Helga watched as her fellow 'Valkyries' prepared for war. They were beyond eager to pass through the veil and destroy the anchors.
She turned slowly to the side gazing at Thor as he polished the giant magical focus he carried in the shape of a hammer, "Why do you insist on using such a thing?" she asked shaking her head in amusement
Thor laughed boisterously, "It makes me look mighty In front of the humans don't you think?" his smile was practically oozing bloodlust
"So mighty." Helga replied blandly a hint of disappointment folded underneath her gaze
Thor laughed boisterously not even noticing her obvious disappointment, "Just one anchor Helga, and then we can join the war and rid the world of that accursed family."
Helga nodded slowly as she kept sadness from flooding her gaze, "I can join early you know?"
"Bah! You should wait for us to start our invasion, the demons and angels should be able to get at least one anchor soon." Thor replied with a wide grin
Helga bobbed her head, "Which one do you think is going to fall first?" she asked turning back to the map spread on the table behind him
"The canyon of course. They will stack all of their defenses onto the pyramid because it's the least defended. Our legions will take out the canyon swiftly." He replied before leaving to meet with the Valkyries
***
The chambers of the Wizengamot were in chaos. The usual decorum of the hall where laws were debated and justice was 'supposedly' upheld had shattered under the sheer weight of the argument unfolding within its stone walls. Shouts and accusations echoed from the high ceilings, and the enchanted torches lining the room flickered wildly, as if responding to the storm of emotions pulsing through the air.
At the center of it all stood Lord Fleamont Potter, his face red with fury, his fists clenched atop the wooden podium as he leaned forward. His voice rang through the chamber, cutting through the cacophony.
"You should be in Azkaban, Herpo!" he bellowed, his hazel eyes blazing with anger. "You're a dark wizard! A murderer! And you expect us to sit here and debate your right to be in this room?"
Across the chamber, Herpo remained seated, his expression unreadable beneath the hood of his deep green robes. His pale fingers rested against the arm of his chair, utterly relaxed. The contrast between him and the furious Lord Potter was almost absurd.
"The accusations of a man ruled by his emotions," Herpo said smoothly, his voice eerily calm amidst the uproar. "How predictable."
A fresh wave of shouts erupted from all sides. Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot—some robed in violet, others in black—rose from their seats, their voices clashing against each other in a wild, tangled debate. Some called for order, others added to the chaos, throwing accusations and counterarguments into the mix.
"Lord Potter is correct!" a voice from the right bellowed. "Herpo has no place among us!"
"He is a relic of an era long gone!" another chimed in.
"Nonsense!" a stout, elderly witch barked from the left. "Herpo has knowledge far beyond any of us! Who are we to ignore wisdom that could aid in the coming war?"
Fleamont let out a sharp bark of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. "Wisdom? Are you all out of your minds? This man is responsible for some of the darkest magic in history! He is the reason the very concept of Horcruxes exists!"
A murmur swept through the chamber. Even those inclined to support Herpo shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the mention of Horcruxes. The word carried a weight of horror, a magic so vile it had been condemned in every civilized magical society.
Herpo finally moved, slow and deliberate, as he stood. His presence was unsettling—his movements too precise, his gaze too sharp. When he spoke, his voice carried an undeniable authority.
"Do you fear knowledge, Lord Potter?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Or do you fear that the truths I speak will shatter your fragile view of the world?"
Fleamont bristled. "I fear what you'll do if given power again. I fear what you'll twist magic into, just like you did centuries ago."
"You fear the past." Herpo nodded as if satisfied. "But I do not live in the past, nor am I the man you imagine me to be. I am here, now, because your world is facing annihilation. And yet you waste precious time screaming at ghosts instead of preparing for the war at your doorstep."
Silence fell, brief but heavy. Then—
"A war you had a hand in starting!" Fleamont snapped, his voice raw with frustration. "You expect us to believe you stand here for our benefit? That you're here to help us?" He turned sharply to the assembled Wizengamot. "We cannot allow this! If we let him stand among us, we are legitimizing every dark thing he's ever done! Azkaban is too good for him!"
Shouts rose again, some in agreement, others in protest. The chamber was splitting, lines being drawn in real time.
"Yes a war I have been in far longer than you can fathom, a war i can assure you your ancestors have also been apart of. You condemn me for my past but yet you sit here parading your family name as if it is clean! The potters were warriors! Conquers who laid siege to villages! Do you call that light magic? No! It is just magic and it is what was taught of us in those times."
Fleamont almost recoiled back as his families past was thrown in his face, his fist clenched harder, "You-"
At the high seat, Chief Warlock Dumbledore finally raised a hand. The magical gavel beside him let out a pulse of sound—deeper than thunder, heavier than mere noise. The effect was instant. The voices died down, the tension shifting from uncontrolled chaos to a contained, simmering fury.
Albus's dark eyes swept the room. "Enough," he said, his voice steady but firm. "This assembly is here to determine the course of our survival, not to relitigate the crimes of the past." He turned his gaze to Herpo. "That said, Lord Potter has raised valid concerns. The question remains: why should we trust you?"
For the first time, Herpo's lips curled into a smile. It was not warm.
"You shouldn't," he said simply.
The room tensed.
"But you will," he continued, "because whether you like it or not, I am one of the few people alive who understands what we are truly up against. And in the end, Lord Potter—" his gaze flickered back to Fleamont, sharp and knowing, "—you will find that the only thing more terrifying than trusting me… is refusing my help."
Fleamont's jaw clenched, his grip tightening on the podium. He looked ready to launch another furious rebuttal, but the room was shifting. Unease settled over the gathered lords and ladies. The war was real. The threat was real. And Herpo, no matter how much they despised him, was right about one thing—he understood this enemy better than any of them.
And that was what made him dangerous.