Oh Fudge
Cornelius Fudge was always, always, in touch. Even while the rest of the wizarding world ignored his genius, Cornelius Fudge knew it was only a matter of time. Sure, the papers spoke damning words, and of course, not everyone was as brilliant as he, and they might need a few years to catch onto the glorious reforms he'd passed, the magic he'd woven into paper and legislature from his once reputed office. Cornelius Fudge was a patient man, a knowledgeable man, and one with faith in others, even as they bit the hand that fed them, even though they'd forced him into exile and isolation from the wizarding world for over three years.
When the time came, he would smile, a twinkle in his eye, and glare down condescendingly at the incompetent twits when they begged him to return, when they came running for his guidance. He would give it; Cornelius Fudge was many things, and magnanimous was but one excellent trait. So why hadn't anyone come to return his honourable mantle, to bestow upon him once more his due praise? It was a conundrum, a modern day enigma, much like the spell that left Atlantis under the sea.
That was precisely why, on a perfectly good and sunny day, Cornelius Fudge, Order of Merlin First Class, found himself sitting at a disgusting, rundown pub, no better than a muggle swinehouse, in the dredges of Diagon Alley. It was the Leaky Cauldron, a festering blemish that would be, in time, demolished once he regained his rightful authority. Revolting place. He smelled alcohol on many a breath, merrymakers high on a fantasy. A victory, the celebration of a battle never truly fought. It was, is, and always will be a farce. Cornelius Fudge, Order of Merlin First Class, could say, with full conviction and certainty, that You-Know-Who's defeat was orchestrated. Part of Harry Potter's plans to become famous, to inherit his old mentor Dumbledore's plans to become Minister of Magic.
Yes, yes it all made sense. He had done it again, pieced together the truth that all the lower life forms who called themselves wizards simply did not perceive. Fudge allowed himself a ghost of a smile; he had unraveled the fabric of the traitorous actions that all descended from Dumbledore. Why, Fudge could almost see the medals and awards he would receive from disclosing the veiled truth to the world. He would be—
"You gonna order anything?" the disheveled barkeeper asked.
The urge to turn up his nose and dispel from this plebian the very idea that his paltry stock was worth any number of knuts was tempting. As the better man though, Fudge merely smiled and shook his head.
"No, I wouldn't dare," he explained. "Could be poisoned."
The plebian didn't seem to know what to say, and like any miserable ignoramus, he moved onto the next person, catering to their low-quality tastes. Fudge snickered at the thought of anyone enjoying these cheap drinks. Not true wizards, he supposed.
"Move," a rough voice demanded, a filthy hand placed upon his shoulder.
Fudge turned, ready to berate this foolish youngster about the errors of their ways; he did not need to move, nor would he. He was Cornelius Fudge, Order of Merlin First Class!
"You hear me?" the man repeated.
"Why yes, I did—" Fudge began, stopping once he realized that the man in question was close to twice his height, and possibly similarly endowed in width.
Suddenly, the thought of lecturing this imbecile didn't seem quite so enticing.
He stood abruptly. "—and you can have the seat."
The man nodded – curse those giants – and sat down to order, as if he was entitled to anything more than Fudge. How dare this monster of a man, clearly a sub-class hybrid breed much like that wretched Hagrid with his chamber of secrets, petrifying students left and right. Why, when Fudge returned to office, he would—
"If you're not going to order anything, get out," the plebian said. "I have plenty of other customers to serve."
What a blustering fool! To consider him, an upstanding citizen with endless merit, lower than this dimwitted mule of miscegenation? Sure, Fudge hadn't spent any money, but even strapped for cash his presence alone should have accounted for payment enough. It wasn't as if the stupid establishment here could boast anything more in recent memory.
Fudge sighed, and made his leave. It was merciful of him, of course, to leave the sinner untouched. Fudge couldn't reveal himself as the true hero he was; a weak notice-me-not charm prevented the hordes of fans and misguided wizards from noticing his true identity. As long as no one took the time to analyze his handsomely chiseled features, as rare as that was, Fudge was safe from the public eye.
In the crowded hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, Fudge emerged, welcoming the change in scenery. Decorations were strewn about here and there, one being a gigantic banner praising the foolish child who had hogged all the glory. What chosen one? Fudge entertained himself for a moment by wondering, by contemplating and imagining those flashing banners with his face on them, celebrating him and his countless feats.
One day, Fudge resolved. It would be soon too, if he could say anything about it. All those loathsome little buggers would get their reckoning, their day of judgment. It was a promise that Fudge guaranteed, and like the knight bus, it would come when no one expected it. Like the uncomfortable brown bulge that had emerged in his pan—
Fudge's eyes latched onto something, something that flitted in and out of view, between the wizards and witches who frolicked in the alley. Mesmerized, he found himself slowly walking forward, bumping into more than a few people until he found the object he'd been searching for, the divine altar at which he could relay his thoughts, his dreams, his obsessions, his soul.
Fudge, with his amazingly sharp senses, had glimpsed an image of himself in the crowd, a magical photo. Now, standing before it, he found himself at a stall that sold copies of various newspapers for those who didn't want to bother with a regular subscription. It was a codgy, rundown little place, even for Diagon Alley, but for a short sweet sweet moment, none of that meant anything to Fudge. A tear almost welled up in his eye. Even in this day and year, even after everyone and everything had forsaken him, the press was still loyal to the truth, to his achievements, to his accomplishments, to his majesty.
"One Daily Prophet," he asked politely, much better than the dirty little street urchin who sat behind the make-shift stand deserved.
The little snot-nosed brat sat up eagerly, surprised by the looks of it, but desperate for someone else's hard-won galleons. Disgusting.
"The Daily Prophet?" the hard-of-hearing child asked.
Was he daft? Fudge knew that Umbridge's idea to deport all the orphans to Canada was a good idea. When he got back into office…
"Yes."
"Two knuts please," the child practically begged.
Fudge fished one knut out of his pocket and placed it in front of the brat. It wasn't as if he could read anyway. Or count. Same thing. The child glanced down at the coin and back up at him, as if demanding more for the paltry service being given. Fudge could've gotten the Daily Prophet, one of the few sources of true news, for five knuts if he paid subscription. Why would this meddlesome brat ever refuse the generous gift of one?
"Um, it's two," the brat said.
"I know," Fudge snarled.
Who was this naive child to question him? He was such an orphan; those never went well. Instead of bothering to explain to the brat the sheer blissful pleasure that would be obtained from serving the Cornelius Fudge, Fudge just snapped a copy of the Daily Prophet off a stack behind the badly erected counter.
"Hey!" The child wrongly protested. "That's… that's, that's stealing!"
Fudge scowled at the sheer lack of intelligence that was bundled in front of him and strode off, ignoring further protest. He found a bench, thankfully devoid of other partygoers, and smiled. Fudge was a forgiving man, after all, and as soon as he took a look at what splendiferous event had placed him on the front cover of The Daily Prophet, he knew he'd feel better.
Unfortunately, Fudge was let down. Horribly so. The Daily Prophet had clearly gone downhill ever since he'd last been in close touch with the editing process thereof. That was the only explanation. Someone was manipulating the press! It was horrible, so so terribly terrible! This would not stand! When Fudge was put back in office, he'd make sure that no one could manipulate the press in such a misleading and misinforming manner! To Azkaban they would go!
Aghast, Fudge averted his gaze from the offending subheader. Then, with great reluctance, he gazed back down at it.
Cornelius Fudge Continues to Evade Capture
On this day, three years after the Battle of Hogwarts where Voldemort was vanquished, one of the men who allowed the Dark Lord to rise once more is still at large! Cornelius Fudge, former Minister of Magic, who entirely dismissed the mere thought of Voldemort's return and refused to take any action despite warnings from the late Dumbledore, has avoided pursuit to this day.
One must wonder why the former minister insists on dodging all questions and contact if he was, supposedly, 'working in the public's interests'. In fact, Fudge's undersecretary during his time in office continued to work under the Death Eaters' regime in the Ministry, which brings up questions as to where Fudge's own loyalties lied. Why would an innocent man run, and why for so long?
When he was in power, Fudge was ineffective at best and a dictator at worst. The Daily Prophet was forced to…
A bloody obnoxious title, clearly slanderous. With this… with this he could sue for libel! Yes, yes that was a wonderful plan. No one should ever be subjected to such a horrendously incorrect smear campaign. Fudge's hands shook with rage, with an unbridled fury and temptation to unleash his anger upon the world. He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. The world would survive for now, as long as Fudge continued on. He could save it another day, but the time just didn't seem to be right just yet.
"Rather outlandish, isn't it?" a voice cut in. "The Daily Prophet has never been all that reliable."
Fudge looked up to see a beautiful voice of reason pitch its way into his horizons. An ally! Someone else who knew – and understood – the horrors of this misguided press, and the abyssal current state of the Daily Prophet! Had Fudge been any less assured of his own rugged handsomeness, he might have kissed this newcomer like some stupid Frenchman.
There was no one there.
Fudge's eyes bulged out as he glanced from side to side before realizing that the voice had emerged from his left, to the bench that he'd confirmed empty just moments earlier. Strange, very strange, but Fudge welcomed the interruption. Clearly, this was no regular wizard, as per the standard of any intelligent enough to pinpoint egregious lies where they were in the media.
A smile alighted on Fudge's pudgy face – perhaps he should have held off from the maggot-speckled fudge – as he turned his head, and then revaluated his previous opinion. It was a familiar-looking young woman, with pale porcelain skin and long blonde hair. Her wide eyes were captivating; Fudge imagined that a lesser man might lose themselves in them. He himself, however, an exemplar of courtesy, tastefully looked to other regions of the woman's body, which were filled out quite nicely, though rather slim. Fudge certainly wouldn't have complained about a kiss with this woman.
"I find The Quibbler much better," she continued. "More sensible. When one finds themselves awaiting company, there's nothing truly like a good read."
Fudge's smile cracked.
"Really?" he asked. "Are you sure you're—"
The woman smiled lightly. "Without the shadow of a moon frog. Though I'd rather like to see one, one day."
She passed her own paper – a copy of the most recent edition of The Quibbler – and handed it to Fudge, who stared at it as if it'd grown a head, two extra eyeballs, and a third tentacle. Slowly, he took it, and lost his copy of The Daily Prophet in exchange, which was quickly folded into various paper shapes. Was that a square or a rectangle? Fudge had never really gotten those complex geometric figures down; arithmancy was never necessary for a good leader.
That was how Fudge, Cornelius Fudge, found himself with a copy of The Quibbler, that idiotically sardonic publication that insisted he, of all people, was anything less than a law-abiding citizen! So he had eaten a few goblins here and there, so what? Fudge had certainly never baked them into a pie; his inherited family recipe clearly stated they went best in fudge. Hence the name and the origins of the Fudge family fortune… which he would definitely rebuild after he took office once more. Certain departments, like the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, could definitely do with less funding, whereas his accounts were in serious need of some padding.
All that aside, Fudge knew what he should do. What he should have done, in the brief moments since he'd received a copy of this inglorious affront to journalism. He should have chucked it as far as he could, or burnt it to a crisp. Better yet, Fudge could have transfigured it into some fudge to eat, since he could always use more fudge.
Something stopped him though. Something ran against Cornelius Fudge's judgment, the best judgment there ever was, and paused him cold in his tracks. That something was the mysterious woman beside him. Her lilting voice, the way she smiled as if nothing was wrong, the fact that she was at least three or four times younger than him, all of those factors compounded into holding the vast majority of Fudge's body in place.
Perhaps The Quibbler had gotten better. Perhaps, as time passed and after that barmy old codger kicked the bucket – good riddance for that – The Quibbler had revaluated itself, and learned from its years of imbecilic codswallop. Perhaps it was even moderately respectable now, in this new day and age, in the one where the world itself was aligning the stars in his favour. After all, that Voldy fellow did return and vanish awfully quickly in order to disperse the remaining doubts amongst the paranoid wizarding peoples.
Perhaps, even the nuttiest of publications could become legitimate.
With a deep breath, Fudge looked down at The Quibbler, and rested it idly in his hands for a good half minute. A soft humming from beside him as the young woman folded the Daily Prophet further accented his new first look at The Quibbler. It was a good start, a wondrous occasion that would never, could never happen again. Had the circumstances been any different, Fudge would never have given the no-good paper the time of day, or any, for that matter.
Fudge Family Recipes Discovered: Goblin Fudge?
He froze. How? When? Impossible. It couldn't be. Fudge kept the family recipes hidden securely on his kitchen counter for whenever he felt so inclined. No one could get into that heavily protected area. No one! No one except… Harry Potter and his dastardly schemes! The boy – Fudge refused to call him a man – had clearly abused his foolishly grown reputation to call in less than savoury favours. There was no other possible explanation. Harry Potter had once again gone out of his way to deny public order and uphold his corrupt ideology.
Fudge chuckled at the hypocrisy of Harry Potter's words and then glanced back down to the horrid paper and expected to see just that: Harry Potter spreading his lies. What Fudge saw instead, was a ringer, a bell like the one he'd always had to remind himself when he had to use the bathroom. A memory surfaced, an aggravating one that Fudge had tried, and apparently failed, to forget fully.
He had sold his manor.
It was all part of the unnatural conspiracy against him. After the war ended, he was unjustly stripped of all position and his profession, with incomprehensibly heavy fines placed against him. Why would anyone blame him for Voldewhatsit's return? That was all Harry Potter! In the boy's own words, the Dark Lord used his blood to resurrect himself! Not that he was ever there, of course. That was simply a very talented illusion; Dumbledore was always very talented at charms, memory charms included.
Losing his entire fortune had been unavoidable, if inexplicable. Fudge had to watch, speechless, as blunderingly self-righteous beggars tore away his family's legacy, their accumulated wealth, his money. It must've been the mud— muggleborns! All that flack about welfare and keeping children off the streets was bleeding over into the magical world! A terrible tragedy was afoot, and it was all because of Harry Potter and Dumbledore's schemes. Why, had Dumbledore given Harry Potter to a proper wizarding family – the Malfoys, for instance – then nothing would have gone this way!
Fudge took in a deep breath to calm himself. Yes, this perfectly reasonable anger could wait. It would simmer, left in check, but once he rose back to the head of Britain's wizarding world, by Merlin there would be a reckoning. He reckoned it would be a reckoning like none had ever reckoned! People would be reckoners all day! At least, Fudge reckoned that was a word. English was particularly hard, but Fudge took pride in his exquisite level of literacy. Take that Frenchies!
"This ah, this Cornelius Fudge fellow," Fudge began eloquently, looking up from the not-so-flattering image of himself on the Quibbler's front page, "he didn't really do all that, did he?"
No response. Fudge stared at the now-vacant spot beside him, a single paper flower placed atop a pile of scraps that was once the Daily Prophet. A bobbing head of pale yellow vanished into the crowd. Rude of her. If only he wasn't a wanted man! With his real face, the young woman would never have walked out on him.
Cornelius Fudge, former Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, sat alone on the bench for a brief moment, the wooden construct strangely separate from the festivities just metres away, like the eye of a storm. The relative silence let him contemplate complex and crucial thoughts; was the blonde from earlier a B-cup? Robes made estimations awfully difficult, but from years of close observation, Fudge was excellent at making out shapes underneath the loose fabrics.
A light gust of wind blew the flower away, and like a spell had been popped, the noisy crowd intruded upon the small haven around the bench. Irritatingly jolly, rambunctious teenagers! A respectably-dressed wizard ended up being whirled onto the bench beside him, clearly fed up with the obnoxious festivities. Fudge felt a kindred spirit within the tired balding man. Perhaps they were similar, though Fudge couldn't seem to pinpoint in what aspect. He did, after all, have a perfectly fine head of hair that didn't recede as long as he drank virgin blood twice a month.
"Long day?" Fudge said conversationally.
The wizard groaned, back horribly slumped in a gesture of terrible posture that wrinkled his dress robes. Perhaps not as well-bred a wizard as Fudge had been inclined to believe?
"Could say that," the newcomer agreed. "Not as young as I used to be."
Still, a disgruntled wizard was a step better than a young one in mental facilities, and as much as Fudge had loved his wife before she betrayed him, he knew that males were just better than females. Fudge himself, as a male, could tell, though using himself as a benchmark was just unfair for all parties involved.
"Did you see the news about Fudge?" Fudge asked innocently. "He's innocent I'm sur—"
The wizard spluttered into laughter, the display alone leaving Fudge with a frown etched onto his timeless face. Disrespectful, but it was true that the mere thought he had ever committed any wrongdoing was comical.
"Did we read the same paper?" the other wizard wondered aloud.
"Which paper did you read?"
Fudge's new benchmate tilted his head and leveled a stare at him.
"The Quibbler," he responded, "what else?"
Fudge never should have bothered. Clearly while he had been absent from the wizarding world, journalism had gone off into the deep end and never remembered to take some gillyweed along for the ride.
"The Daily Proh—"
"The Daily Prophet?" the wizard interrupted. "That rag? I wouldn't use it to wax my buttocks!"
Fudge's eyes narrowed.
"What?" the other wizard asked, glancing around. "Oh."
"Ignoring that," Fudge said as his conversation partner tossed aside the remnants of the Daily Prophet that had nestled beneath his bum, "what do you think of Fudge?"
"He's worthless, that's what," the wizard answered, "and I think once they find him, he should go straight to Azkaban."
Fudge blinked. "That's… a little harsh, isn't it? No trial?"
"They didn't give a trial for Sirius Black, who was innocent, so why one for a decidedly guilty ol' poxy?"
Fudge blinked again, much earlier than his regular indicator would have reminded him to do so. "Sirius Black was innocent?"
That was a lie. Sirius Black was a nefarious criminal who served as an enabler for Harry Potter and their evil little deeds, as well as the one who orchestrated the second Azkaban breakout. So the mangy mutt died – so what? That didn't make him innocent posthumously.
"Merlin, have you been living under a hill for the past few years?"
While Fudge did appreciate being called Merlin, the latter part of the question was less appealing. He had not lived under a hill! He, the stylish Cornelius Fudge, had lived beneath a farmhouse in Ireland, where he could steal a few potatoes here and there in the night with none the wiser. The muggles never noticed, after all, and a few mostly legal memory charms did wonders. If it was for upholding the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy, it was perfectly fine.
The other wizard unfortunately took the lack of response as an invitation to continue.
"He was framed for Peter Pettigrew's betrayal, and died fighting Death Eaters. Shame really; the bloke spent over a decade in Azkaban and still tried to help, which of course, got him killed."
"So Fudge?" Fudge tried once more, just in case the misinformation surrounding a tried and true murderer had possibly coloured the other wizard's impressions of Cornelius Fudge, most important figure of their era.
An undignified snort. "I wasn't clear before? Lock him in with a dementor and throw away the key for all I care."
"I see."
"Why the question?" the wizard asked. "Were you a Fudge supporter?"
Fudge, like any great leader, knew when to retreat and when to pursue relentlessly. Using his infallible judgment, he made the socially superior choice.
"Yes," he declared proudly, "Cornelius Fudge was, is, and will continue to be my hero."
The other wizard – whose name Fudge knew not – burst into laughter once more, pounding him on the back. Did this man not know any shred of common courtesy or sense?
"H-hilarious," the man—delinquent made out between gasps. "That was a good one. I needed that, thanks."
"I believe it is time for me to take my leave," Fudge told the figuratively blind one next to him. "May you break your wand hand."
"How'd you know I had a presentation today? I have to thank you again."
Fudge stood to leave the abysmal bench that had brought him into contact with misinformed citizens. His luck had simply been terrible today. Luck. That was it! Harry Potter and his cronies had been using Felix Felicis in order to sabotage him! If this came out… if this hit the headlines, Fudge would return to be a household name! A respected, revered, misunderstood and accidentally attacked legend! Cornelius Fudge only needed one thing to enact his vengeance, and it was undoubtedly the least significant of them all: proof.
Still, Fudge mused, that did leave the incomprehensible problem of his reputation. It had been, for the time being, slicked through the mud thoroughly back and forth until it no longer retained the same shimmer that the winner of '95's Most Fashionable Wizard of the Year deserved. Fudge had to face the facts; he was now, like it or not, one of the more detested wizards of wizarding Britain, and that bunch of meddling kids with Harry Potter at the helm were to blame for it.
Fudge stood in the centre of a crowd, the hustle and bustle of everyday wizarding life compounded with the festivities of the day. As irritating and incompetent as they were, these were his people. These were his subjects, as coy and cold as they were now, Fudge knew he belonged amongst them. Now, but now, because of Harry Potter, Cornelius Fudge was an outcast. A traitor. A falsely accused villain, but a villain to the masses. He was a wanted man, for Merlin's sake! Fudge scoffed at the sheer absurdity of it all.
But it was true.
All of it was true.
And there was nothing he could do.
Not with his handsome face and prided features or the powerful magic he could summon at a moment's notice, no, those were not tools that worked on crowds. Fudge had nothing. For the moment, he had nothing. Until he turned it all around and exposed the rabble-rouser Harry Potter for what the boy truly was, Cornelius Fudge would continue to suffer. He would continue to be isolated from the people who could worship him, separated from the magical community at large.
Then, out of the crowd, piercing through the cacophony of sounds, Fudge heard the soft voice of the woman he'd met earlier. It took less than a second to pinpoint her, long blonde locks and all, talking to an inconsequential old shopkeeper. She looked just as familiar as before, features that made Fudge wish he had a pensieve on hand to dig through the archives of his past. Yet in spite of his impeccable mental foundries, where he knew this woman from was a mystery.
"Hey!" a worthless voice also assaulted his eardrums. "You forgot this."
Fudge turned to stare dumbfounded as his discarded copy of The Quibbler was pressed into his hands, the ill-informed wizard from before vanishing in the crowd. Fudge considered once more the merits of throwing away his copy of the blasted magazine, but reconsidered at the thought of how many knuts it was worth. Fudge had paid for the Daily Prophet, but since that was now just as unreliable as The Quibbler, he might as well keep it.
Once more, a shocking thought, that Fudge acknowledged – to an extent – The Quibbler. At least, that twit Lovegood wasn't running the thing anymore, being dead and all. So then… who was running The Quibbler, this monstrosity of a news outlet that ended up dragging all the others down to its level? That ignorant fool had a daughter, hadn't he? Fudge had seen her once, what was she like again?
It came to him like a strike of lightning, a recollection of a certain night way back when. Lovegood's daughter had been amongst the brats Dumbledore had attempted to throw a coup with. His army. Blonde, of course, with large, piercingly gray—
By Morgen's swaying buttocks! That… that woman from before… could it be? Fudge's eyes shot to the young woman, still animatedly in conversation with a very confused older man, and shut down. It was Lovegood's daughter. Lovegood's! How had he not realized sooner? Why, if he, Cornelius Fudge, had seen through her petty ruse faster, he could have blasted her to kingdom come or forced her to come clean about Potter's dastardly schemes.
Fudge grinned savagely, genuinely pleased for the first time in years since the golden days where he sat as Minister of Magic. There was no reason why he couldn't do anything; Fudge was, after all, a considerably powerful wizard who had once forced Dumbledore to retreat! It was impossible for a woman to challenge him, let alone one so young and pathetic as Lovegood's daughter. Her back was turned to him. It would be easy, ever so easy…
Fudge drew his wand from patch-marked sleeve and raised it high, bringing himself to stand tall, prim and proper. This would be, after all, his crowning moment, the beginning of his return to prominence. It wouldn't do to look bad to the press.
"Reducto!" Fudge bellowed.
A red light zipped out of the end of his wand and shot towards the Lovegood heir's unassuming back. Improbably, impossibly, a shield charm absorbed his curse, and it came from behind him. A scream erupted shortly after. Lovegood's daughter turned, large eyes staring unwaveringly at him. Staring into them, Fudge had the horrible impression that they were looking past the charm and into his real, incredibly attractive face.
Fudge barely had time to open his mouth to cast another spell, when a light flashed; his wand flew out of his hands. Now, that could have been the work of any pubescent wizard who had gone to a half-decent school, but Fudge knew who had done it.
"Harry Potter!" he roared, whirling on the spot.
"Petrificus Totalus," a voice whispered, almost immediately locking up Fudge's body like a wooden beam. "Levicorpus."
Fudge's body flew up, over the heads of the annoyingly unhelpful masses. Of all the indignities! He had been bested by Harry Potter and hung up like a bloody decoration! Potter was taunting him! The crowd was buzzing, a hive flocking around its undeserved, traitorous bastard of a leader. This was an illegal use of curses in public space!
Out of his peripheral vision, Fudge saw a grown Harry Potter frown, the crowd parting in front of him and making way for the 'victim', the one who should've been blown up into raw hunks of meat. Ha! Potter couldn't see who he truly was with his charm on! Nothing could penetrate his magical defens—
"Specialis Revealio!" Potter continued, before his jaw loosened. "Fudge! Where have you been all this time?"
"Ireland," a light voice interjected. "He was in Ireland."
Fudge's eyelids would've bulged had they been capable of movement.
"Luna, how did you…" Potter trailed off. "That's not important. I hate to do this since I promised I was off duty, but—"
The ruckus of the crowd fell silent.
Lovegood's daughter tilted her head ever so slightly. "Don't worry Harry, I quite enjoyed it. We should do this again sometime. Cornelius invited, of course."
Harry Potter mumbled something in response that Fudge couldn't quite catch as the stunned crowds burst into action, with more than a few with quills out and at the ready. Stupid wizarding gossip about the 'most eligible bachelor of the decade'. That title should belong to him, not this accursed rat!
"Harry Potter! Is it true that—"
"How long have you been dating—"
"—you and Miss Lovegood—"
Reporters were having a field day. Fudge took some small satisfaction out of the grimace that set into Potter's face until the dragon of the conversation finally dropped.
"—Cornelius Fudge?"
"Wanted criminal on the run—"
"—former Minister of Magic—"
Suddenly it wasn't so amusing, not that Fudge could do anything to indicate his newfound irritation.
Harry Potter himself took the stand to break the gridlock.
"No comment!" the boy-who-lived declared. "As of now, this is official auror business! Luna, come along."
Quieter, such that Fudge could barely hear from his vantage point hovering just above the blasted boy, Harry whispered a few words.
"Since you were his target, I'll need you to come with me," Harry said cheerfully. "So you'll just have to suffer my company."
Harry Potter's former declaration, of course, didn't deter the reporters, but the regular witches and wizards parted in front of them, giving them way. Fudge himself was dragged along, floating shamefully behind.
"Good thinking Harry," Lovegood's blasted daughter remarked, not looking as if she was suffering at all. "The Auror Headquarters offers a much nicer atmosphere compared to The Five Fields. The fields were rather disheartening."
"Luna, there were no fields."
"So there weren't. It wouldn't make much sense at all to wear a dress to a field, let alone five, but mustn't they at least prepare what they promise?"
"Of course," Potter said nonchalantly.
Fudge stared blankly, mostly because his face was literally held so, at the warm fuzzy display of affection, and that nasty thing that the blithering dunderhead did with his mouth. Disgusting. How could anyone stand this? To see these fools, these upstarts roam free while the innocent suffered under curse? How far had the world fallen?
After a long moment, Potter turned to face Fudge.
"Right, can't forget."
Fudge felt himself go cross-eyed staring down the length of Potter's shaft.
"Stupefy."
So that was a thing.