"Amelia, please give my regards to your father!"
"Director Bones, my child works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as well—thank you for looking after him all this time!"
"…"
After finishing her conversation with Narcissa, Amelia Bones stood quietly by the wall of the ballroom, a glass in hand. Her gaze drifted upward, unfocused, lingering on the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the enchanted candles floating in midair.
It was impossible to ignore her presence. Guests kept wandering past, stopping as if by coincidence to exchange a few empty pleasantries.
Bones handled it smoothly, a perfectly measured smile on her lips, betraying no hint of irritation. If she hadn't learned how to survive pure-blood social circles, she wouldn't have made it this far.
About half an hour later, after sending off the last well-wisher, she let out a nearly imperceptible sigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced toward the other focal point of the evening—Lady Malfoy, leaning close to her husband and speaking in a low voice.
Across from her stood Lucius Malfoy, brows drawn together as he frowned, pondered, sighed—over and over—without reaching a conclusion.
"We'll need to discuss it with the family…"
Not a clear refusal. Not a promise. Just delay—polite, evasive social language.
Bones sometimes wondered whether these convoluted social rituals were invented by pure-blood wizards themselves or borrowed from Muggle society. Even the Muggle Studies professor didn't seem this particular.
Still, Bones had her own rules. If someone said they needed time to discuss it, she took them at their word and waited—quietly, patiently—for a definitive answer.
That patience paid off.
Narcissa approached with graceful steps, her perfectly styled curls framing a smile calculated to the exact degree.
"Director Bones," she said gently, "from what we understand, Minister Fudge has already given his assurance. Once the Christmas holidays end, the trial process will begin immediately. In that case… perhaps our assistance won't be necessary?"
"And if they delay again after the holidays?" Bones asked calmly, meeting Narcissa's gaze. "Will you leave your cousin sitting in a holding cell indefinitely?"
"In truth," Narcissa said, letting her smile fade, "Sirius and I aren't particularly close."
She continued coolly, "Most pure-blood families close to the Malfoys have had Death Eaters in their ranks. Sirius aligns himself with Dumbledore—he abandoned pure-blood ideals long ago. He won't find help among them."
"I trust Mr. Malfoy's judgment," Bones replied evenly. "You've discussed this for quite some time. Surely you've reached something concrete."
Narcissa fell silent, then lowered her eyes in reluctant concession.
"All we can offer is introductions to other pure-blood families—and some funding to support lobbying the Wizengamot."
"Thank you for supporting the work of my department," Bones said sincerely.
"I only hope the law doesn't bring trouble to our family," Narcissa replied with a soft sigh as she turned away.
Watching her retreat, Bones set her glass down. It wasn't the outcome she'd hoped for—but she knew the Malfoys had already made a significant concession.
…
Out in the corridor beyond the ballroom, Barty Crouch stood apart from the crowd, quietly watching witches and wizards sway on the dance floor.
He wore an expensive formal robe, yet took part in no socializing. He sampled wine only sparingly, hovering at the edge of the celebration like a silent ghost.
"You did come for the party, didn't you?"
Bones teased from behind him. "That robe is from Elegant Enchantments—the commemorative edition celebrating the Dark Lord's fall. Wearing that to a Malfoy banquet and not even greeting Lucius… has anyone ever told you that's a waste, Barty?"
"It's twelve years old," Crouch replied without turning. "I barely wore it. The house-elves kept it well."
He added coolly, "There are plenty of people lining up to toast Mr. Malfoy. He won't miss me."
"All right," Bones said, letting the topic drop. "The Black–Pettigrew case has stalled. I need your help pushing the trial forward."
"Sorry," Crouch refused almost instantly. "The Department of International Magical Cooperation doesn't interfere in matters handled by your department or the Minister's office."
"You were once an Auror," Bones countered. "You personally escorted Black and Pettigrew today. This isn't about jurisdiction—it's about responsibility as a Ministry official."
She offered him a glass of wine.
"I really am sorry," Crouch said, taking it and swirling the liquid thoughtfully before sipping. "I'd like to help, Amelia, but preparations for the Triwizard Tournament are ongoing. My department can't get involved."
Bones tried several more times. Every attempt failed.
Crouch wasn't Narcissa. He was a man who had nearly become Minister himself. He understood exactly why the trial was being delayed—and because of his family circumstances, he had no desire to be dragged into the power struggle between Fudge and Dumbledore.
…
Morning, Diagon Alley—The Daily Prophet offices.
The Christmas holidays weren't over yet, and only half the staff remained on duty. Editors and reporters passed through the corridors occasionally. The building was divided clearly: one side handled the newspaper's printing, the other focused on enchanted-screen programming.
In the editor-in-chief's office at the end of the hall, Barnabas Cuffe sat behind his desk by the fireplace, hands clasped, fingers interlaced, staring straight ahead.
Orange flames roared in the hearth. Within them floated the head of a witch with a broad face and slack features.
The Floo Network meeting had been going on for an hour—mostly with Dolores Umbridge speaking, while Cuffe listened in silence.
"I'm well aware of how well-connected you are, Editor Cuffe," Umbridge said in her shrill voice. "Your reporters are quite… capable. You must already know that Black has been apprehended—along with certain sensitive details that aren't suitable for public circulation."
"This is a case that hasn't yet gone to trial," she continued. "It remains classified. I expect the Prophet to exercise discretion and suppress related reporting."
"I'm afraid I don't follow, Madam," Cuffe replied coolly. "The Daily Prophet exists to inform the wizarding public of the truth."
"Of course, Editor," Umbridge said with a syrupy laugh. "We all understand the value of news. But survival in the media requires a certain… sophistication."
She smiled smugly. "The wizarding world has been learning from Muggle society lately. Your newspaper has followed suit—expansion, branding, social responsibility. The Ministry, too, is learning."
"Please be direct," Cuffe said flatly.
Inside, he was uneasy. This Senior Undersecretary knew far too much about Muggle systems.
"To put it plainly," Umbridge said, "the Daily Prophet and the Mirror Club have been in the spotlight for far too long. How can media with such reach operate without restraint—outside the bounds of law?"
She laughed again. "The Ministry is merely keeping pace with the times, just as you are."
Her smile vanished.
"For years, the Prophet worked closely with the Ministry—especially during the final years of the Dark Lord's reign. Through your paper, the Ministry delivered hope to a frightened public."
She leaned closer, eyes cold. "I trust you'll remember your purpose—and refrain from publishing unverified information that might cause unnecessary panic."
With a soft pop, green flames flared, licking the fireplace rim.
When the fire settled, her face was gone. The connection had ended.
Cuffe stared at the now-quiet hearth. Then he dipped his quill into ink and began writing on slips of parchment. Each note folded itself into a paper airplane and fluttered out the window, off to different offices.
Each carried the same instruction: halt all related coverage.
Until the final note.
This time, the quill paused. Instead of repeating the order, Cuffe summoned several core staff members to an internal meeting.
Half an hour later—the conference room.
Reporter Rita Skeeter, host Cecilia Haynes, and several editors and producers—all key staff still on duty—were present.
A stack of parchment lay on the table: materials related to the Black case.
Cuffe summarized Umbridge's warning in just a few sentences. Silence followed. Nearly everyone frowned.
"Our reputation wasn't great before," Cuffe said calmly. "Many saw us as the Ministry's mouthpiece. Others thought us greedy. But since launching enchanted-screen news, our influence and credibility have soared—even if print sales dipped slightly."
He paused. "Now we're facing an obstacle—one that could smash us headfirst."
The mood grew heavy. The Prophet had enjoyed years of smooth growth. They'd led the publishing world, joined the Mirror Club, partnered with the Department of Magical Transportation. Even Umbridge's earlier interference had been manageable.
This time was different.
"So what?" one editor said. "We've always walked a tightrope. Balancing the Ministry and the public—that's how we survive."
"We can't back down," Cecilia said heatedly, her youth showing. "This is a disgraceful information blockade! We should expose her—flood her office with Howlers!"
The room buzzed with frustration.
"Quiet," Cuffe said, tapping the table—not loudly, but firmly. He turned to one reporter still writing. "Rita, your thoughts?"
"I've never supported direct confrontation with the Ministry," Rita said, adjusting her curls. "Win or lose, it doesn't benefit us."
She smiled faintly. "We may not be clever or powerful enough—but we're not the only ones affected. Why not see how the Mirror Club responds?"
"I already spoke to Wright," Cuffe said. "As the Club's second-in-command, he hasn't taken a clear stance. He's waiting for Professor Levent."
He sighed. "The Club's loose structure means Professor Levent rarely dictates members' choices."
Rita's eyes flickered. "Did Professor Levent explicitly instruct us to report this case?"
"You're suggesting…?"
"This is a conflict between Dumbledore and Fudge," Rita said quietly. "Professor Levent teaches at Hogwarts. Since he hasn't spoken yet, there's no need to rush."
Cuffe looked around. "Opinions?"
"I agree."
"Sounds reasonable."
"No objections."
Cecilia pressed her lips together but said nothing more.
After everyone left, Cuffe rubbed his temples, feeling as though he'd returned to his early days at the paper—when the Dark Lord still loomed, the Ministry teetered, Hogwarts shut its gates, and the wizarding world lived in fear.
In a neighboring office, a handsome wizard sat at his desk. Silvery potion swirled in a crystal orb, scenes of educational programming flickering within.
With a flick of his wand, he cut and rearranged the images, stopping after each sequence to admire his work with a radiant smile.
Gilderoy Lockhart had been a video editor for three months now.
…
Back at Hogwarts, Hermione stood at the portrait hole, arms full of library books, greeting the newly reinstated Fat Lady.
After confirming the password, she climbed inside.
Warm air washed over her—far cozier than the staircases. She exhaled deeply, unwound her scarf, and had barely taken a few steps when she spotted her two friends.
Ron wore a brown hand-knitted sweater, sprawled in an armchair, deeply absorbed in The Origins of Fiendfyre, nodding along as if he fully understood it.
Anyone watching might think he'd mastered Dark Magic and could summon Fiendfyre at will.
Harry was more serious. He stood by the window, wand held steady, expression focused and resolute.
"Expecto Patronum."
A burst of silver light surged from his wand—not mist this time, but a dense, brilliant glow. It was blindingly bright, already taking the vague shape of a four-legged creature.
Harry squinted, trying to make it out, but the outline was still too indistinct to identify.
"Harry!" Hermione dropped everything and gasped. "You summoned a corporeal Patronus!"
"Huh?"
The distraction broke his focus. The silver light vanished instantly.
Harry lowered his wand, unbothered. "Not quite yet—but it won't be long. I can feel it."
In his mind, he saw his parents again—the joy of reunion filling his heart.