Flowers adorned the hall, pale and fragrant, their colors softened by floating lights. Music swelled through the air as a live band played Muggle songs, a deliberate indulgence requested by both bride and groom. Laughter mingled with melody. Couples danced. Glasses clinked.
Only one man did not relax.
Sirius Black, best man to the groom, stood rigid near the edge of the hall. His smile never reached his eyes. He refused every invitation to dance, his gaze slicing through the crowd again and again, memorizing faces, counting breaths. Something felt wrong, and Sirius trusted that instinct more than joy.
Then the world broke.
A deafening blast tore through the ceiling. Stone and enchanted beams rained down as screams erupted. Panic surged like a living thing.
Sirius reacted instantly.
"Spongify!"
The falling debris softened mid-air, turning lethal stone into bouncing husks. His shout cut through the chaos.
"Don't panic! Wands out! The situation is contained!"
Others followed his lead, spells flashing as order clawed its way back from terror.
Too late.
They came like carrion birds.
Death Eaters descended through the shattered roof, masks gleaming, cloaks snapping as they struck with terrifying precision. Guests fell. Wizards and Muggles alike were ambushed, stunned, thrown aside.
At the center of it all stood the bride and groom.
James Potter and Lily Evans were still in their wedding attire, robes torn and singed now, rings glinting as wands flashed in their hands. They fought back-to-back, fierce, defiant, refusing to be separated even for a second.
Sirius dueled two attackers at once, laughter gone, fury blazing.
Then a voice spoke.
Cold. Smooth. Absolute.
The hall fell silent.
Fleamont Potter lay disarmed on the marble floor, robes disheveled, blood at his temple. Euphemia knelt beside him, hands shaking as she tried to shield her husband.
And from the smoke stepped the Dark Lord.
Black robes flowed unnaturally still. His skin was pale, stretched tight over bone. Red eyes burned with cruel intelligence. His nose was little more than slits, his mouth wide, inhuman, curved in mockery.
"I heard," he said softly, every word echoing, "that one of the so-called glorious pure-blood families was celebrating today."
His gaze swept the hall, lingering on the broken, the terrified, the defiant.
"I thought… why not come personally to offer my congratulations."
The silence that followed was heavier than the rubble.
Sirius took a single step forward.
A whisper slid into his ear, cold and intimate.
"One more move… and the girl's brains decorate the floor."
Sirius froze.
His eyes found Marlene.
She was on her knees, lips split and bleeding, blood dark against her skin. A Death Eater stood behind her, wand pressed firmly to her temple. Her wand lay several feet away, useless on the marble.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of wood against flesh.
Sirius clenched his jaw until it ached. He tasted blood as his teeth cut into his lip.
Lord Voldemort raised his wand, not in threat, but in benediction. His voice was calm, measured, carrying effortlessly through the ruined hall.
"Be still."
The words settled like a weight upon the air.
"I did not come here for chaos," he continued, eyes glinting crimson as they swept across the hall. "Chaos already exists. I came to address it. You should all be grateful for being in my presence."
He gestured lazily at the shattered ceiling, the frightened guests, the blood staining marble floors.
"Look around you. This is what your world has become under the stewardship of so-called protectors. Ministers who bow to Muggle sensibilities. Educators who dilute our heritage. Families who forget who they are in exchange for comfort. And Wizards who turning into Muggles."
A thin smile curved his mouth.
"They tell you we must hide. That we must blend. That our magic is something to be ashamed of."
His gaze hardened.
"I say it is our birthright."
A pause. Calculated. Heavy.
"Wizarding magic is ancient. It shaped civilizations before Muggles learned to read their own names. And yet you are asked to kneel. To restrain yourselves. To let those who cannot wield magic dictate how it is used."
He took a slow step forward.
"Muggles fear what they cannot control. They always have. Today they watch from below, ignorant and complacent. Tomorrow they will seek to bind us, study us, weaponize us. History has shown this truth again and again."
His voice softened, almost gentle.
"I do not hate Muggles. I pity them. But pity does not mean surrender."
He spread his hands, as if offering reason.
"I seek order. Preservation. A world where wizarding values are upheld, where magical bloodlines are protected, where power is nurtured rather than shackled. A world where our children do not grow up pretending to be less than they are."
His eyes flicked briefly toward the bride and groom.
"I am not without mercy."
The word felt wrong coming from him. He let it linger anyway.
"Many of you were misled. Taught half-truths. Conditioned to fear strength. I do not punish ignorance."
His wand lowered slightly.
"I offer you a choice."
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
"Stand against me, and cling to a future where wizardkind fades into myth… or choose wisely. Choose strength. Choose legacy. Choose a future where magic stands where it belongs."
A final pause. Then, quietly:
"Above."
His smile returned, thin and terrible.
"The future is being written now. Decide whether you wish to be part of it."
Lord Voldemort's gaze shifted, narrowing, fixing itself upon the center of the hall.
James Potter.
Lily Evans.
For a moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
"James Potter," he said, almost conversationally. "Brilliant. Reckless. Exceptionally gifted."
A faint curl of amusement touched his lips. "You waste your potential on bravado, but even I cannot deny the raw power you wield. Potters are an ancient family."
His eyes slid to Lily.
"And Lily Evans."
Something colder, sharper flickered there.
"Extraordinary," he murmured. "Talent refined by discipline. Magic that listens when you speak. A witch born not of old names, yet surpassing many who cling to them."
The Death Eaters shifted uneasily. This was not mockery. This was assessment.
"You see," Voldemort continued, voice carrying effortlessly, "this is precisely what I fight for. Excellence. Power unrestrained by false humility or bureaucratic decay."
He took a slow step closer.
"The world tells you that you are heroes for standing in my way. That you are noble for resisting change. But tell me, James Potter," his red eyes gleamed, "how noble is a world that asks you to grow smaller?"
His gaze returned to Lily.
"How just is a society that fears your brilliance because of where you were born, yet still demands your obedience?"
He lowered his wand slightly. Not submission. An invitation.
"I do not destroy talent," he said quietly. "I cultivate it. I gather those capable of shaping the future and place them where they belong."
A pause.
"You could help me build a world where magic is respected. Where witches like you are no longer anomalies to be tolerated, but pillars to be honored."
His voice softened, persuasive, almost sincere.
"You would not kneel. You would lead."
The silence stretched, suffocating.
"I am offering you a choice," Voldemort said. "Not for my sake. For yours. For your child's. For generations yet unborn."
His eyes flicked briefly to their clasped hands.
"Stand with me, and help shape a better world… or stand against me, and watch it be shaped without you."
He waited.
Patient.
As though certain that brilliance, when cornered, would eventually recognize its own reflection.
James laughed.
It was sharp. Bitter. Fearless in a way that made Death Eaters flinch.
"Don't stand there pretending you're some grand reformer," he shouted, voice ringing through the ruined hall. "You talk about justice like it's a banner you stitched yourself, but all I see is a monster hiding behind borrowed words."
He stepped forward despite Lily's grip on his arm.
"Your followers don't protect wizarding values. They butcher people. Muggles. Wizards. Anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. Families dragged out of their homes. Shopkeepers threatened. Children terrorized. All because of blood status not ability. That's your glorious future."
James's eyes burned.
"You call it order. I call it cowardice dressed up as agents of chaos."
He gestured violently toward the masked figures around them.
"Look at them. This is your idea of excellence? Cowards hiding behind masks, taking orders, hurting anyone weaker than them? You don't want leaders. You don't want brilliance."
His voice rose, raw and unfiltered.
"You want servants. You want yes-men. You want wankers who kneel and call it purpose."
James pointed his wand straight at Voldemort, hands steady despite the danger.
"You preach about strength, but you rule through fear. You talk about heritage, but you tear families apart. You claim mercy, but you surround yourself with people who kill for sport and call it loyalty."
He laughed again, this time without humor.
"So don't insult us by pretending this is about a better world. It's about you. Your ego. Your need to be worshipped because you're terrified of a world where people choose freely."
James stood tall, wedding robes torn, face bloodied, unbroken.
"And here's my choice."
He didn't hesitate.
"We'll never stand with you. Not today. Not ever. Because a world built on fear isn't a future."
His voice dropped, deadly calm.
"It's just another grave."
The Dark Lord smiled.
It was slow. Anticipatory. As though James's defiance had amused him.
"Then," he said softly, "I shall send you to one."
His wand snapped up.
"Avada Kedavra."
Green light tore through the air, screaming toward James Potter.
Sirius moved on instinct, already breaking into a run, heart clawing its way into his throat...
A wall surged up from the floor.
Stone, ancient and absolute, rose between curse and target just as the Killing Curse struck, exploding harmlessly against it in a shower of emerald sparks and dissolved into Flowers...
Fire followed.
Not wild. Not uncontrolled.
A precise inferno burst into the hall, rolling outward in a disciplined wave. Death Eaters staggered back, cloaks igniting, spells breaking mid-cast. Wands flew from numbed fingers. Masks cracked and clattered across the floor.
At the heart of the flames stood Albus Dumbledore.
His lylac robes were singed at the hem, his expression calm, eyes sharp behind half-moon spectacles. The fire bent away from him, obedient.
"You were always fond of speeches, my ignorant student," Dumbledore said mildly, lowering his wand. "But tonight, you have overstayed your welcome."
The fire died down.
Alastor Moody, Minerva McGonagall, Edgar Bones, Angus and Espeth McKinnon, Dorcas Meadows, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Cardoc Dearborn and Filius Flitwick appeared.
Sirius felt a rush of blood, the entrance was stylish to the say the least, the Dumbledore spoke in his measured tone, his blue eyes brimming with power.
"The world does not need your brand of order," Dumbledore continued. "An order built on fear is merely anarchy in disguise. What the world needs is Compassion. And Restraint."
His gaze hardened, but his voice softened.
"And kindness. And love."
A beat.
"Qualities your heart is no longer capable of feeling."
Voldemort's smile vanished.
"Spare me your sanctimony, Dumbledore," he hissed. "I have no use for the lies you peddle to the weak."
His wand lifted again, red eyes blazing.
"I am Lord Voldemort. I do not need your lectures."
The air grew heavy, magic coiling tight.
"You have all chosen to stand in my way."
His voice dropped, cold and final.
"Then you all will die."