The Ministry of Magic's grand marble hall felt somewhat empty and desolate during the Christmas holidays.
A few wizards on duty hurried about, carrying the characteristic resentment of working overtime during the holidays.
Sagres moved through the hall like a ghost, his well-tailored dark grey robes a stark contrast to the uniform black robes of the Ministry employees.
He walked calmly, his destination clear: the Minister's office.
No appointment. No announcement.
When Fudge's young assistant tried to block him with official jargon, Sagres merely gave him an indifferent glance.
The assistant's words instantly caught in his throat, and his body involuntarily recoiled a step, clearing the way to the ornate, heavy oak door behind him.
Sagres did not slow his stride. The Minister's office door, enchanted with protective magic, opened automatically.
He walked in as if entering his own living room.
Cornelius Fudge was buried beneath a pile of holiday greeting cards and urgent documents that needed "handling," trying to numb his nerves, already frayed by Peter's disappearance, through sheer busyness.
The moment the door opened, he thought it was his assistant bringing tea and said irritably without looking up, "Didn't I say not to disturb—"
When he saw who it was, the rest of his words died in his throat, turning into a sharp gasp.
His corpulent body shot up from the wide Minister's chair, his face drained of color, leaving only a terrified pallor.
His intact hand unconsciously gripped the back of the chair, trembling slightly, and the arm Sagres had severed and replaced with a magical prosthesis seemed to ache faintly at that moment.
"Gr… Greengrass, Mister!"
Fudge's voice was sharp and trembling as he tried to force out a welcoming smile that looked worse than a cry. "What… what brings you here? This is… this is a pleasant surprise! Please, have a seat! Would… would you like something to drink? Firewhisky? Or…"
"Peter Pettigrew."
Sagres cut off his meaningless pleasantries.
He did not sit down, nor did he approach Fudge's desk. He simply stood in the center of the office.
"Where is he?"
Fudge's heart felt as if an invisible hand had violently seized it.
It had come. The question he most dreaded.
Cold sweat instantly soaked his collar.
"Pe… Peter?"
Fudge forcefully suppressed his fear, putting on an extremely strained expression of sorrow. "Alas! Mister Greengrass, your question truly breaks my heart! That despicable traitor, that heinous—"
"Where is he?"
Sagres repeated, his tone unchanged, but the temperature in the office seemed to drop several degrees.
Fudge swallowed, his corpulent Adam's apple bobbing. "He… he's already a shell of his former self! Mister Greengrass! Just before the trial, the Dementors… two extremely hungry Dementors went out of control! They were drawn by Peter's wicked soul and breached the defenses… they performed the Dementor's Kiss on him! This was a major security lapse at the Ministry of Magic! I have already ordered a thorough investigation, and no one responsible will be spared! Alas, though he deserved to die, it is indeed a regret that he couldn't face a full trial…"
Fudge spoke quickly, trying to muddle through with official rhetoric and a pained expression.
He even produced a prepared document titled "Report on the Accidental Death of Peter Pettigrew and Subsequent Handling," intending to hand it to Sagres.
Sagres did not look at it.
His grey eyes calmly watched Fudge, his gaze seeming to pierce through the carefully woven lies and false expressions.
Legilimency instantly invaded Fudge's unguarded consciousness, driving straight into the depths of his chaotic mind.
Fudge felt a sharp pain in his brain, as if its shell had been forcibly torn open, and countless chaotic thoughts, images, and emotions surged forth uncontrollably like a bursting dam:
In the courtroom, the instant of rage and darkness before Fudge's eyes when Aurors rushed in, panicking, to report that Peter had been abducted.
Him pacing like a trapped beast in his office, rubbing his temples, his face etched with deep fatigue and almost numb calculation: "…Must be covered up… Must… must be dealt with…"
And Fudge roaring at the Daily Prophet's editor: "Publish it with this narrative! Dementors out of control! Peter is dead! Focus on the Ministry of Magic's subsequent rectification! Understand?!"
Interspersed throughout was Fudge's deep-seated fear of Sagres, along with a twisted hint of resentment: "It's him again. Are they planning another Peter Pettigrew fake death? Every time he shows up, it's bad news…"
All the lies, all the cover-ups, all the fear and calculation were laid bare before Sagres without reservation.
Sagres withdrew his gaze as if the brutal Legilimency had never happened.
Fudge, however, felt as if his bones had been pulled out. His legs went weak, and he staggered, bracing himself against the desk to keep from collapsing.
He gasped for breath, his eyes unfocused, his forehead covered in large beads of cold sweat, his mind still throbbing with the pain and shame of being forcibly probed.
"Useless."
Sagres's calm voice finally carried a hint of undisguised contempt and disgust.
He looked at Fudge's disheveled state as if looking at a heap of irredeemable garbage.
"A criminal whose magic is nearly exhausted, effectively a Squib, was abducted from the core stronghold of the Ministry of Magic in broad daylight. And you, Cornelius Fudge, the dignified Minister of Magic, the only solution you could think of was to skillfully weave lies to cover up your incompetence and dereliction of duty?"
His gaze swept over the office that symbolized the highest authority of Britain's magical world, his eyes filled only with cold mockery. "A bunch of good-for-nothing idlers."
Fudge's face turned ashen under the scolding. Immense fear and humiliated anger intertwined, making him tremble all over, yet he could not utter a single word in rebuttal.
Sagres's all-seeing gaze made him feel as if he had been stripped naked and cast into a frozen wasteland.
Just then, the office door was violently pushed open.
Accompanied by the rapid click of high heels on the marble floor, a short, stout figure in a pink cardigan and pink bow burst in.
Behind her followed a group of tense Aurors, wands in hand.
Dolores Umbridge.
Her toad-like face was flushed red with excitement and a twisted sort of courage.
Her stubby thumb unconsciously rubbed along her long index finger. On closer inspection, it was an exquisite prosthetic finger cot.
That was Sagres's "souvenir" to her from last year.
At this moment, Umbridge seemed to believe that bursting in with Aurors gave her the confidence to confront Sagres.
"Greengrass!"
Umbridge's voice was shrill and thin, filled with deep-seated hatred and feigned toughness. "Who allowed you to trespass into the Minister's office? This is the Ministry of Magic, not Hogwarts! Minister Fudge's generosity does not mean you can disregard the law!"
She puffed out her chest, as if trying to appear more imposing in her ridiculous pink attire.
"Leave immediately. Otherwise, I will arrest you on charges of obstructing official duties and threatening a high-ranking Ministry of Magic official!"
The Aurors behind her nervously swallowed, their palms sweating as they gripped their wands.
They knew far better than Umbridge how terrifying this man was, but bound by duty, they could only step forward with reluctance.
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