Chapter Text
“If we could get back to the matter at hand instead of talking of what may or may not have occurred last week,” Fudge grumbled.
“Minister, with all due respect, we can’t just discount the word of Albus Dumbledore,” Quentin objected.
They had been going around in circles for the past twenty minutes, yet no ground was being made for either side of the argument. His first international summit was going about as well as he’d imagined, no progress seemed in sight. Fudge had formed a group with the representatives of the Nigerian, Norwegian, Siberian, and Brazilian magical governments opposing any claim for the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. So far, they had blocked any progress with all the effectiveness of a bath plug.
“We ought to be focusing our efforts on capturing Sirius Black,” Fudge said as if he hadn’t heard Quentin. “She’s a known killer of Muggles and a Death Eater.”
“Minister, need I remind you this summit is to discuss the strategy against the rogue terrorist and You-Know-Who?” Quentin sighed in exasperation, rubbing his forehead. “The search for Sirius Black, innocent or not, remains a domestic matter for your own Aurors.”
“Thank you, President Anazi,” the French representative spoke. “If the British Minister could cease and desist with his claims, we can move on to the subject of countering these two threats.”
Finally, Quentin thought to himself. Towards the end of the last war in Britain, it had become evident Voldemort had been probing other countries for weaknesses. Some of Quentin’s own advisors who could remember the time, told him they believed Voldemort had planned to expand his reign of terror abroad once he had secured Britain.
“Minister, this summit is still in session,” the French dignitary’s voice broke Quentin’s train of thought. Fudge and his aides were leaving the room quite noisily.
“I shan’t abide with lies being directed at my person,” Fudge snapped back, before storming from the room.
“Euh, bon,” the French dignitary looked shocked at the interruption. “Now that we are all settled-”
But before he could say much more, four figures appeared in the room. They didn’t Apparate so much as tear their way into the space, as if from some hellish portal. Quentin gasped, he could recognise the trappings of Death Eaters clearly.
“This meeting is adjourned,” said the lead Death Eater, in a voice Quentin recognised. “And a random selection of lives ended.”
“Mr President!” A rough voice signalled the sudden force of Quentin’s aide pushing him off his chair to the floor.
Not a moment too soon, as the air was filled with spellfire. It seemed a few delegates were fighting back, but Quentin couldn’t help but notice that as time wore on, more and more of the spells seemed to be flashes of green light.
After several tense moments, the fighting stopped, and silence hung heavy on the room. Climbing to his feet, Quentin saw that the Death Eaters had left. In their wake, the stench of death clung to everything. The bodies of several dignitaries were sprawled across tables, chairs, and the floor.
“Are you alright, sir?” His aided asked anxiously.
“I’m fine Gerrard,” Quentin replied. “But I think this confirms what Dumbledore said. He’s back.”