HP: Man of Archives

Parting ways with Nymphadora didn't affect me deeply. Sure, losing something you've already held can be unpleasant, but I'm not the kind of person who gets overly attached. My emotions settled quickly, and I redirected my attention to Hermione and Fleur. I hadn't yet spent much time with Isolde, though we had been exchanging letters. She was busy with her studies, and I didn't want to distract her from mastering an important aspect of the magical arts.

One pressing task was ordering an extra ticket for the Ministry Box at the Quidditch World Cup for Hermione. It was straightforward and inexpensive for me, though I'm sure other wizards would have considered it otherwise. But honestly, I don't care what others think.

With the preparations complete, we began readying ourselves for the journey. The girls picked up a few extra items for themselves, while I restocked my bag with ingredients essential for my research. Only then did we set off.

To save time, we teleported to the coast. From there, we took off on our brand-new Lightning Bolts, reaching France in mere minutes. From the northern French coast, we teleported again to the southern coast. There, we mounted our brooms once more and, after a few hours, arrived in Algiers. Using coordinates I had for the next apparition point, we teleported from Algiers to Tarfaya in Morocco. From there, we flew on our brooms to the desired island in the Canary Islands.

The residence of the Beauxbatons headmaster was sealed off. Olympe Maxime rarely visited, likely due to her reluctance to travel far from France. Her predecessor shared a similar aversion to long-distance travel, making exceptions only for truly significant occasions.

To unseal the residence, I needed an artifact key. Fortunately, I had one. I approached the designated spot and activated it. The key floated midair, and a magical web of multicolored lines spread out in every direction. Moments later, the lines absorbed the surrounding color, revealing a breathtaking villa.

Its walls were constructed of luminous white stone, adorned with intricate enchanted ironwork. The roof, covered in red ceramic tiles, gleamed in the sunlight.

"Welcome," I said.

At that moment, two house-elves appeared before us, bowing in perfect unison.

"Gorka and Borka are honored to welcome the Headmaster of Beauxbatons to the villa of Charmbaton-Petit," said the slightly older-looking elf. "We are ready to serve the new headmaster and his guests, as we have served all the previous ones."

"Excellent," I said with a nod. "Prepare something to eat while we settle in."

"It will be done."

Upon entering the villa, we were greeted by a grand living room filled with cozy corners, perfect for intimate conversations. A short walk further revealed the dining room, equally impressive, with a centerpiece table crafted from rare redwood imbued with magical properties.

Exploring the villa didn't particularly interest me since I was already familiar with its layout. However, the underground research halls, designed for the headmaster's personal experiments, caught my attention. I planned to put them to good use soon.

Outside, the villa featured a beautiful terrace and a dueling platform. Yet, the villa's most captivating aspect wasn't its architecture—it was the vast, azure ocean surrounding it. Birds soared overhead, their cries loud and piercing, almost enough to wake the dead.

This would be our home for nearly a month and a half. With a deep exhale, I headed back inside to check out my bedroom.

Life in such a secluded and tranquil place was amazing. Of course, every week I had to fulfill my contract with the French Ministry of Magic, flying back to hunt demons. Initially, it was exciting—taking off on my Lightning Bolt in the morning, apparating to my destination, and returning by evening. Over time, though, it became tiresome. That's when I began thinking about ways to make travel more convenient.

I know muggles enjoy driving expensive cars for their comfort and luxury. Let's just say… after weeks of broom travel, I started to understand the appeal. Now I see why Quidditch players, outside of games and training, don't show off their flying skills. Riding a stick between your legs—even with footrests—isn't exactly the height of comfort.

So what does that mean? It means I need to create my own method of transportation—something that could at least match the Lightning Bolt, and ideally, surpass it. With the knowledge and information I've accumulated, I'm confident I can craft such an artifact. I decided to design it in the form of a flying saucer.

The initial calculations showed that this artifact would be significantly slower than a Lightning Bolt. That didn't bother me. In fact, it suited me just fine. Between working on the artifact, training Fleur and Hermione, and eliminating demons, I stayed busy, leaving little time for idle thoughts or daydreams.

Both girls demonstrated remarkable progress. Fleur, who has a strong chance of representing Beauxbatons in the Triwizard Tournament, required not only theoretical and practical preparation but also combat training. No one knows what challenges the tournament will present until it begins.

Of course, it's impossible to transform an ordinary wizard into a powerhouse in just a few weeks. Fleur remains an ordinary witch, but the improvements in her skills and the experience she's gained are valuable assets for any competition or trial.

As for Hermione, we advanced to the basics of nonverbal magic. That, in itself, is a significant achievement. Hermione was thrilled; nonverbal casting enhances the efficiency of spell use and opens doors to more advanced areas of magic.

Overall, I'm very satisfied with how the training progressed.

Our journey back followed the same route: through Africa, France, and finally to England. Along the way, I unsealed the school, allowing the teachers to return and resume their work.

Currently, England is experiencing an intense heatwave, so severe it feels like even stone might begin to melt.

Fortunately, the house remained cool, so the heat didn't affect us much. If the indoors had been as stifling as the outdoors, I might have had to consider which spell would be most effective to combat the heat.

"Well, we're back in England," I said as Hermione and Fleur finally finished unpacking their things.

"Is it always this hot in summer?" Fleur asked. "I've only seen this kind of heat on the Côte d'Azur. But there, at least, there was the sea… and here…"

She gestured vaguely, as if to emphasize the absence of such a pleasant feature. Her meaning wasn't hard to grasp.

"To be honest, this is the first time I've experienced heat like this," I replied.

"Yeah," Hermione agreed with a nod.

The next day, while the girls took the chance to rest, I worked on replying to the growing stack of letters. Some came from well-wishers, others from wizards asking if I could take their children as students, and still others containing a mix of intriguing and mundane proposals. Among them were letters from eccentric wizards convinced their ideas could revolutionize the magical world—if only I'd assist with the calculations and experiments. Those, naturally, were declined almost immediately.

A letter from Isolde provided a pleasant surprise. She invited me on a date, which caught me off guard—I'm not accustomed to being the one invited. Traditionally, I'd expect the guy to take the initiative, but her straightforwardness was refreshing. In the letter, she also mentioned being puzzled by Nymphadora's decision to end our relationship. My response was an enthusiastic yes.

The date was set. Staying true to my style, I chose a high-quality, tasteful suit for the occasion. Fleur and Hermione approved wholeheartedly, knowing I was meeting a friend, though they didn't yet know her name. I planned to introduce them in the future.

I apparated to the agreed location and waited for Isolde to arrive. Checking my watch, I realized she was running a little late. To pass the time, I observed a small building nearby, alive with activity. Through the window, I spotted a family mid-argument—a man in a tank top and boxers shouting at his wife, who wasn't holding back and yelled just as passionately in return.

The rhythmic click of heels on cobblestones pulled me from the scene. I turned to see Isolde approaching, looking breathtaking. Her golden hair flowed freely, and a light red dress clung perfectly to her figure, accentuating her natural beauty. For a moment, I forgot to breathe, entirely captivated by the sight.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Of course, Isolde," I replied. "I like it very much."

"I'm glad," she said with a satisfied smirk. "I put in some effort."

"You look stunning," I said warmly. "Shall we go?"

"Yes, lead the way, Headmaster of Beauxbatons," she teased.

We apparated to the entrance of a restaurant in Manchester, a place that catered to both magical and non-magical patrons. This time, the waiter recognized me immediately. Skipping the usual registration process, he escorted us straight to a table and handed us menus.

Isolde chose a simple dish with a glass of wine. I wasn't in the mood for anything overly complex either, so I opted for something equally straightforward. While we waited for our food, we engaged in light conversation about our recent activities.

"I recently earned the rank of Charms Journeyman," Isolde shared. "But my mentor was poisoned by some potion."

"Congratulations on earning the rank," I said with a nod. "And I'm sorry to hear about your mentor."

"Yeah, it happens sometimes," she sighed. "Now my father is looking for a new teacher for me."

"Oh, really?" I asked. "How's that going?"

"Let's just say… worse than it could be," she admitted with a wry smile. "All of my father's acquaintances who could take me on are already busy with their own students. And those who aren't demand absolutely astronomical sums of money."

"Well, masters are like that," I said with a chuckle. "Why doesn't Mr. Marigold train you himself?"

"Father thinks an outsider can teach the basics better," she replied. "He believes they won't go easy on me in areas where I just need to push through."

"Well," I said thoughtfully, "I could take on another student."

"Are you sure?" Isolde asked, her tone laced with curiosity.

"Yes," I nodded. "But I'm not pressuring you. Think it over and decide for yourself. I'll be in England until the end of the World Cup. After that, I'll need to return to Beauxbatons."

"Alright, I'll talk to my father."

Shortly after, our order arrived, and the conversation drifted to simpler, less notable topics. We chatted about everyday happenings and trivial events until the subject of Nymphadora came up.

"Honestly, I've noticed that Nymphadora has changed a bit lately," Isolde said. "She's become… dumber, somehow. It's like working in the Auror Office has drained the last bits of her common sense."

"When I went out with her, I noticed something similar," I admitted. "Did she say anything to you?"

"Probably the same things she told you," Isolde sighed. "That you and she aren't a good match, that she can't talk to me anymore because we're on different levels of the social hierarchy, that she's better off focusing on being just an Auror, and that it's preferable to being known as Timothy Jody's girlfriend."

"She didn't say that last part to me," I replied slowly. To be honest, it was a little insulting that Nymphadora thought that way. "What about you? Does that bother you?"

"Me?" she scoffed. "I have no problem with it. Honestly, I'd love some recognition, but being your girlfriend wouldn't stop me from practicing magic. Right?"

"Of course not," I chuckled. "Practice whatever magic you like. The important thing is that you grow and enjoy the direction you're taking."

"That's what I think too," she said with a nod. "But honestly… I feel like her fellow Aurors are pressuring her. Especially after her transfer to the Fire Group."

"The Fire Group?" I asked, intrigued.

"That's what they call Aurors who support Dumbledore's policies," she explained. "It's an internal political faction within the Ministry. Not particularly exciting, but it explains a lot. Being a natural Metamorphmagus makes her a desirable recruit for all kinds of groups and factions. It makes sense she ended up in the Fire Group. Rumor has it that Alastor Moody is actively recruiting for them."

"How intriguing," I mused. Could it be that Dumbledore wants a Metamorphmagus in his corner and nudged Nymphadora in that direction? Entirely possible. I already know Dumbledore isn't a saint. Like any other wizard, he has his own agenda.

Still, I don't have time to play political games with Dumbledore right now. Maybe during the Triwizard Tournament… then, perhaps.

We decided to drop the subject—it wasn't a particularly pleasant one for either of us. Instead, we talked about lighter matters, nothing particularly important but interesting to both of us. I invited her to join me at the Quidditch World Cup, but she declined. Her father's birthday happened to fall on the same day as the match.

After saying our goodbyes, Isolde returned home, and I went back to Hermione and Fleur. Both were already fast asleep, knowing we'd be heading to the game the next day. Many people were already making their way to the stadium to secure prime spots for their tents. That kind of chaos didn't appeal to me, so we planned to return straight home after the match.

Our preparations were minimal—just a few safety artifacts and some potions in case of unexpected situations. I don't expect anything to go wrong, but it's always wise to be prepared. Not that there's much cause for concern; with an event of this magnitude, the security measures are bound to be extensive. After all, this isn't an everyday occurrence in the magical world.

The final match was between Bulgaria and Ireland, two teams evenly matched in both technical skill and strategic prowess.

When we arrived, we were greeted by an expansive field of tents. The variety of flags was breathtaking—at a glance, I could spot banners from at least a dozen European countries, several from Asia and Africa, and even a few from South America. The sheer number of wizards made it nearly impossible to navigate without brushing past someone.

"Good afternoon," a Ministry official appeared before us, his expression a mix of exhaustion and irritation. "Your tickets, please."

"Here you go," I said, handing him three tickets.

He took them with practiced calm, examining the golden edges before pressing them against a peculiar artifact.

"You don't have reserved spots for tents," he noted flatly.

"That's right," I replied.

"Then why are you wasting my time?" he snapped, visibly annoyed. "You need to head over to that red flag."

He gestured toward the stadium, an imposing structure on the horizon. Sure enough, a red flag fluttered above one of the entrances. Unlike the others, it had virtually no line and appeared to be in a prime location.

"Got it," I said with a nod.

The official vanished as abruptly as he'd arrived, ready to process the next batch of attendees.

"Shall we?" I asked the girls, motioning toward the stadium.

They responded with nods—what else could they say?

We walked down the road toward the entrance. Nobody paid us any attention, thanks to the distraction charm I had cast. I had no desire to become the center of attention among other wizards.

The noise of the crowd mixed with the calls of vendors making last-minute sales. The festive atmosphere was infectious, making the scene lively and enjoyable.

As we neared the entrance, the nearby security artifacts flared to life, dispelling most of the concealment spells I had placed. The type of security was unmistakable—I recognized it immediately. I had absorbed the knowledge of its creator, Agent Zero, a brilliant wizard and researcher from the Department of Mysteries.

"Mr. Jody," a wizard in an expensive robe greeted me, his tone polished and professional. It seemed the Ministry Box ensured premium service for its guests. "Ladies," he added, acknowledging Hermione and Fleur with a courteous nod.

"Greetings," I replied with a nod of my own.

"May I check your tickets?" he asked.

For the second time, I handed over the tickets. Unlike the previous official, this wizard was far more cautious. Instead of taking the tickets directly, he levitated them with a flick of his wand. With another motion, he retrieved an artifact from his pocket and pressed it to each ticket in turn. A symbol glowed faintly on each one before fading, though a faint imprint remained.

"Thank you," he said, handing the tickets back with a slight bow. "Please proceed to the door on the right."

We followed his directions to the right-hand door, where we found ourselves at the base of a long staircase winding all the way to the top floor.

"Do you really want to climb all these stairs?" I asked the girls.

"Not really," Fleur replied with a slight frown.

"Then what can we do to avoid taking all these steps?" I asked, glancing between them.

They both paused, considering.

"As I understand it, we can't just apparate?" Hermione asked.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Not here. Let me make it easier—you can use my abilities to come up with a solution."

"Then it's simple!" Hermione smirked. "Just transfigure all the stairs into a flowing earthen ramp and enchant it to move upward."

"Not a bad idea," I said, nodding. "What about you, Fleur? Do you have another suggestion?"

"Well," Fleur began, her tone thoughtful, "the transfiguration idea is very clever. But instead of modifying the stairs themselves, we could just create a thin yet sturdy platform to lift us to the top. That way, we wouldn't need to expend extra magic on the stairs."

"Another good suggestion," I nodded again. "Alright, let's do this."

With a wave of my wand, I conjured a platform. Of course, I could've made a simple gray stone disc and enchanted it to carry us, but that felt too mundane. Instead, I transfigured a polished stone circle, engraved with "mystical" symbols, and enhanced it with a few illusion spells to give it an aura of grandeur. If we're going to do this, we might as well make it impressive.

The girls stepped on first, and I followed. With a flick of my hand, the platform began to ascend smoothly along the staircase. It glided effortlessly, and within two minutes, we had reached the top.

Dispelling the transfiguration, we climbed the last short flight of steps like ordinary people.

The view from the Ministry Box was spectacular. From this vantage point, the entire field stretched out before us, framed by the packed stands. The area was filled with people who could only be described as the "upper crust" of society. Minister Cornelius Fudge was busy greeting the Ministers of Bulgaria and Ireland, while journalists, assistants, and security personnel bustled around.

No one paid us much attention, allowing us to quietly take our seats. Between the rows and levels of the stands, advertisements for wizarding goods and services flashed—everything from cauldrons to high-end escort services.

For a while, the stands continued to fill, giving us a moment to relax. But, as expected, it didn't last.

"Are you Timothy Jody?" a man asked in heavily accented English. He stood nearby, dressed neatly and holding a clipboard. I recognized him as one of the assistants to the Bulgarian Minister of Magic. His accent was thick, but I had no difficulty understanding him.

"Yes, that's me," I said with a nod. "And you are?"

"My name is Boyan Nikolov," the wizard replied. "Second assistant to Minister Obalonsk."

"Pleased to meet you," I replied with another nod, signaling him to continue if he wished.

But he didn't. It was clear he had expected me to take the lead in the conversation—to ask questions, show interest, and engage in polite diplomacy. Naturally, I had no intention of doing so.

After an awkward pause, Boyan excused himself and left.

"What did he want?" Fleur asked, her confusion evident as she glanced after him.

"I have no idea," I shrugged. "Maybe he wanted to chat or propose something—probably on behalf of the Minister."

Cornelius Fudge noticed me as well, though he chose to ignore me. My refusal to work with him remained a sore spot, a thorn in his side. If he could find a way to stop me from utilizing Ministry resources, he undoubtedly would. But his political games have little effect on me—my power ensures that most people keep their opinions to themselves. Like it or not, power dictates everything.

At one point, a wizard entered the box carrying a large gramophone. He quickly began testing his artifact, adjusting knobs and dials. If I'm not mistaken, that wizard is Ludo Bagman.

"One-two-three," his voice echoed across the field. "Testing, testing."

Satisfied that everything was functioning properly, he set the artifact aside and approached the Ministers. His demeanor changed instantly, bowing and fawning as though their approval was his life's ambition. Watching him soak up their attention was more uncomfortable than entertaining.

A strange feeling began to nag at me. Slowly and carefully, I started observing my surroundings, trying to pinpoint the source of my unease. What was it? There was nothing visibly unusual, no "inhuman" presence. Yet, the sense of discomfort lingered. Unable to discern its origin, I decided it was better to be cautious.

With a calm smile, I discreetly pulled out a few protective artifacts and handed them to Hermione and Fleur. They exchanged puzzled looks but, noticing my silence, quietly accepted them. I followed with a few offensive artifacts, which they also took without question.

At that moment, Lucius Malfoy arrived with Narcissa and Draco. The latter looked particularly unwell. I nodded briefly to Lucius, then caught a glimpse of red hair on the stairs.

A moment later, the Weasley family appeared, accompanied by Harry Potter. They didn't look great—breathing heavily and visibly sweaty. Had they climbed all those stairs? No, surely not. But another glance confirmed it: yes, they had climbed the stairs.

"Hm," Malfoy drawled disapprovingly, gripping his cane, where his wand was concealed. He couldn't resist commenting. "I'm curious how the Weasleys managed to find their way in here."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur asked, his tone sharp with irritation.

"Oh, nothing," Malfoy replied with a sneer. "Just that Dumbledore must have handed you this little privilege. I can't help but wonder why."

"Dumbledore is a great and kind wizard," Arthur said firmly, with a trace of reverence. "And he has every right to share such gifts."

"Mr. Jody," Lucius Malfoy said, turning his attention to me. "I wasn't expecting to see you here today."

"Greetings," I said with a polite nod to all three Malfoys. "I had the time, so I thought, why not?"

"Quite right. One must find moments to relax," Malfoy agreed smoothly. His gaze flicked to the girls. "I see you're here with your student?"

"Students," I corrected him, subtly emphasizing the plural to make clear that both Fleur and Hermione shared that status. This clarification was particularly relevant for Fleur, who remained largely unknown among the local elite. Hermione, on the other hand, was likely a familiar name, if not a familiar face.

"Oh," Narcissa said, drawing out the word as she offered the girls a polite smile. "Well done, ladies. Keep it up. Mr. Jody, will you be staying in England long?"

"Not particularly," I replied. "Once the Championship concludes, I'll need to return. But I believe we'll see each other again before the year is out."

"Understood," Narcissa nodded gracefully. "I had a matter I was hoping to discuss with you."

"Well, if there's time after the game, I'd be happy to hear what's on your mind," I said, meeting her gaze.

"Thank you," Narcissa nodded politely.

Meanwhile, Lucius had already engaged in conversation with Fudge and the other Ministers. As a wealthy and influential figure, he enjoyed privileges most could only dream of. If not for Arthur Weasley and his persistent inspections in the past, Lucius might have claimed his life was flawless. But what's done is done.

The Malfoys' seats were positioned almost directly in front of ours. While his parents mingled with the influential figures around them, Draco sat quietly in his chair, awaiting the start of the game. A house-elf stood nearby, glancing nervously at its surroundings. However, what truly caught my attention was something peculiar—someone was seated under an invisibility cloak in the chair directly in front of the elf. Oddly enough, though, it wasn't the cloaked presence that initially drew my focus, even though it easily could have.

The Weasleys and Harry Potter had taken seats in the front row, just ahead of the Malfoys. It seemed Dumbledore had indeed granted them quite an extravagant gift—likely in celebration of Harry Potter's birthday.

"So, Malfoy," one of the younger Weasleys—Ron—called out to Draco, his tone sharp. "How's your arm? Does it hurt?"

Draco raised his prosthetic arm, flexing it in demonstration. The movements were smooth, a testament to its craftsmanship.

"Guess it doesn't," Ron drawled. "Then I suppose you're fit to keep being Slytherin's lousy Seeker."

Draco said nothing, but I could feel the anger and irritation rolling off him in waves. More interestingly, I sensed identical emotions from the figure under the invisibility cloak. Whoever they were, they were barely restraining themselves, their desire to lash out at Ron palpable.

***

Amel sat in his office, a bottle of fine French liquor resting on the desk before him. Beside it lay an artifact, already primed with blood samples to eliminate those who stood in his path to power.

The decision to activate it was his alone. It was Amel who would become the next Minister of Magic. Most scenarios had already been carefully planned; now, only the final step remained. Anticipating the chaos that would follow, he had prudently sent his elder daughter and her lover to England and entrusted his younger daughter to her grandmother in a secure enclave. His wife, Apolline, stood ready to assist him at a moment's notice. Everything was in place.

Amel's hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from a mix of anticipation and anxiety. His emotions surged uncontrollably, too complex to be reduced to a single word. Taking another sip of the sweet liquor, he picked up the artifact.

He stared at the powerful object, its weight almost oppressive in its significance. Questions and doubts briefly clouded his mind, but he forced himself to focus on his goal: seizing the position of Minister of Magic. Bloodshed and sacrifice were necessary costs, and Amel had resolved to bear them for the sake of his ambition.

Taking one last look at the artifact, he gripped it firmly and uttered the ancient incantation. The room shimmered with an ethereal light as the artifact's immense power activated. The energy rippled outward, spreading across the country in search of its targets.

Within moments, alarm artifacts began flashing furiously, signaling the deaths of numerous wizards. Amel knew similar alarms were being triggered across the magical world. The paralysis of the current power structure had begun. Beyond his inner circle, he would need to bring his support groups into action.

The first to respond was the communication artifact linked to the second deputy of the Gendarmerie, designated to assume command following the deaths of both the current head and first deputy.

"Amel, I'm ready to take control of the Gendarmerie," the wizard's voice crackled through the artifact.

"Excellent," Amel replied, his tone steady despite the tension coursing through him. "We must act swiftly and decisively. I'll contact you again in fifteen minutes. Be prepared."

Amel severed the connection and immediately activated the next communication artifact. This time, he reached the leader of a covert unit within the Department of Internal Security—a group he had quietly organized and trained for this very moment.

"It's time to act," he commanded. "Ensure everything proceeds smoothly. We cannot afford mistakes."

"It will be done, mon seigneur," a cold female voice replied, steady and unyielding.

Disconnecting once more, Amel leaned back in his chair, lost in thought. He was acutely aware that his actions would bring pain and suffering, but he remained convinced of their necessity. Across the country, news of the deaths of influential wizards and the chaos their absence created continued to pour in.

With each passing hour, every new report of death made it clear: there was no turning back. His hands were irreversibly stained with blood, and the only direction left was forward—toward power and glory.

Amel turned back to the first communication artifact and reactivated it.

"Yes," came the now-familiar voice. "The team will arrive shortly."

"What's the status?" Amel asked, his tone sharp.

"Almost everything is in order," replied the newly appointed head of the Gendarmerie. "Evidence has been planted, and witnesses have been silenced."

"Excellent work," Amel said, exhaling deeply. "Proceed to Phase Two."

"Understood."

Phase Two was pivotal. The new department heads were to assemble and escort Amel to the Minister of Magic's office. There, he would take the ceremonial "oath" to assume the role of Acting Minister of Magic for France. Afterward, his focus would shift to consolidating his position and orchestrating a formal election to cement his power.

Soon, a Gendarmerie team arrived, led by the new Head, to escort Amel to the Minister of Magic's residence.

At the entrance to the Minister's office, the newly appointed department heads were already gathered, awaiting his arrival. Amel had anticipated this moment, standing ready as the team assembled. When everyone was in place, he gave a nod, and together they approached the grand office doors.

With a deliberate motion, Amel cast a spell to open the doors, and the group stepped inside. The room was spacious and majestic, steeped in history and the weight of authority. At its center stood a massive desk, behind which sat a senior member of the Senate. The senator, a longtime ally of the Delacour family, nodded at Amel, signaling that everything was prepared for the oath.

Several other wizards were present as well—representatives of powerful guilds, editors of prominent newspapers, and influential figures from across the magical community. This moment was meant to be widely publicized, a spectacle to solidify Amel's rise.

"I, Amel Delacour, am ready to assume power by right of succession," he declared, his voice steady and authoritative. The artifact of authority, a ceremonial object imbued with symbolic power, glowed faintly, affirming the truth of his words.

"We hear you," the department heads and senators responded in unison.

And so, in a solemn yet understated ceremony, Amel Delacour was declared the Minister of Magic of France.

"Friends," Amel began, smoothly transitioning into his new role, "I must share some unfortunate news. As Acting Minister of Magic, I am declaring martial law in the country. Dark forces have been plotting a revolution, and my home, like the homes of many wizards, was attacked by these hostile agents."

Amel knew that, even as he spoke, Apolline was carefully staging the appearance of an attack on their home. She was creating realistic damage—blasting holes in walls, scorching furniture, and burning select paintings, though the originals had long been secured. The scene was meticulously prepared to ensure that any photographs or reports would be utterly convincing.

The slightly shocked expressions of the gathered wizards were balm to his soul. Their reactions confirmed that no significant leaks had occurred. His anxiety began to fade, replaced by the exhilaration of triumph.

The room was charged with tension as the assembled leaders absorbed the gravity of the situation. Everyone present now understood that the country was entering a turbulent period, one that would secure the legacies of those who stood with Amel. His allies, too, would need to cement their places in history.

For Amel, the key to maintaining power lay in the ultimate asset: the Headmaster of Beauxbatons, Timothy Jody. Amel's strategy relied heavily on Timothy's continued cooperation. Without the Headmaster's support, his grip on the Ministry would lack the strength he required.

The alliance between Amel and Timothy remained a closely guarded secret. While some might have speculated about their connection—particularly given that Amel's eldest daughter was traveling with Timothy—Amel had taken every precaution to keep this information hidden. This secrecy afforded him an invaluable advantage, a set of cards to play against his allies should the need arise.