In the shadow of control,

The dark ones rise—

Clutching at the reins of magic,

Twisting it for their will,

Seeking to bind all who use it under their dominion.

The Ministry falls,

A puppet in the hands of those who crave power,

Its laws but chains around the free.

Yet, in the silence of a small room,

A child defies death itself.

For in the place where greed cannot reach,

There lies a love greater than power,

A love that shields him,

Born from sacrifice,

From those who gave their lives

So that a new hope might live.

Harry, like Bitcoin, bears the mark

Of a magic they cannot understand—

Ancient, incorruptible,

A force Voldemort could never grasp.

For it is not control that will win,

But something purer—

Something the dark cannot see.

They mock and fear it,

For this magic, like sound money,

Is older than their empire,

A truth buried and forgotten,

Suppressed by rulers who fear the freedom it brings.

It respects the human soul,

Is rooted in the natural order—

Not created, but discovered.

And what they cannot bend to their will,

They seek to destroy.

But as the Ministry tightens its grip,

The world awakens.

From the corners of the earth,

They gather—

Not soldiers, but dreamers.

Not kings, but teachers.

Dumbledore’s Army rises,

Not by decree,

But in quiet rebellion,

Rejecting the empty words of theory.

For they know that knowledge alone is not enough—

Theories that do not match the truth,

Must bend to what works.

Like Bitcoin, it is action,

Practical and grounded,

That holds power,

Not the distant dictates of men in towers.

So too, the plebs rise,

The defenders of Bitcoin’s light—

A decentralized force,

Without titles, without rulers,

Driven by truth.

They gather not to study theory,

But to live it—

To wield a money that works

Because it respects the truth itself,

Not the whims of those who seek to control it.

And in the final hour,

When all seems lost,

It is Harry,

It is Bitcoin,

That stands unmoved.

For in its heart beats not the lust for control,

But a purer, older magic—

Love, truth, and the power to free.

Voldemort falls,

Not by force,

But by the very magic he sought to destroy.

And so, too, shall central power fall,

For Bitcoin as decentralized, sound money,

Like Harry’s love,

Is beyond the reach of those

Who hunger for control.

In the end, it is the people,

The plebs,

Who will wield this magic

And bring freedom

Where the darkness once reigned.