The manor where the gathering took place was hidden behind layers of enchantments, nestled deep within the Scottish Highlands. The Blake family had not hosted this time—rather, it was the Selwyns' turn. The ancient estate gleamed with wealth old as the Founders, with silver chandeliers that burned without flame and walls lined with portraits that whispered in low voices, exchanging quiet opinions about the guests as they arrived.
Cassian Blake stood tall at the edge of the drawing room, robed in forest green velvet stitched with subtle runes. His silver-and-ebony cane rested lightly in his hand—more a symbol than a necessity. He scanned the room with practiced disinterest, his cold grey eyes taking note of each arrival.
The Malfoys had come early, as always. Lucius stood with his customary elegance, offering clipped conversation to the Rosiers and Travers. The Parkinsons mingled near the hearth, and the Notts, ever secretive, stuck to shadows, their voices a murmur. Dozens of pure-blood families were represented, each proud of their lineage, most skeptical of the current Ministry, and nearly all united under one unspoken cause—preserving the purity and dominance of wizardkind.
A servant announced the arrival of Minister Cornelius Fudge, an unexpected but not unwelcome presence. He was not trusted, not truly—but he was malleable. Fudge entered with his usual fussy energy, offering thin smiles and nervous greetings, clearly aware that the room held more power than his own office.
Soon, goblets were filled with Elven-brewed wine, and the conversations deepened. It was Lucius Malfoy who began the true business of the evening.
"The winds have shifted, but the castle remains the same," he said coolly, sipping from his glass. "Dumbledore still reigns from his ivory tower, playing his games with children while ignoring the erosion beneath his feet."
Cassian offered a quiet nod. "He's clever. Manipulative. And too dangerous to be dismissed lightly. Albus Dumbledore is not the fool he pretends to be."
"Agreed," muttered Lord Avery. "He molds the next generation to question tradition—House ties, blood, the very foundation of our world."
"The man has gathered too much influence," said Madame Selwyn sharply. "The Wizengamot bends to him. The Order of Merlin is his political puppet. Even the werewolf registries are watered down under his advice."
Cassian raised his glass slightly, his voice level. "He allows half-bloods and muggleborns to walk the halls of power as if they earned it. All under the pretense of 'merit.' A word he redefines with every decade."
Lucius smirked. "And what of your son, Cassian? I hear he has become quite the conversation topic."
A subtle silence fell around the cluster.
Cassian's expression didn't shift, though his voice grew colder. "Elias is misguided. Hogwarts has dulled his instincts."
"Placed in Gryffindor, no less," murmured a Rosier daughter in amusement. "The House of impulse."
"I've sent Dumbledore two letters," Cassian said. "One of request. One of demand. Neither has received a response worth noting."
"Perhaps it's time you retrieved the boy," Lord Burke suggested. "A proper tutor, private education—it is not unheard of."
"No," Cassian said quietly, his fingers tightening around his cane. "That would send the wrong message. Elias must learn discipline inside the lion's den. And if he fails, he will not disgrace the name Blake any further."
From across the room, Fudge cleared his throat awkwardly. "You all must understand, Dumbledore's popularity remains… difficult to undermine."
Lucius turned to him like a cat eyeing a cornered mouse. "Minister, popularity is fleeting. Influence is enduring. You need only remember who secured your position—and who could unseat it with a whisper."
Fudge paled but nodded quickly.
Cassian took a long sip, then glanced to the carved window frame, where dark storm clouds rolled across the night sky.
"Legacy is not preserved by silence. Nor is it honored by complacency," he said. "Our world must be… reshaped. Not just preserved. The boy may serve as a key to that future—if he proves worthy."
"And if not?" asked Lady Mulciber.
"Then he is nothing," Cassian answered. "And will be treated accordingly."
The drawing room of the Selwyn Manor was now dense with layered magic and sharper words. The conversations grew more clandestine, the smiles more wolfish. An unspoken hierarchy existed here—power, bloodline, and wealth determined the weight of one's voice. And yet, tonight, there was an undercurrent of unease. A shifting wind, invisible but unmistakable.
The younger generation of the families was absent; this was no social ball. This was a political convocation dressed as a formal evening.
Cassian Blake stood at the center of it.
Lucius leaned closer to him now, lowering his voice, though others strained to catch every syllable. "Your boy may be Dumbledore's new fascination, Cassian. Have you considered the danger in that?"
"I've considered everything," Cassian replied coolly. "Elias has potential. But Dumbledore sees all potential as moldable. That is where our interests… diverge."
Lord Travers interjected, "And what of the boy's mind? Has he shown signs of resisting your instructions?"
A pause.
Cassian's answer came slow, but deliberate. "He is calculating. Not emotional. But he's untested. Hogwarts is a crucible—he will either sharpen or crack."
"If he cracks," said Lord Burke, "you may have a problem on your hands. Dumbledore does love collecting broken things. He's rebuilt half his army from misfits and blood traitors."
Fudge tried to interject again, clearly uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation. "We should not speak of armies or uprisings. Surely things are stable now, more stable than they've been in years. You-You-Know-Who is—"
"Gone?" Lucius cut in, amused. "How quaint."
"He may be gone," said Lady Selwyn, "but his ideology remains. Dumbledore knew that. That's why he's expanding the walls of Hogwarts—to dilute the legacy we protect."
There was a ripple of nods around the room.
Cassian spoke again, calmly, "This isn't about the Dark Lord. Not anymore. It's about the soul of the wizarding world. Either it's governed by lineage and tradition… or it crumbles under populist sentiment and Muggle-born delusion."
"We need strategy, not nostalgia," Travers agreed. "Control the school. Control the next generation. That's where it begins."
"And if Dumbledore blocks that path?" asked Mulciber.
Cassian's gaze narrowed. "Then he becomes the path we dismantle."
Fudge blanched.
Lucius raised his glass in a quiet toast. "To legacy."
The others echoed him. "To legacy."
And just as swiftly as the words left their mouths, a House-elf in regal green robes appeared beside Cassian, bowing so low its nose touched the marble.
"Master Cassian. A reply… from Headmaster Dumbledore."
Cassian took the letter, eyes flicking over the seal. He broke it with a quiet snap.
The room waited, silence wrapping around the parchment like a spell.
Cassian read.
Then read again.
His fingers twitched—barely—and his mouth settled into a firm, restrained line.
"Well?" asked Lucius.
Cassian spoke with a tone so sharp it could draw blood.
"He refuses."
Whispers erupted instantly.
"Refuses to what?" asked Lady Nott.
"Transfer the boy to Slytherin," Cassian said. "He claims Elias has found his place and that to move him would be—quote—'a betrayal of his will and his potential.'"
There was a moment of stunned stillness. Then a ripple of derisive laughter.
"How poetic," said Travers, sneering.
"He underestimates what legacy demands," Cassian said darkly. "Perhaps it is time he's reminded."
"But not now," Lucius said, placing a hand on Cassian's shoulder. "We must wait. Watch. Let the boy show what side he truly belongs to."
"Or if he belongs at all," added Mulciber coldly.
The fire had long since dimmed into a dull ember, yet the warmth in the room had not returned. Conversations now moved like coiled serpents—slow, deliberate, ready to strike.
Cassian folded Dumbledore's letter neatly and tucked it into his coat. He did not speak further of his son. Not yet.
It was Lord Travers who broke the pause, voice thick with the old aristocratic sneer.
"Let us not pretend the boy matters in the grand scheme. Legacy has no room for weak links. If Elias Blake becomes useful, then good. If not… well." He waved a hand as if brushing away dust. "We have always known how to prune family trees."
Lady Selwyn nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her crystal glass. "A child who cannot carry the weight of blood is of no greater value than a Squib. Sentimentality is for the half-bloods."
Cassian did not respond. He didn't need to. His silence was agreement.
Lucius leaned forward now, ever the tactician. "Cassian, you know the expectations placed on your line. You served in the Department of Mysteries, the Department of International Magical Affairs—you've shaped policy in silence for over a decade. If your son cannot carry that influence into Hogwarts… someone else will."
"Someone more obedient," said Mulciber quietly.
Cassian's gaze flicked toward the man, unreadable. "My son is not disobedient. He's… independent. There is a difference."
"Dumbledore calls it 'will'," muttered Lady Nott.
Lucius smiled thinly. "Then mold that will while you still can. Or extinguish it before it becomes flame."
A faint chuckle came from the corner. Lord Burke, ancient and silver-bearded, finally stirred.
"You speak of children as if they are pawns, not pieces. Pawns can be sacrificed. But pieces?" His eyes glinted. "Pieces can turn."
There was a moment of chill.
Then the conversation turned.
"What of the World-Noble Heritage Council?" asked Travers. "We've heard whispers they've taken interest in Hogwarts again."
Cassian's face hardened at the name.
The World-Noble Heritage Council—WNHC—an ancient, unofficial assembly of pureblood lineages that operated globally, beyond the oversight of any Ministry. While most considered them myth or irrelevant aristocracy, the ones in this room knew better.
"They've sent observers," Cassian said. "Quiet ones. Disguised in academic posts, historical departments. Hogwarts is under watch."
"Because of Dumbledore?" asked Fudge, his voice still timid among lions.
"Because Dumbledore is shifting the axis of magical culture," said Lady Selwyn coldly. "He's training the next generation to forget."
"To forget what blood built. What legacy preserved," added Lucius.
Cassian spoke again, this time colder than before. "They're waiting. Watching. If the Council believes Hogwarts is unsalvageable, they'll push for an international restructure."
"Over Dumbledore's dead body," Travers scoffed.
"Perhaps," Cassian said simply. "Or perhaps over someone else's."
"And if your son fails?" asked Lord Burke, always the blade behind the smile.
"Then he'll be forgotten," Cassian replied without blinking. "He will not be protected by sentiment. Not by me. Not by the Council. Not by the world we serve."
Silence rippled again. It wasn't shocking—not in this circle. But it was final.
Lucius raised his glass again, lower this time.
"To legacy," he said once more, but there was something colder behind it now.
And the rest echoed:
"To legacy."
Outside, the night deepened. Stars turned above a sky that had watched centuries of ambition, betrayal, and sacrifice. And beneath it, inside a glittering manor filled with power and secrets, one boy's future was measured like a commodity—valuable only so long as he could be shaped.