Appeal and Declaration

Orion was still in the center of the crowd, surrounded by several Patriarch, holding a wine glass in his hand. His posture was no different from usual, neither relaxed nor tense, neither cold nor warm. Walburga was surrounded by several ladies by the fireplace. She was holding a glass of red wine and talking about something. The ladies around her were all laughing, laughing in unison.

Sirius stood next to Orion, but he couldn't quite understand what they were saying.

He recognized every word they used: Wizengamot, proposal, review, quota, stance.

But when these words were put together, they formed a language he would never encounter in the Gryffindor Tower.

He also looked at those people's faces and could discern something, not so much through observation, but more like an instinctive intuition.

The smile is feigned, the seriousness is also feigned, and the frustration of being ignored is genuine. When saying "of course," the thought in one's mind is "maybe not," and when saying "I can consider it," the meaning is "you're not qualified."

He disliked these things; he thought they were fake, hypocritical, and disgusting, but he watched them anyway.

At this moment, Bellatrix walked to the center of the banquet hall, and the crowd automatically parted to make way for her.

She held her wine glass, her other hand hanging naturally at her side, her gaze sweeping across the room.

The hall fell silent.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Magic carried her voice to every corner, "the Lestrange family is deeply honored to see you all here tonight." She swept her gaze across the crowd, her eyes gliding over each face.

The elegance and social restraint of the Black family lingered on her face for only half a second before being replaced by a passionate, almost flamboyant laugh. Bellatrix's voice rose, as if something was pushing it outwards, carrying a sharp, trembling tone.

"Can you feel it? For hundreds of years, the territory of Pureblood Wizards has been shrinking! Our traditions have been diluted! Our voices have been drowned out! We have retreated, we have been retreating, until today! A young wizard from a Pureblood families is sitting in a Hogwarts classroom, and who is sitting next to him?"

Her gaze was fixed on a certain spot in the middle of the crowd.

"They're a group of people who don't know where their Magic Power comes from!"

They crawled out of the Muggle mud heaps, walked into our schools, read our books, learned our Magic, and then loudly proclaimed to us on our land...

Your traditions are outdated, your bloodline doesn't matter anymore, you are the same as us."

Bellatrix's voice rose even higher; she waved the hand that wasn't holding the wine glass, her anger threatening to ignite anyone nearby.

What is the Ministry of Magic doing?

Her gaze swept slowly from one face to another, as if she were calling out names.

"They are compromising with Muggle, they are letting Half-bloods into our circle, they are using the law to tie our hands and feet."

Then he turned around and told the Mudblood, "Come on, this place is yours too."

They said, "This is progress."

The banquet hall was so quiet that you could hear the candlelight flickering.

"Progress?" Bellatrix repeated the word through gritted teeth.

Her eyes were half fanaticism and half anger, her voice was piercingly sharp, and her eyes were frighteningly bright.

"They are sending away, bit by bit, the glory that our ancestors earned with Magic, wisdom, and blood."

They assign positions in the Ministry of Magic to Mudblood who only learned to hold a wand yesterday, and they call that progress!

The next moment, she laughed again, bigger and brighter than before, with an unsettling kind of pleasure.

"But we live in a remarkable era, and someone has stepped forward!"

Some people in the hall held their breath.

"He saw our predicament, he saw where the true future of the Wizarding World lay, and he wanted to establish a new order."

But that was never Half-bloods order, not Mudblood order, not a compromised order, not the weak, disgusting order that lets us get along with Muggle!

She switched the wine glass to her left hand, raised her right hand, clenched her fingers into a fist in mid-air, and her voice trembled with a high pitch. "He wants to establish an order for Pureblood Wizards, an order for those who are truly powerful!"

Without the Ministry of Magic's permission, without haggling with the Mudblood, we'll take it back ourselves!

Her eyes shone unnaturally in the candlelight, as if they were burning with fire.

Then the voice suddenly changed, from fanatical to a mocking pressure, like a preacher looking at those in the church who hadn't yet knelt. "Some of you are just watching."

I understand. It's safe, smart, and dignified to wait and see who wins before stepping in."

She looked at everyone in the hall. "But I have something to tell you."

Her voice rose again, higher and sharper than before, almost every word squeezed out from between her teeth, each syllable carrying something she couldn't suppress.

"That great wizard gave us direction, gave us strength, and gave us names."

We are not a group of disillusioned people hiding in the shadows complaining; we are the creators of a new era!

The new era won't wait for everyone to be ready; it will come, it's already here!

Her gaze no longer fell upon anyone, but seemed to pierce through the void, fixed on some great figure.

"He won't wait forever, and neither will we. On that day, will you be on the right side, or kneeling on the wrong side?"

She held up her glass. "You can choose for yourselves."

There was a moment of silence.

"For the glory of Pure-bloods." Bellatrix's voice trailed off, returning to normal volume, but the burning sensation beneath her skin was still intense, making the muscles around her eyes twitch.

"For the glory of Pure-bloods!"

The sounds exploded, uneven, but loud.

Some people shouted until their faces turned red, some were still panting after they finished shouting, and some were late in opening their mouths, but their mouths were open wider than anyone else's.

Regulus stood beside the pillar and also raised his cup.

He glanced around at the people who were clapping.

Those who truly believe can tell that those people clapped the most enthusiastically and shouted the loudest.

Their eyes were shining, their lips were trembling; they didn't need any instigation, they were releasing their own energy.

Bellatrix spoke out what was weighing on their hearts, openly, loudly, and in front of everyone. They would be at the forefront.

Those who echoed were also evident; they raised their glasses, shouted slogans, their expressions were spot-on, and the intensity in their eyes was no less than that of the others.

But it lacks that wholehearted dedication.

It was all perfunctory, even more obvious. They clapped, but the smiles on their faces seemed forced.

These people's faith in Pure-bloods glory is about the same as their faith in investment returns; they believe when they make money and run when they lose. Then there are those who show no expression, raise their glasses, drink, and put them down, as if going through a routine.

They don't need to be incited, because they've already taken their positions; they don't need to be threatened, because they themselves are part of the threat. But the people involved aren't the point; the point is what Bellatrix just said.

Regulus brought the sparkling water to his lips, took a sip, and his gaze lingered on Bellatrix.

Last Christmas, at the Malfoy Manor, the person who stood on the stage to speak was Abraxas Malfoy.

He remembered those words clearly: the Wizarding World was at a crossroads of change, the powerful were setting the rules, and a great wizard was leading them. The words were well-chosen, the pace steady, every sentence stirring emotions, yet leaving room for maneuver.

Abraxas is more like a shrewd politician; his speeches are like a businessman's roadshow to attract investment. He talks a lot, but only gets one point out: it's good to follow us.

He also stood in the position of appeal, leaving the audience room for choice: you can stand here, or you can think about it some more; anyway, the crossroads of change are there, and you will make a decision sooner or later.

Whether you believe in the Pure-bloods Glory thing or not is irrelevant.

But Bellatrix was different; her words contained a threat, a declaration, an ultimatum.

Abraxas was talking about "us" the whole time, while Bellatrix was talking about "you".

She was drawing lines for everyone present, either to stand over or to be stepped on.

Not clever, because cleverness is unnecessary.

Everyone who has entered Lestrange Manor for tonight's banquet knows what they are doing, and everyone knows who that great wizard is.

Everyone made a choice and made preparations, just with different purposes.

Last year, Abraxas's speech was a call to join; this year, Bellatrix's speech is a declaration of the beginning.

A year passed between the appeal and the declaration, but the nature of the two events was completely different.

Bellatrix was paving the way for Voldemort.

Regulus knew that in 1975, the Death Eaters would make their first public appearance, and the name "Death Eaters" would appear on the front page of the Daily Prophet for the first time.

Voldemort will no longer hide; he will step out from the shadows and pull everyone onto his chariot—willingly, forcibly, and those who haven't had a chance to escape.

By then, many people's illusions will be shattered.

Those who thought they could just follow along and see what happens will find that this option is no longer available; once you're on board, there's no getting off.

Those who think they can back out when things turn bad will find that the cost of backing out is much higher than the cost of staying.

Some people's fantasies will become reality, power and interests will be redistributed, and the proportion of Pureblood families in the Wizarding World will reach its peak during Voldemort's rise.

At the same time, there will be another group of people whose world will collapse that year.

Those who sit in the Ministry of Ministry of Magic's offices thinking they have everything under control, those who believe that law and order can solve everything.

They will find that Voldemort's men are on every floor of the Ministry of Magic, in every office, and at every voting table.

Bellatrix's fanaticism made her speech sound like the ravings of a madman, but a madman doesn't necessarily tell lies.

In fact, every word she says comes true.

Less than two years.

That's enough for him to prepare.

Regulus raised his glass and exchanged a glance with Bellatrix across the crowd.