𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥'𝔰 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔍𝔬𝔨𝔢

A Seat of Power

The 800th session of the Wizengamot commenced on 31st July 1956, with all the pomp and ceremony that usually accompanied such occasions. The ancient chamber buzzed with subdued chatter, punctuated by the occasional scrape of a chair or the cough of an impatient Lord. The room, with its high vaulted ceiling and walls lined with portraits of past members, seemed to hum with the tension that hung in the air. Today wasn't just another debate on broomstick regulations or cauldron thicknesses-no, today had potential for chaos.

Professor Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, stood at the center podium. His half-moon spectacles glinted as he surveyed the room, his demeanor calm but his blue eyes betraying a flicker of interest. "The floor is now open to any heirs present who wish to claim their titles," he announced, his voice resonating through the chamber.

At the far end of the chamber sat the Knights of Walpurgis, their seats clustered together like a cabal of malevolent crows. Marvolo, better known in polite society as Tom Riddle, sat at the center of their group, radiating cool indifference. His sleek black hair and perfectly tailored robes gave him the appearance of a serpent coiled and waiting to strike. Around him, the usual suspects-Abraxas Malfoy, Eleanor Greengrass, Reinhard Lestrange, and the perpetually disdainful Cassiopeia Black-exchanged the occasional glance, each calculating what the day might bring.

It wasn't long before the reason for the day's peculiar energy made itself known. A young woman stood up and made her way to the central podium, her movements measured yet confident. Immediately, the Knights straightened in their seats, their curiosity piqued.

Eleanor, seated to Marvolo's left, leaned in ever so slightly. Her voice was low but carried a playful lilt. "That could potentially be our little miss," she murmured, her sharp grey-blue eyes tracking the girl's every move.

Marvolo didn't so much as glance at her. His dark eyes remained fixed on the woman as she ascended the podium. "We shall see," he replied, his tone as smooth and cold as marble, though there was a spark of interest in his otherwise impassive expression.

Abraxas, meanwhile, had taken to scrutinizing the young woman with the intensity of a jeweler inspecting a counterfeit gem. "She's just a child," he muttered under his breath, his aristocratic drawl laced with disdain. "Barely out of school robes, I'd wager."

"Looks can be deceiving, Abraxas," Cassiopeia remarked dryly, her silver eyes narrowing. "Or have you forgotten who we're dealing with?"

At the podium, the young woman cleared her throat, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "Greetings to all the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot," she began. Her voice was steady, resonant, with just enough authority to command attention. "Today, on the 31st of July, 1956, I, Alexandrina Victorina Peverell, do hereby officially claim the seats of House Peverell-"

The chamber erupted before she could finish her sentence. Gasps echoed through the room, and several members of the Wizengamot stood up in shock.

"The audacity," Reinhard whispered, his lips curling into a smirk. "A Peverell, of all things. What next? The rest of the founders themselves rising from the grave?"

"Don't tempt fate," Cassiopeia muttered, her tone acidic.

Alexandrina, unfazed by the commotion, continued. "-of House Gryffindor."

The shock in the room deepened. More members stood, their faces a mix of disbelief and intrigue. Alexandrina's calm demeanor remained unshaken, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"House Hufflepuff," she declared next, and the whispers became a roar.

"Mother Magic, she's collecting them like chocolate frog cards," Abraxas muttered, earning a sharp look from Eleanor, who was clearly enjoying the spectacle.