HP:Rise

The Wizengamot chamber always smelled of old stone, older blood, and laws written by dead men. Lucius Malfoy had always found it comforting—until today.

From his tiered seat, he surveyed the room, a place he had commanded for over a decade through a careful manipulation of wealth, influence, and fear. He watched Albus Dumbledore presiding from the Chief Warlock's seat, his expression serene and unreadable. Beside him, Minister Fudge fidgeted, a testament to his pliable nature. Lucius had installed the Minister, and he could just as easily remove him. The thought brought a faint, self-satisfied smile to his lips.

His gaze drifted to another figure, one who had no right to be there. Sirius Black sat in the long-dormant seat of his family, dressed in impeccably tailored black robes, his expression one of bored, aristocratic disdain. He had been present since the session began, a silent, unnerving presence that drew whispers from the surrounding members—a sound Lucius despised.

The legislation he was proposing today was a masterpiece of subtlety—a bill to "Standardize Educational Materials for Ancient Studies," which was, in truth, a thinly veiled attempt to purge any text that portrayed his ancestors, and those of his allies, in a less than flattering light. It was a small, incremental tightening of the screw, a gentle rewriting of history. It would pass. It always did.

He rose, his voice a smooth, confident baritone that carried easily across the chamber. "Esteemed members of the Wizengamot, this bill is a simple matter of preserving the dignity of our most noble lines, ensuring that the legacy we leave for our children is one of honor, untainted by the biased scribblings of lesser historians..."

When Lucius finished, Sirius rose slowly. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.

"Lord Malfoy speaks of dignity," Sirius began, his voice laced with a cool irony that cut through the chamber's stuffy air. "An interesting choice of words from a man whose family has spent the last century buying its way out of dishonor."

A shocked murmur rippled through the chamber. Lucius's hand tightened on the silver serpent head of his cane, his knuckles white.

From a few rows back, Lord Nott rose partially from his seat. "The dignity of our houses is not a matter for public debate by..." he trailed off, clearly about to say 'a convicted traitor.'

Before he could finish, Amelia Bones, seated near the front, cut him off without even turning her head. Her voice was cold steel. "The business of the Wizengamot is always a matter for public debate, Lord Nott. Sit down."

Nott sank back into his seat, his face flushed. The message was clear: Sirius was not alone.

"This bill is not about dignity," Sirius continued, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords and ladies, lingering for a moment on faces he knew had once knelt before his master. "It is about censorship. It is an attempt to rewrite our history to suit the vanities of those who cannot bear the truth of their own heritage. The House of Black has its share of dark chapters—more than most, I confess. My own mother's portrait screams blood-traitor slurs in my hallway. We do not hide from our truths, however unpleasant. We learn from them."

He then proceeded to dismantle Lucius's legislation, not with emotional appeals, but with cold, hard facts. "Lord Malfoy's bill cites the need to protect the 'founding families.' An admirable goal. However, it conveniently fails to mention that the charter of 1612, ratified by this very body, guarantees academic freedom in the preservation of historical texts, a charter signed by Lord Cygnus Black himself. Is Lord Malfoy suggesting we disregard the wisdom of our ancestors in favor of his own delicate sensibilities?"

He spoke with the effortless authority of a man born to this world, a man who had never had to buy his influence. When the vote was called, the result was a public humiliation. Families who had long been in Lucius's pocket suddenly abstained, their eyes refusing to meet his. Others, swayed by the sheer, undeniable power of the Black name, voted against him. The bill was soundly defeated.

Lucius inclined his head in a shallow, gracious bow, his face a perfect mask of calm indifference. But beneath the surface, a cold, silent fury was building.

He did not leave immediately. He lingered, exchanging pleasantries, his voice smooth as silk, even as his mind cataloged every slight, every averted gaze. As he finally made his way toward the exit, Fudge scurried over, his face a mask of anxious apology.

"Lucius, my friend, I had no idea Black would—"

"Indeed, Cornelius," Lucius cut him off, his voice dangerously soft. "It seems none of us did. A reminder, perhaps, that a dog off its leash can be a nuisance to everyone." He let the threat hang in the air for a moment before giving a thin smile. "I trust you will manage your Ministry more effectively in the future."

He swept past the sputtering Minister, his robes billowing behind him.

The fire in Lucius Malfoy's study crackled, its flames reflecting in the polished surface of his desk but offering no warmth. The room was a monument to his power—rare dark artifacts displayed in charmed glass cases, first-edition tomes bound in dragonhide, a portrait of his father that watched with silent, critical approval.

But tonight, the room felt like a cage.

He poured a generous measure of firewhisky into a crystal tumbler, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly. The mask of control he wore so carefully in public was beginning to crack at the edges.

"That arrogant blood traitor," he hissed, swirling the amber liquid. "He swaggers back from Azkaban and thinks he can undo a decade of my work?"

"His name still holds weight, Lucius," a cool voice said from the doorway. Narcissa stood there, her expression as serene and unreadable as ever, though her eyes held a flicker of concern. "The old families respect legacy above all else. You know this."

"They respect power," Lucius countered, turning to face her. "Something Black has not had for fifteen years. He is a ghost, a relic."

"A relic who just cost you the Wizengamot," she said, gliding into the room. "He is a problem. One you underestimated."

"Perhaps," Narcissa said coolly, "you should stop treating Sirius like a nuisance… and start treating him like a rival."

"I will not make that mistake again," Lucius snarled. "I will break him. A carefully worded rumor to the Prophet about his mental stability, a financial squeeze on the Greengrass family for their abstention..."

He was contemplating his next move when he felt it.

It was not a pain. It was a cold flicker, a ghost of a sensation in his left forearm, like a nerve twitching under the skin. He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. The memory was instantaneous: the agony of the brand, the intoxicating rush of power, the terror and ecstasy of kneeling before his Lord.

He rolled up his sleeve.

The Dark Mark was still faded—a ghostly grey scar against his pale forearm. But for one chilling moment, he could have sworn it had darkened, just for a breath.

It wasn't a summons. Not yet. But it was a presence.

A cold dread settled in his stomach—colder and deeper than any political frustration. He was trapped. Dumbledore's influence was swelling, and Sirius Black—vindicated, charismatic, and far more cunning than the Ministry believed—was dismantling his political networks piece by piece.

And now… now there were whispers. The ghost of a master he had once called Lord was stirring in the dark.

But Voldemort was no ghost. Not to Lucius.

He remembered too well the man behind the myth—those blood-red eyes, the whispered oaths exchanged for forbidden power—and how he had walked away from it all with lies and excuses and wealth in Voldemort's absence.

Not openly. Not loudly. But he had distanced himself. Lied. Claimed Imperius. Feigned regret. And then he had benefited. Gained wealth. Status. Influence.

He hadn't just survived Voldemort's fall—he'd prospered. And that, more than anything, would damn him.

If Voldemort returned—and Lucius no longer doubted that he would—there would be no forgiveness. No chance to explain. Voldemort didn't punish betrayal.

He erased traitors.

His carefully curated world—crafted with generational wealth, silver-tongued charm, and layers of plausible deniability—was beginning to crack. He had no alliances strong enough to shield him from what was coming. No excuses clever enough to matter.

And for the first time in a very long time, Lucius Malfoy felt something he had spent years pretending he no longer could:

Fear.