Three days later...
The scene shifted with a soft whoosh of swirling wind and magic—
now deep within the polished marble halls of the British Ministry of Magic.
The air was still, humming with tension.
A large, worn boot, clearly enchanted, sat atop a glowing pedestal within a secure Portkey Chamber.
The area shimmered faintly with protective charms.
Leo stood beside Minister Jenkins, adjusting the cloak draped over his shoulders—
The Lethifold, now resting like a well-behaved shadow.
His eyes flicked toward the boot, then to Jenkins, whose gaze was fixed firmly ahead.
"This Portkey,"
She said calmly,
"Will take us to the site of the Magi-Mundial Concord—MACUSA headquarters in New York."
Her voice was firm, yet the slight edge of worry beneath her words didn't escape Leo's notice
. "We'll activate it as soon as the alignment hits the right magical frequency… just a few more minutes."
Next to her stood David Flutcher, the ever-watchful senior aide, sharply dressed and stone-faced, glancing occasionally at a magical pocket watch that hovered just above his palm.
Behind him was a small group of trusted Ministry officials—
Those handpicked by Jenkins to accompany her to this critical gathering of magical governments from around the globe.
They all knew this Concord wasn't just a diplomatic formality—it was a battlefield of words, alliances, and secrets.
And with whispers of Harold Mitchum and his supporters planning something sinister during the summit,
the stakes were far higher than any international accord had seen in decades.
Jenkins gave Leo a quick glance.
"You're sure about this?"
She asked quietly.
"We may be walking into something which will be marked in history."
Leo smirked.
"Who knows..."
David Flutcher stepped forward.
"Minister. Five seconds."
Everyone gathered close, a mix of nerves and steely resolve in their eyes.
Jenkins extended a hand toward the boot.
"Everyone, on three."
And just as the air shimmered with magical convergence, she counted—
"One… two… three—"
They vanished in a whirl of wind, colour, and magic.
MACUSA Headquarters...
When the swirling storm of Portkey magic subsided, Leo, Jenkins, and her entourage landed gracefully—
Well, mostly gracefully—
onto the smooth obsidian tiles of a vast arrival hall deep within the heart of MACUSA.
The hall was grand and bustling, structured much like the British Ministry's Floo Network chamber but even more expansive.
Marble arches soared overhead, and runes of protection glowed faintly along the golden-trimmed walls.
Dozens of Floo fireplaces lined the perimeter, their emerald flames flashing rhythmically as wizards and witches from all corners of the magical world arrived in waves.
The hum of voices and the rustle of cloaks filled the air.
Several MACUSA officials, dressed in sharp navy-blue robes emblazoned with a golden phoenix emblem, quickly stepped forward upon spotting Minister Jenkins.
"Minister Jenkins, welcome to MACUSA."
The lead official—
a woman with tight silver braids and an authoritative stride—
extended her hand warmly.
"I'm Director Graves. We've been expecting you."
"Director,"
Jenkins nodded politely, accepting the handshake.
"It's good to see you."
Graves gave Leo a subtle glance.
"And I see you've brought your... security detail."
Leo just gave a nod and didn't reply.
Graves raised a brow, saying nothing, but her eyes briefly flicked to the shifting shadows of Leo's Lethifold cape before she turned back to Jenkins.
"If you'll come this way, we'll begin the standard security protocols and registration procedures. The Grand Concord Room is being prepared. The opening session begins in just under an hour."
With a motion of her hand, Graves led them through the buzzing hall.
Enchanted documentation quills and patrolling Aurors awaited them beyond—
part of MACUSA's stringent entry procedure.
Each member of the Jenkins team began stepping through the process one by one.
Minchum Family Mansion...
America...
Thunder rolled low across the grey sky as an old, lavish colonial-style mansion, nestled deep in a secluded magical ward just outside of Salem.
Magic wards were woven around the structure, making it invisible to Muggle eyes and resistant to detection spells.
The windows were stained with history, and the thick oak doors opened into a shadowy, candlelit chamber.
At the head of a long table sat Harold Minchum, sharp-eyed and brooding, dressed in dark emerald robes lined with black trim—the old Minchum family crest gleamed on his chest.
His fingers steepled beneath his chin, he observed the gathering of pure-blood loyalists seated on either side of him.
Some were cloaked in formality, others in veiled hostility, but they all shared one thing:
Dethrone Jenkins and make Minchum a pureblood who they wanted to succeed as a minister.
Only a handful remained now—
those still loyal to Minchum's cause.
Many others had withdrawn their support after receiving troubling letters from their children at Hogwarts.
Tales of House Dragon, and Professor Leo's unsettling popularity among even the pure-blooded students after his speech at the Great Hall…
had shaken the old convictions.
Minchum's voice finally broke the silence.
"Cowards, the lot of them,"
He said coldly, eyes scanning the room.
"Swayed by sentiment and soft-hearted children. The future is not built on feelings."
A wizened man to his right, Lord Blackmoor, muttered,
"The younger generation was swayed by Morningstar's speech."
Another leaned forward—
Lady Selwyn, eyes cold as glass.
"So we make them see. At the Concord. A single spark in the right place could burn away this illusion of unity they're building."
There were murmurs of agreement, but the mood shifted again when Minchum brought up a darker topic.
"What troubles me more,"
He said, his voice lowering to a growl,
"It is our failure to contact Voldemort's inner circle. I sent seven of our best to negotiate a pact, to arrange support for his return."
He leaned back, expression hardening.
"All seven have vanished. No bodies. No answers."
That silenced the room.
"____"
"____"
One man, Gregor Mulciber, pale and twitchy, asked,
"You think the Aurors got to them?"
Minchum shook his head slowly.
"No… If they had, we'd have heard of it. Someone—or something-is interfering. Something powerful, and cautious."
Lady Selwyn narrowed her eyes.
"Do you suspect Jenkins?"
"Jenkins is a puppet."
Minchum spat.
"A smart one, yes—but still bound by the Ministry. No, this smells of someone... outside the official channels. Someone with an agenda of their own."
There was a long, heavy pause.
"____"
"____"
"____"
Finally, Minchum stood.
"No matter. We go forward. At the Concord, we create disruption. Chaos. Let them see how thin their veil of peace truly is. And once the veil tears…"
He raised a silver goblet in the air.
"...we'll rebuild the magical world in our image."
The others followed suit, reluctantly or eagerly, lifting their own goblets.
Azkaban Prison...
Azkaban, the fortress of despair, where even the air feels cursed.
The towering, jagged prison stands isolated amidst the cold sea, wrapped in unnatural fog and haunted by the whispers of those long forgotten.
In the deepest level, far from the guards and well-lit cells.
It is a place where only the darkest of prisoners are kept—where the walls themselves breathe misery, and hope is a fantasy.
In one of the farthest cells, shrouded in darkness, sits Lord Voldemort.
Or rather—
What's left of him?
His once fearsome presence has withered into a sickly, gaunt figure, slouched against the wall in rags.
His eyes are hollow, ringed with exhaustion and torment.
His skin, deathly pale, seems to have lost even the unnatural vitality he once held.
The faint hum of suppressed magic flickers about him—wild, unstable, and cursed.
He twitches slightly, but doesn't move.
A single rat scampers across the cell floor.
It squeaks… then drops dead without warning, its body convulsing in grotesque stillness.
Voldemort closes his eyes slowly, almost as if expecting it.
His voice, barely above a whisper, croaks out:
"Every… single… time."
A day ago, he had stirred with anticipation.
A group of cloaked figures—
had visited, claiming to be agents of Minchum, declaring that they would liberate him and his Death Eaters.
Promises of magical subterfuge, portkeys, and smoke bombs.
He had felt a flicker of hope, a faint grin curling on his chapped lips.
But since then? Nothing.
Worse, a dozen times he had almost tried to use his powers to escape on his own.
He could have, once—no chains, no walls, no bars could hold the Dark Lord.
But now?
Now… the curse of eternal bad luck wrapped him tighter than any magical ward.
The first time he tried to cast a spell to melt the bars, the wand he got from the guy who visited him exploded in his hand.
The second time, he whispered a disillusionment charm—
only for the floor beneath him to give way, plunging him into a pit of seawater and sea-lice for six hours before he was fished out by laughing guards.
The third time…
He doesn't even want to think about the third time.
"I… am still… Lord Voldemort,"
he muttered weakly.
"This… is only… a phase."
But he didn't even sound convinced anymore.
His gaze flicked to the small crack in the stone wall—
the same crack he had stared at for weeks.
He was convinced it was growing.
Perhaps it would let in fresh air.
Perhaps… it would form the shape of the Dark Mark someday.
A small glimmer of hope flickered in his eye.
Then a drop of ice-cold water dripped straight onto his eye from the ceiling, causing him to yelp and fall backwards.
"OF COURSE."
He sat motionless again.
He had learned not to speak. Not to think too hard. Not to hope.
Because with this curse… even hope could lead to another rat spontaneously combusting or a piece of bread turning into a live beetle mid-bite.
Now, Voldemort simply sat there, waiting, dreading his next mistake, fearing his own power.
While cursing his bad luck.
And in the silence of Azkaban, his hollow laugh echoed once, mad and broken.
"The Dark Lord… brought low… by bad luck."
From the shadows of Azkaban, where even Dementors dared not linger long, a pair of cold yellow eyes gleamed with silent amusement.
They belonged to none other than Nun, also known as Valac,
The demon in disguise—
Lurking unnoticed, her aura masked so well that even the prison's deepest enchantments failed to register her presence.
To the mortals who once dared to tread here with dark purpose, she was just a whisper.
A flicker.
A rumour, if that.
But Nun saw everything.
Her eyes trailed Voldemort's every pitiful twitch, the cursed sorcerer's desperate attempts to maintain a fragment of dignity.
The more the once-feared Dark Lord fumbled, the wider Nun's grin grew, razor-sharp and inhuman beneath the cowl of shadows she wore like a second skin.
'Clown...'
His thoughts slithered like serpents in the cold.
Then, his mind flashed back—the previous day, to be precise.
Flashback...
Three cloaked men, agents of Minchum and allies of the old blood, had moved quietly through the lower levels of Azkaban.
Their voices were low but urgent.
"We'll get the Dark Lord out tonight. Guard Balthus is ours. Everything's in place. We'll get him and the others out, start the new order."
Their breath steamed in the cold as they passed the last corner.
Then suddenly…
Ding… Ding… Ding…
The faint, metallic sound of a bell echoed across the corridor.
It was soft—
unreasonably soft—
But struck the men like a wave of dread.
They froze.
For no reason, they started to feel fear.
Gulp~
From the deepest corner, where torchlight failed to reach, the sound came again.
Ding… Ding…
One of the men turned toward it, hand on his wand, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold.
"Who's there?!"
No reply.
Just a slow, deliberate footstep.
Click.
Then another.
And another.
From the darkness emerged a silhouette—
hooded, unhurried, but terrifyingly composed.
When the light finally kissed her form, they saw not a human, but something inhumanly elegant, with a grin too wide and eyes glowing yellow like dying suns.
"I believe,"
the figure said in a voice laced with honey and venom,
"you were trying to release my plaything."
The lead wizard stammered.
"W-Who the hell are you?"
Nun didn't answer.
She simply raised one long, pale finger, pointing it at the bell hanging from her hip.
Ding…
In an instant, all three men fell, their bodies writhing as invisible threads of cursed magic wrapped around them like marionette strings—
dragging them screaming into the darkness behind him.
Their cries were muffled.
Then silenced.
Nun turned toward the cell where Voldemort sat, oblivious to the drama that had just played out—
too terrified of his own misfortune to notice.
"Don't worry, Tom,"
Nun whispered, the grin returning.
"You'll be staying right where you are... for now."
Present...
Perched in the same shadowy corner of the cell, Nun continued to watch Voldemort struggle and suffer.
Her yellow eyes flickered with glee.
she was no savior.
No ally.
Just an observer of misery.
A conductor of chaos.
And for now… this prison was her theatre, and the cursed Lord Voldemort, her tragic lead.
"You're doing splendidly,"
her said softly.
"Let's see how long before you try again."
With that, Nun's body faded into black mist, the last thing visible—
That bell. Swinging slightly.
Ding… Ding…
Nun, now just a mist in the dark, reached out through the invisible thread that tethered her to her master—
Leo.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: You have received a message from your Summoned entity – Valac (Nun).]
[NUN: Master, I intercepted three intruders attempting to free Voldemort. They were agents of Minchum and pure-blood loyalists. I have... well...]
[NUN: But they were unaware of my presence. Voldemort remains in his cell—shaken and cursed as ever.]
Leo, who was teaching a 2-year-old student, paused.
The voice of Nun whispered like a chill in his ear, reaching him only through the system's link.
He responded calmly with a mental command.
[LEO: Good work, Nun. Keep your eyes on him. Do not interfere unless absolutely necessary.]
[LEO: Let him rot a little longer in his own bad luck. When the time is right, I will allow you to assist in his escape.]
[LEO: We'll use the myth they still cling to against them. Let him think he's slipping through the cracks… just so we can close them tighter when needed.]
[NUN: Understood. I shall remain his shadow. Waiting. Watching. Playing the bell of fate when the cue is given. Hehe~ ]
With that, the link dimmed, but the connection pulsed—
alive, alert.
Back in Azkaban, Nun hovered near Voldemort's cell, her yellow eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
"Sleep well, Tom."
She whispered like silk.
"The world will remember your fall... But only I will witness your unravelling."
And from her hip, that bell swung once more.
Ding… Ding…
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(Author's POV)
(A/N): I hope you guys are enjoying the story.
Thanks for reading the chapter!
Please give a review and power stone!!! It will Motivate Me.