Prologue
Fudge's Lament
Cornelius Fudge can already feel that familiar ache at his temples.
He surreptitiously nibbles at the end of his quill, trying to usher away the oncoming wave of anxiety. One, two, no, three times he drops the quill to wipe his clammy hands on his robes. When he chances another look at the legal jargon and cramped letters on the document before him, he only repeats the process.
See, if it were only a few papers he wouldn't be having any trouble.
Unfortunately, there's a staggering pile planted at the right of his desk, threatening to tip the whole structure over.
The head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, in one of his infamous bouts of laziness (or immense wisdom, he couldn't tell which) had skipped a week of work to see the Fitchburg Finches play, leaving Cornelius at the helm. He had admittedly been proud (smug, his coworkers would argue) to have been trusted with such a responsibility.
That was before everything went straight to hell.
Before long, telephones were going off, Obliviators were being sent out by the dozens and paperwork was flying onto his once pristine workspace.
A particularly spirited report had knocked his mug of coffee off onto the pricey Persian rug. The mug which remains where it fell, a dark stain blooming around it as he tries (in vain) to read the second of the documents amid the chaos.
The cacophony of more paper, swooping in at an alarming speed, and shrill ringing causes a cold sweat to collect on his forehead. When would the horror end?
Obliviator Peasegood, finished his shift for the day, gives him a haughty smile before strolling towards the lifts.
The quill snaps in Cornelius' hand and splatters black ink all over him and the paper. He curses as he flicks his wand a few times to clean the mess. This is the worst that they've had since Pettigrew.
Hah! Pettigrew was child's play compared to this.
He vigorously dabs at the sheen of sweat on his head with the handkerchief from his pocket, trying to calm his racing heart.
Only to groan when the headache escalates from a light throbbing to a pounding agony.
After glancing at his coworkers, who are all preoccupied with barking orders into their phones, he reaches into the bottom drawer of his desk for a flask of relief.
An unmitigated disaster.
He takes a swig.
A whole school of muggle children turned into farm animals.
He starts screwing the cap back on.
Fresh out of Hogwarts Obliviators adding to the chaos by running around like chickens with their heads cut off.
He changes his mind and goes for another.
If the Prophet got a hold of this there would be weeks upon weeks of debasement for the Ministry. Worse, if they found out he was in charge during the whole debacle...he'd surely be ruined.
With his position dangling before his very eyes and the acrid burn of fire whiskey traveling down his throat, he grabs a quill and begins signing wherever he sees a space, skipping whatever looks unnecessary, and stamping wherever he thinks it's needed.
He's too hasty, too riled up by adrenaline and the discord around him so he pays no attention to any of the contents or what each flourish of the quill binds him to.
If Cornelius Fudge had ventured a closer look at a single paper, he would have noticed two things:
1) The name 'Harry Potter' repeated over and over again.
2) Words in red, underlined multiple times: Magic extremely volatile, further precautions NEEDED
Of course, he didn't-a choice he would regret for the many years to come where he would lose his patience, his hair, and eventually his sanity.
So began the tragedy of Cornelius Fudge.