While Kenzo focused on his studies at Hogwarts, his father had triggered a tectonic earthquake on the world's political stage. Through channels that had never been detected by even the most sophisticated satellites, a secret instruction landed in the hands of NATO's highest leaders.
The letter was so "invisible" that even the most cunning Soviet intelligence agents did not realize that the most powerful people in the West had just received a ticket to a new future.
When the silver seal of the Otsutsuki clan broke on the tables of the Oval Office, Downing Street, and the Élysée Palace, there was a simultaneous sigh of relief. America, Britain, and France—the three main pillars of NATO—felt a wave of spirit that had long been lost. To them, this letter was not just an invitation; it was a guarantee that the great threat that had been haunting them would soon be erased from the face of the earth.
"Two days from now. Wednesday. The world's turning point begins."
The instructions in the letter were very firm and non-negotiable: Security through absence.
The world leaders began to prepare themselves in a way that was unusual for a head of state:
Without Electronic Devices: No satellite phones, no wiretapping devices, no technology that could be tracked.
Without Staff: No aides, secretaries, or personal bodyguards. They had to come as themselves.
Total Privacy: Although they had to leave their families at home under the guise of "personal leave," these leaders knew that the small sacrifice was worth the safety of their national sovereignty.
The chosen location was Portland, a hidden residence shrouded by the Otsutsuki clan's cloaking technology, making its coordinates vanish from Muggle satellite maps as well as any magical compass. There, the security of the NATO high officials was absolutely guaranteed through a three-layer defense system the world had never witnessed before.
Along the perimeter of the pine forest surrounding the residence, elite forces from MACUSA (Magical Congress of the USA) had been deployed under the highest oath of secrecy. The Otsutsuki who controlled and founded MACUSA had deployed America's best Aurors. They ensured that not a single illegal magical frequency or intruder from the underworld could approach within a ten-mile radius.
Their presence there was not as legal representatives, but as the private soldiers of the clan. These Aurors stood tall behind the trees, their wands ready to destroy anything that dared to disturb the peace of this meeting. To them, an order from the Otsutsuki bloodline was a law far higher than any ministry regulation.
Closer to the core of the building, there was a much more dangerous group: the Loyal Wizards of the Otsutsuki clan. They were wizards from various parts of the world who had sworn loyalty to the Otsutsuki bloodline. Wearing black robes with ancient silver embroidery, they stood frozen like statues at every corner of the hallway. They not only mastered high-level magic but also combat techniques that combined internal energy including Ninshu, making them far more deadly protectors than any military force.
Just by standing still, they radiated a very strong sense of presence, making anyone who passed feel pressured as if there were a heavy weight on their shoulders. They were protectors who could move as fast as lightning and strike with physical force destroyed by energy from within their own bodies.
The gates of the Portland residence opened without a sound.
There was no creak of hinges. There was no visible mechanism moving. The gate just—opened, in the way of something that was already very used to knowing who was coming and had already decided that they were allowed in even before their hands touched anything.
Twelve people walked in.
Not at the same time—they arrived in very organized waves, each from a different path, in a way that did not show that they were all heading to the same point. But inside the gate they met, and for the first time in the history of this very long alliance, twelve leaders of NATO countries stood in the same place without a single camera capturing the moment.
America. Britain. France. West Germany. Italy. Canada. Netherlands. Belgium. Denmark. Norway. Portugal. Turkey.
Twelve chairs. Twelve representatives from an alliance that had stood for a very long time on a foundation that was largely very organized fear.
They walked through the first hallway in a silence that was already very different from the silence in any hallway they had ever passed through before.
The Loyal Wizards stood at every corner.
No one moved. No one spoke. Yet every leader who passed them felt the same thing—the feeling that all the layers they usually carried as a shield between themselves and the world were no longer functioning here. Not because someone had forcibly removed them. Rather, because this place already had very little need for those layers.
The meeting room was located at the heart of the residence.
Not big. Not grand. With a very old long wooden table in the middle—long enough for twelve chairs on its sides and one chair at the end which was very clearly not for anyone who had just arrived.
There was no podium. There was no microphone. There was no presentation board.
Only a table. And chairs. And natural light coming in from the window overlooking the pine forest outside.
And a man who had already been standing since before they arrived.
Fujin Otsutsuki turned when they entered. "Please sit down," said Fujin.
They sat down—in a way that was already very different from the way they sat at other meeting tables. More carefully. More like people who were not yet fully sure about the unwritten rules of this place.
A few seconds of silence.
"Thank you for coming," said Fujin finally—in a tone that did not contain forced formality. "We all know why we are here. There is no need for a long opening."
He looked across the whole table.
"The Soviet Union."
The American man sitting to Fujin's right—with a way of walking that still contained the remaining confidence of a young military officer—spoke first.
"We have spent four decades building policy based on the assumption that the Soviets will continue to exist in their current form for a very long time," said the American man. "The entire NATO security architecture was built on that assumption. The entire defense budget. The entire diplomacy."
"And that assumption was wrong," said Fujin.
The room was very quiet.
The American man looked at Fujin.
"You are very sure about that," said the American man—not a question.
"Yes," answered Fujin. "Very sure."
"Based on what?"
Fujin clasped his hands on the table in a very calm manner.
"Based on the way large systems work," answered Fujin. "And the way they collapse." He paused for a moment. "The Soviet Union was built on one fundamental assumption that could never be proven true in the long term—that humans could be controlled well enough to make a centralized system work efficiently."
"That has been very clear to many observers for decades," said the British man from the other side of the table—in a tone that contained the caution of someone who was already very used to conversations where every word was chosen with great care. "However, collapse is a very big word. A system that is already very big and has existed for a very long time does not collapse just because its fundamental assumption is wrong."
"No," agreed Fujin. "Such a system collapses when the cost of maintaining the wrong assumption is already greater than the capacity of that system to bear it." He looked directly at the British man. "And the Soviets have already gone far beyond that point. For a very long time."
The West German man—who sat in the middle of the table in the way of someone who was already very familiar with the position of being between two worlds pulling at each other—spoke with a tone that was already very different from the previous two.
"From our perspective," said the West German man, "the collapse of the
Soviet Union is not just a geopolitical event. It is about—brothers. Millions of people on the other side of the wall who have been separated for a very long time." He paused for a moment. "Are you talking about a peaceful collapse or a collapse that produces chaos far more dangerous than what already exists now?"
Fujin looked at him.
"The most important question that has been asked at this table," said Fujin. "And the answer depends very much on what the people at this table do in the next few years."
The West German man looked at him.
"Explain," said the man.
"The Soviet Union will not collapse in one dramatic moment," said Fujin.
"There is no wall that suddenly falls, there is no declaration that ends everything in one day—although moments like that might become symbols of a process that has been much longer." He paused for a moment. "What is actually happening is erosion. Very gradual. Very much from the inside. A system that has held pressure from all directions at once for a very long time has begun to lose its ability to hold."
"When?" asked the West German man.
"In the range of a decade," answered Fujin. "Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less. Depending on variables that even we cannot fully predict with the precision of day and hour."
The West German man nodded very slowly—the way of someone who had received very big information and was processing its implications very quickly.
"One decade," said the Italian man from the left side of the table—in a tone that contained a skepticism very different from the skepticism of the British man earlier. More open, more like someone who wanted to be convinced but did not yet have enough basis to be sure. "We have heard predictions about the collapse of the Soviets from various sources for decades. The CIA, MI6, BND—all have had scenarios. All have been wrong."
"Yes," said Fujin. "Because they analyze from the outside."
"And you analyze from the inside?" asked the Italian man in a very cautious tone.
"We analyze from a different angle," answered Fujin. "An angle that is not limited by the framework of ideology or national interest or domestic pressure that always influences the way conventional intelligence agencies see the existing situation."
The Italian man looked at him.
"What angle?" asked the man.
Fujin thought for a moment—not because he did not know the answer, but because he was choosing a way to describe something that was not easily put into words that were commonly used at a meeting table like this.
"The angle of someone who has observed the way empires rise and fall since long before this alliance you lead existed," Fujin said finally. "And who has found that the pattern is always much simpler than it looks from within the system itself."
A brief silence.
The Canadian man who had not spoken since entering the room said in a tone that was the most practical of everyone at this table—the way of speaking of someone who had long functioned as a mediator between various parties and was already very familiar with how to turn theory into actionable questions.
"Fine," said the Canadian man. "Let's say we accept this premise. The Soviet Union will experience fundamental erosion in the next decade." He crossed his arms. "The relevant question is not if, but how and what we must prepare."
Fujin looked at the Canadian man.
"Exactly," said Fujin. "That is what should be the focus of this conversation."
"Then explain," said the Canadian man. "Concretely. Not scenarios—actions."
Fujin nodded.
"There are three things that determine whether the collapse of the Soviet Union will be a transition that can be managed or become chaos far more dangerous than the existing status quo," said Fujin.
He held up one finger.
"First—economy. The Soviets have long sustained their economic system in a way that is not sustainable. When that system can no longer be maintained, there will be a very large void that needs to be filled. If the West does not prepare a way to help fill that void in a way that does not look like humiliation or economic imperialism, then forces that are far more unstable will fill it."
Second finger.
"Second—military. The Soviets have nuclear weapons in an amount that is already very disproportionate to the capacity of the system that controls them. When that system begins to lose its coherence, the question of who controls those weapons becomes very urgent. This is not something that can be solved after the collapse happens—this must be prepared long before that."
Third finger.
"Third—identity. The Soviet Union consists of more than a hundred ethnic and cultural groups that have long been held in one structure through a power that has grown increasingly weak. When that structure weakens, the push for identity and sovereignty will emerge in a way that is very unpredictable. Some will be peaceful. Some will not."
Fujin lowered his hand.
"These three things," said Fujin, "are what determine whether the world after the Soviets will be safer than the world before or even more dangerous."
The Dutch man—with a way of speaking that was already very trained to be very precise because he came from a very long tradition of international law—said in a tone that contained a technical question that he had clearly prepared before sitting down.
"About nuclear weaponry," said the Dutch man. "Do you—your family—have the ability to intervene if something goes wrong with the control of those weapons during the transition period?"
Fujin looked at him.
"Yes," answered Fujin. "In certain conditions and in certain ways."
"What conditions?"
"Conditions where the risk of unauthorized use is already big enough to justify an intervention that goes far beyond what can be done by conventional mechanisms." Fujin paused for a moment. "This is not something we do lightly. However, this is an ability that exists and that will be used if the situation justifies it."
The Dutch man nodded.
"Is there any guarantee that such an intervention will not create a precedent that could be used for different justifications in the future?" asked the man—in the way of someone who was already very familiar with how international treaties can be used and abused.
Fujin looked at him for a few seconds.
"There is no absolute guarantee in anything," answered Fujin finally. "What exists is a four-hundred-year track record that you can verify for yourselves." He looked across the whole table. "We have never used the existing abilities for our own benefit. That is not how we work. And this is not the time to start."
The Norwegian man sitting at the other end of the table spoke in a tone that was the most direct of everyone in the room.
"I want to talk about intelligence information," said the Norwegian man. "Specifically about Soviet military movements in the Arctic region which have increased greatly in the last two years."
Fujin turned toward him.
"Yes?"
"We are on the front line," said the Norwegian man. "Geographically. And what we see at our border does not match the narrative about a system that is weakening from within." His tone of voice contained a worry that was very real but very controlled—the way of someone who had lived for a long time under the shadow of a very large neighbor and was already very used to that worry but could never fully accept it as something ordinary. "An increase in submarine patrols. Military exercises that are larger than previous years. Signals that are already very worrying to our analysts."
Fujin nodded.
"You are right that Soviet military activity in the Arctic is increasing," said Fujin.
"However, the way to read it needs a different context from the way to read a normal military increase."
"What context?"
"A system that is weakening from within often displays military aggressiveness that actually increases on the surface," said Fujin. "Not because they are getting stronger—but because the display of external strength is one of the last remaining ways to maintain internal coherence when all other ways have started to fail."
The Norwegian man considered that.
"So it is a show?" asked the man.
"Mostly," answered Fujin. "However, a show that cannot be fully ignored because an actor who is already very desperate sometimes does things that are irrational. And nuclear weapons do not distinguish between decisions that are rational and those that are not."
The Norwegian man nodded slowly.
The Danish man sitting next to the Norwegian spoke in a tone that was more reflective than the previous one.
"There is something I have been thinking about for a very long time regarding this situation," said the Danish man. "And this might sound very different from the strategic discussions we have been having."
"Just say it," said Fujin.
The Danish man took a breath.
"The people behind the Iron Curtain," said the man finally—in a tone that was already very different from all the tones that had been at this table before.
Lower. More like someone talking about something he had felt for a very long time but had never felt there was a right forum to say it. "Ordinary people.
Not the leaders, not the apparatus, not the military. Just ordinary people who have lived for a very long time in a system they did not choose."
"Yes?" said Fujin.
"Are there in these big plans—transition, stabilization, management of collapse—is there a place in them to consider what they actually want?" The
Danish man looked directly at Fujin. "Or are they just becoming objects of a change that has already been decided by the people sitting at tables like this?"
The room was very silent.
Fujin looked at the Danish man in a way that was already very different from the way he had looked at the previous speakers.
"That question," said Fujin finally, "is the most important one that has been spoken at this table."
The Danish man did not look surprised by that assessment. He just waited.
"No big change lasts long if those who are changed do not have an active role in that change," said Fujin. "That is not idealism—it is a fact that has very often been proven in a very long history." He paused for a moment. "The people behind the Iron Curtain have long held desires they could not express.
A good transition is a transition that provides space for those desires to emerge and form into something sustainable—not a transition that just replaces one power structure from the outside with another power structure from the outside."
The Danish man nodded.
"And how to ensure that happens?" asked the man.
"By not being too hurried," answered Fujin. "And by not interfering too much."
The Portuguese man who had been very quiet since the beginning finally spoke.
Not in a way that asked for attention—more like someone who had been very patient waiting for the right moment and had found that his moment was now.
"Portugal has long been part of NATO but from a position that is already very different from other members," said the Portuguese man—in a tone that contained a self-awareness that was already very open about his country's position which was not always equal to the others. "We have long been more about receiving decisions than making decisions."
Fujin looked at him.
"Yes," said Fujin without softening or denying that statement.
"In the context of what has been discussed today," continued the Portuguese man, "will our position be different? Or will this be just another table where big decisions are made by parties that are already very big and the smaller ones are just asked to agree?"
A question that was already very direct and very clearly contained a tension that had been held for a very long time.
Fujin looked at the Portuguese man for a few seconds.
"We do not have an interest in the hierarchical structures that already exist among you," said Fujin finally—in a tone that was very flat but very sincere. "From our perspective, Portugal and America have the same weight at this table. Not because of economic size or military strength—but because every country present today brings a perspective that others do not have. And a perspective that others do not have is always very valuable."
The Portuguese man looked at him.
Then he nodded—a way that contained something that could not be fully explained but was very clearly felt as something that had long been waiting to be acknowledged.
The Belgian man spoke in a way that was already very trained from the tradition of a country that had long been a place where big differences met and had to find a way to function together.
"About the economic void that will appear when the Soviet system begins to collapse," said the Belgian man—in a way that was already very structured and very clearly had been thought about since before sitting down. "You mentioned the risk that more unstable forces will fill it if the West does not prepare itself. What forces do you mean?"
Fujin nodded—a way that showed he had anticipated this question.
"There are two kinds that are most worrying," answered Fujin. "The first are groups that have long existed on the periphery of the Soviet system—groups that have long been waiting for a gap to fill power in a way that will not bring better stability than what already exists. Some are ideological, some are criminal, some a mixture of both."
"And the second?" asked the Belgian man.
"Unprepared nationalism," answered Fujin. "The desire for sovereignty is something very fundamental and very legitimate. However, sovereignty that emerges too fast without institutions strong enough to support it can create instability far more dangerous than its predecessor."
"Concrete example?" asked the Belgian man.
"Yugoslavia is already showing signs that need to be closely watched," said Fujin. "What is happening there is not just about Yugoslavia—it is a prototype of what could happen in various parts of the former Soviet territory if it is not handled in the right way."
The Belgian man wrote something down—not in front of everyone, more like a reflex of someone who was already very used to noting important things but only just realized that there were no writing tools in front of him. He stopped his hand movement.
"Sorry," said the man.
"There is nothing that needs to be recorded," said Fujin. "What needs to be remembered will be remembered."
The Turkish man who had been quiet for a very long time spoke last of everyone at this table.
And the way he spoke was already very different from all the previous ones.
"Turkey shares a border with the Soviets," said the Turkish man in a tone that already contained a weight very different from the weight carried by countries whose geography was more protected from direct friction. "What has been discussed at this table sounds very strategic and very planned from the perspective of countries that do not directly border what is going to collapse."
He paused for a moment.
"For us—this is not a future scenario. It is already happening now. Every day. In small ways that are not visible from Washington or London or Paris but are already very much felt from Ankara."
Fujin looked at the Turkish man with very full attention.
"Tell me," said Fujin.
The Turkish man looked at him.
"The flow of refugees that has already started to move from regions that are already unstable," said the Turkish man. "The black market that has already started to exploit gaps that appear when the Soviet control system weakens.
Groups that have long held aspirations they could not express within the Soviet system are starting to seek support from outside." He paused for a moment. "And the line between seeking legitimate support and becoming a tool of more dangerous interests is very thin when the conditions are desperate enough."
Fujin nodded very slowly.
"What do you need from this discussion?" asked Fujin—directly to the Turkish man, in a tone that was already very different from the way he spoke to the others. More direct, more like someone who already understood that there was a difference between talking about a situation and talking from within that situation.
Pria Turki looked him.
"Recognition," said the man finally. "That what happens at our border is not just a regional problem that can be managed separately from the big strategy that has been discussed at tables like this. That the front line is not just about nuclear weapons and ideological hegemony—but also about people who have lived for a very long time between two systems pressing against each other."
Fujin looked at him for a few seconds.
"That recognition is already there," said Fujin. "And it will be reflected in the way of the approach we recommend for the upcoming transition period."
The Turkish man nodded.
In a way that contained something that had long been absent from the posture of someone who was already very used to sitting at tables where his country was always a security consideration not a main actor.
Fujin looked across the whole table.
Twelve faces. Twelve perspectives that were already very different but had spent more than two hours in the same room and had found that those differences did not hinder the possibility of an understanding far deeper than what usually exists at conventional meetings.
"There is one thing I want to say before we end the discussion about the Soviets," said Fujin.
Everyone looked at him.
"The collapse of the Soviets is not a victory for the West," said Fujin in a tone that was very clear and very unambiguous. "If anyone views it like that—if anyone treats it like that in policy or public rhetoric after it happens—then the seeds of the next crisis are already planted there."
The American man who had been very quiet since the middle of the discussion looked at Fujin.
"Why?" asked the man.
"Because the collapse of a large system always produces a deep collective trauma for the people who live within that system," answered Fujin. "That trauma does not disappear just because the system that created it is no longer there. If that trauma is processed in the wrong way—with humiliation, with exploitation of weakness, with a victory celebrated too loudly by the other side—it becomes fuel for something far more dangerous decades later."
The room was very silent.
"The collapse of the Soviets must be treated as an opportunity to build something better," continued Fujin. "Not as a validation of the way that already exists. Not as proof that one system is better than the other. Rather as a moment where new choices are available that were not available before—and those choices must be taken very wisely."
The American man nodded very slowly.
On the other side of the table the West German man looked at his own table in the way of someone who was connecting what he had just heard with something he had long thought about regarding the wall that separated his country.
The Danish man who had earlier spoken about ordinary people looked at
Fujin in a way that contained something he had very rarely felt at a meeting like this.
Hope.
Not a naive hope. Not a hope that ignored the complexity of everything that had been discussed.
Rather a very specific hope—that there are people in this world who have long thought about the right things from the right angle.
The meeting continued for almost another hour after the discussion about the
Soviets finished.
Other topics were discussed—about the wizarding world that has long existed in parallel, about the way the two worlds could begin to move closer to each other without creating unnecessary instability, about things that are very rare on the official agenda of any meeting but have long needed to be discussed.
And at the end of it all, as the twelve leaders stood up from their respective chairs, there was something that had formed in that room that could not be fully recorded in any minutes because there were no minutes.
Understanding.
Not an agreement in the sense of a signed document that could be used as a legal reference. Rather an understanding in a far more fundamental sense—that there was something moving in this world that had already exceeded the ability of each party to face it alone.
And that there was here, in a residence that was not on any map, a party that has long existed and has long been willing to ensure that great change would not end in the way that has so often happened in a very long history.
With too much blood.
And damage too deep to be repaired in one generation.
Fujin escorted them one by one to the gate.
Not all at once—one by one, in a way that gave each leader a few final minutes that were not filled by group dynamics.
The last one was the West German man.
He stood at the gate and turned to Fujin in a way that was already very different from the way he looked at Fujin at the beginning of the meeting earlier.
"That wall," said the West German man very quietly. "Between East and West. Between two parts of a country that should be one."
Fujin looked at him.
"Is there in that one decade," continued the man—in a tone that already contained something he very rarely allowed out in any context that was official, "is there a possibility that the wall will no longer exist?"
Fujin looked at the West German man for a few seconds.
"More than a possibility," Fujin said finally. "Almost a certainty."
The West German man said nothing.
There was no need.
He walked out of the gate in a way that was already very different from the way he entered—still with the same posture, still with the same way of dressing, still with all the physical attributes he usually carried.
However, there was something already different in the way he carried all of that.
Something that had long been missing from there.
Lightness.
In the very specific way of someone who had long carried something very heavy and had just heard that the weight might not always be there.
Fujin stood alone at the gate after everyone had left.
Looking at the road between the trees that were already very quiet.
In his hand there was still the small parchment he had carried since the beginning.
He opened it once more.
A safer world starts with a decision made with full honesty.
He folded it.
Stored it.
Then raised his eyes to the Portland sky which was starting to get dark.
In a place far from here—between the towers of an old castle in Scotland—a twelve-year-old youth was spending his night in a way that had nothing to do with everything that had just happened at this residence.
Learning. Practicing. Being with people who had become part of something that was never planned but had formed in a way that was much stronger than many things that were planned very maturely.
Fujin closed the gate.
Walked back inside.
There was one letter that needed to be written tonight.
Very short.
Very direct.
Kenzo—Today went well. Focus on your schooling. We will talk at Christmas.
However, before writing that letter, Fujin stood for a moment in the room that was already empty—the long table that was still in the middle, the chairs that were still in the last position they were left, the light that had already started to get very dim from the window.
And he thought of one sentence that he did not say at the table earlier because it did not need to be said but which was very present in every word he chose throughout the three hours of conversation.
My son is in this world.
And this world must be decent enough for him to live in.
Then he took a pen.
And wrote.