The air inside the dimly lit safehouse was thick with tension. Maps and scattered documents covered the wooden table, flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across the room. The Order had gathered, their expressions ranging from grim determination to cautious anticipation. War was creeping closer, and they all knew it.

Seated at the far end of the room, apart from the others yet commanding just as much—if not more—presence, was them.

Respected. Feared. A name that even Death Eaters spoke with hesitation.

The room’s atmosphere was always different when they were present. Not because of any loud speeches or grand displays of power—no, their reputation was built on something far more chilling. Efficiency. Ruthlessness. The simple, undeniable fact that when they moved, people fell.

Sirius, arms crossed and resting against the back of his chair, exhaled with an amused smirk. "Well, if they are involved, I almost feel bad for the poor bastards on the other side."

"Almost," Remus murmured, eyes flicking toward the map. "But not quite."

Molly frowned, disapproving but resigned. "We’re supposed to be fighting for something better, not just striking fear into them."

"They started this war, Molly," came a sharp voice—Mad-Eye, ever watchful, ever wary. His magical eye whirled to focus on them. "We need every advantage we can get."

A chair scraped against the floor as they leaned forward, fingers tapping idly against the table. The silence stretched. They didn’t have to argue their place in this fight. Their record spoke for itself.

"Right," Kingsley finally broke the tension, his deep voice steady. "We need to be smart about this. We have limited time before they make their next move." He glanced over at them. "What do you think?"

And just like that, all eyes were on them.

Some waiting for strategy. Others waiting for the kind of response that made the enemy regret ever crossing paths with the Order.