention to a house-elf's expression anyway.
In the living room bathed in warm amber light, Amelia Bones glanced around the furnishings and said casually, "A cup of Earl Grey, with scones—no blueberry jam. And you?"
Nearby, several hooded figures in black robes sat scattered about.
They gave their orders when asked, but their attention clearly wasn't on the tea.
Once Winky Apparated away, one of them leaned forward impatiently and snapped at the sullen man by the fireplace.
"Why isn't he here yet?"
Crouch shot him a look and said nothing.
The man sneered. "Oh? Dear old Barty Crouch has found his spine again—as if he were still Head of the Auror Office ten years ago. Oh—right, I forgot. You latched onto that man early on. No wonder you're not cowering in a corner like last year, wishing no one would notice you."
Barty Crouch lifted his eyelids and snorted. "If you can't speak properly, speak less. No one mistakes you for a mute—still spewing filth after all these years."
"You—!"
"Enough," Amelia Bones said sharply, cutting off the brewing conflict.
She swept her gaze around the room. Years of presiding over the Wizengamot had given her undeniable authority.
"Baird, don't forget why we're here. If you came to settle personal grudges with Crouch, you may leave. Otherwise, sit down."
The man she addressed as Baird grunted but returned to his seat.
Amelia then turned to Crouch. "Barty, I know you dislike having your life disturbed. But this meeting location was chosen by Mr. Vaughan Weasley. If you're unhappy, take it up with him. Don't take it out on others—can you manage that?"
Crouch was silent for a moment before nodding stiffly. "Apologies. I've grown accustomed to solitude."
With the tension easing, others chimed in to smooth things over.
"That's right—no need to argue over trifles."
"We're all on the same boat now."
Crouch's expression remained grim.
He wasn't brooding because he disliked company—he knew exactly who these people were.
Baird. Travers. Greenwill. Ross.
Surnames—each representing a wizarding family.
Aside from Travers, a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the rest were merely old families of middling standing. Some, like Greenwill and Ross, had even been nobles during the age of Muggle monarchies, retaining traditions of intermarriage with Muggles—something pure-blood families despised.
Thus, these families had long been excluded from the pure-blood power structure, and they had spent generations trying to break through that blockade.
Crouch knew them well.
If he had to describe them?
A rabble.
Indecisive. Fence-sitters. Opportunists.
He'd heard Dumbledore once gathered them into a small alliance—but in ten years, it had achieved nothing.
After the last wizarding war, pure-blood power had been severely weakened. In Crouch's eyes, that had been the perfect opportunity to devour their influence and reshuffle power.
Yet these fools did nothing.
Working with such people—what future could there be?
Winky returned, floating trays of tea and pastries beside her. She served eagerly, as though she'd stepped back into the happiest years of her life.
Then space rippled.
A familiar magical signature appeared out of thin air.
Winky gasped, squealed with joy, and rushed to open the door, her large eyes brimming with tears.
"Master Weasley! Welcome! Oh dear—your robes are damp with dew! Why didn't you summon Winky to bring you here?"
Amid her chatter, Vaughan smiled and ruffled her head, letting her magic dry his robes.
His gaze swept calmly over the black-robed figures in the room.
Amelia Bones rose at once and inclined her head. "Mr. Weasley."
Given her position, such deference wasn't strictly necessary—but after Dumbledore convened the alliance and confirmed Vaughan Weasley as its future leader, Amelia understood her role.
Vaughan allowed the gesture, then gently took her arm.
"My dear lady, there's no need. Please—make the introductions."
This was the first formal meeting between Vaughan and Dumbledore's alliance.
Amelia obliged. "Certainly. Mr. Weasley—this is Arlaid Travers."
A hood was lowered, revealing an elderly man with a deeply lined face. He smiled warmly.
"Mr. Weasley. We meet again."
"Indeed, Arlaid. How have you been?"
They shook hands and embraced, their exchange cordial and intimate.
Travers enthusiastically stayed at Vaughan's side.
"Phil has been much obliged to you. Hosting representatives of the International Confederation of Wizards has been invaluable experience for him."
"Ah—this is John Baird, heir to the Baird family."
The thirty-something "heir" bowed stiffly. "It's an honour, Mr. Weasley."
"And you as well," Vaughan replied gently.
He knew all their names already.
But knowing someone wasn't the same as trusting them.
Age was Vaughan's greatest advantage—and his greatest disadvantage.
At twelve, his potential was terrifying. Wizards lived long lives. He'd barely begun.
Yet that same youth planted doubt.
Can he really hold power?
Vaughan knew the question hung in many minds—including those in this room.
Once everyone was seated again, Winky brought Vaughan tea—unsweetened, just as he preferred.
Vaughan tapped his teaspoon lightly against the cup.
The sound drew all eyes.
"I'm glad to meet so many new friends," he said with a warm smile. "We're not here for idle chatter. We share ambitions and interests. I need your support—and you expect returns. I trust no one objects?"
The bluntness made several people shift uncomfortably.
Vaughan continued calmly.
"The first WAC conference begins in two days. Dumbledore should have conveyed how seriously I take this."
He smiled slightly. "Some of you still have doubts. That's normal. This meeting has two purposes. First—to meet face to face. Distance breeds misunderstanding."
"Second—I want your thoughts on the conference preparations. Identify problems. Solve them."
Amelia spoke first. "The Wizengamot remains neutral. No one is contesting the leadership roles."
That was expected.
Vaughan turned to Travers.
"The Confederation remains ambiguous," Travers said. "But they're interested. Who wouldn't be? Werewolves are… a powerful resource."
That word made Vaughan frown.
The International Confederation of Wizards was no small matter.
It possessed authority, enforcement power—and its own elite strike force.
A behemoth.
If WAC exceeded expectations, it would attract attention.
Predatory attention.
Vaughan exhaled. "Arrange a meeting with the delegation leader."
"At once."
Then Vaughan looked at John Baird.
Baird stiffened.
"Fudge has been making quiet contacts," he said nervously. "I don't yet know why."
Vaughan smiled.
"Didn't you volunteer to monitor our dear Minister?"
He tapped the armrest—once.
A ripple spread.
Colour drained from the room.
Reality itself seemed to fade.
Cold sweat poured down Baird's face.
He recognised the sensation.
Memory magic.
Not illusion.
Not hallucination.
Something far worse.
"Yes!" Baird blurted. "We placed Umbridge. Dolores Umbridge. She has Baird blood—and Selwyn ties."
Vaughan kept tapping, calmly.
"She hasn't failed you?"
"She wouldn't dare."
Vaughan smiled softly.
"Then tell me, Mr. Baird—what could Cornelius Fudge possibly be planning… that even his closest confidant isn't allowed to know?"
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