Chapter 406: Three Generations at the Castle

Bristol.

An ancient city nestled in the southwest of England, known for its rich architectural charm and cultural legacy. Landmarks like Bristol Cathedral and the Clifton Suspension Bridge had drawn admiration from Muggles across Europe for centuries.

The cathedral in particular - also known as St. Augustine's Abbey - was a towering marvel. Its central nave alone stood over sixteen meters tall, an impressive feat considering it was built over a thousand years ago during the Norman era. To the Muggle eye, it was a monument of divine craftsmanship.

But to wizards, the city conjured up different associations entirely.

When someone in the magical world mentioned Bristol, they didn't think of bridges or cathedrals. They thought of the Lestranges.

The ancient pure-blood family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, had ruled over this region for generations. Their ancestral estate was a name whispered with unease and awe.

Far from the city center, about 120 miles into the countryside, lay the peaceful village of Pilton. And within it stood a stately manor, its tall windows glowing with warm light that danced through the foggy night.

Inside, a grand hall stretched out beneath a chandeliered ceiling. The place exuded wealth and old magic, like a banquet held in the courts of medieval nobility.

But the guests were... less refined.

Scattered across the room were witches and wizards whose faces bore shadows of cruelty, eyes sunken and cold, mouths twisted by lives lived on the fringe of decency. The air was thick with the scent of dark magic.

Outside the estate gates, one infamous figure was nursing a rare feeling: dejection.

Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf whose very name made even hardened Aurors blanch, stood stiffly in the night air, shoulders hunched. He didn't look dangerous. He looked... sulky.

He couldn't quite understand how a simple walk had gone so wrong.

He had merely gone out for a breather. A routine stroll, nothing unusual. And yet, by the time he returned, he had somehow "luckily" encountered them.

"Mr. Greyback," said a calm voice, far too polite for the situation, "if you have a moment, would you kindly show us the way? I've already picked out Halloween sweets for the upperclassman."

The speaker was a young man, neat and polite-looking, holding a two-foot-long elderwood umbrella like a cane. He smiled as he addressed the stunned werewolf.

Cats and dogs weren't his concern right now. The cleanup crew would arrive soon enough. If Amelia had followed her usual clockwork routine, she'd be deploying within the hour.

Fenrir, meanwhile, kept darting nervous glances between the polite young wizard and the elderly figure beside him - none other than Albus Dumbledore, who was presently fiddling curiously with a magical camcorder.

Greyback, a veteran of countless blood-soaked battles and leader of his own pack, had never known fear quite like this.

Azkaban danced at the edges of his imagination. Dementors with their gaping mouths, sucking the soul right out of him...

Fenrir wasn't stupid. Far from it. He'd survived this long by knowing exactly when to run, when to fight, and when to smile and nod.

And right now, with Dumbledore and Swinburne standing right before him, he understood exactly what kind of moment this was.

"I confess, I'll cooperate fully!" he blurted, eyes wide. "I know where the Muggle werewolf dens are. I can lead you there, or calm them down if you'd prefer. Whatever you need, I'm your man!"

"Splendid. I do enjoy working with intelligent people," said Ino, gently patting the werewolf's massive shoulder.

Nearly two meters tall and built like a boulder, Fenrir responded with a smile that was more puppy than predator.

"You've made the smartest decision you possibly could," Dumbledore said quietly, finally lifting his eyes from the camcorder.

The Muggle-born werewolf problem had long weighed on Dumbledore's conscience. With Greyback guiding them, this could be a turning point. Much could finally be set right.

Fenrir bowed even lower, eager for approval. He looked ready to carry their luggage if asked.

Ino chuckled softly. The image was so absurd it reminded him of one of those old sitcoms from the telly.

While Greyback trudged off to lead the way, events elsewhere were unfolding just as swiftly.

Deep in the woods outside London, two sharp, mystical cries rang out.

The sound swept through the ranks of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement like a silent spell, lifting hearts and sharpening minds. It was the cry of the phoenix - pure, ancient, and filled with hope.

Fawkes and Brighid, two phoenixes of stunning beauty, circled in the air above the canopy. Their glowing feathers scattered sparks across the darkened woods, casting pools of golden light where shadows once ruled.

"Everyone, into position," came Amelia Bones' calm, steady voice. "Aurors move in pairs. Follow the phoenixes and set up anti-Apparition wards."

No one questioned her. Dozens of Aurors drew their wands and wordlessly stepped into the spell circle.

Pop. Pop.

With two crisp sounds, the first team vanished. Then another. Then another.

In less than twenty seconds, sixty elite scouts had been dispatched.

What remained were the strike teams - hardened duelists, experts in close-quarters battle. They stood silently, their breaths clouding in the cold.

At the Lestrange Estate.

Tom Riddle - Lord Voldemort to most - sat comfortably at the head of the long banquet table, swirling a glass of red wine.

He watched his Death Eaters laugh and drink with the detachment of a man attending his own play.

Strangely enough, he was in good spirits.

Since arriving in this world, he had discovered that many magical artifacts were still intact, perhaps even more ancient than those in his original timeline. That gave him hope. For once, he found himself enjoying the ritual of daily life again - like a schoolboy remembering how to tie his tie before class.

He had no plans to provoke Swinburne, and even less interest in crossing Dumbledore. He simply wanted to find the final law of this magical world - one last, perfect truth.

The Ministry made a show of opposing him, of course, but he knew better. Beneath the surface, half their staff worked overtime just to stay on his good side.

He sipped his wine and smiled.

Titles and allegiances meant little now. If they wanted dignity, he would let them have it.

If they wanted names carved on marble, he would provide the chisel.

His soft laughter echoed around the hall.

Bellatrix Lestrange - her vitality slowly returning after a year outside Azkaban - noticed immediately.

"Master, you seem amused," she said, kneeling at his feet in a midnight-blue gown.

He knew exactly what she wanted. And now that the future seemed less grim, he might even indulge her. Perhaps once. Maybe twice. Enough to ensure the bloodline continued.

"A fine evening..." he said, lowering his glass.

But his voice trailed off.

Something shifted in the air - an unmistakable, structured rhythm. He recognized it instantly.

The Ministry had sealed the area with anti-Apparition enchantments.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes.

"Curious," he murmured. "I wonder who gave them that kind of courage."

The laughter stopped. The music fell silent. Every face in the room turned to the head of the table.

Knock. Knock-knock.

A sudden, deliberate knocking cut through the tension like a knife.

Lucius Malfoy, standing closest to the grand doors, looked toward his master. With a nod, he stepped forward and slowly opened the entrance.

"Back again, I see," came a cheerful voice. "I brought candy this time, dear Tom."

"You should address him as Mr. Riddle," added another voice calmly. "He has always disliked the name Tom."

Ino and Dumbledore entered the hall as one, stepping casually into the nest of Death Eaters as if it were a holiday gathering.

"I wasn't sure what you liked," Ino continued, placing a variety of colorful sweets on the nearest table. "So I bought a bit of everything."

"I'm surprised," Voldemort replied. He remained seated, his tone light, his composure flawless.

He wasn't rattled. He wasn't even annoyed. Just... curious.

Ino had to respect that. Most people would have been trembling by now. If it weren't for Gellert's prophecy, even he might've been fooled.

"There's no need for surprise," said Ino, taking hold of his umbrella. "Some stories are simply ready to end."

He lifted it slightly, extending a challenge.

Dumbledore, off to the side, made sure the camcorder remained firmly fixed on the scene.

Voldemort rose from his seat slowly, gracefully. The time for retreat had passed.

But in the back of his mind, one thought still burned.

He had placed every enchantment he knew upon his final Horcrux. Not even fate should have found it. And yet, here they were.

The Death Eaters stepped back without being told.

Not even Bellatrix dared interrupt. Every one of them understood what was about to happen.

Dumbledore moved behind the line, quietly standing beside Lucius Malfoy.

The poor man looked ready to faint - but when he saw who had taken position beside him, a strange relief washed over his face. His shoulders relaxed. He even managed a half-hearted smile.

Maybe retirement would finally come after all.

And in that hush before the storm, the final act began.