CHAPTER THREE

EXPOSURE

A loud booming voice echoes through the circular chamber. Chief Warlock Cassius Shafiq rises from the center dais, his silver staff striking the stone floor once. "Today is the twenty-first of June, nineteen hundred and forty-six," he announces. "This session of the Wizengamot has been called at the request of Lord Yaxley. The matter before us is the proposed Creatures' Rights Bill." Silence settles over the chamber. The Ancient and Noble Houses sit beneath their floating family crests. The Dark Houses occupy the left side of the chamber, the Light Houses the right, while the Grey Houses sit between them, ready to tip the balance either way. Cassius looks toward the Dark benches. "Lord Yaxley, you have the floor."

Lord Yaxley stands. "My Lords. My Ladies." His voice carries easily through the chamber. "This bill has been misunderstood before a single vote has been cast." He unrolls a lengthy scroll. "It does not seek to place magical creatures above wizardkind." A few murmurs of approval ripple through the room. "It seeks to ensure that sentient magical beings are treated fairly under wizarding law. Our society depends upon magical creatures every day. Goblins maintain Gringotts. House-elves keep our homes running. Merfolk uphold ancient treaties protecting our waterways. Centaurs safeguard parts of our forests." He pauses. "Yet many of these beings possess fewer legal protections than a Hippogriff. The bill establishes employment protections for sentient magical beings. A goblin craftsman who fulfills the terms of a magical contract must receive the wages he was promised." He turns another page. "It prevents employers from dismissing someone solely because they are a werewolf."

Immediately, voices rise across the chamber. Lord Longbottom is the first to stand. "The House of Longbottom objects." The room quiets. "No lord or lady should lose the right to decide who works within their household or business." He folds his hands behind his back. "Werewolves remain dangerous. Their condition cannot simply be ignored because we wish to appear compassionate." Voices of agreement erupts throughout the room.

Lord Abbott rises beside him. "The House of Abbott agrees." He looks toward Yaxley. "This bill interferes with the rights of employers."

Lord Prewett stands next. "We all oppose cruelty but compassion and legislation are not the same thing. If we begin dictating who cannot be refused employment, where does it end?"

From the Dark benches, Lady Lucretia Black, who is acting as the Black proxy due to her father and brother being busy with Lyra, rises with effortless grace. "The House of Black supports the bill." Her words silence the room once more. "Our ancestors understood something modern Britain seems determined to forget." She slowly surveys the chamber. "Magic belongs to more than wizardkind." She gestures toward the enchanted ceiling. "The oldest alliances of House Black were forged with goblin clans and the merfolk long before this Ministry existed." Her gaze settles on Lord Longbottom. "If a goblin fulfills the terms of a contract, he deserves payment." She looks toward Lord Prewett. "If a peaceful werewolf possesses the skill to earn an honest living, he should not be condemned to poverty because of fear." Finally she says, "And if a witch or wizard abuses a magical being placed under their care, they should answer for it."

Lord Rosier rises immediately. "The House of Rosier supports."

"So does the House of Burke," Lord Burke adds.

"The House of Avery supports."

"The House of Selwyn."

"The House of Travers." One after another, the older Dark Houses voice their support. Then Lord Greengrass stands from the Grey benches.

"The House of Greengrass believes both sides raise valid concerns." Every eye turns toward him. "We support laws preventing abuse. We support enforcing magical employment contracts. We support honoring our treaties with peaceful magical communities." He pauses. "But...do not support taking away families rights to determine who they employ." Several Grey families nod. "A magic family needs to feel safe and secure in their employees. It should be up to the family if they wish to employ a magical being such as a werewolf and there should be no punishment if they do not; and there be no resistance if they do."

Lord Yaxley inclines his head respectfully. "A compromise I would gladly consider." The debate continues for nearly two hours. Ancient treaties are produced from enchanted archives. Employment records involving goblin craftsmen are cited. Several Light families recount the Goblin Rebellions. Dark families answer with examples of broken treaties and unlawful persecution carried out by previous Ministries. The Grey families try to keep the peace. The chamber grows louder as arguments overlap and voices rise.

Then, the floor shakes. Every conversation dies instantly. Silver runes blaze across the black stone floor. The floating family crests begin glowing one after another. "What in Merlin's name..." someone whispers. A deafening crack echoes through the chamber. The marble beneath the Dark benches splits apart as a massive chair rises from the darkness. The chair is made from black stone with silver veins and three intertwined Hallows carved into the backrest. Above the chair, silver fire bursts into life.

CLAIMED.

A horrified whisper breaks the silence. "The Peverell seat..."

"It has returned."

"The Peverell seat has been claimed."

"Who do you think it is?"

"I never thought I'd see the day."

Across the chamber, Albus Dumbledore—transfiguration professor at Hogwarts and recipient of Order of Merlin, First Class—goes perfectly still. Only one year has passed since the fall of Gellert Grindelwald. No one understands better than Albus what the Peverell name means: the family tied to the legend of the Deathly Hallows. Something Gellert obsessively sought. His hand tightens on the Elder Wand in his pocket only to pause when he can no longer feel it. He blinks in surprise, trying to rationalize the wand disappearing. Does the Peverell head have the ability to recall the Hallows?

Minister Leonard Spencer-Moon notices Dumbledore's expression. Quietly, he leans closer. "Do you believe this is genuine?"

Dumbledore never takes his eyes off the newly risen seat. "I do. If Grindelwald learns of this...I fear for us."

In an isolated prison on Nurmengard, the guards make their nightly rounds. One pauses outside the highest cell. "You'll enjoy this, Grindelwald," he says mockingly, unfolding a copy of the Daily Prophet that arrived with the afternoon owl. He reads aloud with a laugh. "'Ancient Peverell Seat Appears in Extraordinary Wizengamot Session.' Imagine that. After all these centuries." Silence greets him. He shrugs and walks away, tossing the newspaper through the bars.

For several minutes, the prison remains silent. Then a pale hand reaches from the darkness and long fingers unfold the damp newspaper with surprising care. Blue eyes scan the article once. A slow smile spreads across Gellert Grindelwald's face. "So..." he murmurs to the empty cell. "The bloodline survives." His thumb brushes over the words Peverell Seat Claimed. He begins to laugh, softly at first, then harder until the sound echoes through the lonely tower. Far below, several guards exchange uneasy glances.

One mutters, "What's he laughing about?"

Another simply shakes his head. "No idea."

Back in his cell, Gellert folds the newspaper with meticulous precision. His eyes shine with renewed purpose. "I knew," he whispers. "I knew the Hallows were never finished with this world."

Outside, thunder rolls across the mountains. Inside Nurmengard, for the first time in a year, Gellert Grindelwald has something worth hoping for.

***

"So," Lyra licks her ice cream, glancing at the large crowd of people in Diagon Alley. "Where to next?"

"You are now Lady Peverell. It is not merely another inheritance." Arcturus says quietly. "You are now the head of one of the oldest magical Houses ever to exist. Every pureblood family in Britain will watch every decision you make. They will analyze every friendship, every alliance, every public appearance, every word that you make." Lyra's smile fades.

"So... politics."

"Worse," Orion mutters. "Politics with ancient traditions."

Arcturus nods. "The House of Peverell possesses responsibilities that predate the Ministry itself." He begins counting them off. "You will maintain the ancient vaults. You will oversee lands belonging to House Peverell. You will safeguard family magic. You will answer invitations from Houses seeking alliances. You will attend Wizengamot sessions once you finish heir training. You will represent your House in disputes. And someday..." He pauses, "...you may very well become one of the most influential witches in Britain."

"And if I don't want that?" Lyra asks.

Arcturus smiles gently. "Then you will still have to learn it."

She blinks. "That's not the answer I was hoping for."

"I know. You are free to choose what kind of Lady Peverell you become. You are not free to ignore what being Lady Peverell means." Before anyone can continue, a loud fluttering fills the air.

Dozens of tawny owls descend over Diagon Alley. "Afternoon edition! Special edition! Extra! Read all about it!" Bundles of newspapers begin dropping into waiting hands. One owl swoops directly toward Arcturus before releasing a neatly folded copy into his arms. Across the front page, in enormous enchanted lettering, were the words:

THE PEVERELLS RETURN

ANCIENT WIZENGAMOT SEAT CLAIMED AFTER CENTURIES

The moving photograph beneath showed the black stone chair erupting from the Wizengamot floor in a burst of silver fire. People all around them gasp.

"No..."

"It actually happened..."

"I heard it was a rumor."

"The Peverells?"

"They're extinct!"

"They were."

Arcturus unfolds the paper. Lyra immediately leans over his shoulder to read.

History was made today during a session of the Wizengamot concerning Lord Yaxley's proposed Creatures' Rights Bill.

Witnesses report that, in the middle of debate, the ancient Peverell seat—believed dormant for centuries—rose from beneath the chamber floor amid silver fire before proclaiming a single word:

CLAIMED.

The event was witnessed by every member of the Wizengamot. Ministry officials have declined to comment regarding the identity of the new Lord or Lady Peverell, though speculation has already begun throughout magical Britain.

Historians note that House Peverell predates nearly every existing noble family and traces its lineage directly to the legendary brothers Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell.

No official statement has been released.

Below the article was an even smaller headline.

Creature Rights Debate Ends Without Vote Following Extraordinary Magical Event.

Lyra blinks. "Well, that was quick."

"Come, let's finish our shopping for the day and go home." Arcturus rises from his seat. Lyra quickly finishes the last bit of her ice cream and throws it out, following behind. Orion offers his elbow to her again which she happily takes. At least Fate gave me a gentleman for a soulmate, she thinks. He vaguely reminds her of Theodore Nott, a fling of hers during her fourth and fifth years. They broke up after she had to face his father in the Ministry. Being almost killed by your partner's parent really starves off the romance.

She notes that this Diagon Alley is so much more alive and thriving compared to her dimensional one; granted they did just end a war in hers. Everywhere she looks, something catches her attention. An enchanted display outside Scribbulus Self-Writing Quills has dozens of quills dancing in perfect formation. A little witch no older than seven laughs as a sugar mouse climbs onto her shoulder before nibbling happily on her hair ribbon. Outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, a brand-new racing broom loops through the display window while children argue over whether it could outfly a Comet. Owls swoop overhead carrying parcels. Cauldrons clang from somewhere farther down the alley. Someone nearby is roasting honeyed nuts, filling the air with the scent of warm sugar and cinnamon.

Lyra can't stop smiling. "I could spend weeks here." She expresses.

Their first stop is Twilfitt and Tatting's. The elegant boutique is nothing like the cheerful clutter of Madam Malkin's. Everything inside is polished mahogany, crystal chandeliers, and soft cream carpets that swallow the sound of footsteps. The mannequins displayed in the front windows wear robes fit for Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, each outfit more extravagant than the last. The moment Arcturus enters, a delicate silver bell chimes and a stately witch with perfectly pinned silver hair looks up from her ledger.

"Lord Black." She immediately sets the ledger aside and walks toward them with practiced grace. "It is wonderful to see you again."

"And you as well, Mrs. Whitcombe."

Her eyes drift toward Lyra. "I see that congratulations are in order for Heir Black."

"She knows?" Lyra whispers to Orion.

"Not about the soulmate bond, she just assumes you must be my betrothed." He softly replies.

"They are. We need a complete wardrobe," Arcturus says. "For Lady Peverell." For just a fraction of a second, the witch's composure slips. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly as she glances at the newspaper and at Lyra. Then decades of professionalism return.

"Of course." She claps her hands once. Immediately, enchanted measuring tapes fly from nearby drawers. One circles Lyra's waist, another measures the length of her arms, and a third wraps gently around her shoulders before scribbling numbers onto floating parchment. Within moments, house-elves begin carrying bolts of fabric from the back rooms. Not ordinary cloth; mooncalf silk shimmers like liquid silver beneath the chandeliers, velvet darker than midnight seems to absorb the surrounding light, soft wool woven with warming charms practically radiates comfort, deep green dragon-hide is supple enough to bend like leather while remaining nearly impossible to damage and another bolt of fabric glitters with tiny silver threads that resemble stars scattered across the night sky.

Lyra runs her fingertips across one. The cloth ripples beneath her hand like the surface of still water. "It's beautiful." She comments.

"It is woven by a family of magical artisans in France," Mrs. Whitcombe explains. "Each bolt takes nearly a year to complete."The next hour disappears into a blur of fittings and magical adjustments.

"The sleeves need another inch." The fabric stretches instantly. "The shoulders are slightly uneven." The seams shift without a single stitch being visible. "The hem should fall just below the ankle." The robe shortens itself. Lyra watches in fascination. She never took the time to get a proper wardrobe in her dimension. She was too busy hunting dark artifacts and Death Eater with Harry while dealing with Death and Fate's antics.

"I want magical tailoring forever."

Mrs. Whitcombe laughs softly. "Most of our clients say the same." One robe after another appears on the rack of approved clothes. Simple black everyday robes, traveling robes lined with weather charms, elegant evening robes embroidered with subtle silver vines, winter cloaks clasped with enchanted silver ravens (the Black family symbol), formal robes suitable for Ministry functions, dueling robes reinforced with protective enchantments and then Mrs. Whitcombe appears with one last long black garment bag with both hands and carefully unfastens the silver clasps.

"I believe," she says quietly, "these have been waiting for their Lady."She reveals robes unlike anything Lyra has ever seen. The outer fabric is rich black velvet that seems to flow like liquid shadow, ancient silver embroidery traces every cuff and seam which at first glance, it appears decorative, but at second glance—they appear to be protection runes. Across the left breast rests the ancient Peverell crest worked entirely in silver thread. The three Hallows intertwine elegantly beneath a simple coronet reserved for the Head of House. Mrs. Whitcombe turns the robe slightly.

Lyra forgets to breathe. "It's..." She reaches out carefully. "incredible."

"It was commissioned by the last Lady Peverell nearly six hundred years ago to wear as ceremonial robes." Mrs. Whitcombe's voice is almost reverent. "The enchantments have preserved it for generations. It recognizes only the Head of House." Once Lyra touches it, the coronet glows a bright silver and the tunes activate. Everything is carefully packed into elegant enchanted boxes. "They will unpack themselves once placed inside Peverell Manor," Mrs. Whitcombe explains.

Their next stop is Flourish and Blotts. The instant the door opens, Lyra freezes. Memories of Hermione and her rushing around to get books while Harry and Ron try to sneak off flash in her mind. The familiar scent of parchment, leather bindings, fresh ink, and old magic fills the air. Lyra inhales deeply. Without another word, she disappears into the shelves. Arcturus and Orion leave her to herself as they sit on a few chairs to relax.

They go to look for her and find her standing halfway up a moving ladder in the History section. She lights up when she spots them. "Look what I found." Before either Black can answer, another book flies neatly into her waiting hands. Then another. She climbs down carefully before placing them into an enchanted shopping basket.

The titles make Arcturus smile. It appears that Fate has chosen a smart soulmate for my son, he thinks.

Ancient Lordships of Magical Britain

A Lady's Guide to Wizengamot Procedure

The Responsibilities of an Heir Apparent

Inheritance Law and Noble Magic

House Governance for Young Lords and Ladies

Etiquette Among the Sacred Twenty-Eight

Formal Address and Court Conduct

Hosting Seasonal House Gatherings

Political Alliances Through the Ages

The Complete Guide to Noble Correspondence

Ancient Family Wards of Britain

Runic Foundations of Great Houses

Magical Contracts: Theory and Practice

Orion picks one up. "One Hundred and One Common Mistakes Made by Young Heirs." He raises an eyebrow. "Planning ahead?"

Lyra shrugs. "I have years of traditions to catch up on."

"Fair." She continues browsing. Soon another stack joins the first.

History of the Wizengamot

Goblin Treaties and Banking Customs

The Twelve Most Influential Houses Before the Ministry

House-Elf Magic: A Scholarly Examination

Ancient Ritual Magic

Peverell Family Histories, Volumes I-IV

Arcturus notices the newest additions. "Are you sure you want to read all of these books?" She nods.

"If I'm going to be Lady Peverell..." She gently places another heavy volume into the basket. "I'm going to do it properly." Merlin knows what Lyra and Harry would've done in the future if they claimed their lordships. She might as well experience it to the fullest while she's here. His expression softens with unmistakable pride.

"I expected nothing less of my son's soulmate." He comments. She grins at him, happy that he is finally less suspicious of her and more approving. They exit the store and she stretches. She goes to say something when a sudden flash of light explodes nearby. Another follows immediately afterward. A witch with an oversized enchanted camera lowers it just enough to reveal an eager grin.

"My Lady! Just one photograph!" Another photographer appears from the growing crowd.

"Lady Peverell, over here!"

"Is it true the Peverell seat recognized you?"

"When will you take your place in the Wizengamot?"

"Can you confirm whether Peverell Manor has awakened?"

"Will House Peverell be aligning with House Black?"

Within moments, nearly a dozen reporters are making their way toward them, enchanted quills already scribbling across floating notepads.

"Someone snitched." She grumbles angrily. Orion stifles a laugh at her expression and gently takes her arm, pulling her behind him. Arcturus's expression hardens. Lord Black steps forward with the effortless authority of a wizard who has spent decades commanding respect.

"You will stand back." He demands.

The questions continue anyway.

"Lord Black!"

"Has Lady Peverell reclaimed the Hallows?"

"Will she issue a public statement?"

"Has the Ministry confirmed her identity?" The crowd presses closer.

He simply says, "Enough." Ancient Black magic ripples outward in a controlled pulse. The cobblestones vibrate beneath their feet and every enchanted camera abruptly stills. Several witches and wizards instinctively take a step backward as the unmistakable pressure of an old House's magic settles over the alley. "My future daughter," Arcturus says evenly, "has had an exceptionally eventful day." His grey eyes sweep across the reporters. "She will not be answering questions."

Finally, one particularly brave journalist asks, "And when will Lady Peverell be ready to address magical Britain?"

Arcturus considers him for a moment. "When Lady Peverell decides the time is appropriate." Without another word, he turns away. Lyra and Orion quickly follow behind him, ignoring the flashing lights behind them. They only get so far when suddenly, an intense feeling overcomes Lyra and she slows down.

"We're being followed." She announces, knowing the feeling all too well. Her green eyes start searching her surroundings, trying to pinpoint anything out of place and possible items to use as weapons. The alley grows unnaturally still.

Then—CRACK! Six figures Apparated into existence at both ends of the street. "The girl. The Peverell. Give her to us."

Arcturus's eyes narrow. "You are making a grave mistake."

The masked wizard laughs. "No, Lord Black." His accent is unmistakably Continental. "We serve the true vision of magical supremacy."

"Our master always believed the Hallows would return."

"The bloodline survives. So does his cause."

Orion's wand snaps into his hand. "You follow Grindelwald."

"Proudly." The leader raises his wand. "Take the girl alive." Green light erupts through the alley.

"Duck!" Arcturus shove  Lyra behind a stone fountain as curses explode against the walls. She frowns in offense that he thought she couldn't fight but decides to sit back for a moment and observe how well her new family fights.

Orion answers with a vicious Cutting Curse that force two attackers behind cover. Arcturus moves like someone who had spent decades dueling. Within seconds, two masked wizards are unconscious. One launches a barrage of Blasting Curses while another conjures living chains of black fire. Nearby witches and wizards scream as they fled.

One attacker sees his opening. He bypasses Arcturus entirely and heads straight toward Lyra. "There!" A Killing Curse leaves his wand and Lyra wants to laugh. She nearly forgot that nobody here knows that the killing curse does nothing to her and Harry. She sees Orion move towards her in a panic and she knows the killing curse will actually kill him. Lyra doesn't think. She reaches for the wand that feels most natural, the one whose magic answers before her fingers have even fully closed around it.

"No." Her voice echoes with a strange, layered resonance as she flicks her wrist and a beam of silver flashes from her wand, nailing the green curse and stopping it completely. Every person in the alley freezes including the attackers. Magic pours from her in waves causing the air itself to tremble. "You attacked my family." Her second spell isn't spoken because the wand doesn't need words when responding to a Peverell—it only needs intent. Golden chains erupt from the cobblestones, wrapping around three masked wizards before slamming them into the ground hard enough to crack the street. A fourth attempted to Apparate, he couldn't. His eyes widen in terror.

"W-what—" Lyra lifts a finger and the man's wand flew from his hand. She makes another gesture and every remaining wand belonging to the attackers rip themselves free and land in a neat pile at her feet.

"The Elder Wand...Master..." The oldest among them looks directly at the wand in Lyra's hand with his face drained of color.

Only then does Lyra glance down and her stomach drops. She can hear Death cackling in her mind at her blunder, can hear him saying 'Oh, you've done it now. I said you'd start a war and start a war you will." Her holly wand was registered, it's the one she is suppose to use for everything especially in public. Yet the wand in her hand is not her holly and, it is the Elder Wand which by her memory, should be with Albus Dumbledore right now. She sucks in a sharp breath, when did the Elder Wand appear for her?

Around them, the fleeing shoppers have stopped. Dozens of horrified eyes are fixed on the wand, everyone knows the origins of the wand. It belonged to Grindelwald before Dumbledore defeated him and was able to wield the wand due to conquest. One witch drops her shopping bags. A Daily Prophet photographer, who had been running from the attack moments earlier, slowly lifts his enchanted camera with shaking hands.

FLASH. The brilliant burst of light illuminates the Elder Wand held unmistakably in the hand of Lady Peverell.

Lyra closes her eyes for the briefest moment and tries to push Death's laughter out of her head. "Well." She sighs. "That's tomorrow's front page. I'm sure Albus will be overjoyed."