The great Wizengamot Hall, in the heart of the Ministry of Magic, had never witnessed such absolute silence. The black walls of polished stone, adorned with ancient tapestries and the crests of extinct families, seemed to absorb the sound of pent-up breathing. Green torches burned steadily on the walls, casting long, ethereal shadows that twisted beneath the vaulted ceiling. In the center of the hall, a circle of chairs raised on steps formed the oldest courtroom in the wizarding world.
It was on this stage that Magnus Riddle walked through the doors.
He wore traditional black robes, without unnecessary adornments, with a single cape held together by an ancient brooch in the shape of the Slytherin symbol. His presence was an invisible wall that made the air vibrate, dense and indomitable. His eyes, a deep and attentive green, scanned the room like a silent sovereign who did not seek approval, but simply observed the reality before him.
No one dared to speak. No one dared to move.
The magical families were already assembled, dressed in their best attire, displaying their insignia, carved wands, and ancient jewels. They were the Bones, the Greengrass, the Selwyns, the Yaxleys, the Prewetts, the Shacklebolts, the Flints, and many others. Some wore the pride of immaculate bloodlines; others bore the silent despair of those who knew their greatness was fading with time.
The sound of their breathing was subtle, nervous.
Magnus walked with firm, deliberate steps across the purple carpet that snaked its way to the center of the room. Each step was measured, each movement carried with quiet dignity. He had no need to lift his chin or display arrogance—his mere existence commanded respect.
The tapestries whispered ancient songs of victories and betrayals. Magnus felt the weight of history on his shoulders, but he walked as if he himself were an inevitable part of that age-old narrative.
Above the courtroom chairs, coats of arms gleamed in gold: entwined serpents, soaring eagles, flaming ulnae, crowns, and constellations. Coats of arms that represented not just names, but ancient oaths, sworn in blood and magic.
Magnus stopped in the center of the hall.
All around him, members of the oldest houses in Britain stared at him with eyes full of hidden intent. Some, like the Greengrasses and the Shacklebolts, watched with guarded respect. Others, like the Flints and the Yaxleys, betrayed a mixture of envy and fear.
The details did not escape Magnus's sharp mind: rings of forbidden symbols hidden beneath luxurious sleeves; exchanges of surreptitious glances that whispered of alliances and betrayals. He recorded it all. Every gesture, every involuntary tremor, every forced smile.
There was no dialogue.
The hall was a mirror of the broken anchors of a society that had lost its true greatness. Magnus could sense the fear masquerading as civility, the greed for power masquerading as good manners. He knew that among these families, few still possessed the fiber of the founders.
The ancient sculptures in the corners of the hall—stone griffins, sleeping dragons, watchful ravens—seemed to tilt their heads to watch him. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Magnus remained silent. His gaze met the eyes of each family head, as if marking his territory without needing words. When his green eyes met another, it was like a blade cutting through the layers of pretensions and secrets.
High above the hall, the Wizengamot crest—a pair of scales pierced by a bolt of lightning—flashed momentarily. It was almost ironic: justice here was more a decoration than a living truth.
Magnus knew this.
He had not come seeking approval.
He had come to see, to judge, to weigh.
And, at the right time, decide.
In the distance, on the edge of the shadows, the portraits of the former members of the Wizengamot watched in silence. Some, perhaps, recognized the greatness that once again passed through those aged stones. Others, perhaps, trembled at the silent promise of change.
When Magnus finally moved, it was only to fold his hands in front of him and bow his head slightly—a gesture of noble acknowledgement, but also a mark of insurmountable distance.
He was Magnus Riddle.
And in that hall of brittle names and faded glories, he was the only truly living presence.