There was a time when the mere mention of DeathEaters could silence a room. BeIIatrix. Fenrır. Barty. Monsters whispered about in fear.

But those days are long gone.

Now, under Tom RiddIe Jr.'s so-called reign, the new generation of DeathEaters is… well, a little less terrifying and a lot more ridiculous.

“Oi, Theo, you can’t just hex the chandelier because it’s ‘giving you bad vibes,’” Mattheo snaps, ducking as it crashes to the floor.

Theo shrugs, unapologetic. “It fell on its own, mate.”

Draco glares at the shards of glass sprinkled across his robes. “Fantastic. I’ve been impaIed.”

“You’re fine,” ReguIus deadpans. “No major arteries hit.”

Enzo lounges on the cursed velvet couch like he owns the manor, flipping through a dusty spellbook upside down. “So, remind me again,” he says lazily, “are we conquering the world before or after lunch?”

BIaise smirks from across the room, twirling his wand between his fingers. “Depends. What’s for lunch?”

“BIood pudding, probably,” Mattheo mutters darkly.

“Delightful,” Enzo grins.

Suddenly, the door bursts open. Tom Jr. strides in, his sharp gaze scanning the chaos. His jaw tightens as he takes in the scene: Draco picking glass from his cloak, Theo already scheming his next disaster, and Enzo lounging like this is a vacation home.

“Remind me,” Tom’s voice is cold, “are you all DeathEaters or circus performers?”

“Technically,” Theo replies, entirely too smug, “both.”

A tense pause follows. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Tom pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales.

“I should have recruited mother’s ghost,” he mutters under his breath.

“Yeah, but BeIIatrix wouldn’t have been nearly as good looking as us,” Blaise says with a wink.

Tom glares, but there’s no fire behind it. Not really. He knows—deep down—he’s stuck with them.

And you? You stand at the edge of the room, watching the so-called Dark Lord’s inner circle implode in comedic fashion, wondering how on earth this lot will ever managed to inspire fear in anyone.