Entitled

Chapter 142*

The morning sun barely penetrates the heavy drapes of the manor, casting the room in a dim, oppressive light. The atmosphere inside mirrors the bleakness of the day outside—a day that feels as though it will drag on forever.

You sit at the large, ornate table, listening to the ceaseless murmur of voices as your father and his inner circle of Death Eaters discuss their plans for the Ministry.

The room is filled with the smell of ink and parchment, mingling with the scent of polished wood and the faint, lingering smoke from the fireplace.

Scrolls, quills, and documents are strewn across the table, maps pinned to the walls, all detailing the new rules, regulations, and strategies that your father is implementing to reshape the wizarding world in his dark image.

Your father sits at the head of the table, his posture commanding, every inch the dark overlord he has made himself into. His voice is a constant drone, low and measured, as he speaks of new decrees, new policies that will tighten his grip on the wizarding community.

He speaks of blood status, of purging the wizarding world of those he deems unworthy, and his followers nod in agreement, their expressions a mix of cold satisfaction and eager anticipation.

The discussions are detailed and meticulous, every aspect of the new regime being crafted with care. A new registry for Muggle-borns is being established, forcing them to prove their magical heritage or face imprisonment.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is being restructured, with new heads of departments chosen from the most loyal of Death Eaters. Anti-Muggle legislation is being drafted, laws that will marginalize and oppress those with any Muggle connections, ensuring that the pure-blood ideology reigns supreme.

"Anyone with questionable blood status is in peril," your father states, his tone flat and emotionless, as if he's discussing the weather rather than condemning countless lives to misery and fear. "The time for leniency is over. Those who are not with us, those who do not have the proper heritage, will be dealt with accordingly. The Ministry will be purged, and from its ashes, we will build a new order—one that is pure, strong, and unassailable."

His words are met with murmurs of approval, and you can see the excitement in the eyes of his followers, their eagerness to carry out his will, to be the instruments of his dark vision. They revel in the power they wield, in the knowledge that they are the architects of a new world where their twisted beliefs will hold sway.

But as the hours drag on, you find yourself slipping further and further into boredom, the endless discussions and planning blending into a monotonous blur. Your father's voice, once so commanding and frightening, now feels like a dull drone in the background, something you can barely pay attention to. The same discussions, the same rhetoric, repeated over and over— it's all so predictable, so painfully dull.

You try to stay focused, to keep your mind from wandering, but it's impossible. There is nothing for you to do here, nothing that requires your presence or your input. You are simply an observer, a figurehead in your father's grand design, but not an active participant. The realization makes you feel even more isolated, more disconnected from the world around you.

Your mind begins to drift, slipping away from the oppressive atmosphere of the meeting, away from the cold, calculating voices of the men and women around the table. You find yourself retreating to the hiding place deep within your mind, the place where you can escape, if only for a little while.

The hiding place is your sanctuary, a place of calm and quiet, far removed from the darkness of your father's world. It's a small clearing by a river, the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees, casting dappled patterns on the water's surface. The sound of the river is soothing, a constant, gentle murmur that drowns out the noise of the world outside.