THE WIZENGAMOT BECKONS

The summer of 1938 was a relentless forge. With my N.E.W.T.s behind me and the apprenticeships secured, my days at Castle Starborn became a disciplined pursuit of mastery. I rose before dawn, meditating to strengthen my Untethered Will and refine my magical resonance sensing, extending my awareness to encompass the entire castle and the surrounding Isle of Wight. Mornings were dedicated to intensive combat training in the dueling chambers, pushing my silent, wandless spellcasting to new extremes. Afternoons were spent in the sprawling library, devouring ancient texts on Draconic magic, obscure mind arts, and political theory, my intellect sharpened by the constant awareness of the spreading darkness. Evenings were often spent in the laboratories, experimenting with advanced potions and runic schematics, seeking new ways to apply my knowledge to the coming conflict.

The Daily Prophet continued its grim bulletins. Grindelwald's grip on Eastern Europe tightened, reports of dissent ruthlessly suppressed. Refugee numbers swelled, placing immense strain on the magical communities of allied nations, including Britain. The Ministry of Magic, under the leadership of Minister Hector Fawley, seemed increasingly beleaguered, caught between the demands for action from a fearful populace and the paralyzing inertia of international politics. My magical resonance sensing often picked up the nationwide hum of fear and uncertainty, a palpable magical miasma that stretched across the country.

The invitation to the Wizengamot Budget Session, slated for September 1st, 1938, loomed large in my mind. It was my formal entry into the political arena, a necessary step to influence the Ministry, however subtly. I dedicated hours to studying Wizengamot procedures, the intricate web of magical law, and the histories of the prominent houses. I meticulously researched the current political climate, the various factions, and the known stances of influential Lords and Ladies. I would not walk in unprepared.

September 1st dawned, a crisp, slightly overcast day, carrying the first hint of autumn's chill. I dressed in formal deep-green robes, the Starborn crest subtly embroidered over my heart, a heavy silver Starborn ring gleaming on my finger. Pip, the head house-elf, popped into my study, offering a plate of perfectly prepared toast and tea.

"Master Marcus is looking very grand this morning!" Pip squeaked, her large eyes shining with pride. "The Ministry will know Master is here!"

"Thank you, Pip," I said, a rare smile touching my lips. "The castle will be secure in your hands."

I opted for Floo travel, the direct connection from Castle Starborn to the Ministry of Magic being a privilege of my Lordship. The familiar emerald flames enveloped me, and with a soft whoosh, I emerged into the bustling Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. The usual chaotic grandeur of the Atrium was amplified today, filled with the murmuring voices of Ministry officials, curious onlookers, and a significant number of wizened witches and wizards in elaborate robes – Wizengamot members.

My magical resonance sensing immediately registered the distinct, powerful auras of many high-ranking wizards. I saw a few familiar faces from Daily Prophet photos, and felt the distinct magical signatures of power, influence, and age emanating from them. I moved with a quiet dignity, my gaze sweeping over the scene, observing, absorbing. Few seemed to notice me initially; I was just another young wizard in formal robes. But my presence, though subtle, carried the innate weight of the Starborn name.

I made my way to the lifts, which were gleaming brass cages, and stepped inside. "Wizengamot Chamber, Level Eight," I instructed the automated voice. The lift ascended with a gentle hum, the voices and magical hum of the lower levels fading as I rose.

Level Eight. The doors chimed open, revealing a quieter, more formal corridor. The air here was thicker with old magic, with the weight of centuries of law and power. Portly, stern-looking Ministry guards, their wands held loosely, stood at intervals. They glanced at me, their eyes questioning, until they saw the Starborn crest on my robes, and their expressions shifted to one of polite acknowledgement.

I followed the corridor, guided by subtle magical currents, until I reached a pair of immense, intricately carved golden doors. These were the doors to the Wizengamot Chamber. Two imposing Aurors stood guard, their expressions unyielding.

"Lord Starborn, reporting for the Budget Session," I stated, my voice clear and steady. I presented my Ministry identification card, clearly marked with my new Lordship title.

The Aurors exchanged a quick glance, a flicker of surprise in their eyes. They clearly hadn't expected the new Lord Starborn to be so young. One of them checked a scroll, his finger tracing a list. His eyes widened slightly as he found my name. "Ah, Lord Starborn. Welcome. The session is about to begin. Through these doors." He stepped aside, gesturing with a gloved hand.

I nodded, feeling the significance of the moment. This was it. The official step into the political heart of my world. My Untethered Will flowed, calming any nascent nerves, sharpening my focus.

The doors swung inward silently, revealing the vast, circular Wizengamot Chamber. It was even grander than depictions in textbooks. Tiered benches, dark and polished, rose in concentric circles, filled with hundreds of witches and wizards in deep plum-colored robes. A palpable buzz of conversation filled the air, the collective magical hum of hundreds of powerful individuals. My magical resonance sensing was almost overwhelmed, picking up the distinct auras of so many influential figures. The air itself vibrated with latent power, with the weight of centuries of magical law and political maneuvering.

At the very front, on a raised dais, sat the Chief Warlock, her seat grander than the rest. My gaze immediately went to her. Madam Marchbanks, a formidable witch with a towering silver bun and eyes that missed nothing, occupied the seat with an air of absolute authority. Her magical aura was ancient, immense, radiating decades of experience and shrewdness.

My eyes swept across the benches, identifying other key figures. There, three rows up on the right, sat Lord Fleamont Potter, a man with a kind, intelligent face, his magical aura warm and dependable, though tinged with a subtle sadness. He was chatting quietly with another Lord, but his gaze occasionally swept over the new arrivals. Further down, unmistakable even from a distance, was Lord Arcturus Black, his expression cold and aristocratic, his magical aura like a sharp, ancient blade, radiating raw power and a deep, ancestral pride. He sat alone, aloof, his eyes constantly scanning the room, missing nothing. And directly beneath the Chief Warlock, at a large, ornate table, sat Minister Hector Fawley, his face etched with the burdens of his office, his magical aura powerful but currently weighed down by stress and responsibility.

As I walked towards the only empty seat on the lowest tier – the seats designated for new or recently confirmed Lords and Ladies – the conversations slowly began to die down. Heads turned. Eyes, sharp and assessing, fixed on me. Whispers began to ripple through the chamber. "Who's that?" "So young!" "Is that... the new Lord Starborn?"

My magical resonance sensing picked up the shift in attention, the waves of curiosity, skepticism, and a few faint tinges of something akin to awe, mixed with surprise at my youth. I felt the powerful, inquisitive gaze of Madam Marchbanks, Lord Potter, and Lord Black all fix on me simultaneously. I kept my expression neutral, my stride even, walking confidently to my seat.

As I settled into the plush velvet of the bench, a hush fell over the entire chamber. Madam Marchbanks cleared her throat, her voice, though not loud, carried with effortless authority through the vast hall.

"Order! Order, members of the Wizengamot!" Her voice resonated with ancient magic, instantly silencing the last murmurs. "The Budget Session for the fiscal year 1938-1939 will now officially commence."

Her gaze, sharp and direct, settled on me. "Before we proceed with the day's agenda, we have a matter of introduction. Would Lord Starborn please rise and present himself to the Wizengamot?"

I stood, my posture erect, my gaze meeting Madam Marchbanks's without faltering. The silence in the chamber was absolute, hundreds of eyes fixed on me. I could feel the immense magical presence of the Wizengamot, a unified current of power that demanded respect.

"Chief Warlock Marchbanks, esteemed members of the Wizengamot," I began, my voice clear and steady, amplified slightly by the chamber's enchantments. "I am Marcus Starborn, the newly recognized Lord of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Starborn. I stand before you today to take my rightful place among the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, and to serve the magical community of Great Britain."

A ripple went through the chamber. My youth, my composure, the clear declaration of my identity – it was undoubtedly a surprise to many. My magical resonance sensing picked up a mix of continued surprise, some admiration, and even a faint flutter of apprehension from those who perhaps remembered the more reclusive nature of my immediate predecessors. Lord Black's sharp gaze remained fixed on me, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. Lord Potter offered a small, encouraging nod. Minister Fawley simply looked relieved that the formality was proceeding smoothly.

Madam Marchbanks nodded, her expression unreadable. "Thank you, Lord Starborn. Now, if you would step forward to the central dais and take the standard Lordship Oath before this esteemed body."

I walked towards the dais, my robes swishing softly. A thin, ethereal mist rose from the floor of the chamber, forming a shimmering, almost sentient circle around the dais. This was the oath circle, binding the words spoken within it with powerful, ancient magic. I stood within it, facing the assembled Wizengamot.

Madam Marchbanks raised her wand, and the words of the oath resonated through the chamber, projected by unseen enchantments, ancient and solemn:

"Do you, Marcus Starborn, as the rightful Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Starborn, solemnly swear to uphold the laws of magical Britain, to protect its people, to defend its traditions, and to serve the Ministry of Magic in all its just endeavors, to the best of your ability, with integrity, courage, and unwavering loyalty, so long as magic flows through your veins and the Starborn line endures?"

I took a deep breath, letting my Untethered Will resonate with every word. My voice, clear and unwavering, filled the chamber.

"I do, solemnly swear."

As the final word left my lips, the oath circle flared with a blinding, silvery light, encompassing me completely for a split second. A deep, resonant hum vibrated through the entire chamber, an ancient acknowledgement from the magic itself. It was done. The oath was taken, binding me to the very fabric of magical British law and society.

The silvery light receded, and the profound hum faded, leaving behind a charged silence. Madam Marchbanks nodded, a flicker of approval in her stern eyes. "Then be it known," she announced, her voice ringing with authority, "that Marcus Starborn is hereby formally acknowledged as a sitting Lord of the Wizengamot, with all rights, privileges, and responsibilities appertaining to that ancient station. Welcome, Lord Starborn, to your rightful place."

A wave of applause, surprisingly vigorous, erupted from the benches. Many Wizengamot members, including Lord Potter, offered genuine, welcoming smiles. Even Lord Black gave a stiff, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement, a rare gesture from the notoriously unyielding Head of his House. Minister Fawley offered a tired but sincere nod of welcome.

As I returned to my seat, the sense of accomplishment was profound. I had stepped onto the stage, presented myself, and taken the oath. The formal introductions, however, were not entirely over. Various Lords and Ladies, once the main session began and during subsequent breaks, would seek me out.

A moment later, Madam Marchbanks rapped her gavel. "Silence, please! Now, as is customary, a brief address from the Minister before we delve into the budget proposals." She gestured to Minister Fawley.

Minister Fawley rose, his face looking even more drawn in the harsh light of the chamber. He spoke of the "unprecedented challenges" facing the magical world, of Grindelwald's "aggressive expansion," and of the Ministry's "unwavering commitment to the safety and security of British citizens." His words were carefully chosen, diplomatic, emphasizing unity and resilience, but beneath them, I could feel the magical aura of a man under immense pressure, navigating a treacherous political landscape. He spoke of the need for increased funding for Auror forces, for magical refugee aid, and for international diplomacy efforts, all key components of the budget.

During the Minister's address, I continued my own silent observations. The power within this chamber was undeniable, a concentration of influence and magical might unlike anything I had experienced outside Castle Starborn. My magical resonance sensing processed the individual magical signatures of the Lords and Ladies, feeling the subtle currents of their allegiances, their biases, their strengths, and their weaknesses. This was a different kind of battlefield, one of words and political maneuvering, but no less crucial than the one forming on the continent.

When Minister Fawley concluded, the budget session officially began. It was a tedious process, filled with dry figures, complex proposals, and often passionate, yet frequently circular, debates. I listened intently, absorbing the nuances of magical governance, the financial intricacies of running a Ministry in increasingly difficult times. I weighed the arguments, assessing the magical auras of those speaking, trying to discern genuine concern from political posturing.

During the first break, as members stretched their legs and engaged in hushed conversations, several figures approached my bench.

The first was Lord Fleamont Potter, his magical aura warm and welcoming. "Lord Starborn," he said, extending a hand, his smile genuine. "Fleamont Potter. A true pleasure to finally meet you. I knew your father, a good man. And your performance at the N.E.W.T.s… quite spectacular, my boy. Made the entire Wizengamot sit up and take notice, I assure you." His handshake was firm, sincere.

"Lord Potter," I replied, my voice holding a respectful warmth. "The pleasure is mine. And thank you for your kind words. I hope to live up to the legacy."

"I have no doubt you will," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Times are changing, Marcus. The Wizengamot needs strong, clear voices. Don't be afraid to use yours, even if you are new." He gave me a knowing look, implying a deeper understanding of the challenges ahead.

Next, a formidable witch with piercing eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor approached. She was Lord Silas Longbottom, his magical aura stern but principled. "Lord Starborn," he said, his voice crisp. "Silas Longbottom. Welcome. I confess, I was most impressed by your N.E.W.T. results. A rare feat. We shall need such minds in the coming years." His approval, though delivered without overt warmth, felt weighty.

Even Lord Arcturus Black, though he did not directly approach me during the session, caught my eye from across the chamber during a later break. His dark, aristocratic gaze fixed on me for a long moment, a subtle, almost imperceptible nod from his head indicating a grudging respect, perhaps even a recognition of shared pureblood power. It was a silent acknowledgment from a man not known for offering them freely. His magical aura remained sharp, powerful, but it held a new, almost calculating interest.

Minister Fawley himself approached towards the latter half of the session, his face tired but resolute. "Lord Starborn," he said, extending a hand. "Hector Fawley. Welcome. Your introduction was… memorable. It is good to see new blood, particularly from such a distinguished line, joining our ranks. The challenges facing us are immense, and we will need all hands on deck." He spoke with a weariness that suggested the heavy burden of his office.

"Minister," I replied, my handclasp firm. "I understand the gravity of the situation. I am here to serve."

The budget session continued late into the evening. I listened, absorbing every detail, analyzing the various proposals for increased Auror funding, defensive magical research, and international alliances. I made mental notes, formulating my own strategic positions, understanding where my 'unseen hand' might best be applied to subtly guide future discussions and decisions.

When Madam Marchbanks finally brought the gavel down, declaring the session adjourned until the next scheduled meeting, a wave of collective exhaustion, mixed with a faint sense of accomplishment, washed over the chamber. I remained in my seat for a few moments, letting the last of the powerful magical energies of the Wizengamot dissipate.

My first official day as a Wizengamot Lord was complete. I had taken the oath, formally established my presence, and begun to understand the intricate dance of political power. The sheer weight of responsibility, the scale of the challenges facing the magical world, felt more tangible than ever before. But I also felt a profound sense of purpose. This was a crucial step. The war would be fought on many fronts, and the Wizengamot, for all its slowness, was undeniably one of them. My training, my castle, my inherent magic – all were converging. I would be ready.

I took a Floo back to Castle Starborn, emerging into the familiar, calming hum of my ancestral home. The silence of my study, after the cacophony of the Wizengamot, was a welcome balm. I removed my formal robes, storing them carefully. The Starborn ring on my finger felt heavier, imbued with the day's events, a symbol of my new, crucial role.

I retired to my chambers, my mind still whirring with the day's experiences, the faces, the auras, the political undercurrents. It had been a monumental day, a pivotal moment in my life. And as I drifted into sleep, the quiet hum of Castle Starborn's wards a comforting presence, I knew that the real work, the deeper, more dangerous work, had only just begun.