Wednesday, April 11th, 2009 — 9:00 a.m.
Location: Hogwarts Deep, Silver Den — The Lounge Where Light Kneels
Tagline: Royalty doesn't fall in love. It declares war politely.
The Silver Den had no windows. It didn't need illusions of light.
This deep under Hogwarts beneath the deepest bones, beneath the screaming roots and sealed chambers light was a tolerated visitor, not a sovereign. Shadows held territory. Power had scent. And everything the obsidian floors, the spell-stung walls, the dragonbone furniture was carved and cursed to remind anyone stupid enough to enter that this wasn't just a room.
It was a throne of blood.
And at the heart of it lounged Mateo Salazar Slytherin, first of the Silver Kings, heir to serpents and ruin.
Six foot six of myth-shaped menace, draped in crimson robes too old to name, stitched with silk from a spider goddess no longer worshipped. His golden eyes gleamed like sins that got away with it. His hair, slicked back and tangled at the edges, bled over his shoulders like a war flag. The red-silver piercing in his brow shimmered. Once it belonged to a priest.
That priest had lied.
Mateo had collected the truth and the metal.
The corpse at his feet was new.
Some delusional 130 bloodline whisperer. Obsessed. Unhinged. Convinced she could mark a crown prince and live.
She'd learned differently.
Mateo had not moved. He hadn't even spoken until the kill was done.
He gestured, lazy. "Handle it."
Maisie, his blood companion, didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
She tapped twice on her obsidian tablet. The app glowed red.
> App: Corpse Courier™ — Ritual Disposal, Premium Tier
ETA: 00:58
A portal cracked open.
Four enchanted brownies in surgical scrubs complete with "We've Seen Worse" badges and enchanted gloves popped in, whistling "Another One Bites the Dust." They scooped up the corpse, doused the floor with lavender-scented magical sterilizer, and vanished.
The air hardly noticed.
On Mateo's desk, a Red Envelope sealed itself with wax burned in Nightmare ink.
Inside:
– A relocation voucher for the girl's family
– 5.8 million galleons in blood-silence restitution
– An academic pardon
– A copy of the Nightmare Mutual Destruction Accord she had posthumously violated
The time read: 9:04 a.m.
At 9:05, the Kings arrived.
Draco Lucius Malfoy entered first. Impeccable. Clinical. Eyes like pure steel under rectangular reading glasses he didn't need but wore to remind people he read contracts for pleasure. Platinum blond hair. A septum ring that looked like a court threat. Two fingers inked in ritual rings, scent of iron and disdain trailing behind him like the tail of a grudge comet.
"They tried again," he said without preamble. "The Womb Club. Kidnapped her. Rolled her in a rug. Mid-day. Portal Axis."
He didn't even blink.
Behind him: Theo Lysander Nott. Taller. Colder. 6'7 of Siren predator with bone-cut cheekbones and salt-slick aura. Black hair streaked with poison green. Voice honeyed with contempt.
"They rolled her," Theo said, eyes glittering. "Like a luxury carpet. In front of goblins. Who are going to invoice someone's soul for the trauma."
Blaise Leon Zabini drifted in next. No sound. No rush. Just velvet presence and a single silver earring dragging attention with it. His green eyes gleamed, and his smile said, Let them come.
He never said much.
He didn't need to.
Lucca Rodolphus Lestrange followed, pale and elegant, his diamond lip piercing catching the low flame-light. He strolled like someone who'd already written the eulogy and charged it to your estate. Ocean-blue eyes unreadable. No expression. Just cold, curated legacy.
Owen Justus Bones swept in quietly. White hair in a loose knot. Golden eyes gleaming with tired judgment. He adjusted his pearl glasses like every breath taken in his presence was being graded.
"They tried it… here?" he asked. "I thought stupidity came with boundaries. Apparently not."
Then came Marcus Cassian Bulstrode. He didn't enter. He arrived. Like thunder with manners. 6'8. Covered in ink. Hair blood-dark, expression darker. His rings pulsed with stored curses. When he crossed the threshold, the floor groaned.
"If they'd touched her again," he said softly, "I would've taken their bones and built arrows. And used their skulls as lanterns."
And last?
Oliver Elion Rivers, prince of the Seelie, strolled in like midsummer. Gold hair braided back, green-gold eyes bright with madness and grace. He carried a goblet of something that smoked, sparkled, and hissed when it got too close to Draco.
He stretched across the couch, lounging like a prophecy bored of waiting.
"So," Oliver drawled. "Is it time to name your Second? It's tradition. For a threat of this scale. Nightmare line.maybe Wild Hunt. Something poetic."
Mateo didn't respond.
Yet.
He remembered Council Day.
Seventeen years ago.
The screaming. The smoke. Catherine Winters howling in defiance. Dumbledore lying through his fucking teeth. The Ministry scrambling, too slow, too scared, too complicit.
Twenty-eight family members gone.
James. Liliana. The Greys. The whole axis of legacy scorched from the map.
The official line: Backlash.
The 130 whispered: Accident.
The 84 knew better: Deliberate.
Mateo knew best: Orchestrated.
His father had searched for bodies.
Found nothing.
Just ash and the echo of something devoured.
If Caius survived if Seraphina clawed herself back into existence.then someone would pay.
With interest.
Now?
They had returned.
Caius Everen Grey.
Seraphina Potter-Peverell.
Not ghosts.
Heirs.
Breathing. Walking. Eyes like storm fronts with unfinished blood contracts.
And the moment they stepped onto the playing field?
Every king in the room had felt it.
Not love.
Not lust.
Something deeper.
Something hungrier.
None of them spoke the word.
Keja.
Not yet.
The old title. The dangerous one. The sacred one. For the Queens who reigned without coronation. Who didn't wait for thrones they tore them out of the ground and reshaped them.
But their instincts whispered it.
They could feel the threads pulling taut.
The Veil was thinner.
The Black Harvest stirred.
Old gods blinked awake beneath lake water.
The wolves started pacing again.
The Silver Kings weren't stupid.
They didn't write sonnets.
They didn't pray.
They watched.
They weighed.
They waited.
Not for love.
Not for fate.
But for the signal.
Because when the Kejas rose?
It wouldn't be to ask.
It would be to rule.