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ACT4CH47 - THE ICW SUMMIT
🕑 Added 2025-05-29 16:34:29 +0000 UTCThe enchanted plateau of the Swiss Alps stretched endlessly before them, white and glistening like the world hadn’t caught up to the idea of war yet. Ironic, given what the ICW had gathered here to discuss.
Minister of Magic Amelia Bones pulled her cloak tighter, half from the cold, half from habit. She hated the cold. And she hated Summits even more.
The Grand Assembly Hall of the International Confederation of Wizards shimmered ahead—a self-important dome of floating light and architectural smugness. A monument to wizarding diplomacy, or, as Amelia preferred to call it — a very expensive room where nothing got done quickly and everything was phrased to be deniable.
“First time?” asked Newt Scamander, politely enough that she couldn’t snap at him.
“Unfortunately,” Amelia replied, her breath misting in front of her.
The magizoologist gave her a soft smile, as if she were an irritable creature he was gently coaxing out of a den. “They do tend to overcomplicate things.”
Saul Croaker, walking on her other side, didn’t bother with diplomacy. “Half the room’s going to posture. The other half will try to bury the truth in conditional clauses. Standard ICW operating procedure.”
“And us?” she asked.
“The ones who actually have to do something,” Saul said flatly.
“Well, that’ll be a first.”
As they passed through the threshold, Amelia felt the subtle pull of the wards—powerful, thorough, and smug. Her badge prickled faintly against her chest. The hall was vast, circular, tiered like an old Roman theatre, filled with a hundred robed figures pretending they didn’t loathe one another. Flags fluttered in illusionary stillness. Enchantments sparkled in the dome overhead. International unity, weaponized through decoration.
She caught sight of Flamel, glowing like a particularly well-preserved chandelier. Apolline Delacour—looking like a modern-day Cleopatra — sat with her faction, sharp-eyed and unreadable. And high above, on the central dais, Albus Dumbledore smiled beatifically, as if he wasn’t about to preside over a continent-wide panic attack.
Amelia settled into her seat. Newt beside her, calm as a sleeping niffler. Croaker, already scribbling notes that probably contained three state secrets and at least one hidden insult.
Then the chime rang. Clear. Absolute.
Dumbledore rose, robes embroidered with constellations that shimmered as if they were keeping track of prophecies no one wanted to hear. Amelia ignored him, and his usual go-to rhetoric. Instead, her eyes scanned the other side for threats before settling on one.
The biggest one in the room.
“That’s… Akingbade, isn’t it?”
“The very same,” said Croaker.
Babajide Akingbade.
Babajide Akingbade—former Minister of the Ugandan Ministry, Commander of the Mambas, and the man who had nearly unseated Dumbledore for the position of Supreme Mugwump—was not known for subtlety. Or mercy.
“Rumor is that Fudge had sent Umbridge to Akingbade, offering support to throw Albus out of his position.”
“Oh?”
“And then Harry Potter pulled off the unexpected at the Rosier-Santos event, paving a way for the International Exchange programme, unwittingly gaining Albus more support.”
Amelia suppressed a chuckle. “Then let’s hope Potter does the same for us.”
“On the contrary,” said Croaker. “Akingbade’s likely going to fight harder. Harry Potter already is popular in certain circles as Albus Dumbledore’s unofficial protege.”
“Funny,” snorted Scamander. “Since Albus has yet to teach him anything.”
Akingbade was not a man who wasted time with ceremony. He didn’t clear his throat, didn’t wait for permission, didn’t ask for silence.
“Let us begin,” he said, his voice cutting cleanly, as Albus finished through his ceremonial introductions. “Because I, for one, am tired of this theater of excuses we gather for every season.”
Amelia leaned forward slightly, narrowing her eyes. She had known this was coming.
“The magical world,” he continued, “has always made room for Britain’s eccentricities. We gave them leeway when they delayed their entry into the Grindelwald War. We overlooked their continued indulgence of blood purist politics, while other nations criminalized such hate. We tolerated the fact that, decade after decade, the seat of the Supreme Mugwump has remained in British hands.”
His gaze, dark and unflinching, slid toward Dumbledore.
“And now, once again, the consequences of that indulgence have come home to roost—on all of our heads.”
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Delegates exchanged glances. No one interrupted.
“Let us speak plainly,” Babajide said, pacing slowly. “What has Britain given the world in the last century? A Dark Lord whose name they dare not speak? A magical prison filled with soul-draining parasites? A Ministry so corrupt that it buried truth, let rot flourish, and created the ideal breeding ground for a second rise of that same Lord?”
He slammed his hand on the lectern.
“And now? Now you tell us that a breach has occurred—in Azkaban. That your cursed island fortress, which has always been a violation of decency and human dignity, has somehow unleashed a force so vast it is twisting the laws of reality itself?”
A breath. A beat. He let it linger.
“In Nepal,” he said, voice low, “the trees near the Dhaulagiri Conjunction weep ash. In southern Tunisia, near Matmata, shepherds report shadows that do not follow light. In Bhutan’s cliffside shrines, monks have begun chanting in their sleep—languages they do not know. These are not coincidences. They are wounds.”
He turned, gesturing toward the center seat where Dumbledore sat like an aging marble statue.
“And what does Britain offer us in response? A boy.”
His tone was not mocking. That would have been easier to counter. This was worse—measured, calculated, surgical.
“A fifteen-year-old, given powers none of us can understand. One boy. One wand. And we are told this is sufficient.”
He folded his hands behind his back.
“Delegates of the Confederation—ask yourselves: how many more of these indulgences will we afford Britain? How many more ‘exceptions’ before it becomes our undoing? They have given us Dark Lord Voldemort. They have given us dementors. Now, it seems, they have given us the apocalypse.”
A breath. A closing note.
“The world bleeds,” he said. “And the source of the wound is British. I, for one, will not stay silent.”
Then he sat.
And all eyes turned to the British delegation.
At Dumbledore.
At Amelia.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Her secretaries had crafted a well-polished, politically correct speech for her to speak on this occasion.
That speech was now worth less than the parchment it had been written on.
So she rose. No theatrics. No wand-lighting flourish. Just a woman used to being obeyed not because of fear—but because she made it clear she didn’t care whether you obeyed or not. Either you got in line, or you got out of the way.
She didn’t thank Babajide for his words. That would have been dishonest. And she’d seen enough dishonesty in the past two months to last a lifetime.
“You are right, Mr. Akingbade.”
Silence.
Even Dumbledore looked at her, brows slightly raised. Croaker didn’t blink.
She let the words sit for a moment.
“Britain has made its mistakes. Some of them, recently. Others, not so much. And some of them — mine.”
A flicker of murmurs passed through the chamber. She ignored them.
“I won’t waste your time spinning excuses for the actions of Fudge, or the Ministry’s failures, or the deep rot that allowed a criminal like Dolores Umbridge to rise so high in our ranks. Those people have been removed. And they will face justice.”
Her voice hardened.
“But if we are to speak of blame—if we are to tear open the ledger of guilt—then let us be precise. Yes. Britain bears fault. Not just in action, but in history. In legacy. In secrecy.”
She regarded the room.
“Over five centuries ago, a dark wizard named Ekrizdis made a pact with our Ministry. With Minister Damocles Rowle. He was given free rein to experiment, to build, to study. In exchange, he offered an impossibility — a return to the Age of Gods. A deal, promising that when his work would be complete, he would unleash the Anima into the mortal realm, collapsing the Veil between the worlds. A return to a world without the fear of persecution, a world where the Statute of Secrecy would be redundant, for us magicals would be gods. A world where Magic was Might.”
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
“They knew he was dangerous. They knew the things he was doing—fusing souls, breeding despair, sculpting a prison out of human suffering. But they let him continue. Because it worked. Because the world didn’t ask questions. Because no one looked too closely at what Azkaban really was. We gave him a fortress. We fed him souls. And when his reckoning finally came, we sent in a boy.”
Now her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury.
“I won’t stand here and pretend it wasn’t our fault. It was. But don’t mistake our honesty for weakness or think we’ll let others rewrite our shame into a weapon. And most importantly —”
She stood her tallest.
“I will not apologise for the boy.”
The chamber listened.
“I will not apologize for the fifteen-year-old who stood between the rest of us and the annihilation of our world as we know it. I will not apologize that he succeeded where many would have failed. That he bled, and fought, and held back something none of us had the power or understanding to face.”
Her gaze swept the room.
“I will not apologize for Harry Potter.”
“And where is Harry Potter now?” asked Nicholas Flamel.
A hush fell.
For the briefest of seconds, Amelia stayed silent. Not because she lacked an answer, but because she needed the pause to wonder why Harry hadn’t kept his word. He had said that he would be here, but clearly, somewhere, something had gone wrong.
“He is where nobody would dare to be,” she said evenly, voice low but carrying. “He is at the Gate.”
Confusion flickered across several faces. The word had no immediate context outside Britain. A few delegates glanced at one another, waiting for clarification.
Amelia stepped forward, her hands braced against the stone of her table.
“Let me make this plain. Azkaban no longer exists. It is now the Gate—the boundary between our world and the realm of the Anima. And Harry Potter is the one holding it shut.”
Shock rippled through the chamber. Someone from the Norwegian delegation made the sign to ward off evil. Another began whispering to their aide, likely preparing a communiqué to their Magical Affairs department.
Flamel’s expression darkened.
“The boy has bound himself—literally—to the rift, to keep what lies beyond from spilling further into our world. He walks the line every day, not as a hero basking in glory, but as a ward, a seal, a sacrifice in progress. So no, he isn’t here to answer your questions. He’s busy stopping the sky from falling.”
A rustle of murmurs swept the room, half awe, half disbelief.
The Alchemist straightened. “Then why did Britain not report this transformation formally? If Azkaban is truly no longer a prison but a metaphysical fulcrum—”
“Because it happened too fast,” Amelia snapped. “Because we were too busy surviving. Because we had dead to bury. Because we barely understood it ourselves.” Then, a little softly, “Because when the Anima burst into our world, it didn’t come with footnotes.”
Babajide rose again. “So let me understand, Minister Bones. Britain’s negligence allowed a tear in reality. And now you expect us to believe that your answer is… a schoolboy playing god?”
Amelia’s jaw clenched. “He’s not playing anything. He is the Gatekeeper. And I’ll thank you to remember that your countries are still standing because he held the line while we were all still trying to understand what had broken through it.”
Babajide gave her a slow, cutting smile. “And if he falls?”
Amelia didn’t blink. “Then we all do.”
Silence.
Dumbledore, still seated at the centre of the dais, gave no signal to interrupt. He simply watched—quiet, composed, and unreadable.
Flamel, surprisingly, offered no immediate rebuttal.
And then, a new voice—light, amused, and unmistakably foreign—cut through the stillness.
“Well,” drawled Apolline Delacour, rising from her seat, her veil draped in starlight. “That answers where he is. But it does not answer what we are supposed to do next, does it?”
She turned slightly toward the chamber, her eyes glimmering. “A child ‘olds back chaos, and ze rest of us are left bickering over which of our ministries gets first rights to complain. Bravo, mes amis. Truly inspiring.”
A few nervous laughs spread across the room, coupled with more uncomfortable shifting.
Amelia didn’t relax. Silence in politics wasn’t a sign of victory—it was the drawing of breath before another volley.
Sure enough, the delegate from Germany stood, tall and severe, his accent cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Even if we accept zis Gatekeeper's claim, zis… Potter remains a unilateral actor. He answers to no government. He is not bound by international accord. You say he is holding reality together—fine. But what if he lets go? What if he decides his burden is too great?”
Someone from the Argentinian delegation added, “Or worse, what if he is corrupted by it? The Anima is not magic as we know it. Prolonged exposure to such forces has never been tested on a human subject.”
From the far end of the chamber, the Japanese representative—an elderly woman dressed in pristine white—tapped her staff gently against the floor. “Control,” she said, voice quiet but clear, “must not rest in the hands of one. Especially not a child. Power of this magnitude… must be studied.”
A murmur of agreement followed.
Apolline smiled thinly. “Yes, let us poke at the chaos with sticks. I am sure zat will end well.”
Amelia narrowed her eyes. This was the second time Apolline Delacour had vocally supported in Harry Potter’s favour. What was she missing?
Amelia felt her stomach tighten. The tide was turning. Flamel had yet to speak again, but the room was shifting—from alarmed disbelief to something colder. They were no longer debating whether Harry had the power. They were debating what to do about it.
“Academic concerns aside,” said Flamel. “Why should the ICW entrust the safety of our world to a figure that isn’t even here to voice himself?”
The room grew still.
No answer. No sound. Not even the flutter of robes or the usual muttering that followed such a loaded question. The air felt... tight, somehow. Like it was bracing.
And then—
Something shifted.
It wasn’t a sound. Not quite. More like the pressure in the room changed. A strange, subtle tightening behind Amelia’s eyes, as if someone had plucked a single string in the fabric of the world and the vibration was crawling across her bones.
A whisper, not in her ears but in her understanding, said — Something is wrong.
No spell had been cast. No Apparition crack. No portkey shimmer. No door opened.
Reality just—
Bent.
She blinked, and he was standing there.
Not through the door. Not emerging from an archway. Just there—in the center of the chamber, precisely where the floor had flickered a second earlier like a memory correcting itself. Like the world had forgotten he hadn’t been there and decided to fix the mistake.
Harry Potter.
Dressed in simple black. No robe of office. No regalia. Just a faint silver thread around his collar and a subtle shine on his boots, like stardust had chosen to rest there. The only thing of relevance to him was the sword of Godric Gryffindor, strapped to his back.
He looked… quiet. Still. Like someone who had come from a place where time didn’t pass in straight lines.
Amelia stared, her mouth dry. That wasn’t apparition. That wasn’t any known branch of magical transit. That was—
“That wasn’t apparition,” muttered Croaker beside her, eyes narrowed, wand slowly sliding into his lap.
“Can you even apparate in here?” asked Scamander aloud.
Amelia didn’t respond. Her breath caught in her throat.
Flamel took a step forward, blinking rapidly. “How—?”
Harry tilted his head.
“How did you breach the wards?” barked a delegate from the Chinese Ministry, rising in outrage. Four ICW Sentinels moved with almost comical precision, wands drawn, eyes narrowed at Harry like he might detonate.
Amelia didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She was too tired for dramatics. She had already watched this boy tear a hole in Reality once and patch it with nothing but stubbornness and thaumaturgy.
Harry raised an eyebrow, so casual it was insulting. “I… apparated?”
You could hear minds snapping like gobstones around the room.
“I was given a portkey,” he went on, breezy as a spring morning. “But I have a bad experience with those. So I extracted the coordinates from the spell matrix and jumped the wards manually. Felt safer.”
Safer.
Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of course,” she muttered, loud enough for her neighbors to hear. “Leave it to Potter to treat high-security international portkeying the way most of us treat floo powder.”
The chamber was deathly still—because everyone was calculating what it would take to do what Harry had just described. Reverse-engineering an ICW-issued portkey. Mimicking its magical signature. Bypassing security protocols. Ignoring international ward lines. Threading himself through the world’s most warded location like a needle through living cloth.
It wasn’t just impossible. It was casually impossible.
And Amelia had the sneaking suspicion that Potter had done this on purpose. No doubt this was the girl’s idea.
“Merlin,” whispered Croaker. “Will I need to re-evaluate every single defence system of my Department?”
Harry, unfazed, inclined his head towards Nicholas Flamel. Not arrogant. Not contrite. Just very, very present. “You wanted answers. Here I am.”
And that, Amelia thought, was how Harry Potter answered the world.
By showing up like a glitch in the cosmos and pretending it was the most natural thing in the world.
It took a few moments for the delegates to recalibrate. Some leaned forward, curious. Others leaned back, unsettled. Amelia saw Apolline Delacour’s eyes narrow. The delegate from Japan was already making small, precise notes with a brush that shimmered with powdered jade.
Harry Potter had entered the room like a walking paradox. Now they were all trying to decide whether to applaud, interrogate, or fear him.
Nicholas Flamel, for his part, remained perfectly still, his immortal eyes studying Harry like the riddle he was.
“I appreciate your punctuality,” Flamel said at last. “Though the method of arrival was… unconventional.”
Harry shrugged. “I’ve found that convention rarely works when Reality’s a bit frayed at the seams.”
A few scattered chuckles. Nervous ones.
Flamel’s expression didn’t flicker. “We’ve heard much about what you’ve done, Mr. Potter. Azkaban, the Gate, the sealing of the breach. But stories are one thing. Verifiable understanding is another. So let me ask—why shouldn’t the ICW be involved in safeguarding what you’ve built?”
Amelia braced for it. For the coldness. For the dismissiveness. For the boy she knew to say something that would only inflame the room.
“Because what I built isn’t a weapon or a secret to be shared. It’s a seal. A lock on a door that should never be opened again. You can send your scholars, curse-breakers, war-wizards… it won’t matter. You’re not the ones holding it shut.”
“And you are?” asked someone from the Russian delegation—gruff, skeptical, and half-condescending.
Harry turned his gaze there, and even Amelia felt the temperature drop by a degree.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Another wave of murmurs rippled outward like the aftershock of a truth no one quite wanted to hear.
Dumbledore, seated at the Supreme Mugwump’s dais, watched in silence. His expression was difficult to read—part pride, part worry, part inevitability.
“You’ve made yourself indispensable,” Flamel continued. “And that concerns people. Power that concentrates itself tends to corrode.”
“You have been walking the earth for six hundred years. How’s the corroding so far?”
The Alchemist bristled.
“I didn’t take power,” Harry replied. “I stopped a man who tried to become a god by devouring the soul of a world. And then I stayed behind to make sure no one ever tried it again.”
Amelia could feel the tension ratcheting higher. On the bright side, Harry hadn’t raised his voice once, but the room hung on it anyway, breathless and unsure what to make of the boy standing before them like he didn’t care if they believed him.
And perhaps he didn’t.
For a moment, she reflected back to their first meeting, when he had casually dropped all conventional rules and spoken from his heart during the interrogation. That boy had grown a lot in a surprisingly small time frame. But even back then, he still had this same gift.
Conviction. The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to be believed.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Potter,” she said, voice measured. “You’ve told them what you did. But they still don’t understand how.”
The boy turned to her—man, really, though the world refused to see it—and she saw that flicker in his eyes. The one she’d seen before in soldiers too young to be hardened and too old to be spared. He gave her a slow nod, and then he turned back to face the ICW.
“There was a vessel,” Harry said simply. “A construct built by Ekrizdis himself. A conduit to embody the Anima within a physical form. Tens of thousands of souls, bound together, and a suit that could channel their collective consciousness.”
Amelia watched the ripple go through the room like a storm tide hitting polished stone.
Some flinched at the word. Others leaned forward.
“The boy is joking,” a Bulgarian delegate murmured.
“He’s not,” muttered Croaker, his arms folded.
Harry continued, unfazed.
“When I fought him… he was already merged with it. One wizard, no matter how powerful, cannot fight tens of thousands of others. So, I severed his connection.”
Nicholas Flamel, who had remained quiet—studying, parsing—finally stirred. “How?”
“I locked it in a state of Permanence. It is, for all intents and purposes — inert. Not unless I break the seal myself.”
A delegate from Spain stood slowly. “And this homunculus suit—this construct—where is it now?”
Harry’s expression didn’t change. “In Azkaban. Where I left it.”
A strange, chaotic smile floated on Potter’s features, and Amelia wondered what he was playing at. There was absolutely no reason to go into the details of the suit, and yet, here he was.
Did he really think full disclosure was the way to go?
“And you alone control its state?”
“I do.”
That was it.
That was the moment the room cracked wide open.
Voices erupted.
“He alone—?”
“Unacceptable—”
“Does the ICW have no oversight—?”
“Convenient —”
But Amelia had had enough.
She rose again, eyes blazing. “He didn’t ask to be your savior. Or your sacrifice. And yet here he is—having done the impossible—and you treat him like a threat?”
“Minister Bones,” Flamel said smoothly, “this is not about doubt. It’s about responsibility.”
“No,” she snapped. “It’s about control. And you hate that you don’t have it.”
“Your concerns are clear, Mr. Potter,” said the Egyptian delegate, sharp and steady, her long fingers drumming lightly against her desk. “But fear is a dangerous guide. If you want the ICW’s support, you must meet us halfway.”
Harry met her with a resolute gaze. "I'm not here to make enemies. But I won't compromise the safety of our world for the sake of curiosity. If that's a problem, so be it.”
That ruffled feathers, predictably. Murmurs rose like a tide. Amelia could already see the sharks scenting blood.
Dumbledore rose up. About time, Amelia thought.
“Harry speaks with wisdom. The homunculus is a danger we cannot afford to provoke. He has proven, time and again, that his judgment is guided by a deep sense of responsibility.”
“Unacceptable!”
Wisdom was rarely the loudest voice. Emotion was.
“Let us, for a moment, remove emotion from the equation. Let us not speak of courage or sacrifice or sentiment. Let us instead speak of balance. Of responsibility. Of law.”
Akingbade sent a rueful look in Amelia’s direction, as he spoke again.
“For centuries, the International Confederation of Wizards has existed not to celebrate nations, but to temper them. We are the scale upon which magical power is weighed—especially when that power tips too far in one direction. This gathering exists precisely for moments like this.”
“Mr. Potter claims to be the Gatekeeper. A title not granted by this assembly. Not sanctioned. Not even understood in its full measure. And yet he claims it nonetheless—and so far, with results we cannot ignore. Azkaban is now a wound stitched shut by his hand. The Anima, barely contained. The suit, whatever it is — sealed—by his authority.”
His voice grew colder.
“But we did not elect Mr. Potter. We did not empower him. And though we may be grateful for what he has done, we are not obligated to accept what he might yet do.”
He extended his arms out, reaching to the other members.
“I remind you — the Anima breaches are global. The Gate bleeds into the world—not just into Hogsmeade or Sussex, but into Kinshasa, into Veracruz, into the high air of Kathmandu. This is not a British wound. This is not a British secret. And therefore, this is not Britain’s to keep.”
This time he looked at Harry directly.
“You ask us to trust him. But trust is not sovereignty. Trust is not governance. And this chamber has seen the price of trusting unchecked powers before. Grindelwald taught us. This… Voldemort taught us. Ekrizdis—your creation—taught us best of all.”
His voice was ringing across the entire assembly.
“I therefore submit the following motion to the International Confederation of Wizards: that the entity known as the Gatekeeper be recognized not as a British citizen but as an international agent of magical equilibrium. That a Tribunal of Oversight be created to advise and, if necessary, regulate his conduct. That the Gate itself—Azkaban—be designated as a global strategic site under magical containment law.”
His final words landed like a blade.
“Britain has had its chance. The world cannot afford another gamble. The Gatekeeper must serve us all—or serve no one.”
