A heavy silence settled between the three men, as if the room itself held its breath. The steady rhythm of rain tapping against the glass served as a low, persistent drumbeat behind Winston's voice, building an almost oppressive tension. Laxus remained by the desk, arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the screen with a solemn stillness.
Winston inhaled deeply, steadying himself, as though what he was about to say required more than memory—it required courage.
"Back then," he began, "during what they now call the Golden Age of the Clock Tower, the organisation stood unchallenged. A colossus. The symbol of justice. Its authority stretched from the Crown City to the farthest corners of Avalon. It was... a different time."
His gaze drifted for a moment, lost in thought before returning to the screen.
"Throughout my years as an Auror, I like to think I helped build that image. Me, Lamar, Wilhelm—we were the spine of the Tower. Our names carried weight. Admiration, fear, respect—it mattered not. We were legends in our own right."
Bran gave a silent nod, letting his grandfather speak.
"And once," Winston continued with a small, hollow smile, "we were truly friends. Wilhelm was the gallant idealist—the knight without a crown. He believed, to his last breath, in protecting the innocent and standing for what was right." His eyes softened. "I was a loyal fool, desperate to live up to the Ravenclaw name."
A pause.
"And then there was Lamar," Winston's words grew quieter. "He wanted to make the world better—genuinely. He had vision, ambition. And for a time, I believed in it. I believed in him."
He exhaled heavily. "But I've learned this—some of the darkest acts ever committed were born of the noblest intent. And Lamar… he's no exception."
His expression darkened.
"He is my closest friend. And perhaps that's why I failed to see it—what he was becoming. Or worse… what he already was."
"Twenty years ago," Winston began, "word reached the Wizarding Council that Director Zachariah Trench intended to step down. After decades of service, his retirement left a void—one not easily filled."
He clasped his hands together, the weight of memory pressing down on him.
"Naturally, the names floated to the top were the usual suspects. Wilhelm declined outright—true to form. He believed his duty was in the field, with his troops, not behind a desk. That left only two real contenders: myself… and Lamar."
"I remember," Bran said quietly. "Father used to say you were denied unjustly. But he never explained why."
"Because I never told him the truth," Winston said. "The real truth. I allowed him to believe what he wanted—built from scraps of rumour and assumption. It was simpler that way."
He looked down, a dry chuckle escaping him. "Not even your grandmother knows. If she were still around, she'd box my ears for it—and rightly so. You're the first, Bran. The only one I've ever laid it all bare for."
He drew a slow breath before continuing.
"On paper—academically, tactically, politically—Lamar and I were evenly matched. Our careers ran parallel, our records spotless. But behind closed doors, there were whispers… murmurs that the Council favored me."
His gaze hardened.
"And then came the Dah'tan Incident," Winston said grimly. He leaned forward slightly, the weight of the words settling over the room. "Tell me, lads—how much do you actually know about what happened?"
"Only what we were taught in school," Laxus replied, lifting his mug and taking a slow sip. "Some terrorist group seized a lacrima refinery in the city. The Tower responded, but something went sideways. The core went into Overdrive and… boom. Wiped out the entire place. Thousands dead. Thousands more scattered. Dah'tan just—vanished."
Bran nodded. "The public backlash was swift. Protests, riots, fury across Avalon. The Tower was blamed outright, and for a time, it nearly collapsed under the pressure." He paused, brows furrowing. "Eventually, order returned. The Tower salvaged its image, at least on the surface. But it never truly recovered."
Winston sat back; eyes distant. The silence that followed was heavy—memorial, almost. Rain tapped steadily against the windows like a ticking clock.
"A fair retelling… if you read the official narrative," he said at last. "But as you've no doubt guessed… it was never the full truth."
"You see, Lamar and I were part of the infiltration team," Winston said. His dark blue eyes narrowed, and the light from the screen cast deep lines across his face. "I focused on extracting the hostages. Lamar… he wanted the heads of those responsible. We disagreed. Broke protocol. Split up."
He closed his eyes. "I cut through scores of them—mages, blades, zealots. Eventually, I found the captives and began evacuating them." His jaw tightened. "Then the alarms sounded. The reactor core was breached. And… everything went black."
"By the Gods," Laxus muttered, under his breath.
"I came to in the infirmary weeks later," Winston went on. "It was then I learned the full extent of the catastrophe. The core had gone into Overdrive—Dah'tan was gone. Nothing left but a crater."
He paused, jaw tightening. "Only Lamar, myself, and a scant few who'd been near the epicentre made it out… and even then, it was down to quick thinking—or, if I'm honest, sheer bloody luck."
Bran said nothing, his arms crossed tighter across his chest.
"But death would've been a mercy compared to what came next." He drew a slow breath. "The Council demanded answers. They wanted a name. And Lamar…" his expression darkened, "he gave them mine."
"What?" Bran's eyes widened.
"Said I'd broken protocol. That I'd left him alone, outnumbered, to fend off the enemy while I botched the evacuation," Winston said bitterly. "Claimed the Overdrive happened because I panicked. Abandoned my post. That I left the city to die."
"Hold on a damn picking minute," Laxus cut in, anger rising. "He was the one hunting the terrorists. If he pushed the fight too far, if it was on his watch—surely the Council—"
"If they had time to think rationally, perhaps," Winston interrupted, shaking his head. "But the pressure was immense. The public demanded justice. The Council wanted to save face. Someone had to fall… and I had fewer allies left than he did."
He exhaled sharply. "But they couldn't very well string me up by my bollocks for the crowd to jeer at—no matter how much they might've liked to. So instead, they spun their narrative. Fed the public half-truths: that the terrorists were always planning to overload the reactor, that the Tower had done everything in its power to stop them. Convenient, really."
A shadow flickered across his face.
"They paraded Wilhelm out like a war banner—held him up as the great Overdeath, hoping his legend would cool the flames. He hated every second of it, but he did it all the same. Not for the Tower. For me." He paused. "And it worked. Took time, but the people believed it. Or at least, they stopped asking questions."
His expression tightened.
"But it drove a permanent wedge between Wilhelm and Lamar. Whatever tension there was between them turned to proper scorn after that—and it never mended."
He leaned back.
"As for me… they spared me the trial. Said it was out of respect for my years of service. Let me retire quietly, with full honours. On one condition." He looked at Bran. "That the incident was never to be spoken of again."
"And with you gone…" Bran's eyes narrowed.
Winston nodded. "Lamar was elevated. Named Director."
"But all this time, all these years, Lamar's been part of our lives," Bran said. "He was at my wedding. Every family gathering. We spent holidays with him. He's Rowena's godfather, for Gods' sake!" His voice rose. "How could you let that man into our home—into our lives—knowing what he did? What he did to you?"
Winston drew a slow breath, his expression darkening. "Because… as I said before, for all that's happened between us—he wasn't just a friend, Bran. He was family. I met your grandmother because of him, and she adored the man. It would've broken her heart to know the truth."
He paused. "And I loved her. I love all of you. More than you'll ever truly understand." He looked away for a moment. "Lamar and I… we walked through fire together. The worst kind. And more than once, he saved my life."
He looked down, shame flickering in his eyes. "Truth is, none of you would be here if not for him. I know it sounds like I'm making excuses—and maybe I am—but I owed him more than you know."
"And maybe that debt blinded me. I wanted to believe the man I trusted was still there… not the monster that took his place the moment he became Director."
"Doesn't change a damn thing," Laxus snapped. "You knew what kind of bastard Lamar was. You knew exactly what the Tower let crawl its way to the top. You knew everything." His gaze hardened. "And still, you stood by. Twenty years, and you let that lunatic rot the Tower from the inside out. You watched him break people—wreck lives—and you didn't say a Godsdamned word."
Winston didn't respond.
"Asriel," Laxus continued, the name sharp on his tongue, "my friend, was condemned for something he didn't do—and you let it happen."
"Laxus," Bran said sharply as he shot the man a cutting glare.
"Zip it." Laxus turned, the grip on his mug tightening. "You just sat back and let it all happen!" The mug shattered in his hand, coffee spilling down to the polished floor. "You damned Ravenclaws—every last one of you—maybe you didn't pull the trigger, but you damn well helped load the bow." He spat the words, shoved off the desk, and stormed toward the door.
"Laxus!" Bran shouted after him, but the slam of the door was his only reply.
He stood there, fists clenched at his sides, his breath sharp as he forced himself still. Slowly, he pushed his glasses up his nose. "My entire life," he began, "all I ever wanted… was to be you."
He turned to Winston, and the fire behind his eyes broke into a well of sorrow. "Winston Ravenclaw. My grandfather. The symbol of the Clock Tower. The man I believed was the embodiment of truth, justice… righteousness."
"Brandon… lad…" Winston said softly.
"You were everything I aspired to be!" Bran's voice cracked. "I followed the rules. I clung to duty. I believed the Tower stood for something. And because of that—because of you—I've hurt people. People who didn't deserve it. People I cared about." His hand wiped at his cheek, furious with the tears. "All in the name of convictions I thought were noble. But they weren't. They were delusions."
Winston said nothing.
"Laxus was right. Rowena was right," Bran continued bitterly. "I'm nothing but a fraud. A bloody hound of the Tower. And if they hate me for what I've done… they should."
A long silence passed before Winston finally spoke.
"But it's not too late."
Bran looked up, startled. His eyes searched Winston's.
"Despite my rather unceremonious departure, I still have friends in the Tower," Winston said. "And they've passed along some rather troubling news. It seems the chaos surrounding Asriel Valerian and Nemesis has drawn far more attention than Lamar anticipated—particularly from the capital… and the throne itself."
Bran's brow knit, tension settling in his shoulders.
"What Lamar does not yet realise," Winston continued, "is that King Uther has grown deeply concerned. Concerned enough to dispatch his children—Arthur and Artoria—to investigate. And what they uncovered, Bran, was compelling enough to stir even the Wizarding Council."
He paused, steepling his fingers.
"They've done what the Tower fears most," he said. "They've appointed a Lord Regent. One with full authority to investigate the Tower's dealings—without bias, without pressure, and without restraint."
A flicker of a wry smile touched Winston's face.
"Lamar likes to think himself the pinnacle of power in Avalon," he said quietly. "But even he, as the Congregation so often puts it, sits beneath the table… and in this case, beneath both the Wizarding Council and the Council of Kings."
Bran's breath caught. "You think… this Regent might help?"
"If anyone can, it's him," Winston said quietly. "But if I were you, I'd speak with the Pendragons. Find out what they know. As the current Ignis Visionaries, they're far more likely to grant you an audience—if only out of respect for your former standing, both as alumnus and Visionary."
His eyes sharpened.
"But be warned—Lamar may be vain, but he is no fool. One does not hold the title of Director for as long as he has without knowing precisely where to place the knives—and when to twist them."
Bran said nothing at first, his gaze dropping to the floor. Then, after a moment, he looked up and gave a solemn nod.
****
Salazar stepped through the tall oaken doors just as the patter of rain faded behind him, the silence swallowing the sound as the doors shut tight. Before him stretched a grand interior—wide, open, and lavish to the point of excess. Wooden walls laced with golden filigree glowed softly beneath the amber cast of crystal lights. Above, a massive chandelier glittered at the center of the vaulted ceiling, its many facets catching the light like frozen fire.
His emerald eyes scanned the space. Marble statues of exaggerated male forms struck theatrical poses between columns, flanking a polished checkerboard floor. Trophy cabinets lined one wall—wooden plaques, polished cups, and magical photographs of men in striped uniforms, arms linked and faces brimming with smug, frozen triumph.
Guests moved about in suits and gowns stitched from the rarest cloth and fitted by the hands of master tailors. Tuxedos, bowties, corsages—all immaculate.
Salazar, of course, was no different. He wore a tailored coat of deep emerald over a black shirt and trousers, his loafers polished to a mirror sheen. His dark hair was slicked back neatly, his posture proud, graceful, confident. No one batted an eye at the presence of a teenager below the legal age. After all, this was the Stelios—the most exclusive club in Caerleon—and boys like Salazar were bred for places like this.
A footman nodded and directed him down a side corridor. He stepped into a private lounge, and the scent hit him instantly: a dense blend of tobacco smoke, aged whiskey, and heavy cologne.
The room was smaller, but no less indulgent. Rich, dark leather couches arranged around a low coffee table. The walls, dark emerald to match the club's name, were adorned with oil portraits and gilt-framed mirrors. Maroon drapes muffled the light, leaving the space dim and brooding, like the private study of a man who'd done terrible things and paid good money to forget them.
Salazar's gaze drifted over the dozen or so men seated around the room—each one a portrait of wealth marinated in sin. It felt grotesquely familiar. Like home.
He thought of his father, Sigmund, and the evenings he would host just like this. Evenings thick with the laughter of men who cloaked their crimes in power, their misdeeds in manners. The memory left a bitter taste.
His eyes settled on one man in particular: slouched across a leather sofa, his suit clearly two sizes too small and strained at every seam. He was a scone shy of a heart attack, jowls trembling as he wolfed down a jam tart. The jelly stained his fingers, dripping onto the fine china that held a stack of identical pastries. Salazar was fairly certain he could hear the man's buttons begging for mercy with every labored breath.
He exhaled slowly. Yes. This was the right place. These were the right men.
Now, it was only a matter of how many would still be breathing by the end of the night.
"There you are, my boy," came the voice—oily and all too familiar.
Salazar turned, his emerald eyes narrowing as they landed on Sheriff Hartshorne, dressed in a pressed grey suit with a sheen that suggested more coin than conscience. The faint scent of expensive cologne mingled with the unmistakable undertone of stale cigar smoke, clinging to him like guilt.
His gaze flicked to the man's hands. Solid gold rings on nearly every finger, a chunky bracelet barely hidden beneath his cuff, and cufflinks embedded with what looked suspiciously like emeralds. A glistening pocket watch dangled from his waistcoat like a badge of indulgence.
These weren't the trappings of a modest public servant. Not unless the job came with generous bribes and no moral compass. Salazar scoffed silently. Hartshorne was exactly the sort of man his father would've clinked glasses with—corrupt, self-important, and utterly convinced of his own untouchability. No doubt, the two would have gotten on like a house on fire—before setting the whole street alight for sport.
The Sheriff clasped a hand on Salazar's shoulder, the gesture both familiar and possessive. "This here's the brave young lad I've been talking about," he said, gesturing to a balding man in a pinstripe suit who gave Salazar an appraising look. "Saved my life, I'd dare say."
Salazar nodded stiffly. "Charmed." His voice was smooth, clipped. Polite enough to pass, cold enough to sting.
The man chuckled, offering a nod in return.
"Come, come," Hartshorne said, guiding Salazar toward the bar with a hand still on his shoulder. "You clean up rather well, if I may say so. I pride myself on being a good judge of character—and I knew from the start that you were one of us."
"One of you?" Salazar echoed softly, hiding his revulsion behind a polite smile. "You're far too generous, Sheriff."
They reached the bar, where a young bartender in a double-breasted vest stood waiting, immaculate and expressionless.
"So, what can I get you?" Hartshorne asked, already loosening his tie with anticipation. "Whiskey? Sherry? Vodka?"
Salazar gave a thin, patient smile. "Raspberry cordial, if you have it."
The bartender gave a curt nod and turned away to prepare it.
"Not a drinking man, I see," Hartshorne remarked.
"I've learnt the hard way that alcohol dulls the senses and clouds the mind," Salazar replied, his gaze drifting calmly across the room. "And in an establishment such as this, I'd rather remain coherent." A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Besides, there are far finer pleasures in life, should one know where to look."
Hartshorne chuckled again, leaning in conspiratorially. "You've a sharp wit, lad. Dangerous in the right circles. Or the wrong ones."
Salazar let the smile linger just long enough before replying. "I suppose that depends on the company."
"And speaking of which," Hartshorne said, leaning in slightly as he gestured to the group of men scattered about the room, "every man in this room holds a title, a fortune, or a whisper of both. Power, my boy—real power—sits here, sipping wine and shaking hands."
He gestured subtly toward a man deep in conversation near the corner fireplace. "That's the Earl of Pembroke. A man of considerable note. Owns one of the top three trading companies in Avalon—controls most of the spice lanes from here to the Golden Coast."
He jerked his chin toward a gathering on the opposite side of the room. Salazar's eyes settled on a lean, sharp-featured man with sun-kissed skin, dressed in a tailored navy overcoat and a striking aquamarine ascot knotted neatly at his throat. His black hair, shoulder-length and swept into a meticulous wave, shimmered beneath the crystal's light. A thin, precisely groomed moustache adorned his upper lip. Just then, his face twisted in mild panic—the remnants of a failed magic trick flickering out in his hand—while the men around him exchanged awkward glances and offered polite, stifled chuckles.
"That over there is Iknik Blackstone Varrick—yes, that Varrick. Varrick Industries. Builder of airships, arms, automata. Bit eccentric, mind you, but with a bank vault deeper than the Abyss."
Then Hartshorne turned slightly, his hand lifting just so—gesturing toward a man seated in a dark leather chair. The man sat poised, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of red wine in hand. His grey three-piece suit fit with unnerving precision, and the sharp part of his swept-back hair glistened beneath the chandelier light. His eyes, dark and unwavering, met Salazar's with a stare that neither flinched nor blinked.
"And that, my boy," Hartshorne said, "is Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont."
The name hit like a chill. Salazar's eyes flicked back to the man, their gazes still locked. "Gramont?" he asked.
"The very same," Hartshorne confirmed with a slow nod, his smirk thin and knowing. "Heir to one of the oldest bloodlines in the western provinces. Owns one of the largest slave trading enterprises in Avalon—second only to the Dryfus conglomerate." He leaned in closer, adjusting his tie. "Sits at the Slaver's Union table itself. When the aristocracy whispers, Gramont speaks louder."
Salazar said nothing for a moment, merely studying the man with that unreadable stare. A slow sip of his drink gave him cover while his mind turned over.
"Well then," Hartshorne straightened, patting him once on the shoulder. "I shan't hover. A young man of your caliber should have no trouble forging a few useful acquaintances." He tipped his head. "Should you need anything—anything at all—you know where to find me."
Salazar lifted his glass as the bartender placed it before him. "Much obliged, Sheriff. And thank you again for the invitation."
"Think nothing of it," Hartshorne said, already turning away with a practiced smile. "Enjoy yourself."
And with that, the sheriff drifted back into the crowd—his perfume and promises trailing behind him like smoke.
Salazar took a measured sip from his glass, letting the cordial linger on his tongue before approaching the Marquis. He stopped just short of the man's table. Gramont's gaze swept over him, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint simper.
"A man of your stature, Marquis," Salazar said coolly, returning the look with a subtle smirk, "should know that it's rather impolite to stare. Though I daresay I can imagine what's caught your attention."
Gramont gave a low, amused hum as he set his wine glass down upon the polished table. "Ah, but when something… curious wanders into the lion's den, one cannot help but take note," he said. "Please, sit."
Salazar nodded once, rounding the table with poise before lowering himself into the leather armchair. He mirrored the Marquis' posture with exactness—fingers steepled, one leg crossed neatly over the other—then placed his glass on the table between them.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm—"
"Salazar Slytherin," Gramont interrupted gently, though the weight behind his words was anything but. His gaze did not waver. "Yes. I'm well aware. More specifically… I know you were the last person to see my nephew alive."
Salazar's smile thinned, his expression tightening into something more formal—more honest. "A regrettable turn of events," he said quietly, though without a hint of remorse. "That said… I can't say I held any particular affection for your nephew. Certainly not enough to mourn him."
Gramont's eyes glinted, his fingers tightening slightly around the armrest. "Non," he murmured. "But you understand, monsieur, that family—whether loved or loathed—is not something I take lightly."
Salazar held the Marquis' stare without flinching. "Neither do I."
The air between them grew heavier, taut with unspoken meanings and the quiet chime of crystal glasses elsewhere in the room.
"Nevertheless," Salazar said, "Rance knew precisely what he was signing up for. The Old Laws and the Old Ways are unequivocal when it comes to a Bellum Inter Duos."
"Ah, yes," Gramont replied. "The Rules and Consequences. A phrase I've grown intimately familiar with during my time at Excalibur Academy." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "And my tenure in the Congregation."
Salazar's brow arched; interest piqued. "Ran a Clan of your own, Marquis?"
Gramont scoffed faintly. "Non, non. I've never been one for such brutish displays—wands, blades… toys for boys who think themselves warriors."
He reached for his glass and took another slow sip of wine. "No. My influence lies elsewhere. I was part of a more refined circle—a Club, if you like. One that supports the game, rather than playing it."
The implication hung in the air like smoke. Salazar said nothing at first, merely watching. Then he leaned forward, fingers interlocked. "You're circling, Marquis," he said. "But I've seen enough masked men to know when one wants something. So, let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?"
He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "What is it you've come for? Retribution? Revenge? Perhaps the comfort of believing poor Rance didn't die in vain?"
His smirk faded. "Because if that's your aim, I suggest you come collect it yourself. I don't part with my life easily… even for a Marquis."
Gramont studied him for a long, silent moment—expression unreadable, gaze cool and appraising. Then, without warning, he let out a quiet chuckle and leaned back in his chair, a genuine smile cutting across his face.
"Je suis impressionné," he said with a low laugh. "You're exactly as they say. No, perhaps more. Your reputation precedes you, Salazar Slytherin." He lifted his glass, peering at the dark liquid within. "Or should I say… the Serpent of Ferrum?"
Salazar allowed himself a small, wry smirk. "I'll admit, that one's grown on me."
Gramont's smile remained. "Relax, mon ami. I've not come for vengeance. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind." He waved a hand dismissively. "Rance? The boy was useless. A fool. Like his father—content to leech off the family name and contribute nothing of value. I should've cast him out years ago. His death is… convenient, if anything."
Salazar's smirk faded slightly, though he said nothing. Rance had been detestable, yes—but to speak of one's own blood with such calculated disdain was something else entirely.
"But you…" Gramont said, eyes glinting. "You are forged of sterner stuff. You look a man like me in the eye and don't blink. That's rare, especially in one so young. I've met seasoned generals and politicians who shrink under the weight of a glance." He chuckled softly. "You, however… you stand."
He lifted his glass in a slow, deliberate toast. "Don Seville was right about you."
"Ah, yes. The Don." Salazar's brow lifted ever so slightly. "I'm not surprised he speaks of me—he does have a fondness for the sound of his own stories. What does surprise me, however, is that the two of you are acquainted."
"The Don's but another chair at the table," Gramont replied. "A colleague. The Slavers' Union has many faces. Some pleasant, others less so. The Don is both." He swirled his wine idly. "This is a foul business, Slytherin—dirty, bloody, and old. But done right… it pays in coin, power, and longevity." His eyes settled on Salazar once again. "Which, I imagine, is exactly why you're here."
Salazar chuckled, the sound light but edged with disdain. "Yes and no. There are countless ways to make coin in this world, Marquis—some more dignified than others." His gaze narrowed. "You and I may share a mind in many matters… but slavery is where our philosophies part ways."
Gramont shrugged, unbothered. "To each his own, I suppose." He drained the last of his wine and rose to his feet, setting the glass on the table with a faint clink. "As much as I've enjoyed our little exchange, I'm afraid duty calls—and the night is still young."
He offered a courteous bow. "Until next time, Monsieur Slytherin. Au revoir."
Salazar inclined his head in acknowledgment, watching as the Marquis turned. A group of black-suited men silently fell in step behind him—clearly his personal escort. Salazar exhaled softly, a chill crawling along his spine as the truth settled in: had Gramont wanted him dead, there would have been little he could've done to stop it.
He reached for his glass and knocked back the cordial in a single, smooth motion. A smirk tugged at his lips as he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
The Marquis was right—the night was still young. And there were plenty more alliances yet to forge.