A/N: I hate Cornelius Fudge. I used to love him, what with the lime-green bowler hat, but when I read Order of the Phoenix, I was just like, 'you're not hot any more! You used to be sexy, baby, but now you're just dumb!'

Then I heard the song, and I was like, 'oh, my gawd, that is so Fudge.'

Yes, I'm aware that Fudge is the Minister, not the President, but the lyrics fit how he acts, okay!? So don't flame me saying, 'Fudge is the Minister of Magic, not the President of America,' because I know! Sheesh.

This fic is fairly OotP- and HBP-compliant.

.-xXXx-.

What do you feel when you see all the homeless on the street?
Who do you pray for at night before you go to sleep?
What do you feel when you look in the mirror?
Are you proud?

Professor McGonagall stormed up the stairs to Dumbledore's office in her tartan dressing gown, the newest Daily Prophet clutched in her hand.

"Sir," she wheezed, waving the paper. "Have you seen –?"

Dumbledore nodded, gesturing to the open newspaper on his desk. The escaped Azkaban prisoners scowled up at him. Bellatrix Lestrange smirked.

"I doubt they'll accept our explanation of things," she replied, drawing up a chair and sitting. "They rarely do. They couldn't recognize the truth if it – well, if it were blatantly obvious, and now it is."

"Do you think," Dumbledore said, gazing sadly at one of his spindly silver objects. "Do you think that perhaps they understand what we say, but ignore it anyway? Do you think that the Ministry is actually capable of handling the truth?"

"No, sir," Professor McGonagall said wearily. "But I imagine you'll try to tell them anyway."

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry?
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Can you even look me in the eye
And tell me why?

"There is no way that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned!" Cornelius Fudge snapped, crushing the rim of his lime-green bowler hat in his hands. "There must be some other way to explain it!"

Dumbledore sighed, "Ten prisoners do not just leave Azkaban. There is only one explanation, Cornelius. The Dementors are no longer loyal to you, as I told you in August."

"You – you are raving," Fudge stammered, throwing his hat onto his desk and backing away.

"Cornelius," Dumbledore replied quite calmly, "Do as you will, and I shall do the same. You may live on in ignorance, hoping this will blow over, but I assure you, it won't. We part ways here; my Order will take care of what you disregard. The Dark Lord has risen, Cornelius, and the sooner you accept it, all the better for our kind."

Fudge watched as the door shut behind Dumbledore with a quiet click. He immediately summoned Percy Weasley, fear suddenly showing on his round face.

"Fetch Dolores Umbridge," Fudge said in a low voice, "Tell her it's urgent."

.-xXXx-.

Were you a lonely boy?
Are you a lonely boy?
Are you a lonely boy?
How can you say
No child is left behind?
We're not dumb and we're not blind.
They're all sitting in your cells
While you pave the road to hell.

"Stanley Shunpike, I sentence you to life imprisonment in the prison of Azkaban," Rufus Scrimgeour said loudly. There was a murmur behind him, throughout the Wizengamot.

Below him, Stan Shunpike, pale and shaking, fainted onto the floor.

"I suppose it's nice that you finally believe us," Dumbledore said optimistically, as two Dementors flanked the limp body and carried him away.