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Fudge was a man obsessed with his reputation, and as Dumbledore had pointed out, his mind was entirely consumed with his position as Minister for Magic, leaving room for little else.
Talk of benefiting this or that? Utter nonsense.
But when it came to crushing political rivals and boosting his own prestige, Fudge was unmatched, diving in headfirst with unmatched zeal.
When Harry proposed the idea, Fudge accepted it without a moment's hesitation, no trace of doubt or reluctance. To hesitate even slightly would be an affront to a man as performative as he was.
He didn't question Harry's words, especially since they were spoken in the headmaster's office, in the presence of the headmaster himself and the four house heads, with their tacit approval. What more was there to say?
The next morning, as the students were just crawling out of their sleeping bags in the Great Hall, the massive doors swung open, and a dozen or so grim-faced Aurors stormed in with an air of menace.
Leading them was an Auror with a head of curly, noodle-like hair and a face that looked positively ferocious. Harry recognized him immediately: Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office.
"Look familiar?" Veratia whispered to Harry, leaning close. "Wasn't he the one who hit his own man with a spell?"
Harry couldn't help it—he ducked his head and let out a quiet chuckle.
But after the amusement faded, a tinge of sadness crept in. The head of the Auror Office, a supposed pillar of authority, had been outwitted by a third-year and a seventh-year student like they were playing with a child. Was this a distortion of human nature or a collapse of morals?
A century ago, the Ministry's Aurors were a force to be reckoned with. Had a mere hundred years reduced them to this?
The group made their way to the headmaster's office, where Peter Pettigrew had been confined all day, unable to move. Everyone knew his Animagus form was a rat, so Dumbledore had opted to guard him personally rather than entrust him to the dungeons under Filch's watch. Filch, as everyone knew, lacked the skill to keep someone like Pettigrew contained. It would take mere minutes for Peter to slip away under his nose.
Dosed with a hefty amount of Veritaserum, Pettigrew was in rough shape. He looked even balder than before—or at least Harry thought so, wondering if the truth potion had hair loss as a side effect. The potion's effects still hadn't worn off, which made Harry suspect Snape might have some personal vendetta against Pettigrew.
It made sense, Harry reasoned. Pettigrew had been one of his father's lackeys, after all. It also explained why Professor Snape harbored such loathing for Professor Lupin, another member of his father's little gang, codenamed Moony.
And then there was Pettigrew himself…
Harry's mind flashed to a memory of his father publicly humiliating Snape, with Pettigrew cheering from the sidelines. In that light, Snape's animosity seemed justified.
Not to mention, Pettigrew was the one who betrayed his mother, Lily, leading to her death at Voldemort's hands. As Lily's friend, Snape surely held a grudge against him for that too.
"I never would've thought," Scrimgeour said as he entered the headmaster's office, his voice heavy with disbelief. "To think that twelve years ago, we declared a 'hero' dead, a martyr—only for him to be alive, skulking about, fooling us all."
"Look on the bright side, Scrimgeour," Dawlish chimed in from the side. "At least the Aurors aren't the ones who look the worst. It wasn't our office that pinned a First-Class Order of Merlin on him."
Scrimgeour's face, already grim, darkened further. He'd been part of the team handling Sirius Black's case back then. But Dawlish's comment seemed to lighten his mood.
"Merlin's beard, what a disaster!" Scrimgeour thought, a hint of schadenfreude creeping in.
"And to think," he continued, "he's an unregistered Animagus? We'll have to be careful, or he'll scurry off as a rat. His character matches his Animagus form perfectly—cowardly, skulking in the gutters, clinging to life…"
"Enough, Scrimgeour," Kingsley Shacklebolt interjected. "We've got real work to do, like taking Pettigrew into custody so we can clear Sirius Black's name, don't you think?"
"Right, right," Scrimgeour said, his curly hair bouncing with surprising elasticity. "Black—this takes care of our biggest headache. No more chasing Sirius Black. In fact, we'll have to hail him as a hero—a loyal friend, wrongfully imprisoned, fighting for justice. What a touching tale of friendship…"
He paused, dramatically wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye.
Moments later, Professor McGonagall escorted Harry into the headmaster's office.
"Harry Potter," Scrimgeour said, spreading his arms with a hearty smile. "A pleasure to see you, Mr. Potter."
"Likewise, esteemed Auror," Harry replied with a nod and a smile.
"Now then," Scrimgeour continued, "I assume you're aware of the situation. We're about to take this filthy rat away, and soon enough, your godfather, Mr. Black, will be back by your side."
"Thank you, sir," Harry said, his tone polite but reserved.
Seeing Harry's demeanor, Scrimgeour clapped him on the shoulder. "No need to be so formal, Mr. Potter. You're the Chosen One, after all. Allow me to introduce myself—Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office."
"Hello, Mr. Scrimgeour," Harry said with another nod.
"Well, if there's nothing else, we'll be off," Scrimgeour said, turning to his colleagues. "We're taking Pettigrew back to the Ministry. The Wizengamot will convene an emergency session this afternoon to sentence him."
With that, Scrimgeour signaled for his team to shackle Pettigrew with a specially charmed pair of cuffs before leading him out of the office.
Once Professor McGonagall had left as well, Dumbledore offered Harry a cup of honeyed water with a warm smile.
"I must say, Harry," Dumbledore said, "I never expected a Gryffindor like you to have such a knack for diplomacy. Convincing someone like Fudge to take your advice? That's no small feat."
"It's all thanks to Mr. Malfoy's guidance," Harry said with a touch of nostalgia. "You probably don't know, but a hundred years ago, I used to spend my holidays at Malfoy Manor. Septimus and Ignatius would take me to all sorts of events, teaching me to listen, observe, and learn. That's where I picked up these skills."
"It's proof that raw magical power alone isn't enough," Dumbledore said, his fingers lightly tapping the desk. A house-elf promptly appeared, serving him a thick, syrupy lemon honey water—half lemonade, half pure sugar, the kind that could make anyone's teeth ache just looking at it.
"Great strength and a sharp mind—both are essential, Harry."
"That's what Septimus always told me," Harry said, accepting his own cup of lemonade and thanking Dumbledore.
Dumbledore noted the gratitude in Harry's expression when he spoke of the elder Malfoys. It was clear that, a century ago, the Malfoy family had done more than just provide Harry a place to stay—they'd nurtured him, almost as if grooming him to be their heir.
Perhaps, Dumbledore mused, the elder Malfoy had even seen Harry as a potential son-in-law.
Which made him wonder: what kind of personality did that Miss Malfoy have, to let Harry be so easily swept away by Miss Grindelwald? Was it simply a matter of playing hard to get?
"As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, I'll be presiding over the trial this afternoon," Dumbledore said, stroking his beard. "We'll interrogate Pettigrew and clear Sirius Black's name."
"I'm both pleased and pained," he continued. "Pleased that one of my students will be exonerated and can walk in the light again. Pained that another proved to be so despicable."
"You should be more pained about Tom Riddle, Professor," Harry said bluntly. "I'd wager he's the darkest stain on your teaching career."
Dumbledore set down his syrupy cup. Harry's words hit hard, the sweetness of the drink unable to mask the bitterness they stirred.
This boy… always hitting where it hurts.
Noticing Dumbledore's discomfort, Harry tactfully changed the subject. "What about Black? Sirius, I mean. Have you found him?"
"If we had, we'd have dragged him back to Azkaban by now," Dumbledore said, picking up his cup again. "It may take time for news of his exoneration to reach him. For now, we wait."
"Alright," Harry said hesitantly, nodding. "I actually have some questions for him… about my father."
"Not everything is as it seems, Harry," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. "James had many fine qualities, and his mistakes don't overshadow them. And Severus, in his school days, wasn't as innocent as you might think. That spell you saw in Lily's memory, the one James used to hoist Snape up? Snape invented it. How do you think James learned it?"
"But Professor Sprout said it wasn't just Snape," Harry said quietly. "There was a Hufflepuff whose head James enlarged. The punishment record's still in Filch's office."
"I won't make excuses for him," Dumbledore admitted. "James was… worse than the Weasley twins, in his own way."
"And…" Harry hesitated before continuing, "that spy you have among the Death Eaters. Who is it? Can you tell me?"
"A spy's identity must remain secret, Harry," Dumbledore said gravely.
"I know, I just want to thank them," Harry insisted.
"Can you swear to keep it secret?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes glinting behind his half-moon glasses.
"Of course!" Harry nodded eagerly.
He was desperate to know who this person was, to repay them for their crucial information.
"Sorry, Harry," Dumbledore said with a mischievous twinkle, winking at him. "So can I."
Harry froze. He hadn't expected Dumbledore to tease him like that.
Fine, he thought. If you won't tell me, so be it.
"Alright, I think it's time you headed back," Dumbledore said with a smile. "We've got the Wizengamot this afternoon—for Pettigrew's trial."
"Yes, Professor," Harry said, standing and playfully nudging the dozing Fawkes.
Fawkes snapped awake, saw Harry, and flared its wings, ready to peck. "Watch it, you silly bird," Harry said, flicking Fawkes' beak. "I'm practically Fiona's dad!"
At that, Fawkes, who'd been bristling at being called a "silly bird," froze. Its wings twitched, and its face morphed into a comically human expression—half fawning, half sycophantic.
The speed of that face-change was something to behold, Harry thought, marveling at how even a phoenix could be so adaptable.
Fawkes lowered its head, nuzzling Harry's hand. Harry patted it, saying, "Alright, I'm off."
Fawkes flapped one wing reluctantly, letting out a soft, almost whiny chirp.
What a dramatic bird, Harry thought, shaking his head as he left the office under Fawkes' wistful gaze.
Back in the Great Hall, Harry saw Hermione holding court, regaling her admirers with the tale of Peter Pettigrew.
"So, Sirius Black's innocent, isn't he?" one student said.
"I think so," another replied. "Imagine—Sirius probably broke out of Azkaban because he knew Pettigrew was at Hogwarts, risking everything to protect his godson. What a friendship! I wish I had a friend like that."
"Sirius Black's my uncle!" Draco declared proudly, puffing out his chest.
He wasn't wrong. His mother, Narcissa, had been Narcissa Black before her marriage, making Sirius Draco's uncle by blood. Draco reveled in the connection, not just for Sirius' noble character but because he was the first wizard to ever escape Azkaban.
First at anything, good or bad, always left a mark on history.
Ron, meanwhile, sat slumped on a bench, surrounded by the equally glum Weasley clan. Percy, Fred, George, and Ginny sat nearby, each looking like they were contemplating a leap off Gryffindor Tower.
Percy's hair was a chaotic mess, like a bird's nest, and not even his girlfriend, Penelope Clearwater, sitting by his side, could lift his spirits from stormy to overcast.
It was understandable. Scabbers, the rat, had first belonged to Percy.
"Look on the bright side, Percy," Penelope said, trying to console him. "At least you weren't its owner."
"Oh, easy for you to say," Ginny snapped. "You didn't have a fugitive living in your house for twelve years—as a pet rat, no less."
"And, Miss Clearwater," Fred and George added, unusually subdued, "let's not forget, that rat's first owner was your boyfriend. Imagine Percy cuddling up to a balding old man for years…"
Penelope's eyes widened.
She hesitated.
She fell silent.
Her imagination, it seemed, was viviad. She was already picturing Percy snuggling with a bald, wretched man.
Merlin's beard, what a dazzling image. Utterly radiant.
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