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Angels, Hunters, and Wizards, Oh My!

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Angels, Hunters, and Wizards, Oh My!

Author’s Note: Yes, it’s been over a year, and I do apologize but considering the amount of work I’ve put in on completing some of my other stories I can’t be too sorry for neglecting some of the other stories like this one or Avalon Seven.  I am sorry that those who enjoy my more neglected works have had to be so patient with me this year, which has been filled with ups and downs.

In good news, I’m working on *hopefully* updating all of my WIPs, with new stories to come in 2018 that I hope everyone will love, including a Harry/Newt story as well as a Harry/Khal Drogo that I’ve been promising to post for ages.

Enjoy darlings, and rejoice in that 2018 will be the year I finish Angels, Hunters, and Wizards, Oh My!

Chapter Fifteen: Best Served Cold

Then:  “Okay.”  Harry said drowsily, rapidly fading now that the highs from the fight, rites, and the confrontation-then-snogging were all wearing off.  “Dean an’ I have to go to the Council and Wizengamot opening tomorrow.”  He reminded them.  “Need to start the official Courting before that.”

“Alright, Harry.”  Castiel soothed, reaching over and running one hand through his ebony locks, helping soothe him to sleep.  “We’ll all rest a bit and deal with that on waking.  Sleep now, little one.”

“M’kay.”  He murmured, snuggling into Sam as the large wizard rose to his feet and carried him into Dean’s bedroom after a quick conversation between the three males who lived in the suite.  Dean and Cas would share, leaving Sam to crash alone and Harry to have Dean’s bed undisturbed.

“Alright.”  Gabriel said.  “That was just ridiculously adorable.  Remember what he said: it’s important that you chuckleheads start a formal Courtship before the beginning of the next Session.  Don’t ask me why, it probably won’t make any sense, especially on no sleep.  Shoo shoo.”  He flapped his hands before fading out of view.  “Off to beddy-bye.”

Now:

“Well…”  Sam ran this hands through his hair before fussing one last time at his “formal” wizarding robes…or as formal as the Brothers Winchester-Black got anyway.  “Do I look okay?”  He asked his audience…which in this case was an enchanted mirror as Dean, Cas, and even Harry were all off getting ready as well.

It was the First of November, also known as All Saint’s Day, or in Wizarding Great Britain as the opening of the Waning Season session of the Lords’ Council and Wizengamot, and all four of them had an important stop to make at Gringotts before arriving at the Ministry for the Lords’ Council and then Wizengamot opening which took place back-to-back that afternoon and evening.

They hadn’t got much sleep, only a couple of hours, but with Pepper-Up potions provided by both Harry’s elf Winky and the brothers’ elf Ribbons, they were at least awake and coherent.

Over a droopy-eyed breakfast (provided by the duo of house elves) and coffee, Harry had sketched out their plan of attack: Gringotts to register their “formal courtships” then on to the other events that strictly-speaking only Harry and Dean had to attend…not that either Cas or Sam would leave them on their own, Harry making mention that Remus would meet them at the Ministry.

For all the good that it would do them, at least Remus would be able to keep Cas and Sam company, as no one but the Lords of the Council themselves were allowed in the Council chambers…not even a proxy however illegal as Dumbledore had learned to his detriment years before…and yet another reason why the twinkly-eyed headmaster was loathed by the pureblooded elite of this world.

But, the trio would be able to support Dean and Harry at the Wizengamot as their guests, so that was something at least.

Once they’d woken up – post-potion anyway – Harry had explained what he’d meant by needed to lodge the courtship contracts before the opening of the Waning Session…Wizarding Great Britain apparently had an unspoken, but still very real, taboo over forging any sort of alliance, real or implied, during the third and most important legislative session of their year.

“It comes down to the ancient traditions, and Magi rites.”  Harry had told them, eyes thoughtful and serious as he sipped at a steaming cup of chocolate laced with an additional potion to help him recover from lack of sleep.  Winky had muttered something about Dr. Ludwig and nerve damage before giving it over with a firm look at her master.  A happening that made his trio of “suitors” exchange concerned glances.

They knew he’d been abused and suffered and nearly broken…even that he was still dealing with the aftereffects.

But it seemed there were still things going on in the background that he wasn’t willing to share…not yet.

“The Dark season.”  Castiel had said with dawning understanding breaking over his face.   “Of Death and Rebirth.”

“You could put it like that,” Harry had shrugged, “sure.  That’s how it started from what I understand – marriages that were begun in one way or another after Samhain were said to be weaker, less fruitful because they’d begun in the cycle of fallow fields and cold winds.”

“Then why would it be taboo to forge an alliance during that time?  Wouldn’t you just wait until spring or whatever to get hitched?”  Dean had asked, a bit disgruntled with lack of sleep but enjoying his bacon and pancakes nonetheless.

“If we were human, then sure.”  Harry had stretched and then rose, with a wicked glint in his eye.  “But we’re not, we’re Magi…and the Waning Season is the season of feuds and vengeance-stalks and retribution.  Haven’t you ever wondered why people say that ‘revenge is a dish best served cold?’  Magi marshal their resources and rally their allies to submit charges of grievance or wrongdoing or blood-feud during the Waning Season…most decidedly not the sort of atmosphere you would want to forge a romance in…now is it?”

After that, Harry had wandered off to get cleaned up and changed – red leather pants being distinctly unsuitable for the Lords Council – leaving them with more questions than ever…though some of it at least they understood from Andy’s lessons.

The Spring - for Waxing Season – was when alliances were often created, weddings and babies were announced, and new laws were proposed, lasting from the Ostara to Litha and was actually the shortest “Season” of the year.  There was no break between the Waxing Season and Harvest Season, which ran from Litha until the October full moon, though there were often unofficial holidays when school let out and then began again.  Then depending on when that was there was a break between legislative and social “seasons” until November First that could be a day or most of a month, the same coming after the Waxing Season which ended on Imbolc and giving an approximately six-week break in the early spring.

Neither Harry nor Dean were vested and able to take up their seats when the Harvest Season began, though that they did claim them removed them from whoever had held their proxies – Dumbledore in Harry’s case and Narcissa Malfoy in Dean’s, as the Black seat had been given to her control since their grandfather Arcturus Black died while Sirius was in Azkaban by the last Lord’s will, which Sirius had never contested, not wanting to draw attention to his ability to come-and-go from Gringotts at will…and also not wanting Dumbledore to pressure him into passing his seat over into the headmaster’s greedy hands.

This Waning Season would be both Lords’ first time sitting on a legislative or any kind of regulatory or ruling body…and Sam could hardly wait to see what Harry had up his sleeves for the assholes who had made his life so hard the year before.

Let alone what will happen once Gringotts finishes carrying out Sirius’s will and lodges charges against Dumbledore and the Weasley women.

And that was leaving out just what might be going on inside of Harry’s tricky little head.

Sam brushed his hands down the silk robes – black with silver stitching, fitting for the Black Heir – one last time as the mirror chimed out: “Impressive, deary!” then turned and strode from the room to meet up with his brother and Cas.

They were meeting Harry at Gringotts, as the cunning monster had made them promise to give him a bit of time to “work everything out.”

Merlin only knew what trouble Harry was stirring, but taking an appreciative glance as Cas who had changed out of his trench cloak and suit for leather dragon-hide pants and a silk shirt and overrobe all in black with edging in rich red to support Harry, Dean dressed almost identically to their angelic soon-to-be-lover but in black-and-silver…never one to stick to convention, Sam could hardly wait to find out.

Harry gave the brothers and Cas an appreciative leer as they stepped out of the Floo, the goblins having made it perfectly clear to the angel that fluttering hither-and-yon in their domain was most certainly frowned upon.

Sam always looked better than any man should in robes, even if they were ones that were more modern and open from hip to ankle and belted across his chest like a military jacket.

And Dean, let alone Cas, in dragonhide leather should be bloody illegal as a hazard to society.

Not that Harry could talk, mind you, as the heated looks from three pairs of eyes made him aware of just how very much they appreciated his own less-than-traditional take on formal robes in dragonhide dueling pants and robe over a silk tunic in rich ruby red shot with real-gold thread, the red matching the trim of Castiel’s robe…and how the angel managed that Harry didn’t want to think about…mainly because it would have him hard-and-aching in a split second if he did contemplate Cas sneaking a peek at a changing-him.

Harry greeted each of them with a soft kiss, rather enjoying the differing reactions – Dean leaning in for more, Sam giving as good as he got, and Castiel blushing but taking the kiss a step further by holding Harry in place with a hand in his hair.

A coughing laugh from behind him reminded Harry of just where they were – and what they needed to get accomplished before he and Dean were required at the Ministry.

Bill snickered as he eyed the sheepish glare Harry was giving him, while the Brothers-Black pretended nonchalance and their angelic companion just blinked at him.

“Ragnok is waiting, remember?”

Technically, Harry wasn’t supposed to be lingering in the Gringotts arrival chamber for their most important clients…but as Bill well knew, most rules didn’t seem to apply to the Lord of House Potter anymore, if they ever did in the first place.

He’d been glad to see Harry bright-eyed and whole at the bank that morning, even as he was dragging more than a little ass into work after the previous evening’s battles.

The goblins had understood, being a warrior-race themselves, but didn’t let him slack even as they appointed him Harry’s unofficial-official escort while the teenaged Lord first met with the Black – and now Potter – family goblin and then went off to meet with his – if what he’d overheard was right – future consorts/husbands.

Harry and the others all bowed their heads on entering Ragnok’s office, Harry continuing to take the lead…mostly because of them all he was still the most comfortable with the…formalities of being Magi than any of his companions.

“May your gold always flow, Ragnok.”

“And may the blood of your enemies do the same, Lord Potter.”  Ragnok nodded at the group then continued.  “Though from reports that have reached my desk, you have already made a start on it.”

The wizards – and angel – all flashed bright grins at him, each of them as bloodthirsty and irreverent as the next when it came to facing off with evil in any incarnation.

“We need formal courtship contracts drawn up.”  Harry said, wasting no time as usual.

“I see.”  Ragnok waved a hand toward the chairs in front of his desk, three extra having been summoned when Lord Potter made the purpose of his visit clear earlier before waiting on his companions to arrive.  Snapping his fingers, Ragnok summoned a pen and parchment, waiting for the wizards to sit before carrying on with it.  “What terms?”

“Standard individual property contracts.”  Harry stated after a glance at the others.  “With the option to change or alter the contracts to include shared property upon mutual agreement during marriage negotiations.”

“We have marriage negotiations?”  Dean whispered to Sam, brows raised.

“Like a pre-nup.”  Sam hissed back as Harry rattled off a list that sounded pretty standard to Sam: minimum and maximum time for the contract to last (three months to three years); automatic marriage clauses if someone – most likely Harry but it was hard to say why other than him insisting on it…unless he knew something about one of them that even the Winchesters themselves didn’t know – got pregnant before the end of the courtship; automatic dissolution for intentional infidelity, a safeguard against someone using Polyjuice or another potion or spell to trick or compel them into breaking the contract, and so on.  “Only more about making sure the Houses in question continue in case of extenuating circumstances, like blood-adoption being allowed if no children are born from the union, or making sure neither House gets taken over by the other.”

“Gotcha.”

“And how many contracts will be required, Lord Potter?”  Ragnok asked after taking notes of the – rather standard but with a bit of flexibility – contract terms that Harry had already discussed with the others.

“One between Lord Black and myself equally, one between Lord Black and the angel Castiel.”  Harry began.  The order each name was stated was important as it often implied which House was more powerful.  Which in their case wasn’t an issue, but it was something the Lords’ Council or the Wizengamot could make an issue if they didn’t ensure they covered their asses.  “One between myself and Heir Black, one between myself and the angel Castiel, and finally one equally between Heir Black and the angel Castiel.”

That might ruffle some feathers – pun intended – as it gave Castiel who even as an angel was nominally a creature in the eyes of many blood supremacists status equal to a noble heir, but given Castiel’s status as a favored son of his father, anything less would be insulting to the deity in question.

Not that any of them gave a good damn, the entire situation more about keeping Dumbledore – or anyone else – from giving them grief over choosing to be together despite Harry’s emancipated status and being a soon-to-be-vested Lord.

The four of them settled back and spoke quietly about inconsequential things, how the classes were progressing, making loose plans to actually spend time together outside of Hogwarts, as Ragnok sent off a note to fetch contracts from either the Black or Potter vaults that would then be altered by the Gringotts contract goblins before being brought to Ragnok for review and final approval before review and signing by the customers – in this case Harry and the others.

Ragnok actually appreciated that these wizards – and angel – had the courtesy and respect for his time to settle in amongst themselves while they waited instead of trying to engage him with meaningless small talk.

Time was money after all.

Once the contracts had been adjusted and brought in for approval, Ragnok provided the loathsome blood quill as well as a bowl of Murtlap salve for Harry.

The others hadn’t quite understood why, as Dean went first in signing his two contracts had barely felt a twinge.

Until Harry took up the quill and they learned why first-hand.

He was half-through signing his name to his and Dean’s contract when his skin reddened, and by the time the third signature – and all the initials for the various addendums and atypical clauses – had been made, his hand was within moments of bursting open.

“What the hell?”  Dean breathed, eyes wide as Sam and then Cas all signed their own contracts with little fanfare, each of them crowding around Harry’s seat where he’d taken to holding the bowl of Murtlap salve on his lap and submerging his hand for expediency.

“I told you – they couldn’t fix everything.”  Harry said with a sense of barely-holding-on patience.  “I have more than the obvious axes to grind, and more than one vengeance-stalk to register.”

“How?”  Sam asked, as Dean’s eyes narrowed at Harry’s less-than-helpful non-explanation.

“Blood Quill abuse.”  Harry shrugged, even as Cas hit him with some of his healing power, frowning adorably when the redness abated but the skin remained sensitive to touch as shown by a barely-there flinch from Harry when the angel stroked the mostly-healed skin.  “It…lingers even with healing after the fact.”

Seeing that Harry wasn’t about to be more forthcoming – and knowing that a vengeance-stalk would have to be registered later that day with the Wizengamot anyway, which should supply the details Harry was leaving out – Dean changed the subject.

“So, formal courtship.”  He arched a brow at his brainy-brother.  “We need rings or anything?”

Sam shook his head with a slight roll of his eyes.

“Rings – for marriage, engagement, or otherwise – not affiliated with either the nobility or fashion are not a Magi custom.”  Cas provided. 

“Ok, how do you know that?”  Dean groused – though in good humor.

“I read.”

Groaning under his breath, Dean shook his head as he and the rest made for the Gringotts floo room after thanking Ragnok who assured them that all the documents would be in order and filed with the clerks at the Wizengamot and Council before either body commenced.

Harry chuckled, clarifying: “Most purebloods don’t keep with what they call muggle religious nonsense.”  He told them.  “Wedding rings count in that.  In a traditional marriage at the end of a formal courtship, we’ll be handfasted and the bindings will sink into our skin, forming bond-marks on our hands and, if powerful enough, wrists or lower arms.  No jewelry required, though marriages, bondings, and so on that don’t use traditional rituals will likely use rings or wrist cuffs or what have you instead.”

“Huh.”  Dean scruffed at his jaw.  “Learning new things everyday here in the father land.  Anything else we need to do before we go face the sharks in their little tanks?”

“Not so much.”  Harry shrugged.  “Now that the contracts have been completed, we’ll need to do a confirmation and sealing of some kind but there’s a ‘grace period’ built into most traditional contracts to give time to reflect on the serious step we’re taking beforehand.  We can complete it tonight or anytime up to the next major rite.”

“That’s Yule, right?”  Sam perked up, eyes bright at the idea of learning more about the major rites that Magi go through to honor their, well, goddess he supposed.

Weird, considering all that they’ve fought in the past, to find out that their paternal line basically sprang from Chuck’s sister, and that they still worshipped her with a lot more devotion than most humans did Chuck.

The traditionalists did, anyway.

“Yes.”  Cas nodded.  “Usually with a rite of some kind at both dusk and dawn.”

“Is there a point in waiting?”  Dean arched a brow.  “I mean, the whole point of the contracts and courtship was to cover our asses with the law and Dumbles.  From what you’re implying it won’t do much for that without the ritual to go with it as far as some of them are concerned.”

“Not as such.”  Harry smiled.  “After the gauntlet then?”

A chorus of varying agreement came from his, well, suitors he supposed, and then they were flooing away to the Ministry to meet Remus – and spring the courtship on him before the Prophet caught wind of it.

“Getting greedy, cub?”  Was Remus’s low-key (and honestly to Dean, a bit of a let-down) response to Dean’s stepping-up moment and announcing (with just a bit of stuttering) quietly the step that the foursome had taken that morning.

Dean (and Sam to an extent) had expected a little wolf-eyes, a pinch of snarling, and a growled-out shovel-talk.

Instead, they get a calm and less-than-shocked Remus who just smiled, made a joke at Harry’s expense, and then muttered something about collecting from Andy and Dora.

Seriously.

What the fuck.

Remus and Harry (who’d just smirked at Dean’s shock, the brat) had verbally wandered off from the under-wraps-until-Council subject and were discussing the Wizengamot meeting and plans to manage the shit-storm to follow when they keyed into the mental malfunction of the Brothers-Black.

Cas, as per usual, was unfazed and entertaining himself by studying the Magi bustling around the Ministry outside of their little warded alcove.

It was provided, and others like it, to Lords and Department Heads for last-minute wheeling, dealing, and strategy according to Andy’s lessons.

Dean just cared that it gave them a chance to tell Remus of the major step they’d made before he tore their heads off and used them as bowling balls for daring to touch his cub.

That had been the reaction he’d expected anyway.

That he’d gotten something massively underwhelming in comparison only made him massively suspicious over whatever-the-fuck Harry and Remus talked about when no one else was around.

Harry wanted to shag the brains out of the DADA teachers, apparently, if the red pants yesterday and Remus’s amused reaction today were any indicator.

“He didn’t tell me what was brewing under all that hair.”  Remus explained, seeing – and smelling – Dean’s suspicion…and Sam’s paranoia.  The latter probably counting on a quiet retribution at a later date.

Smart of him, since if he hadn’t already seen this coming ages ago, and Harry not Harry, that’s exactly how he’d handle any cub of his getting involved with wizards – and angel – so much older than him.

Quietly, ruthlessly, and no one would ever find the bodies.

But Harry was Harry, Remus had had an idea that something along these lines would come eventually, and if any dismemberment was needed he trusted his cub to deal it out himself.

Likely with a level of prejudice that even Moony in a fury couldn’t match, considering the considerable temper his cub had inherited from the lovely Lily Flower.

“But.”  Remus continued.  “Given the reactions Potters and Blacks tend to have, I gave it fifty-fifty that he’d end up in a more-than-platonic relationship with at least one of you if not both.  Honestly, it’s only Castiel that I didn’t entirely count on, though I’m not all that surprised either.”

Remus smirked, tapping the side of his nose and making Harry choke back a laugh at the heavy blush that lit up Dean’s face at the implication.

A low gong sounded through the Ministry, summoning Dean and Harry to the Council chambers.

“Time to go.”  Harry sighed, then tugged first Sam and then Cas down into quick-but-dirty goodbye kisses, Dean following in his footsteps eagerly when it came to Cas and giving Sam a punch to one shoulder.

“We’ll be in your office, cub.”  Remus told him, the others following after him like lost ducklings as Harry corralled Dean and led him towards the massive arching doorway that was magically protected against any intrusion.

The magic and warding was so strong over the Lords’ Council chambers that there was a visible barrier that one had to cross to enter them.

And the pure punishment said magic would deal out to anyone not allowed inside was legendary, making Harry faintly wish he could’ve seen what happened to Dumbledore for himself, as rumor had it the backlash had been both painful and entertaining in the case of the Headmaster.

Taking a deep breath in unison, Harry and Dean gave each other a steadying glance, then stepped forward and through the barrier, the mist-like magic parting before them like the Red Sea before Moses.

“Here we go.”  Dean muttered as heads turned at the entrance of new blood – as evidenced by the sigils of their houses lighting up and chairs magically appearing at the round table that instantly expanded.

Between them, hidden from sight, their hands sought each other and linked for a brief moment then parted.

And then the sharks swarmed, and they were separated into their nominal/historical house affiliations: Harry with the Moderates, Dean with the Traditionalists, known as Greys or Darks in the Wizengamot.

Here, at least, no judgements were made based on the affiliations of one’s magic.

But until each House was counted during the Opening of the Council, both Houses were still aligned according to their historical preference.

Harry – and Dean from what he could tell – remained polite but distant as the Lords and few Ladies gathered around them.

Welcoming, on the surface, but mostly calculating with a few clueless or affables thrown in.

Not every Head was worth their salt after all.

None took their seats, as depending on any changes in alliance or affiliation, the arrangement will change – and no one liked looking a fool before their peers: enemies and allies alike, by being tossed to the ground by their chair.

A few minutes later, another gong sounded – this more a feeling deep in their bones than an actual noise – and the semi-transparent barrier over the chamber entrance shifted and hardened, going opaque and impenetrable.

An instant later, a staff stamped against the polished marble floor, the metal plate on the end of the High Lord of the Council’s staff of office sending out a ringing demand for silence and a wordless demand to come to order – also giving Harry and Dean both a view of the held-in-secret identity of the High Lord.

The High Lord of the Council wasn’t an elected position or a heritable one – though it did tend to follow certain bloodlines that were known for their clarity of thought…which meant certain Houses such as House Black and the now-defunct House Prewett tended to rarely if ever hold the post.

It was chosen by Magic, and was one of the highest secrets of the land.

Not even the Minister of Magic or Chief Warlock were aware of their identity unless they themselves were members of the Council.

It wasn’t a life-long position, and could change hands at any time, though it did tend to be a post that lasted for the prime of the wizard’s or witch’s life barring outside events causing a shake up in Wizarding Britain.

And as the crowd stood in a circle around the Council table, allies and enemies alike standing shoulder-to-shoulder, Harry held in a laugh at who stood with staff in hand at the head of the table but none other than one Lady Amelia Bones, Minister for Magic…though if Harry recalled his lessons with Siri correctly, according to the massive grapefruit-sized red diamond atop the staff appearing clouded rather than clear and sparkling, she was an interim High Lady rather than a chosen one.

The former High Lady or Lord was unable to be present, the position falling to the party-leader with the greatest number of votes to Open the Council in their absence.

And given the now-darkened sigil behind her, that missing Lord was none other than Garrick Ollivander, which added…depth to his abduction by Voldemort.

“By the Order of Magic, this session of the Lords Council is Opened.”  Lady Bones stamped the staff – which she held two-handed before her – seven times on the inset beaten gold plate at the top (by orientation in the room, as with a round table there was no distinct ‘head’) of the table.  Then she let go and stepped back, the staff staying upright in place by the will of Magic than any doing on her part, and a scroll appeared in her hands.  Lady Bones flicked it open and read off name after name, the Lord and few Ladies answering by sending a pulse of their magic (for those with such control) or lighting the tip of their wands on the gemstone on their seat that corresponded with their chosen party affiliation and speaking their alliances.

The magic of the room would then note the stated alliances and at the end rearrange the seating to separate the lords and ladies into allied groups, while the gemstones on the three scales (Traditionalists, Moderates, and Avant-Garde) would fall until the last vote was tallied and the party standings would be determined.

Which weren’t the oldest names for those parties by any stretch of the imagination, but had been so since the formation of the magical ministry.

Historically, the Moderates – including Houses such as Bones – led the Council, and it did still as Lady Bones’ position as interim High Lady gave credence to.

But every once in a while, the others would become the leading party, which really only mattered to break a tied vote or as was the current case, where the former High Lord or Lady was unable to take up the post of Opening the Council.

As a matter of course, the absent Lord Ollivander would be replaced by Magic once the Houses present had all been accounted for.

But until then, Lady Bones led them.

The Council Chamber wasn’t vast or imposing, as many would think, but markedly simple in design.

A round chamber to match its table, it had been hewn from solid marble at the depths of the Ministry building – predating it by centuries – and had only the sigils of the great houses of WGB picked out in either gold, silver, or copper depending on the age of the house, with bronze candle holders and torchiers to provide light.  The table was a rich golden oak, inlaid with the sigils of each house, with chairs to match, and inset at each place the emerald Avant Garde stone, the moonstone of the Moderates, and the ruby of the Traditionalist.  There were no lush fabrics, no ostentatious displays of wealth.  Just the signs of ancient power unchanging for generations untold.

The list was alphabetical, taking little time at all to get to House Black.

Dean had what Harry could only describe as a shit-eating grin on his face as he drawled in his lazy American accent: “Lord Antares Dean Black, of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black hereby I align my House with the Traditionalist Party and in alliance to the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, so mote it be.”

A paralyzed wave of magic whipped through the room as the ruby before Dean glowed, and the sigil on his chair shifted, interlinking along the edge with the Potter crest.

Not only had Dean shocked the daylights out of most of the Lords present by not changing the ancient affiliation of House Black, but it was the first time House Black and House Potter had been formally aligned in over a century.

More importantly, Dean didn’t claim any of the old alliances which could work just as easily in his harm as it could his favor, given that the houses he failed to renew alliances with were mainly Traditionalist houses themselves such as Malfoy and Nott, leftover from his great-grandfather’s lordship of his house.

Nothing, however, shook the foundations of the Lord’s Council, as Harry’s claiming less than an hour later.