ACT4CH55 - Powerplays Part 1

From the moment Daphne Greengrass stepped into the antechamber outside the Wizengamot floor, she could feel it—the scent of politics thick in the air like ozone before a storm.

The stone beneath her polished boots thrummed faintly, as if the castle itself knew what was coming. The portraits on the wall were awake and whispering, their painted eyes flitting between the gathered elite. Every robe was pressed, every crest gleamed, every word was measured. They were sharks in velvet and silk, fangs hidden behind etiquette.

And they had come to eat Harry Potter.

Her spine straightened as she moved through the sea of Lords, Ladies, and representatives. Conversations hushed slightly as she passed. Not just because she was Lady Greengrass herself, but because she was his betrothed.

They saw her and thought of him. And today, the Wizengamot had gathered to make him kneel.

Fools.

She took her place on the upper gallery beside her father, just above the chamber floor. Her eyes scanned the semicircular dais where the Chief Warlock’s chair loomed empty. It wouldn’t be for long.

“Expecting blood?” she asked softly.

Joshua smiled faintly beside her, not looking at her. “I expect they think they’ve already drawn it.”

She glanced down as the doors to the main floor opened again. The noise swelled. The Lords were filing in now—Orion Mulciber with his cadaverous sneer, Benjamin Nott with his ever-oily composure, and Arabella Brown, draped in stoicism like a funeral veil. They looked like relics of a dwindling empire. But their eyes held ambition.

“They think he’s another Dumbledore.”

Joshua finally turned to her, lips twitching. “They hope he is.”

Because Dumbledore would stall. He would demur. He would play for peace, for understanding, even when he was being flayed alive by their bureaucracy. And because of that, they feared him less. They disrespected him. They never would have dared speak of Voldemort in front of Dumbledore the way they now did—carefully, cautiously, as if tasting the name before using it again.

But Harry wasn’t Dumbledore.

He wasn’t their fantasy of a chained lion.

And they’d find that out soon enough.

The emergency session of the Wizengamot opened not with shouting, but with silence. Heavy, deliberate silence. The kind that meant eyes were watching, quills were poised, and knives were already being sharpened beneath velvet gloves. As soon as the roll call was done and the quorum was met, Albus Dumbledore ordered the doors to be closed and the session to begin.

Amelia Bones, the Interim Minister of Magic, rose from her seat draped in crimson and gold. Her robes bore the emblem of the Ministry, but her wand hand rested lightly against the desk—like a duelist waiting to be challenged.

“Let the chamber be seated,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “This session of the Wizengamot has been called under Article Seven, Subsection Four of Magical Emergency Deliberation.”

A pause.

“Let it be noted that while this motion was called by Lords Mulciber, Nott, Smith and Lady Brown, the Ministry retains the right to moderate proceedings in the interest of magical stability and security. Mr. Potter’s actions at Azkaban—though unorthodox—prevented the total collapse of our world. That fact remains part of the record.”

A few polite murmurs followed. Some nods. But more than a few eyes rolled.

At the center of the dais, seated in the Chief Warlock’s high-backed chair, Albus Dumbledore remained still. His hands were folded neatly before him, his gaze contemplative. He did not speak. Not yet.

The Court Scribe began the roll of convening: the motion at hand was “the unilateral assumption of magical authority by Harry Potter, the classification of anomalous magical convergence, and the ongoing containment of the entity known as the Azkaban Gate.”

The murmurs began to grow.

Lord Nott stood first, his silver collar glinting in the enchanted light.

“Let the record state, this session was not called in haste. It was called in clarity. The recent event at Azkaban—and the manifestation of an entity Potter has named ‘the Gate’—have left us on the edge of metaphysical collapse. No ward can pierce it. No law reaches it. And no oversight exists.”

He turned toward the upper gallery. “We do not seek to villainize Mr. Potter. But we cannot ignore the dangers of power without precedent. History does not wait for permission. It moves. And we must move with it.”

Archibald Smith followed, oozing polite concern. “There is no doubt of Mr. Potter’s courage. But no wizard, however valorous, should stand as the sole custodian of a force that could unmake reality. We ask only for cooperation. For accountability.”

“Cooperation,” muttered Joshua Greengrass beside Daphne, “always means control.”

Daphne didn’t respond. Her eyes were already narrowed.

 Lady Arabella Brown stood, her voice filled with careful, cultivated gravity. “The people are afraid. They look to us not just for governance, but for protection. What message do we send if we allow one man—without office, without oversight—to wield a power that could, by all reasonable estimation, unmake nations?”

There were nods. Murmurs of approval. Even from those who did not align with the conservative bloc, there was unease. This wasn’t just a matter of power—it was optics.

Mulciber rose, slow and deliberate. His voice was a blade wrapped in silk.

“We are not here to condemn Mr. Potter. But we must ask ourselves what precedent we are setting. The Statute of Secrecy is not merely a treaty—it is the spine of our civilization. And yet Mr. Potter has, through the creation and control of this Gate, fractured that spine. What happens when such power is seen? When it is envied? When it is feared?”

Daphne decided she had enough, and did something that went against her entire life of training in pureblood protocol.

She yawned.

Loudly.

“Is something the matter, Lady Greengrass?” asked Benjamin Nott smugly. “I’d have thought someone of your position would be able to carry themselves through such an important event. Or do you also believe the Wizengamot is beneath you?”

Daphne glanced at the man, and stood, yawning again.

“The Wizengamot recognizes Lady Daphne of House Greengrass,” drolled the Scribe.

“No, not really,” she said, waving her hand lazily. “The Prosecution… if I may call them that, for lack of a better word, is spending so much time trying to play upon public perception and fear mongering that it’s downright embarrassing. And boring. My apologies for letting it get to me.”

“Lady Greengrass,” said Christina Avery. “Kindly maintain decorum, or it might reflect on your father’s decision making. We might get the impression that you are not quite… fit enough to be in the room, unlike what your father believes.”

“Again my apologies,” said Daphne, bowing slightly at the older woman who scoffed and looked away. “Ladies and Gentle-wizards of the Wizengamot, I just have a single question to ask. Who is Harry Potter?”

Murmurs ran among the audience.

“What a pointless—” Lord Nott began.

“It’s not pointless,” said Daphne, holding her ground. “I know it, but I doubt you do. So let me remind you. He’s the Boy-Who-Lived. A symbol of faith in the belief that Evil, no matter how great, shall eventually find its end in the hands of Good. Tom Riddle, one of the darkest wizards in history, found his end in the hands of a baby barely a year old. I don’t know about you, but even now, Godric’s Hollow celebrates Harry Potter day on Halloween every year, lighting the remains of the Potter cottage, and have eulogies about the Potters, wishing Harry good health. Before the catastrophe, the Azkaban Guard used to celebrate Harry’s birthday with as much aplomb as they did Christmas and Halloween.”

Nobody interrupted her this time.

“Harry Potter grew up an orphan because he lost his parents to the Dark Lord. He grew up secluded, away from Magic, because dark wizards wanted him dead. Ever since he’s come to Hogwarts, he has faced and defeated the Dark Lord not once, not twice, but three times, in his first, second and fourth years. And from what the Minister claimed, he played a pivotal role in ensuring Tom Riddle’s defeat, while simultaneously dealing with Ekrizdis. He’s the one that has ensured the resurgence of ancient history, defaced several myths and twisted interpretations of Salazar Slytherin’s character. He’s the one that has survived and won the Triwizard Tournament and dominated over a hundred dementors. He’s the one ensured that Hogwarts was free of the insidious curse hampering the Defence Against The Dark Arts education for the last several decades. And despite the previous Ministry’s incompetency and pointless antagonism, he's the one that saved the trapped from St. Mungo’s and ensured that the world was not destroyed by the unleashed Anima that Ekrizdis sought to impress upon us all. I ask you, I ask all of you, doesn’t the fact that you all are here, alive, testament to my fiance’s efforts and sacrifices? From the way I look at it, the Wizarding world owes him a life debt several times over, and yet you have the gall to stand and accuse him of hoarding power? Don’t make me laugh!”

A few seats away, Tiberius Ogden closed his eyes.

“Well said,” said Adrian MacMillan. “Harry Potter is the answer to our prayers for a saviour during the dark days of the last war. And when that saviour actually arrives, we want him to play by our rules? We’ve to understand that the Azkaban event was a paradigm shift, and we need to think of this beyond politics.”

“Why?” demanded Jugson. “In our world, every act is a political act.”

“I think Miss Greengrass wants us to just disperse the Wizengamot, kneel before Harry Potter, and let him shape the future for us,” said Nott.

“Oh I don’t know,” said Daphne, a cruel smile playing on her face. “Why don’t you lift up your left sleeve and repeat that statement again?”

“You filthy little—” Nott growled, but his voice was lost in the sudden hammering of the gavel as Dumbledore fought to restore order. Daphne saw Andromeda give her a feral grin, and nodded, returning to her seat.

“Let us not be swept away by hero worship,” said Smith. “Mr. Potter may be the Boy-Who-Lived, but he is no longer a boy. He has slain monsters. He has rewritten laws. He has sealed a rift in reality. But power, my friends, does not excuse exclusion. It demands regulation.”

Dumbledore stood up. “Human beings have a horrible track of following people in great power down paths that have led to huge human atrocities. We have always created icons in our own image, and project ourselves onto the person we follow. The fact is, maybe Harry Potter isn’t some sort of Grindelwald, Ekrizdis or Tom Riddle, just like he isn’t Merlin-Reborn. Maybe he’s just a young man trying to do the right thing. I just have a single thing to ask, are you, as a member of the Wizengamot, willing to say to a grieving parent when the next catastrophe hits — Harry Potter could have helped save your child, but on principle, we did not want him to act?”

“Nobody is saying he shouldn’t act,” said Justin Fawley. “All we’re saying is that he shouldn’t act unilaterally. And fortunately or unfortunately, his role as Gatekeeper on Azkaban is just that.”

“What are we saying then?” asked Minister Bones. “Must there be a Gatekeeper?”

Fawley shrugged and exhaled. “There is.”

Tiberius Ogden stood up. “I think we have heard enough, and propose all this talk about the misuse of power and accusations about Harry Potter be dropped, and a vote be scheduled on the terms of cooperative oversight and research access, pending Mr. Potter’s formal testimony and agreement.”

“Seconded,” said Burke.

“Thirded,” said Macmillan.

Before anyone could speak further, a figure in deep black stood from the far row.

“The Wizengamot recognizes Saul Croaker, Voice of the Unspeakables and representative of the Department of Mysteries.”

“I object,” said Smith. “The Wizengamot has yet to decide on the issue of the Azkaban Gate and Harry Potter. The Department of Mysteries has no say in this matter!”

Daphne exchanged a look with her father.

“As a matter of fact, we do,” said Croaker, his face hidden by his cloak. “Even discounting his title of Warlock, Harry Potter has been an intern at the Department of Mysteries sometime after he was acquitted from his last trial.”

“Preposterous!” scoffed Arabella Brown. “He hasn’t even completed his OWLs, yet.”

“And yet,” said Andromeda Tonks, standing up from the Black seat. “That little trivia did not stop him from taking up the mantle of the Defence Against The Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. Surely you knew about that, Lady Brown?”

“Which only shows just how far the standards have fallen!” scoffed the old matriarch.

“A pity,” drawled Andromeda. “Perhaps you should have faced Lord Voldemort instead, instead of letting the Boy-Who-Lived deal with the nastiness?”

“Order!” said Dumbledore,  banging the gavel. “There will be no more unauthorized interruptions!”

Amelia Bones stood up, gesturing at Dumbledore who nodded. “The Department of Mysteries is an autonomous institution, funded partly between the British Ministry of Magic and the Alexandrian Archives of the ICW. The Wizengamot, or our academic system has no say in their recruitment process. Being labeled as a Warlock for his successful acquisition of the Peverell Family Magic, also known as Death, Harry Potter was found suitable and the Department of Mysteries reached out to him. I was present when the offer was made. In a similar vein, both Albus Dumbledore and myself found Harry Potter a worthy recruit for the position of the Defence Professor and Hit-Wizard, and he aped both roles quite successfully. Does that adequately satisfy your next condescending question, Lady Brown?”

Arabella Brown gritted her teeth but said nothing.

With that, the floor was left to Croaker once again. 

“We submit a formal request to study Mr. Potter’s magical constitution. Not politically. Not legally. But magically. He is a convergence point, perhaps even a new magical archetype. We would understand it. Discreetly.”

More murmurs. A few raised eyebrows.

Nott stood up. “Why discreetly? Shouldn’t we all get to know what we’re dealing with?”

“So long as you’d submit to being accountable for any misuse of the information,” said Bones in a no-nonsense tone. “By which I mean submit to whatever stringent oaths that the Department of Mysteries might deem necessary.”

She brushed off the glare from Nott who sat down. “Let us not kid ourselves. As the Gatekeeper, Harry Potter’s powers must be protected. As such, I declare all findings related to Harry Potter’s magical constitution to fall under the Official Secrets Act, under classification Need-To-Know.”

Not surprising, Daphne decided. Need-to-Know was the highest secrecy classification in the Ministry hierarchy, requiring the signatures of all five governing offices — the DMLE, the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the Department of Mysteries, the Chief Warlock and the Minister of Magic, to be unsealed.

Dumbledore finally stirred, voice quiet and measured. “Let us not forget,” he said, “that Mr. Potter has never asked for power. He has only ever accepted responsibility. When others hesitated, he acted. When we lost control, he found it.”

He looked across the chamber, eyes glinting like fading stars.

“We feared Grindelwald for what he would take. We feared Vol — Tom Riddle for what he would destroy. But the fear of Harry Potter can be… will be different. It is the fear that he may do nothing. That he may simply stand. And let us fall.”

No one replied.

Not yet.

Madam Bones cleared her throat, returning to the formal script. “A vote has been proposed—subject to Mr. Potter’s testimony—regarding ICW and Ministry oversight, suit research access, and limitations upon the Gatekeeper’s jurisdiction.”

She looked toward the towering doors at the far end of the chamber.

“Summon the Gatekeeper.”

And thus, the doors opened.

The air changed.

Daphne rose to her feet before she realized she was doing it. Her breath caught.

He did not march in. He did not sweep his cloak or raise a hand or make a proclamation. He simply entered—and it was enough.

The torches dimmed a fraction, just a whisper of light curling inward, not extinguished but subdued, as though recognizing something older, deeper, than fire.

Harry Potter stepped into the chamber.

He wore robes of shadowed grey—not the black of mourning or the plum of politics. A neutral void. A monochrome of quiet defiance. His cuffs shimmered faintly with lines of silver, runes etched in perfect symmetry—binding, summer, and death worked together in motionless balance. A triad language written in motionless code.

But it wasn’t his robes that stopped the room cold.

It was his presence.

There was no visible magic. No pulsing aura. No radiance. But something came with him. Some weight. Some resonance that made the walls of the chamber feel suddenly smaller, older. The stone itself, Daphne thought, seemed to lean back.

His shadow trailed behind him.

But it didn’t follow. Not exactly.

It rippled—not like fabric, but like light bending around an event horizon. It moved just a heartbeat out of sync with him. A fraction of a moment too slow or too fast, Daphne couldn’t tell. It slithered at the edge of perception like something watching from beneath black water.

And when he passed beneath the central arch, half the room shivered.

No one spoke. No one greeted. No one dared.

He walked with a kind of silence that wasn’t absence of sound, but reverence. Like a funeral procession for the last truth anyone could agree on.

Daphne saw it. The fear.

Mulciber, the vulture in velvet, leaned back in his chair. Nott’s fingers twitched at the edge of his robes. Rosier had frozen mid-turn, lips parted. Even Bones’s hand strayed just slightly toward her wand—not consciously, but reflexively.

It wasn’t just awe. It was something more primal. Recognition.

They had gathered expecting to confront a man.

And something else had come.

He reached the center of the chamber and stopped.

He said nothing.

And for a long moment, neither did they.

Not because of decorum. Not because of strategy.

But because they did not know what would happen if they did.

Let them stew, Daphne thought. Let them sweat.

The stillness held for three long seconds.

Then Amelia Bones stood.

She was not cowed—not yet—but her usual ironclad composure was slower to rise, as though even she had to remember how to breathe. Her eyes, sharp behind her monocle, flicked over Harry with the same calculating precision she once used in courtrooms, raids, and trials. But they softened—not with sympathy, but with recognition.

Still, she was Minister.

Still, this was her chamber.

She cleared her throat.

“Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice measured, even. “You have been summoned before this chamber under the authority of the Wizengamot and in accordance with Section Four of the Emergency Deliberation Act.”

Harry said nothing.

A few seats shifted uncomfortably.

Amelia pressed forward.

“The matters at hand include the recent manifestation of the Azkaban Gate, the status and containment of the magical construct known as the homunculus suit, your assumption of the title of Gatekeeper, and the implications of your unique magical condition on magical law, sovereignty, and international security.”

Her words echoed across the chamber, sounding both too official and too fragile in the face of what had just entered the room.

“We ask that all members present conduct themselves with order and respect,” she continued, louder now. “The accused is afforded full speaking rights and protection under Article Nine.”

She sat.

The silence returned.

And Harry stepped forward. Daphne noted how his skin glowed subtly, just like it did at Azkaban Gate. His green eyes were glowing too, as if piercing through the fabric of her very soul. That ever-playful smile on his face, one promising an inside joke that only he could remember, was almost a leer, one with a darker, insidious overtone to it.

This was a side of Harry she knew she had not seen before.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t widen his stance. But when he spoke, the room listened.

“Respect,” he repeated, quietly. “An interesting word.”

He looked around the semicircle, his eyes passing over Mulciber, Nott, Rosier, Brown, Ogden… Dumbledore… Bones.

“You summoned me,” he said softly. “Not because you understand what I’ve done. But because you’re afraid of what it means.”

A pause.

“You didn’t call for the Boy-Who-Lived. You didn’t call the student from Hogwarts, the Professor, or the hit-wizard from the war. You didn’t even call Lord Potter, or the scion of Houses Black, Potter… and Greengrass.”

Exhale.

“You called the Gatekeeper.”

He let the word hang there. Unapologetic. Unbowed.

“Here I am.”

A stir ran through the benches—uneasy, hushed.

“I came because I believe in what this chamber is supposed to represent. Law. Order. Protection. Not posturing. Not paranoia. Not insecure politicians dressing fear in robes and calling it wisdom.”

Mulciber’s jaw tensed.

“I came,” Harry said, “because I thought that the world should really know what happened. About the mistakes committed by the British Ministry. About the horrors that were spawning all this time in the heart of Azkaban tower. About how our own bigotry and greed nearly led us all to extinction.”

He stepped once more toward the center, his voice still calm, still quiet—and somehow louder than thunder.

“But if all you want is to ask me how I plan to chain myself for your comfort, I’ll save you the trouble.”

He raised his hand.

And the torches around the chamber flared—not with heat, but with silver fire. No warmth. No shadow. Just clarity.

“I won’t.”

The silver fire guttered, flickering like ghostlight against the stone. No one spoke for a moment—until, inevitably, someone did.

Mulciber stood up.

He didn’t rush. His bones creaked with the weight of long-held arrogance, and his voice was that of an old predator, patient and venomous.

“Impressive theatrics,” he said, tone mild. “Let the record show that the Wizengamot welcomes Mr. Potter’s presence. We are grateful for his past service in defense of our country.”

Daphne’s hands curled into fists.

Service. Like he was a soldier. Like he had bled and burned and broken for them.

“Though I confess, Mr. Potter—Gatekeeper, if you prefer—it’s difficult to tell whether we’re meant to be awed or threatened.”

The sarcasm clung to the air like smoke.

Harry tilted his head, expression unreadable. “I don’t know. Do you have a Dark Mark on your arm like your brother?”

Mulciber’s lips twitched. “I am not the one on trial, Mr. Potter. You are. And this body today has gathered here to determine the effects of your setting a dangerous precedent. You’ve decided what the world needs and acted without consultation. Without oversight. Without consent. And now, you claim a role no one appointed you to—as if power, alone, were proof of legitimacy.”

He paused, then smiled faintly.

“That is not guardianship, Mr. Potter. That is conquest wrapped in nobility.”

Daphne felt the shift in the air. A few members nodded—tentatively. The wolves had scented blood again. Even Arabella Brown sat a little straighter, her eyes narrowing.

Harry didn’t react. Not visibly.

But Daphne had seen him bleed, seen him shatter, seen him command the impossible. And this… this stillness? It was worse. Because Mulciber didn’t realize he wasn’t winning. He was standing on a precipice, grinning into a storm he thought was wind.

“Consultation,” said Harry. “Oversight. Consent. You’re afraid I’ve crowned myself king.”

Mulciber said nothing.

Harry looked around the chamber again, his gaze lingering on the younger members, the undecided. “How? By bringing back the Peverell Family Magic that generations of witches and wizards have tried and failed over the last millennia? Or by preventing the Dark Lord Voldemort from rising to power every single time he tried? Or by aiding Minister Bones and her army to save the DMLE that were captured by the Death Eaters and dementors of Azkaban? Or was it when I stopped Ekrizdis from destroying the world as we all know it?”

He raised his hand, but this time no magic stirred. Only words.

“Power is what lets you destroy. Responsibility is what makes you choose not to. When Ekrizdis opened the Gates to the Anima, he wanted to become God. Reshape the world in his image. I stopped him, and sealed the power back, letting the world continue as it was. My parents gave their lives to stop Voldemort, and I’d be damned if I let him, or some other twisted madman try to destroy the world I know and love. But make no mistake.”

He stepped forward—closer to Mulciber’s bench now, his voice going deathly quiet.

“I did not become this strong because of Wizarding Britain, and I certainly didn’t obtain this strength to serve Britain. You all have no claim to my power other than what I allow, and frankly, seeing you all act like insecure, spoiled children like this because I happen to have power you cannot control is so silly and disappointing that it’s downright embarrassing.”

“What are your aspirations now, Mr. Potter?” asked Ogden.

“Finish my OWLs,” said Harry, exhaling. “And continue taking the Defence classes that the Headmaster dropped on me, I guess.”

“And for the long term?” asked Fawley.

“If you’re asking about what it means for the Wizengamot, I’ll disappoint you. Despite what some idiots would have you believe, I have never deserted to be a long term face of the Wizengamot. I don’t have the patience or the stomach for endless and pointless backstabbing between fools that endlessly put their pride before their own progress. The only long term projects I care about is my own research, the Workshop, and fulfilling my duties to my near and dear ones. And I fully intend for it to not include endlessly being the subject of controversy by weak-minded fools, greedy dark lords, and ancient contracts that can potentially wipe out humanity. Let somebody else deal with the nonsense.”

“And… Azkaban?”

“It stays where it is. Locked by my wall of Death. Safe from the hands of the inept, the greedy, and the corrupt.”

“Say we do not agree with it,” said Nott, standing up. 

“Then you’ll have to face a disaster that will make what Ekrizdis did look like a first-year’s attempt at a stunning spell.”

“What?” 

Harry’s eyes glinted. “Me.”