On The Edge of a Golden World | Open to All

Saturday, February 10, 1923
7:00 PM
The Ministry of Magic
Ground Floor

The ostentatious ground floor of The Ministry had been transformed into a celebration of Britain’s power, Britain’s future, and those now entrusted to shape both in the name of service.

From the seemingly endless high ceilings, the national colours of Britain fell in sweeping lengths of red, white, and blue, each banner edged in gold and charmed to stir as if moved by wind. Enchanted fireworks burst soundlessly above them, sending showers of silver and gilt sparks cascading through the air before dissolving inches above the heads of the gathered crowd.

The crowd that had gathered was incredible.

Not merely governors, donors, Ministry officials, Wizengamot elders, old families, foreign dignitaries, and those who had always belonged in rooms where power collected. Tonight, the Ministry had opened its doors to every witch and wizard in Britain.

They came in velvet and silk, in worn wool cloaks, in Sunday robes brushed clean for the occasion. They came from London flats, country estates, tenant farms, fishing villages, factory streets, schoolhouses, market towns, and ancient family seats.

Purebloods stood shoulder to shoulder with halfbloods and muggleborns. Seamstresses stood beside solicitors. Shopkeepers beside titled ladies. War veterans beside apprentices. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders, waving tiny enchanted flags that flashed gold whenever James Laurence’s name was spoken.

No one could say they had been excluded. It was the point.

The black marble floors had been polished until they reflected the crowd back upon itself: thousands of faces turned upward toward the lights, toward the banners, toward the dais raised at the far end of the atrium. Great urns of white roses and red roses lined the hall in perfect rows, their petals dusted with gold. Blue flame burned cold and steady in sconces along the walls. The Fountain of Magical Brethren had been wreathed in laurel, its waters charmed to rise in coordinated silver arcs, falling back into the basin without a single splash.

Above it all, hung the Laurence family crest.

The crowned white wolf watched from within its shield of black and gold, framed by deep red roses and curling foliage. It hadn't been placed where anyone could accuse it of vulgarity, yet it was impossible to ignore.

Across from it, the seal of the Ministry gleamed in matching gold, and between the two symbols stretched a long, suspended banner bearing three words in stately, radiant script:

---

Tradition. Dignity. Service.

---

The words were the centerpiece of it all. Old divisions hadn't been earased, but they had been dressed for the evening in the same light.

Every person who entered was given a ribbon of blue and gold to pin to their robes. Every child received a flag. Every adult guest was provided a glass of the finest, most expensive wine that Britain had on offer, offered from a polished Ministry attendant standing with military-straight posture. Music swelled from an unseen orchestra, rich with brass and strings. Photographers moved through the crowd with bright flashbulbs, smoke puffing from the camera with every capture of film.

James Laurence had won the highest office in wizarding Britain, and the Ministry had opened its doors to celebrate him as though he were not entering government, but restoring it.

A steady hand placed upon a frightened country’s shoulder.

Harper stood beside him not as an ornament, nor merely as a victorious partner, but as the living proof of the promise being sold beneath all that glittering gold; that the new Britain would be elegant, disciplined, equitable and strong.

For a single night, wizarding Britain was being asked to remember its loyalty rather than its rank. As James and Harper stepped up to the dais, there was a swelling of cheers and excitement. The two leaders, who had stepped from the shadows of a broken Ministry, looked on at the people whose futures they now held in their hands.

And all of Britain smiled up at the wolf.

---

OOC: Welcome everyone to the 1923 Election Gala! James Laurence has been elected to the highest seat of Wizarding governance as The Ministry of Magic. Alongside him, his partner-in-crime, Harper Campbell has been elected as Senior Undersecretary (effectively VP).

This gala, celebrating their election and the future of Wizarding Britain is open to every single character, regardless of age or blood status. Feel free to post in this thread for casual conversation, initial first impressions, or whatever you like. James and Harper will be making a speech in this thread at some point.

Otherwise, please take any personal threads for this gala (whether opened or closed) to a new thread within this same forum. Please make sure to label if your thread is for a specific character or open to all. If you'd like to join a thread but don't see one available to you, feel free to reach out in Main Chat for posting partners.

Happy gala-ing!

The crest bothered her the most.

Not the banners, not the fireworks, not the crowds or the music or the wine. She'd had that aplently at her own ball, some more than others. But the crest, that crowned white wolf in its shield of black and gold, hung opposite the Ministry's own seal as though the two were equivalent, as though family and office were the same thing.

They were not.

No matter how you said it, the placement itself was that of a family symbol being elevated to the level of the state. The Laurence crest was not some secondary sigil of Britain, or some representative foreign Ministry, it was a singular family's. Personal. Hereditary. The sort of thing that belonged above a mantelpiece or stitched into a collar, not suspended in the seat of government as though the Laurences and the law were one and the same.

And that was the thing she could not name. The slow, low thing that had been building since the platforms went up in October.. the something that just felt.. wrong. No rhyme nor reason, just wrong. Unable to be examined because, what did it even mean? A feeling of wrongness? About what? She could say, with definiteness, that the campaigns had bothered her. The Laurence & Campbell platform, compared to the Nunn & Maroney platform? Why?

Vague. The former had been very vague.

She had read both platforms, the full ones, not the posters, not the slogans, but the actual documents as they'd appeared in the Prophet, and the difference between them had been... noticeable. Nunn and Maroney had listed things. Specific things. Fair wages. Public healthcare. School reform. Each point had been a proposal with a shape to it, something you could agree with or disagree with on its own merits.

Laurence and Campbell had not done that. Or rather, they had, but the points themselves were curiously hollow once you looked past the language. Magical Sovereignty. Wand Liberty. Bloodline Reclamation. Stronger Magical Upbringing. Integrity Within the Ministry. These were not policies, surely not? They sounded more like... postures. Stances. Things that told you how to feel, like strong, united, proud, without telling you what would actually be done. What did bloodline reclamation mean, in practice? What did stronger magical upbringing entail, specifically? What were the 'incentives'?

Even now, something about the words that hung between the Ministry seal and Laurence crest itched at her.

Tradition. Dignity. Service.

The words themselves were fine, of course, but... what? What did tradition mean? Where did that come from? It wasn't on the platform, and what did tradition do for the country? Dignity, too? Service was perhaps the most explainable, yet still, these sorts of things swirled in her mind.

Every time she tried to look at it directly, it shifted into something that seemed perfectly reasonable.

A party. A celebration. A new Minister. What was there to find wrong with that?

And yet.

And yet, maybe that's all it was. Uncertainty due to a lack of information. Impatience. It made sense.

She looked down at the ribbon fixed to the left chest of her dress. Willie had done that, after he had put on his own, before kissing her cheek and announcing that he was off to company. "He probably had a beau,", Mother had said, "All the young men do,", while Father had made a face, like he was trying his very best not to think of that. Funny how it made her feel better to think of it, now. She stood next to them, still, while they conversated with a face she perhaps faintly recognized from her ball.

Uncertainty, she adjusted her ribbon. She just needed to get used to it, that was all.

The entire night would be a spectacle, that was inevitable. Everyone was invited. EVERYONE. No matter their blood status, occupation, how many galleons they had in Gringotts or who they rubbed elbows with on a daily basis.

For Matilda, she knew this was a test. Not just a chance to meet people and put faces with names, but her first social event with Drago since they met. Eyes would be everywhere. Judging. Assessing. Would she measure up?

Choosing an outfit had been daunting, but in the end she found the perfect dress in a boutique in Hogsmeade Village. She wore a gorgeous floor-length gown, crafted from layers of deep ruby red chiffon that seemed to catch the light with every movement. A fitted bodice, embroidered with gold lace and scattered beadwork. Very on brand for Matilda, it looked like vines climbing up the dress. Soft, sheer flutter sleeves draped over her shoulders, keeping the dress modest and youthful. The skirt flowed to the floor in graceful, floating layers, the embroidered overskirt ending in a scalloped edge that revealed the darker red fabric beneath.

The dress was beautiful, but more ornate than she was used to, so Matilda opted for a simple high pony tail and understated natural makeup. The dress was the star of the night, perfectly showing off her new emerald earrings and the necklace Drago had gotten her for her birthday. Which, incidentally, hadn’t been taken off since he put it on. Even when she wanted to murder him.

Since Christmas, things had changed a lot. She forgave him for the kissing incident, learning the why and how helped with her murderous rage. Then, his mother passed. It was a horrific event, one that Matilda was unequipped to handle. Not sure what to say, or do, she fell back on her training and was just there. Bertram, Allegra and Matilda arrived at the funeral, just five days into the new year. Her, dressed in a simple, modest black dress. Hair in a bun, makeup looking natural, emerald necklace on, but hidden below the neckline of her dress.

When she arrived at the funeral, she didn’t wait for an invitation. Once she saw Drago looking lost and oh so quiet, she went to him, took his hand, and didn’t leave his side for the entire day. No one told her what to do, it just felt right.

Returning to Hogwarts after the funeral had been strange.

For the first few weeks, Drago seemed quieter than normal. Which, considering he wasn't exactly a chatterbox to begin with, was saying something. He still attended classes. Still studied. Still completed every responsibility expected of him. But something was missing.

Matilda didn't know how to help. So she stopped trying. Instead, she simply existed beside him.

At meals she sat next to him without asking. In the evenings she claimed the spot beside him in the common room before anyone else could. Sometimes they studied. They rarely talked. Mostly they sat in comfortable silence for hours.

With the announcement of the gala, Matilda was both excited and nervous to attend. More than ever, she wasn’t nervous about making a fool of herself, but she was concerned about embarrassing Drago. She wasn't sure when that switch had happened. Somewhere between the greenhouse, birthday cakes, late-night studying and funeral black, her priorities had shifted.

The realization was deeply irritating. Because for the first time in her life, she cared what society thought. Not for herself.

For him.

Walking down to the common room, the students were buzzing with excitement. Finding Drago among the students preparing to leave, Matilda slowed for half a step.

Well. That wasn't fair.

She had spent entirely too much time worrying about her appearance only for him to show up looking like that. It wasn’t fair, he was so effortlessly good looking. And he probably took half an hour to get ready.
“Hi, are you ready to go. The carriages will take us to Hogsmeade, where there are portkeys waiting.”

---

Touching the portkey, Drago by her side, was a familiar feeling. She didn’t love the tug that pulled her from one place to another, but over the years it had gotten easier. Landing in the arrival area, Matilda handed her black cloak to the coat check attendee, then returned to Drago’s side.

Slipping her arm through his felt strangely natural now. Months ago the gesture would have sent her into a panic. Tonight, it simply felt right.

Trying to convey grace and strength, while the butterflies in her stomach danced a jig. “Well, I guess there’s no reason to stand around waiting, shall we go find our families?”

Life had been a blur these past two months. Between the incident with Alice, trying to prove to Matilda that he wasn’t what she thought he was, crawling to gain back her trust, his mother’s death, fighting his own sorrow while comforting Wiosna and Serik—

—Drago barely had had a moment to breathe.

The sudden passing of his mother didn’t justify letting his studies slack, or his pursues to win back Matilda and get her to comply, nor his responsibility to keep Serik in line — harder now. Upholding the reputation of Zdravkova strength and endurance, especially in the wake of unforeseen circumstances and grief remained the most important thing of all. There had been no breaks, not for him, not as the eldest of them four.

Drago simply transformed it into duty and work, focused on what was expected of him, continued to do as asked. The world didn’t stop turning. Neither would he. Like with anything, he’d tackled the aftermath with stubborn resilience, training harder, speaking less. Only Matilda had sometimes managed to break through, tugging a smile to his lips or a moment of ease to his chest.

When she descended into the common room where he’d been waiting, a small smile softened his expression. “Hello Matilda,” he said, bowing slightly. “You look beautiful.”

Together they made their way towards the carriages and into Hogsmeade, brusquely whipped away by one of the portkeys, all the way to London. After handing over their cloaks, Matilda slipped her arm through his as though they’d been doing this for years. Drago didn’t know what exactly it was that had at last convinced her to let him back into her sunshine but he didn't dare ask.

“Well, I guess there’s no reason to stand around waiting, shall we go find our families?”

Nodding once, he led the way inside the Ministry’s atrium, already buzzing with the excited chatter of hundreds.

Not just pureblood society.

But everyone.

Drago accepted the ribbon handed to him, letting his gaze travel over the crowd as they weaved through. It wasn’t a pureblood function but a celebration for all to share, something he had never heard of before. It was a choice that confused him — James Laurence, after all, was one of them. A celebration for the commoners and one separate for purebloods was what most anyone would have expected. Instead, only this one event existed.

Drago guessed it was the reason his father deemed it worth their attendance at all. Mingling with halfbloods and muggleborns? Unheard of. Missing out on the potential to connect with the Laurences though, the Minister himself? Unacceptable.

After a moment, Drago spotted him. With a glance at Matilda he began steering them over. “Remember,” he murmured to her. “No cussing, only speak when spoken to, no interrupting, no arguing, pretend like you are interested.” He paused for a beat, regarding her with a playful glint in his eyes. “And then pretend like you don't hate all of that.”

By now he knew how she worked but he didn’t mind. As long as she displayed the image expected of her in public, he didn’t care how she behaved in private.

Maybe he even liked it.

Expression back to composed neutral, Drago joined the rest of his family. “Father,” he said, respectfully dipping his head before doing the same to Nadežda. “Aunt.” His gaze landed on his brother last, standing next to Liliya. “Lev.” Definitely no head dipping here.

Oleg smiled like a snake. “Ahh, you have brought your betrothed, how lovely.” His eyes cut from him to her, gleaming with challenge. Drago stiffened slightly. “Good evening, Miss Nordstrom, how have you been? It has been long time since summer, I hope your studies are going well.”

Gideon hated galas.

He hated the speeches. He hated the politics. He hated rubbing elbows with wealthy witches and wizards who saw themselves as above others. Attending these functions was a necessary evil. Unfortunately, some obligations could not be ignored.

Standing before the mirror in his castle quarters, Gideon adjusted the cuff of his bespoke Blackwood & Sons tuxedo and frowned at his reflection. The tailoring was impeccable, as it always was. The black wool fit perfectly across his shoulders, the silver cufflinks catching the light, reflecting the green of the Blackwood crest. He looked exactly as a Blackwood was supposed to look. Respectable. Distinguished. Mildly irritated.

Behind him, the bed gave a faint creak as his attention drifted toward his wife. Roisin looked miserable. Not sick, just pregnant. Very pregnant. She was at the point in her pregnancy where standing seemed annoying, wearing shoes a major inconvenience and socializing with hundreds of uppity socialites equal to getting a root canal without anesthetic.

"You could still come," Gideon offered. The look he received in return suggested she was considering several forms of violence. "Right. Just making sure." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Truthfully, he was relieved she was staying at the castle. The Election Gala would be crowded, loud, and filled with the sort of people Gideon tried to avoid. Pureblood families discussing how great they are. Ministry officials discussing power. Wealthy donors discussing themselves and how much money they had to toss around. It was insufferable. He would smile when necessary, shake hands when required, sit through conversations that should have been letters, then, if luck was in his favor, he would leave early.

James Laurence's victory had guaranteed attendance. Gideon had cast his vote, offered his support, and fulfilled every obligation asked of him. Now came the part he hated most, being seen. With a quiet sigh, he reached for his wand and checked the time.

Crossing the room, he bent to press a kiss against Roisin's forehead before resting a hand briefly against the swell of her stomach. Smiling, he lowered his lips to her growing belly. “Ok little one, I’m going to need a few things while I’m gone. First, please be kind to your mommy. She needs rest. Second, if you could stop making her sick, I would really appreciate it. And third, maybe hold off on kicking her bladder tonight. You will be playing Quidditch, not football.”

For perhaps the hundredth time that evening, Gideon considered simply staying home. “I hope you feel better. Try and rest. I will see you first thing in the morning.” He kissed her lips softly, then kissed her temple, before retreating out of his quarters and into the castle.

---

Arriving at the Ministry, Gideon stayed to the edges of the lavish affair, watching as people mingled. Smiling faces of all social class were here. From muggles to pure blood upperclass. He recognized many face. Nodding when his eyes connected with someone, hoping the small head tilt was enough of a greeting to keep them across the room.

More than once they saw it as an invitation. Much to his dismay.

He didn’t see the Minister yet. Once he arrived, in all his glory, Gideon would say hello. Show the required support. Shake the hands, smile, play the part. Then, if the stars were aligned, he would leave before the dancing started.

"I should be used to how long you take by now," Lev sighed, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips as Liliya emerged from her bedroom into their shared sitting room. He rose from the arm of the chair he'd been sitting on, his eyes drifting briefly over her dress, before silently deeming it suitable for the occasion.

An election of one of their own to the highest office in wizarding Britain was a moment of celebration, but Lev had no illusions that the Zdravkovas would be attending for such a purpose. They were meant to socialize, yes, but with the outcome of new leads, connections and possible clients. With everyone who was anyone attending the gala, his cousin - fiancée - needed to look perfect.

It didn't matter that she already knew the Laurences and was friends with a few of them. There were other important families they needed to make an impression on besides them, many of which, he assumed would also be ascending to high-ranking government positions within the coming months.

There was no room for error.

He held out his arm to Liliya, leading her out into the corridor where their family would be waiting.

---

The Ministry was well-decorated, better than the handful of other times he'd seen it, but his expression remained neutral as it always did. With the rest of the family flanking them on either side, his father leading the way, Lev moved quietly with Liliya into the main atrium where it seemed a stage of some sort had been built.

He supposed they could expect speeches later. Riveting.

Nadežda remained in stride with him on the other side of Liliya, her expression cold and vacant as always. "I assume I do not have to remind you not to run off this time?" she asked through barely moving lips. The question was meant for his cousin, but Lev felt the protective bristle rush up his spine as his arm tightened around Liliya's. "Of course you don't. She'll be with me the whole time," he answered for her. Nadežda's gaze shot to Lev, an eyebrow raising, unimpressed with his speaking out of turn. "And if she's not, you'll answer for it."

Lev didn't reply, unwilling to start a conflict in public. Instead he turned his eyes forward again, ignoring the bubbling in his chest that he knew better than to give into.

The family came to a stop near the center of the atrium as his brother and the Nordstrom girl found them. "Drago," he answered evenly, not caring that his brother didn't nod to him. It wasn't necessary. Yet.

He didn't acknowledge Matilda.

“Ahh, you have brought your betrothed, how lovely. Good evening, Miss Nordstrom, how have you been? It has been long time since summer, I hope your studies are going well.”

Lev's chest rose and fell in a silent sigh. His father was predictable in some ways. The faux cordiality he showed wasn't lost on the young man, but it was enough cover for anyone who didn't know him well enough. Lev glanced out of the corner of his eye at Liliya to meet her gaze, wondering if she was thinking the same thing he was.

Rolling her eyes, Liliya closed the bedroom door behind herself. “Yes,” she quipped lightly, crossing the room to where he was rising from the chair’s armrest. “You should.” She didn’t miss his assessing once-over, answering it with an arched brow but he didn’t say anything. His silence was confirmation enough that he deemed her attire proper this time.

An important event, this election gala. Everyone who thought themselves important would be there, not to mention the Laurences themselves. Now that one of them was the whole ass minister, she only assumed rekindling the broken connection from years ago had moved to priority spot number one on Oleg’s list. Everything had to be perfect and apparently that included her appearance.

She had opted for a fitted olive green gown, hugging her waist before falling to her ankles in a straight line, revealing her golden Mary Jane heels, gleaming. An appropriate neckline, shoulders covered, not boring though. The sequins and beads sewn into the dress glittered as they caught the light, arranged in patterns of sweeping lines, arches, and geometric shapes that complimented her silhouette without becoming too overbearing. Gloves covered her hands and forearms in matching gold, and pearls hung from her ears and neck, uncovered by her sweeping mass of hair that she had pinned up at the back of her head.

Yes. Art took time and she liked it, even if Lev didn't know how to appreciate it.

As he held out his arm, Liliya took it, handing over her wand in the same breath. She still wasn’t allowed to strap it to any of her extremities.

Already on their way out the door, she couldn’t help a comment from slipping. “You should also reign all these compliments in”, she said with dry sarcasm, eyes forward. “They might grow over my head one of these days.”

---

Taking in the atrium, Liliya inwardly sighed. This looked like it was going to be boring as hell.

They had erected a stage so there would be speeches, the space was filled to the brim with people of every standing, and even though she couldn’t see Oleg’s face, Liliya knew he was already scanning the crowd like a hunter picking out his next prey. She would have to smile, be polite and interested and pleasant, all the way through every conversation Lev took her along to. Thrilling.

"I assume I do not have to remind you not to run off this time?"

Her aunt’s voice cut through her petulant thoughts like a hot blade, dropping her heart by an inch as she stiffened slightly. She only dared to glance around for a split second. Catching a glimpse of Nadežda's glare, cold as ice, Liliya quickly looked ahead again. Lev was already answering for her and for the first time, Liliya didn’t feel irritated, grateful instead for the tightening of his arm.

The warning that followed his reply was anything but hollow.

Smothering the thunder of her heart, Liliya took a subtle breath, pushing the memories away. When Drago appeared, she had settled back into composure, sending him a small smile before flicking it to Matilda next. In a way she almost felt a little sorry for her. She doubted the redhead had even the faintest trace of an idea of what kind of family she was bound to marry into.

Right on cue, Oleg decided to prove her point.

“Ahh, you have brought your betrothed, how lovely. Good evening, Miss Nordstrom, how have you been? It has been long time since summer, I hope your studies are going well.”

Liliya felt the subtle sigh going through Lev and her eyes darted sideways, catching his before immediately shooting her gaze back forward. A bubble of laughter rose to the back of her throat and she quickly swallowed it, pulling on every thread of her willpower to not break into a grin.

The brief pinch of her fingers to his arm was a message. Shut the fuck up. Don’t make me laugh.

Alice looked at her reflection in the mirror, a frown on her face. Her eyes were as brown as ever, a constant reminder that most of her life had been a lie. Her dark hair was pulled back in an up-do, ringlets framing her face. Her dress, one she thought was beautiful, was hanging on her frame but she didn’t smile at it.

Once upon a time, she loved getting dressed up for Pureblood events. She loved the fanciness of it all, what it meant. But now – her life being a lie, a marriage contract in the works – she wanted none of it.

All she wanted was to learn more about her birth mother.

Instead, she had to keep up appearances. She’d given up on Maevie, clearly the girl had wanted nothing to do with her. And while Matilda had forgiven her, the Hufflepuff preferred to keep her distance. She couldn’t help but to feel guilty but also jealous at the same time. The latter was the most confusing.

After staring blankly at herself for a while, she didn’t know how long, Alice finally made her way towards the front gates.

---

Alice handed her cloak to the attendant and then walked into the large room, feeling suddenly even more alone than she truly was. She could hear her father before she saw him, and her skin immediately began to crawl. She had to go to him, and she would, but first she wanted to assess the situation she was in. She could see Matilda with Dragon speaking to his family.

Was her potential husband here? Probably. Alice hadn’t forgotten that negotiations were well underway, though she’d been so preoccupied by the Mother Situation to even think much about whoever it might be that her father thought was a smart arrangement for her.

Subtlety was not something the Ministry of Magic knew how to do. That was clear.

Seraphina stood just inside the atrium, a glass of red wine she had only taken a couple of sips from held loosely in her hand, while she took in the room before her. Not all at once, but methodically. The banners, the crest, the crowd. The message being sold to thousands of people, that of Tradition. Dignity. Service. hung high for everyone to see. Someone had spent a great deal of money convincing Britain that those three words belonged together.

She’d seen this kind of room before; different country, different crest, same sort of crowd. Power dressed as a celebration, fear dressed up as unity. The Ashcrofts had taught her to recognize the shape of it young, long before she’d had any language for what she was looking at.

Sera moved through the crowd without hurrying, the way she moved through everything. She nodded at some, smiled at others, spoke to even more. She didn’t know the names of the people she spoke to, that wasn’t important. She wouldn’t be remembered, and that was how she preferred it.

Instead, she listened.

Nerves dressed up as enthusiasm. Old families measuring the new administration with the caution of people who had survived changes in power before and intended to survive this one. A new Minister and his Undersecretary smiling down from a dais built to make them look like inevitabilities rather than choices.

All of it, she filed away.

Her glass remained untouched. Her expression remained pleasant, unbothered, the practiced warmth of a woman entirely at ease in a room built to overwhelm. If anyone looked closely enough they may have noticed her eyes moving with more purpose than the rest of her, scanning faces with the attention of someone searching for a specific person.

Twice, that’s how many times she’d written to him. And twice she had heard nothing back.

While some might lose their patience, Seraphina did not. She knew how to wait.

Still, he is why she was there. Not only to make an appearance on behalf of her family, but also to seek him out and be a presence that he could not simply ignore.

As she took another small drink of the wine she intended to not finish, her eyes finally spotted the man who had been ignoring her. She stared, daring him to look in her direction.

Thatcher stood in front of the mirror, his reflection showing exactly what he expected. Black dress robes, matte black cufflinks, not a wrinkle in sight.

Appearances mattered, especially tonight. Stepping back into society was a calculated risk. Stepping back into society after the charges were dropped was sure to turn heads. This was his first social event since his name had been drug through the mud, splashed all over the pages of the Daily Prophet.

This event is one he couldn’t miss. Everyone would be there, rubbing elbows and showing off their wealth. It was a chance to make connections. Politicians pretending to care about the little people. Business people pretending to care about anything other than their wallet. And socialites pretending not to judge those below them.

Ordinarily Thatcher had no issue attending these events, but this year was different.

The investigation may have ended, but people had long memories when scandal was involved. He knew exactly what would happen the moment he stepped into the ballroom. Conversations would pause. Some would offer polite smiles. Others would pretend not to stare.

Was he guilty? They all wondered. No one would be brave enough to bring it up.

The answer, of course, didn't matter. Public opinion had never been based on facts. Only perception. Perception is reality. Perception could be managed.

Across the room, the empty space where Margery normally prepared for these events sat untouched.

---

The ballroom was grand as always. Red, White and Blue fabric hanging from every available surface. The guests in attendance ranged from the lowest of muggles to the richest of pure bloods. It was an interesting mix, one that he would not have entertained.

Taking a drink from a tray as it passed, Thatcher positioned himself on the outskirts of the crowd. Back to the wall, eyes moving from group to group, he took stock of the families in attendance.

The Laurences of course, that was a given.

New to the British scene, the Zdravkova’s were a proper pureblood family. He would keep his eye on them.

A few of the Blackwood’s mingled within the crowd. A well known family, outfitting nearly every male in attendance. Their suits were top tier.
Then there was the Nordstrom’s, his hand tightened around his glass as he took in Bertram and Allegra. Matilda hanging off the arm of a young Russian. That was an interesting development.

Taking a sip of his drink, Thatcher's eyes fell on Alice. She was here at his request. Insistence was probably the more accurate word. He hadn't given her much of a choice in the matter. If she wanted to see Everleigh, she would put on a smile, stand up straight, and remember what it meant to be a Ravenstone.

As he took a step to approach his daughter, another face caught his attention. Glass paused at his lips, his hand shook as he looked into the eyes of Seraphina. A ghost in the flesh, staring back at him.

There she was, standing there in the crowd like she had every right to be there. Like she hadn’t vanished, leaving a seven month old baby on his doorstep, disappearing from their life without another word.

Thatcher felt his stomach drop, shock rocking his system. She had sent letters. He ignored them. But never, in all his years, would he have thought she would show up at such an important social event.

“Fuck me.” He whispered, the words escaped before he could stop them.

Matilda heard Drago’s warning before she processed the words. “Remember. No cussing, only speak when spoken to, no interrupting, no arguing, pretend like you are interested. And then pretend like you don't hate all of that.” He had a glint in his eye, causing a smirk to cross her lips.

It helped. Walking into the lion's den, she didn’t feel quite so alone. Looking up at Drago she couldn’t help but smile. "You're no fun at all," she murmured under her breath.

The smile vanished the second they reached his family. She took a steading breath. Years of practice settled over her like a cloak. Shoulders back. Chin level. Hands relaxed. The version of Matilda Nordstrom that pureblood society expected came forward with practiced ease. It felt like a mask.

When Oleg's attention settled on her, Matilda dipped into a graceful curtsy. Straightening, a slight upturn to her lips. She was happy to see Liliya in attendance. One familiar face helped settle her nerves.

”Ahh, you have brought your betrothed, how lovely. Good evening, Miss Nordstrom, how have you been? It has been long time since summer, I hope your studies are going well.”

Focusing her attention on Drago’s father and aunt, Matilda took a deep breath.”Mr. Zdravkova, Ms. Zdravkova,” she said with a small dip to her head for both. "Good evening. I've been very well, thank you for asking." The words came in Russian, practiced countless times during library shifts and late evenings spent studying. A faint warmth touched her cheeks, but she continued.

"My studies are going well. I have good marks in all my classes." Her eyes briefly flicked toward Drago before returning to Oleg. "Drago has been very helpful.”

It was nearly impossible for Matilda to stop there. She wanted to ask questions, tell stories, make them smile and laugh, but this was not the place, the time or the group.

But she stopped. No rambling. No nervous chatter. No filling the silence. Just a pleasant smile as she folded her hands before her and waited. Her thumbs out of view, fidgeting relentlessly. For perhaps the first time in her life, Matilda resisted the urge to say more.

It felt like torture.

The British Ministry of Magic — decked in red and white and blue, the Laurence crest facing that of the Ministry itself, framing the banner that connected the two. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him.

And it pulsed. A subliminal air of power that permeated the room like a buzz, one only a certain kind of change in government managed to elicit and one only a certain kind of man could feel.

Oleg felt it. Deep inside his bones, running through his blood.

This was what they’d been waiting for, the outcome of a carefully calculated risk. This was the turn of the tide. The variable that would embed the name Zdravkova into British business, culture, and politics, indelible the way it was in Russia, the very embodiment of power and influence, and he would be the one to do it. This was their springboard.

It coursed through his body like ecstasy, this hunger. Strong enough to ignore the mix of the crowd, an interesting choice but one he could tolerate for now. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant the long sought after opportunity to mend things with the Laurences was close. The most important objective of the evening.

“Father.”

Oleg’s eyes cut to his second son, arriving from Hogwarts as expected.

Dragomir looked as composed and stiff as ever, perhaps even a little more so since his mother’s death. A favourable development, despite its origin, but the boy was soft in ways none of them could afford and at the very least it had taught him a valuable lesson. Decisions made in the heat of emotion were bad decisions, always. Apparating into St. Mungo’s had been foolish, an unthinking reaction and one that had caused them more trouble than it was worth.

He had felt the consequences the same day. It would be the last time he had acted out of line.

As he continued to greet the rest, Oleg regarded him, coolly analytical before breaking into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He made sure Dragomir saw, snapping his focus to the little Miss Nordstrom a beat later. To his mild surprise, this time, the girl didn’t disgrace herself by greeting him with a combination of three equally inappropriate ways, sinking into a curtsy instead.

He didn’t let it show. Undeterred, unimpressed. “Ahh, you have brought your betrothed, how lovely.”

The girl was still a thorn to his side, an unbefitting choice in his opinion, but Aleksandr had made himself clear. No backing out of the contract. It wouldn’t stop him from seeing whether his son had managed to follow his instructions however, making sure Matilda became what she was expected to be instead of the clumsy bumpkin she had introduced herself as. The girl was Dragomir's responsibility now and he better deliver.

“Good evening, Miss Nordstrom,” he said, boring his eyes into her. “How have you been? It has been long time since summer, I hope your studies are going well.”

“Mr. Zdravkova, Ms. Zdravkova. Good evening. I've been very well, thank you for asking."

The tilt of his lips curled a little more sly, almost amused. So she was learning Russian, who would have expected that. An interesting advancement but one he saw through right away. His eyes flicked to Dragomir for a second, then snapped back to Matilda.

"My studies are going well. I have good marks in all my classes. Drago has been very helpful.”

Oleg remained still, smiling and silent. When she didn’t falter he finally shifted. “How good to hear. Hopefully they will be good marks still when my son cannot help any longer.” He paused, letting the words settle for a deliberately prolonged moment. She might be better composed than last time but he saw her apprehension, could practically feel it. A costume. Casting a glance around the room he finally broke the silence. “I am sure Mr. Nordstrom would be pleased to see his granddaughter. Please give him my regards, I shall find him after the speeches are done.”

With that, her and Dragomir were dismissed. The boy took the hint. Dipping his head once more he lead Matilda away into the crowd.

Oleg’s gaze met Nadežda’s, then Lev’s, with a meaningful gleam. "One percent progress," he mused evenly.

There was this feeling inside her chest, a ball of light that kept on burning, bright and euphoric, almost painful. It had settled when the election’s results had been announced, immediate and powerful, steadily ablaze since then.

Years of work. Finally paid off.

Her carefully curated exterior didn’t portray any of the satisfaction and triumph coursing through her veins, smile as benevolent as ever, voice pleasant and even. Merely the humble and freshly promoted Senior Secretary, thankful and eager to fulfil the promises given to a nation in need of change. Here to serve the people, to pave the way for a grand future, to help their new Minister of Magic in his endeavour to better the world.

So selfless, so noble.

What really made the flame grow hot however were the looks on her siblings’ faces, the unprecedented pride in her mother’s voice, and her father’s unusual lack of commentary.

Years of work and finally she was outshining them all. Standing in the glory she deserved, collecting the recognition they had denied. It had all been worth it and now was only the beginning of a much grander scheme. They had no idea just how successful their daughter and sister could be.

Just like everyone who thought themselves important, they were here to witness the beginning of it all — the parts James and her deemed the public worthy to perceive.

The crowd burst into thunderous applause when they at last ascended the stage, tiny flags waving in every child’s hand sitting on their parents’ shoulders, silent sparks of red, white, and blue raining down from high above. Photographers gathered before the dais, smoke puffing with every picture taken, eager to capture the rise of a new era, the moment that would ring the future in.

Side by side, James next to Amelia, Harper next to Beaumont, the leaders elected by the witches and wizards gathered today stood before their people and waved. It washed over her like pure rapture, seeping right into her chest where it fed the flame brighter. This was what she’d earned, the fruits of defying all odds. Harper Knightley, halfblood, woman. The second-most powerful person in the country.

When James gave her a nod, she stepped up to the podium erected at the front of the dais, genial smile in place. As the applause began to die down, her words carried across the atrium on a silently cast Sonorus, clear and precise, the steady confidence of someone who had done this a million times before. Who knew where she belonged.

“Wizarding Britain," she said, gaze sweeping over the sea of hundreds, "tonight we celebrate more than an election. Tonight, we celebrate what you have chosen — a path forward and into a brighter future. You have chosen unity where there has been division, strength where there has been uncertainty. Tonight, we are reclaiming the confidence in who we are and what we can become."

A pause as she let the words settle.

"For too long, frail leadership has left our nation vulnerable to regression, stagnation and instability. It has asked Britain to settle for less than it deserves — less security, less integrity, less faith in the institutions meant to serve it.

"But you have chosen differently.

"You have chosen Tradition over decline, Dignity over disorder, Service over complacency.

"By placing your trust in James Laurence you have chosen change through action. Strong leadership that will restore what has been broken, unapologetically, a government that will lead Britain back to the pride and glory it once held.

"Together, we will begin the work of building a nation stronger than the one we inherited. Together we shall stand with confidence, conviction, and purpose. Tonight we celebrate the choice you made, tonight we celebrate the future.”

Applause erupted once more as Harper stepped back, gesturing towards James, smile bright. Catching his eye for no more than a split second she reclaimed her place beside her husband, waiting for their new Minister to address the nation.

They looked the part, there was no denying it.

As James looked upon his heavily pregnant wife, hand-in-hand with their two-year-old daughter, Claire, no one could deny they made for a promising image. An image of tradition, legacy and a bright future for magical Britain. It had been nearly three years of waiting for this moment. Planning, strategizing, and whispered intrigues behind Ministry doors and hidden speakeasys. Months and months of marketing, politicking, and securing alliances that would serve his agenda.

Days away from his daughter, nights away from his wife. They had all accumulated into this. A flourish of celebration amongst the people he was now to lead and a new form of power he was only beginning to grasp.

James had always known power, in its simplest form. He understood the weight his name held, the history behind it, and how many were quick to fall in line at his word.

But never like this. Never had James wielded a power that felt so earned, so palpable.

So dangerous. Perhaps in the wrong hands, people would have something to fear, but James had every intention of leading Britain into the future strong, steady and more united than ever. All they had to do was follow willingly.

A roar of cheers and applause rang out as he and Harper led the way onto the stage, her husband and his young family at their sides. He smiled. Charming, restrained, his eyes pouring over the sea of people that had come to join the festivities. He stood quietly while Harper made her speech, nodding at her when she'd finished, to indicate he appreciated her words. Tradition. Dignity. Service. Their campaign slogan, and the words they'd continue to regurgitate as many times as necessary.

Stepping up to the podium, he paused, allowing the magnitude of the moment to wash over him. Somewhere in the crowd, his sister, nephew, and entire extended family watched and waited. But tonight, as much as it was a victory for the Laurences, it was moreso a victory for his country and the ambitions they all obviously shared.

"Witches and wizards of Britain," he began, his smooth voice carrying cleanly through the hall, amplified with a simple charm. "Tonight I stand before you with gratitude."

A hush settled over the crowd.

”Not merely for this victory. Victory is a loud, brash word, and too often an empty one when not answered by duty and humility. I am grateful for something far greater - your trust. Tonight, you have not merely chosen a Minister, but you have chosen what sort of country Britain means to become.

An election is often viewed as a contest between men. Between parties, agendas, names written on posters with bold slogans beneath them. But this election was never about me. It was never about Harper Campbell, or those who stood with us or even against us.

This election was about you. It was about your children, your futures, your securities. This election was about whether wizarding Britain still believed in herself. And, to our great relief and delight, she has answered with bold sincerity that she does.

I know that you have been afraid. I know that fear has found its way into homes where parents had to wonder what sort of world their children would inherit. It found its ways into offices where public servants had to wonder whether trust in this Ministry could ever be restored. In Hogwarts, it found access to our children and used them to incite outrage and distrust in a system that was always meant to protect them.

We have seen uncertainty where there should have been law. Division where there should have been unity. Excuses where there should have been accountability and courage and the strength to stand against those who would threaten the integrity and survival of our kind. Throughout human history, wizards and witches have been hunted and terrorized by the sort that sought to tear this country apart.

No more.

We are a proud people. A capable people. An ancient and magical people. We are not meant to be governed timidly. We are not meant to be led by those who apologize for authority, who shrink from duty, or who treat the future of wizarding Britain as though it were too delicate a thing to be grasped with conviction.

I do not accept that a great nation must become accustomed to decline, nor that public trust, once wounded cannot be restored. I do not accept that a child born in a cottage and a child born beneath a family crest must be taught to stand on opposite sides of Britain's future.

Tradition does not only belong to the old, nor does hope belong only to the young. Fairness does not require weakness, nor does unity require that any man, woman or child forget where they came from. We are larger and stronger than what we have been led to believe limits us.

This is not a triumph of one class over another. It is not the triumph of one blood over another. It is the triumph of the very simple belief, that Britain is worth governing well. Let every department hear me clearly. Let every office, every official, every ambitious man and complacent woman within these walls understand the standard now expected of them. The Ministry of Magic will be served by those loyal to Britain, competent in duty, and worthy of the authority placed in their hands.

So let us remember tonight, not as the conclusion of an election, but as the beginning of a restoration. Let it be remembered as the night magical Britain looked upon fear and refused to kneel to it. Let it be remembered as the night this Ministry ceased to be a cesspool of uncertainty and flaccid spines, and began once more to lead."

James's eyes washed over them all. He smiled then, bright and certain.

"For our sovereignty, for our children, for all of you. Strong enough to remember who you are, and bold enough to become what you must. Thank you for this extraordinary opportunity you have bestowed upon us."