Voldemort's Decision

A long table stood silently in the center of the dimly lit hall.

This is the innermost council chamber of the Bagnold Manor. The surrounding walls are corroded by black magic, and the stone surface is like a solidified shadow, devoid of any decoration. Beneath the towering vaulted ceiling, candlelight floats in mid-air, the flames not flickering, but casting twisted and slender shadows, like countless prying eyes.

Voldemort sat at the far end of the long table.

He didn't speak, but sat there quietly, his pale fingers clasped together, his eyes lowered. Yet the atmosphere in the entire hall seemed to be gripped tightly by an invisible hand, making even breathing cautious.

The Death Eaters took their seats in turn.

Bellatrix Lestrange sat closest to Voldemort, her back ramrod straight, her expression almost fanatical, her gaze fixed on his figure, as if she would pounce on him and tear his enemies apart at the slightest glance.

Rookwood sat quietly on the other side, his face somber, his hands clasped together, his eyes darting about like a venomous snake lurking in the shadows.

Rodolphus Lestrange leaned back in his chair, his posture tough and domineering, as if this were still the old days when he could act with impunity.

Fenrir Greyback stood out from the crowd. He leaned forward slightly, a cruel smile playing on his lips, his gaze sweeping over the people as if selecting prey.

Besides these people, there were seven Death Eaters who had just escaped from Azkaban, Morvina, the leader of the Banshee, and Govak, the leader of the Ogre. They sat further away from Voldemort, indicating that their status was not as high as the previous four, and will be omitted here.

At the far back of the long table sat several figures who were clearly not so "sociable".

Millicent Bagno was quiet, almost wooden, her eyes unfocused, her expression blank—the marks of the Imperius Curse were clearly visible on her.

Fudge sat beside her, his body slightly stiff, his hands clenched tightly under the table. From the moment the Dark Mark was branded on his skin, he knew he had no way out, yet the last vestiges of reason deep within him still struggled instinctively.

Umbridge sat ramrod straight, a deliberately obedient smile on her face, but her eyes kept darting towards Voldemort, as if she were ready to speak up and prove her worth at any moment.

Rufus Fudge, on the other hand, appeared particularly eager, his expression displaying an urgent obsequiousness, as if he wanted to have the word "loyalty" etched directly onto his face.

Finally, Voldemort raised his head.

In that instant, every subtle movement stopped. Bellatrix's nervously twitching fingers froze in mid-air; Fenrir Greyback's licking of his lips stopped abruptly; even Rookwood's perpetually lowered, calculating eyelids lifted slightly.

Skylar Malfoy.

His voice was deep and calm, without a single inflection, yet it caused the temperature in the entire hall to drop several degrees, as if even the candlelight shrank.

"Which of you thinks he's just a nuisance?"

The hall was deathly silent, save for the occasional faint crackling of the phosphorescent flames.

Bellatrix was the first to break the silence. She leaned forward abruptly, her black curly hair cascading down in a disheveled mess, her pale face flushed with a sickly redness, her voice shrill and trembling, filled with an almost manic fervor. "Master! Just say the word, and I'll storm into the Ministry of Magic right now! I'll tear that little bastard's heart apart with my own hands! I'll let him know the consequences of daring to challenge you—"

She nearly jumped out of her seat, her fingernails scratching harshly on the table.

"Sit down, Bellatrix."

Voldemort didn't even glance at her, his voice as calm as if he were stating the weather.

Bellatrix immediately slumped back into her seat like a puppet whose bones had been removed, her chest heaving violently, but her eyes showed no dissatisfaction, only an even more fervent adoration and excitement. She breathed softly, her lips twitching upwards, as if savoring the impending slaughter.

Rookwood then spoke slowly. His voice was somber and deliberate, as if rising from the bottom of a deep well, each word carrying a chilling calculation. "Master, this boy not only possesses exceptional magical skills, but his intellect, methods, and strategies are also top-notch. What's more dangerous is that he no longer represents just himself. Under his control, the Ministry of Magic has undergone a massive purge. Our original infiltration routes, undercover agents, and spies... have all been uprooted, leaving not a single one."

He paused slightly, his grey-blue eyes gleaming with a sinister light in the candlelight. "He's more thorough than we anticipated..."

Rodolphus Lestrange leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his voice low and domineering, like a hammer striking a rock. "Ludo Bagman is out of contact, his whereabouts unknown. Our men can't find a trace of him, and I suspect he's most Dogie."

(Note: In addition to the Death Eaters present, the Death Eaters have already controlled many people on the periphery with the Imperius Curse, such as Cuthbert Mocrech, Roydon Poker, Stan Sampak, to carry out missions in place of these wanted criminals.)

Fenrir Greyback grinned, letting out a low, deep-seated chuckle. His fangs gleamed in the firelight, his voice hoarse and cruel, tinged with a beastly, bloodthirsty urge, "The Ministry of Magic is like a red-hot iron plate now, rock hard... and doesn't smell of blood at all. Discomfortable. I'd rather bite open a few throats and make it soft, warm, and flavorful again."

He licked his lips, his yellow eyes gleaming with hunger.

Umbridge immediately straightened her back, like a student eager to answer a question in class. Her pink face flushed slightly with excitement, and her voice was high-pitched and rapid, with undisguised flattery. "But it's not without flaws, Master! No matter how strong Skylar, he still needs a core to maintain order. That person is— Amelia Bones. She is the nominal Minister of Ministry of Magic, and if she falls, the entire structure will crack!"

Voldemort's gaze finally fell on her, his crimson pupils contracting slightly.

"Go on."

Umbridge's heart leaped with joy, and like a child who had received candy, he quickly continued, "With Bones dead, the Ministry of Magic will appear to be leaderless. Even if Skylar is incredibly resourceful, he won't be able to stabilize the situation quickly. We can take this opportunity to plant our own people, sow discord, or even directly target him, forcing him to step out from behind the scenes and into the open!"

This time, several Death Eaters simultaneously showed thoughtful expressions.

Rookwood nodded slowly, a sinister smile playing on his lips, " With Bones out, Skylar's ironclad defenses will at least crack. We might even be able to use this opportunity to get some fence-sitters to side with us again."

Rodolphus scoffed, "But her defenses are very tight. Auror work in shifts day and night, the barriers are layered upon layered, and there are at least three layers of anti-assassination spells—getting close to her won't be any easier than dealing with that kid Skylar directly."

Fenrir chuckled, his voice like sharpening claws. "That makes it even more exciting. I like chewing on tough bones."

Millicent Bagno sat at one side of the long table, her expression blank, her eyes veiled by that characteristic mist. She didn't utter a single word or show any change in expression, like a finely crafted wax figure, only occasionally nodding mechanically when Voldemort's gaze swept over her.

Fudge sat at the very end of the newlyweds' seats, his fingertips slightly cold. He lowered his head, the Dark Mark on his left arm throbbing faintly.

Assassinate the current Minister for Magic...

This was no longer a political struggle, but an open terrorist attack. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found his throat too dry to make a sound.

He was still struggling internally, but that struggle, like a flame frozen in ice, grew weaker and weaker.

Voldemort gently raised his hand.

All sound stopped abruptly.

"Therefore," Voldemort's voice rang out again, calm as the undercurrent beneath the surface of a lake, "This time, I will participate personally."

The moment those words were spoken, the atmosphere in the entire hall changed abruptly.

Bellatrix's breath almost stopped, and a look of near ecstasy appeared on her face; Rookwood and Rodolphus bowed their heads simultaneously in absolute obedience; Fenrir's smile grew even more dangerous.

Fudge felt a bone-chilling cold creep up his spine and down to the back of his neck, and a fine layer of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

Voldemort wanted to do it himself.

This means... the Wizarding World is truly doomed.

And he was actually part of this evil and despicable conspiracy.

Voldemort's gaze slowly swept across the long table, finally lingering briefly on Fudge, Umbridge, and Rufus.

"The three of you," he said, "Finally have the opportunity to prove your worth."

Rufus bowed almost immediately, his voice urgent. "Master, your servant is willing to give anything for this."

Umbridge quickly echoed, his smile stiff yet utterly devout.

Fudge opened his mouth, but ultimately lowered his head.

At that moment, he finally understood that he was no longer the Minister for Magic who could control the situation.

He was merely a pawn pushed to the front lines in this war.

The candle burned silently.

The conspiracy took shape over this long table.